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Bill_Day

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Changing Planes and Shifting Gears

INTRODUCTION

To be raised with ideals and then to have them shattered, to have been given an ordered life with direction and purpose, and then to have nothing. To have been given meaning, then to have it dissolve. To have been told for years that you are significant, a needed person, but to discover your death would pass like a lighted candle in a windstorm. To discover that your parents’ and society’s values, ideals, aspirations are not yours, are wrong, distorted, sick. That they lack meaning, purpose, or any real significance. These are some sources for disillusionment.

Without meaning, purpose, direction, significance and order, decisions are impossible to make: immobilizing fear or apathy reign and boredom saunters in. It brings with it the realization of the absurdity of one's existence. The disaffected youth see an innate meaninglessness in life. They feel their own insignificance. 

This book will try to show how one person combated the absurd life. How he found and created answers by which he could live. How he created meaning, order, and significance for himself.

It is a story about real people in fictional events and fictional characters in real events. In short it is a conglomerate of events and people, real and unreal, placed together trying to create some truth-- a realistic picture- (as real as any picture can be) of what has happened and what could happen again. William F. Day

1965

  

I highly recommend that if one begins to undertake the reading of this novel, one carry through with the endeavor, for I have attempted to resolve the problems which are presented at the beginning. They are my answers to these dilemmas. And this is a testimony that they have worked, at least, for one person.

W.F.D.1971

PREFACE

 INVOLVED BY CIRCUMSTANCE

Out come the dice,

 I bounce along the table,

 Hit the end railing

 And stop.

 Any series of passes keeps me alive,

 But not any pass makes me a winner.

 Aware that it is only a game,

 I can neither be 

Completely involved nor release myself.

 Life brings remorse.

 Motionless,

 Ready to throw

Changing Planes and Shifting Gears

 Time moves so slowly

 Yet these are supposed to be the fleeting years.

Nothing but war, pain, death

can relieve the monotony

that hangs around my neck.

 I wait; not live.

 I don't challenge; I exist.

 I mustn't wait;

 I must catch the quickly passing moment and fly.

 Oh wind, come, blow and set my sails again.

 Place me into the wind.

 There will always be other times, other places

  and many other faces.

No.......no, start again.

It's my memory that worries me. When I try to think of the past, I turn over a corpse to which I spoke and expect it to speak. To say what? Something. Anything. But it says nothing understandable. It's only a reminder that yesterday I spoke and felt. But what?

I awakened two weeks ago and couldn't remember anything before. At night, I lie in bed, not knowing whether my eyes are open or shut. It is darkness either way. In the morning, I sit in bed and looked at an unfamiliar ceiling, almost afraid to search the room for meaning. How did I get here? It was as if I had materialized from another world into this one.

The past couple of weeks are real: this place, this presence; I can remember them, and these are the clue that other people, other places existed before now. Maybe I am a clone, an android - born as a full flown adult with a newly created consciousness.  

I have no idea why, but I laugh at the thought.

* * * * 

Now today, my memory seems to have no control. Nothing but disjointed images emerge from my mind, meaningless and without sequence. I sense recall but can't put it together. The pictures I get have no meaning. 

Everything that happened yesterday seems dead. Images plague my thoughts, disturbing every concentrated effort to recall. It is a daytime-nightmare.

A woman saying she is my mother visits. She brings these scattered remembrances. She says she loves me. But I feel nothing for her. She cries because I can't feel anything. She cries because I can't remember. If I could remember how I felt when she cried before, when I was young, I would know how to feel now.

She leaves. Pictures of people pop into my mind. A camera flashes in the dark, only no photographs issue, and they are lost again. If I never see these people again, eventually nothing will awaken them and make them real. I suppose my death will be like my recall; there will be no body into which I am awakened.  

I must recall the past and find out how I got here. I will never be released unless I do. I must retrace my path, the one I must have so naively traveled and travel it this time with control, accounting for my actions. I must understand how it brought me to such an end.

  What do I remember? Earlier, search earlier. I remember searching for something. But what? An undefinable truth? I was looking for something to believe in, something to which I could anchor myself so that my fear of life and death would be destroyed. I began to look into other people's beliefs, their answers, but found nothing but ghosts, spirits, miracles, omnipotent, and omniscient gods. Why did everything in my life disprove these gods, these answers.

* * * *

  In reading over what has been written, I can see that my writing is not going smoothly and in the direction I would have liked. It is too abstract. I am not really reawakening my memory but stating what I believed happened.

I should have stated in the beginning why I am writing, what I am writing. 

"Be orderly. Start at the beginning and logically carry through every thought," you said  

I told you I would try. But now this whole idea seems hopeless. Senseless.  

"Be logical." 

You are right, but this place is bugging me so badly I need to escape into something. You knew I would use this as an escape, didn't you?

What am I going to say? What can I say? But why wouldn't you let me try? I am a quiet and orderly, aren't I? Not like some of them here. Then again nobody will tell me why I'm here,..........who I am.

I am not doing it. I am not writing about my past. What am I going to say? What can I say? Where was I before I came here? What do I remember? Think....... No. I can't go on with this. It is getting me nowhere.

* * * *

I've sat down five times in the last week, only to write two pages, and about what? My theoretical search for some answers, an inconsequential discussion with blind doctor, and an illogical emotional outburst. I must get out of the present and into the past. I must escape where I am and its horribleness. I have to get my mind and memory working. Right now my thinking is in the present. I am thinking about my problems. Think about the past. The past.

..........trying not to be afraid when I was young. Young, hell. I was seventeen and going off to college, and I was scared. Not about school, but about what I was going to do with myself, what I was going to do with my life. What direction to take. What should I become. What was expected of me.  

For years previous, everyone kept asking me, "Well, what are you going to be when you grow up?" How can I answer that when I don't know why I am here, who I am, what is really important, what is worth living for?

I knew college would be another yo-yo place like high school: something someone has to get through since, I had my foundations as everyone else, the foundations on which to presuppose life. I was educated like every else. So I had nothing to fear from college. But no one told me how to make a decision, like which way to go from here, where to begin, when to end.

After an I.Q. test, they said I could be anything I wanted. But no one told me how to make a decision, how to choose, what should be the premise or reason for choice. They didn't even tell me the choices. So, of course, I began searching for some basic way. First I looked for reality in religions. I attended different churches, studied different beliefs. Hypocrisy was my discovery: beliefs and idols which couldn't be lived, much less believed. Spoon fed truths, robot fed answers which nobody could live. 

Ha. That's ironic. I must have found a reality, but not what I sought. I must have not been able to handle the one found.  

I know I must have wanted security like everyone else, a way to choose, to know I am making the right choice. I needed something to give me my significance, my purpose. A reason for living. I needed a guide to show me where to turn, and would say, "You are doing it right. You are alive and your reason for living is this...."  

But I found only two types of statements. Those statements which can be proved or disproved by logic and experiment,(school did teach me something) and 2) statements which can not be proved or disproved, but only lived. These statements become true not especially because they are, but because one can live as though they are true.

  

I believe no true statements are everlasting. People have taken instantaneous truths, a truism which applies to the immediate moment, and made them true for all times and all circumstances.

When I was young, I also found this changing reality. So my experience lead me away from believing in everlasting "truths" and showed me that nothing is lasting. A statement made in this century may not apply two centuries from now. The environment and the human condition change so rapidly that no one concept could remain true.

So, should one live as though "truths" exist? This is the road to disillusionment. Should a personal philosophy be based on ideals or on livable ideas?  

I discovered humans' weaknesses, a need for security so great that one would not risks, not explore, not search for something more, something greater. And so people conformed, my parents conformed, my classmates conformed, and even people on the streets hated you if you don't conform. So almost everyone conformed.

I discovered in people a need for pleasure so great the one would give up truth for happiness and most people's happiness is contentment.

And because of these I found an insignificance, ugly pathetic animal, afraid of death and unable to live life, clinging to weak religions, or controlled by strong ones. I found humans seeing through their own creations which they built to protect themselves from the fear.............................

Or was it just me that was afraid, and I was projecting fear on other people? Absurdity was all around me, eating at me, causing pain to fill my body. I must kill this absurdity, my enemy.

* * * * * *

A man in a white uniform just put me back at the type writer.  

"Get back on the horse that threw you." What a simpleton. What an asshole. He doesn't know where his head is, how can he help other people find theirs? "The doctor is going to read what you are writing and it's going to determine when, and if........ you get out."

  

Hey., doctor, you have got to get me out of here. This place is a loony bin, and I am going crazy. I have got to get out of here. I have become a vegetable like everyone else in here. A non-thinking being. Acting without thought.

  

It is true there are periods in my memory when it is blank. I close myself off from the present - to darkness. No pictures at all exist.

Stop. This is in the present. What do I remember? I can remember long ago and the present but not how I got to where I am.

Still the present...... what do I remember? My mother visits me. I feel nothing: I remember nothing. Even when I remember, me before, her before, I feel nothing. Why? I wonder why she doesn't leave me here to sprout like the rest of them in here.

Maybe. Maybe I will recover my memory. That is what the doctor told both of us. Maybe. Is that why she keeps visiting, in hopes that my memory will return? What if it does, and I still feel nothing for her? For me? I don't even know if remembering will be good or bad? It will get me out of here. 

My mother. Don't cry, mother. I'm not crying, but then, I don't know what to cry about. Life is dead for me. Past emotion is gone. No, I am not crying. I am not unhappy. However, I am not happy either. 

My headaches come and go. They hurt but don't make me unhappy. I am almost used to them. They are something that visits me like my mother. They come and go. I wonder if the headaches will disappear as I start remembering;................ if I start. Maybe both the headaches and my mother want me to stay in my condition so they can make their visits.

I have started staying awake nights. At first I slept twelve to fifteen hours, but now I sit up all night.

  

Escaping into sleep won't help. There is nothing more to escape. So I must rebuild hence I won't have to escape. This is why I must write. I must regain my feelings so I will be able to dream again.

I stood in front of the mirror today, the one above the dresser drawer in the game room. The one where the cards, checkers, etc. are kept. Who are you? I asked. Where have you been? What have you done to get here? Two pale blue eyes stared at themselves. They are fixed in sunken sockets surrounded by a pasty white, thin face. I wouldn't look so thin if my head wasn't shaved. Denim blue pajamas hang on bare bone shoulders. A body, maybe twenty or twenty-two years old, over six feet tall, but frail, emaciated. It must have been bad. 

That's why I don't remember. What happened to me must have been really bad that I have blocked it from my consciousness, haven't I? Yes, it must have been bad.

Today the doctor said I am making great progress. Ten pages and I am making great progress. He really ate up that stuff about my mother. You really ate that up, didn't you? I am not going to say another word about her. Do you hear? Never.

  

"Prolonged thought," you said, "Concentrate,......... force yourself to remember. You are still in the present. Your thoughts are disconnected. Build. Don't just recreate thoughts. Start some place and go."

  

Stupid ass! What in the hell do you think I am trying to do? I started talking about college. Going off to college. My fear.

How could other people believe what I couldn't? Maybe I was crazy back then. Maybe I should start earlier. Earlier.

When I was young, I drifted in a self-made raft on the open seas. I was secure, happy, until the ocean brought me within sight of land. People having a party on the beach seemed to be in view, and I was close enough to swim to shore. But hoping to be driven closer and fearing the unknown prevented me from plunging in. The tide changed and took out me further. When land was just barely visible, I became desperate. I leaped into the sea, hoping to reach land.

The need to reach land, to get out of myself, brought me to concerts and books. Music awakened a sensitivity in me. I understood the music, not as notes and rhythms, but as representations of human feelings and emotions. The composers' emotions seemed to be recreated in me. I sat in concerts, feeling, not listening. I couldn't distinguish between the music and the composer, the emotions created by the music and the composer's control to create these emotions. Emotion, music, and composer were one, recreated within me.

  

I read many books. And as with the music, time stopped for me. The thoughts and feelings were communicated almost without words. Thoughts and feelings filled my mind and body so full that nothing else existed. The thoughts and feelings were my world. Hours and sometimes days passed without recognition.

But then when I read out loud, people laughed. The words got jumbled. Thinking thoughts, not words. Reading thoughts, not words. I searched to find the words. They don't exist. 

Everyone laughing. "How did he get to high school, not knowing how to read?"

But I do know how. I read book after book, knowing what each author says, I understand the books. One sentence gives rise to a thousand feelings. I know these feelings. I know the author. I share the author's feelings. I know the thoughts. I know the thoughts behind the words. Do I need see the words? Words are meaningless without thought. Why read words? Read thoughts.

Before they laughed,.......... before I knew they would laugh, I loved them. Not just them, but everything. To let my love flow out of my body and settle on an object. The object grew because of my love. Everything grows because of our love, especially in our own minds. It blossomed and because it blossomed, it was easier to love, and I loved it more.

Did the love grow only in my mind? Did my love ever land on any object, or is this a fantasy in my mind also? Did any thing really feel the warmth of my love and grow? I miss not being able to love. I miss not having people to reflect my love.

Where did this young boy go? I was a Billy Budd ready for the slaughter. No! I wasn't even a Billy Budd. He was stead-fast to the end. I was not. I couldn't be. I was a small island in the middle of a changing, turbulent sea. The tides came. I began changing. The sea rose and washed away my sands. The water tore at my land. I couldn't stop the waves. I built barriers, but I couldn't stop the waves. My sands were slipping away. I didn't want to change. But I couldn't be stead-fast. I changed as everyone has to change.

Girls laughed at my love. They laughed at my attempt to get involved. Was it because I was clumsy? Or was it that they didn't understand the kind of love I wanted?

Was it that I was different and viewed life differently? Couldn't they accept my view? I opened myself to people who didn't want to see and to people who didn't know what they were seeing. They didn't want to see. Nobody cared. My love......was in my mind, going nowhere, doing nothing, hitting no one?  

No one. Growing? Not even myself. Me trying to stand against the currents.

One night in a movie theater I knew I was changing. I knew I could not hold on. It should be like everyone said it would be, like they taught me it would be. Why isn't it? Why can't I hold on to my love? Why can't there be something in life to love? I stand. The projector lights flash.. My ears are filled with acting voices. My eyes see only artificial light. I know I am changed. I couldn't hold on. There is no island against the currents.

  

Voices yell at me, "Sit. Sit down."

But I am invisible. There is no island against the sea. There is nothing but the sea with its ever changing tides.  

I run from the theater.

* * * * 

Yesterday, for the first time, my thoughts danced in the fields of my youth. They glided over the surface of the flowers, not daring to land and destroy the melancholy beauty of the flight. The memories except for the flaw of perfection which showed their non-existence float in my mind as a reality. A too perfect flower in a too abstract field. I have created a sensitive-boy, not relieved a reality. But this is not what I seek. I seek a past which doesn't seem available.

Let me seek a new, self-created world in which I can live. A world inside a book. My mind makes both real and unreal memories become factual. Even if I don't desire it, I am sure that the past is distorted and remade so it can be more easily accepted into myself. Who doesn't distort the past? This is not my illness. The illness exists in my inability to light upon a real flower.

I am varying from my directive again. I am in the present again. I must concentrate. Entering college. I think even then I had a propensity for self-destruction.

 

Why did I write that? Are there traces of self-destruction? Why did I think that?

What do you say, doc? Do you find any traces? Was it a slip? What did I mean by it? Is that what happened, attempted suicide? No, I am not going to get hung up on that. Think. College.

College. I was pushed off to college so my parents wouldn't have to watch the destruction from the disillusionment, the disintegration brought about by all the false beliefs that they and the society had taught me. Yes, disillusionment had effaced my reality. I had lost grasp of my world, floating free from all I had once known. I wanted to slow things down and put everything in order. But I was pushed off to the new environment before I could pull the old together. But all this is evading the real question. Who was back then? With whom did I share my world?

The dorms my first year. People all crowded together. Organizations. Eating at a certain time. Going to class at a certain time. The world was set for us. No need to think. Nights filled with movies, studying. 

 

God, I haven't changed places at all! I am still in an institution: order, schedules. My world is as planned as it was then.

  

The only difference is the people. The university generates rebirth. This place keeps the dead alive. This institution is not built to breed hope. This place is old. Dirty old. The faded blond wooden chairs and tables were probably given to the hospital fifteen years ago with no hope of rejuvenation. People around me are not even talking to each other. They talk, but no one listens. Everyone just talks and talks. No one can blame me for hating them. 

 

Even while I am typing, without looking, I know where Robert is, what he is doing. I have never seen anyone sit so long without doing anything. What could he do? He speaks to himself, saying what? What an ugly old man. I wish someone would give him teeth. He sits in a stupor, looking dumb, pathetic. No. Get back into school.

Aura? Aura!

"Aura," I called. "Aura," I call.

She comes over and sits beside me. I reach out and remove her dark glasses. My confrontation confuses her. The glasses were only a small part of a cover. Only a part of the protective shell behind which she hides. Hiding from what? Why was she protecting herself? From what? Aura......... I must know more about her. What? Let loose. Concentrate.

A small white house lost in a large, green acre. Long green grass ready to seed. Fruit trees in bloom. A small white house called the "cabin." Aura dancing on the flat roof to Bartok. Aaron making bread on the back porch. Thump, pound, pound. His hands are white with flour. Throwing the bread down, the flour rises around the dough. Flour and hand are indistinguishable. 

 

Waiting, waiting for the bread to rise. Bartok is off. Aaron is playing his guitar. Now Aura sits on the ground leaning on me. We both watch Aaron playing. The grass reaches up around him to take him into the ground. He disappears, but his music continues. Aura rests her head on my stomach. We know he will come back to us. His music says so.

Aura picks a wild tulip growing in among the tall grass. She places it in her hair. It looks stupid, but she is proud. She walks around displaying her new found instrument. The grass brushes her knees, so she steps high. Her movements are not obvious unless you know her.  

Gery comes from the house, stands on the porch watching Aura. She does not see him. She is distracted by herself, feeling the grass on her legs, feeling her dress rub against her bra-less breasts, feeling her womanhood.

Aaron's music still plays. The path to the house is becoming hidden by grape vines, unpruned apple, and peach trees. The path should be covered, and we should be closed in, voluntarily caught in this unfettered garden.

Fresh bread. Two or three people come up the path bringing butter and honey. Did they smell the bread? Or did someone call them?

Sitting on the roof with feet dangling over the edge. Eating warm bread, butter melting. Listening to Stravinsky. Music coming from below where four more loaves cool, white with raisins, cracked wheat, honey wheat, and molasses. The music rises through us. The heat in the oven stops five more loaves from rising further. Aura says that we need to buy wild geese to put in the yard. "It will make the scene complete."

A large tomcat walks into the house and stays. The long haired, tiger striped cat pacifies Aura. No more talk of ducks. Together under a tree in the front yard, almost concealed except for a low motor sound, they purr together.

Every evening Aaron goes off after dinner and comes back after dark. Gery sits writing or doing homework. Aura does the dishes. She puts the last dish on the drainboard, then wipes her hands. She looks at me, smiles, then moves to the icebox. Her smile reappears from behind the door. In her hands is a bowl. The door closes. Gery looks up, "What do you have?" She brings the bowl as an offering towards us, still smiling. Both Gery and I look in at the same time--huge strawberries on a yellow custard pudding.

God damn it! I have regressed again. This is not memory, but a fantasy of how it should have been, and I have let a dream control me. My imagination and not my memory controls. The dream has flowed out of my memory in beautiful color, but tainted by a biased, and it is too transparent. I cannot let this happen.

The memory-images, real or synthetic, must not only work their way out of my mind but be able to withstand the environment. They must be as real as the environment, or at least be able to withstand it. Just existence as an entity in the outside will not be enough to help them grow. They must be able to interact. And in this interaction, this union, they will have to create a new reality.

  

If I never have complete recall, this book will become my past. The episodes must be more plausible. I must create events that are more probable in their happening. Make the pictures a reality, solid. Mix the pictures with grays and blacks to give them depth. They must become three-dimensional.

As I immerse into writing, I must remember this goal. If the goal, because of my involvement, cannot exist in my conscious mind, then it must find a way to exist in my unconscious. It must become an unconscious discipline and find a way to direct the new path which I am creating. Begin again.

A large tomcat walks into the house and stays. The long haired tiger cat seems to pacify Aura. Every evening Aaron goes off after dinner and comes back after dark. Gery sits writing or doing homework. Aura does the dishes and rationalizes not going to class anymore. Gery is the only student now. He and I argue as Aura does the dishes. The argument becomes loud. Aura screams. Gery and I look at each other. Both are mad at me. Maybe all three are. I again start to argue with Gery but stop because of Aura. She has been unhappy. Why? I feel sorry for her unhappiness. I feel helpless because I cannot help her. But she does not even talk to me anymore.

Aura's leaving. Airports depress me. Aura's departure doubly depresses me. In airports it is either you leaving or someone leaving you.  

The smell of her stays to say she has left.

  

Aura, come back; you left me with this longing, a hollow feeling that must be filled.

  

I am tired. 

 

Go home. Leave this depressing place. Take a "downer." Body releases following the freeway back to Boulder. The road drives under me. The tension is gone, but the empty feeling remains, and the pain grows.

 

"How long have I known her?" I ask myself. Four, maybe five weeks. She came to live with us after the party. 

 

That beautiful party:

Everyone stoned, drifting around, talking quietly. Only a single red light filling the room with an unreal atmosphere. Everyone smiling at nothing apparent. The feelings inside blossom on their faces. Someone's laugh explodes the room. Music begins. Dancing. A girl dances in the middle of the room by herself. A boy tries to accompany her, but cannot. He moves back into the crowd. This is her music, her dance, her night, and she knows. Her name is Aura. Everyone knows her The artist with so much talent that instructors approach her to attend their classes.

* * * *

Aura, why do you have to leave? Don't go. Are you running away from something? You wired home for money.

"When is it being sent?"

"Today sometime. There is no place for me here. I am stagnant. My art is stagnant. I am withering away. They can't teach me anything. All my courses are so simple, so basic. There is no challenge. I get "As" when I don't deserve them. I get them just because I am me and I want to do what I am doing. They can't help me grow.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know yet. New York maybe."

"What's there?"

"Don't know. I've never been."

She runs toward me. Her smile grows to the point of bursting. I recognize the laugh which exploded the party the night we met. She grabs my hands and dances around me. Once, twice, she releases one hand and we run together. I look at her face. She is youth. Younger than I have ever seen her. A twelve year old girl running with a skip.

"Why run?" I ask.

"My parents came through. I have the funds."

I stop running. I stand there. She runs on without me.

The telegram. The money. The airport. A good-bye kiss, our first kiss. The drive back to Boulder on downers to numb the pain. But she is gone.

The path up to the white house. The door is open. Only the screen is protecting the inside from the outside. Gery is studying at the kitchen table. Aaron is fixing some climbing equipment.

"Did she take-off?" They both stop what they are doing and look at me.

"Yes." I sit down.

We all sit there, doing nothing, saying nothing, with nothing to say.

And even earlier memories awaken. Knowing that these memories are better than the present and being myself , by myself.

Memories of the previous summer in the mountains where I had lived until I met Aaron, who asked me to room with him in the "cabin."  

The mountains. Living five miles up Four Mile Canyon. In the evenings, carefully descending to the bottom of the canyon so nobody will know I am there. In among the granite rocks of various sizes, staring at granite slabs rising sky ward seemingly without end. But I live on a small green plot, with my fire grate created from stones and crevasses in the shear face, on one side. The stream on the other. Pine trees confine both head and feet of my sleeping bag. It's restricted, but I like it. The unused air is constantly heavy with a freshness and cooled by the stream, a double freshness. It is as if you don't need to breath as much. I feel safe, and it is beautiful: dark green pines and grass, dark brown rock and dark shadows. Days are spent just exploring the river, bathing in it, or staring at the sky. 

 

Then it begins to rain every night. The stream rises, and my food, which I placed in among its rocks to keep it cool, is washed away.

  

Mornings. Placing my sleeping bag on a huge rock so it will dry; the moisture rises as steam, evaporating in the air. Building a fire to cook breakfast is a problem with wet wood. I think I can see my breath, and my slightly wet clothes make me cold to the bone.

Finally hiding my bag and the rest of my food so nobody would find it, walking up to the road, hitching to campus and going to the gym to take a hot shower. Feeling so good, clean and warm that I decide to attend two summer school classes (the main reason my parents give me money). I buy some more food. Head back after dark. Try to build a fire in the dark, and when the dark is lighted, it's good again, eating dinner, keeping warm by the fire, crawling into my familiar embracing sleeping bag,............ but awaken four hours later when it starts to rain.

* * * *

The orderly brought me my daily dose of tranquilizers. Even back then, sitting in that white house, I could not live in the present. Even then I could not cope. I escaped when things were getting bad.

 

Now, I sit in my feeling of security with my accomplishments, my recollections before me, but know I must go further.

  

Doctor, what do you think? It is better than your asking me a bunch of stupid questions, then nodding or granting an approval to make me continue talking.  

I feel calm. My thoughts come easily. I can almost ask why I am here, except for the tension in my stomach and a fear of what I will find. 

Whether these thoughts are my real past, I can't tell. My train of thought leaves something to be desired. It's not logical, yet. The events are not in complete sequence yet. I should concentrate on that next. Make one sequence follow the next.

Thinking in this present awakens my unhappiness. I feel ill. My head aches. My hand hurts. Muscles in my arm ache. The light in the room flashes on, off. Or was it a cloud outside? Did I just see the flash in my mind?

  

Don't get shook. Look outside. A red brick wall. Another building. A red, brown building. Everything around me is brown, dirty brown, dark-dirt brown. They should paint this place. The oldness of the building has contaminated everything: me, my room, the brown-green grass in front of this building, the gray side-walks, my filthy window. 

 

Gray days always, my window. Gray days always. 

In the night, the dirt on the windows causes a reflection, and I cannot even see outside. Why in the hell do I want to see that stupid brick wall anyway? Fuck the god damn thing! 

Please change my sheets; Paint- my room, please. Fuck it. Even after a painting, the room would still be ugly, dirty, horrible. Old. Old. I feel so old because of this place. 

I'm still having those contractions. The last one paralyzed my hands. I went and lay down. The muscles in my legs tightened. I knew I was on the way. They tightened brick hard. I lost all feeling. My upper body and neck tightened until only my breathing persisted. My chest--the only part of my body alive. Was my heart still beating?

  

Into the tunnel of darkness traveled so many times before. Afraid to release. Fall, release, accept the darkness. Fly into the void.

Accept it. Let yourself go into it. Release. But I couldn't. I didn't. I regained myself. On the bed, staring at the ceiling. The bare light bulb's white glare shattered the vision, brought me back.

How much do you believe of what I am saying? Aren't you supposed to believe everything I say? Why would I lie to you? The only way I could, would be to lie to myself. I'll try not to do that. Maybe I do and don't know and will never make myself better.

God, this place is bad. Things were different near the mountains. The smell of pine, wild flowers, fruit trees in blossom, baking bread, clothes smelling of pine smoke from camping or fishing trips.

A midnight climb up Amphitheater outside Boulder. Being engulfed by clear, fresh smells, familiar smells of the mountains. Full moon. A serious talk about the route to take. Knowing what is here in the daylight, but seeing anew in the dark. Imaginary deep crevices. False hand holds. Shadow people moving in among the evergreens, luring us away from our concentration. Not knowing where we are on the rock, three feet from ground or five hundred. Afraid until Aaron's voice breaks the sounds of night. "Watch yourself here!"

I look at the pale-gray figure above me. Darkness encloses again. This time protecting my vision from the ground.

The walk home after the climb. Arms around each other. Just a full moon so bright that it leaves our shadow on the rocks, weeds, and road. Our shadows disappear in the weeds, to play with each other where we can't see them. Then taking the whole road. No cars. No headlights. Just our shadows dancing with each other. All four happy, Aura, Gery, Aaron and I, feeling tired, but walking with a gait.

Hot tea back at the cabin. Warming our hands on the cup.

* * * *

Lying next to Aura on the bed, touching. Her small breasts. The beautiful smell of perfumed wildness. She had returned, bringing with her her smell, her closeness, her love. More intense than before, closer than before. Her flight away from me was bad, but she is close now, warm, saying nothing. Another letter to her in the form of a poem.

  Come, pluck the petals from the rose.

  Come take a chance.

  And have at least one beautiful dance.

  No tears will we ever see

  Because we will determine

  What will or will not be.

A three page reply, six words on each page, saying nothing. Did she take the poem seriously? A phone call to her.

"Aura, come back. Are you accomplishing what you wanted? Did you find out you were running from something instead of to something?

A broken voice replies, "I'll come back. I want someone, and I want someone to-want me."

She hitched all the way from Virginia. Was it to be with me, or just because she didn't want to be by herself?

Could that someone have been anyone? It doesn't matter. She is here. Everything is fine. How did she end up in Virginia? Searching for something which wasn't there. Not knowing where to go next. 

 

Come back, come back. And she does. She is here beside me, telling me how she got here. Her perfumed wilderness has covered both of us. My exhaustion makes me an easy listener.

"I hitched all the way. The most desperate thing I've ever done. Afraid and excited by what awaited me, I stood on the road with my skirt blowing at every passing car. But I was smart. With a map in hand so I wouldn't get lost or get stuck in some small town, unable to get out, I asked where the driver was going so I could say 'no' if I didn't like his looks. I was hoping for a ride to take me all the way through, but seemingly always getting some salesmen going from one town to the next. Of course he, they, propositioned me. 

 

"Then a big, huge truck driver in a big, huge truck. We were sitting high above the road above the rest but then I listened to the driver talk about his life, tried to relate, tried to talk with him, but not about college, not wanting that to stand between us. Not wanting to add more tension to an explosive situation. I talked about what I was doing, and where I was going, not about me. Finally, and of course, we got into a fight and I demanded he stop and let me out. It was Limon, Colorado.

"The minute I was on the open road again with my sign to Boulder, I was arrested for hitching.

  

"How close I am! Let me go, I prayed. I am so close. Let me finish without problem. Let me go to the cabin where I can sleep. Four days and three nights on the road, too much.

  

"On top of that not believing I'm eighteen and me not having proof, the police called my parents. 'Hello mother,....No,....Yes, everything is fine..... No, ... I was trying to get back to Boulder...Yes, I will....Yes, I should have wired for money. No, I shouldn't have been hitching without anyone knowing. I didn't think it would have been fair to ask for more money. Yes, I will wait for the money. Yes, I will take the bus. But I do love you. That's not the point. Yes, I will take care. Yes, I will wait.'

"After the money arrived, I waited in the cafe. Some man said he would drive me to Boulder because he was going. 'When?' In a couple of hours, he was another salesman and had to make one more call. 

 

"'Yes, I would like to sleep for a while. Across the street, Room 4? Yes, I will leave the door unlocked so you can get the key before you check out, thank you. Be sure to awaken me before you go; don't leave me here.'

  

"A small, dark room with a big bed. Musty, unkempt. Not touching anything. Just lying on top of the bed with eyes closed. My eyes hurt. Not enough sleep. Four days. Four days. Trying desperately to get someplace where I can rest. Back to the cabin. Back to Boulder.

"'What's happening? Get off of me! Who are you? What are you doing? Get off! Get off!'

"He tore at my clothes. He was on top of me. He pressed his face close to mine. I can still smell his horrible breath, liquored breath. He wouldn't let me move. He started yelling at me. He called me a whore, a bitch, a slut. He was the man in the cafe. He was off me onto the floor. He prayed. He cried. I started to move. He was on top of me again, kissing my neck, my face. 'Get off! Get off!' I yelled, cried, kicked. I scratched his face. He fell to the ground. He began praying again, crying, burying his face in his hands.

The way to the door was clear. I ran. The door flew open. I ran down the stairs and flagged down the first car that passed by. He was going to Denver. From Denver to Boulder by bus."

"It's all right. You are here now. You are here now. Everything is fine."

Camping in the mountains at night. Aura and I alone, in one sleeping bag. Warm,. close, so close. We change positions so I can see the stars. Millions and millions of stars. We are so close. We are so close to them. We are so close to everything, the ground, each other, the fresh air, the stars. We are so close to where we want to be. A hand reaches out, taking a stick from the pile of wood and placing it on the fire. Side by side we watch the fire. The small stick burns. We say nothing, nothing need be said.

  

Cold air creeps into the bag and lands on my back. I pull at the bag. Smelling the smoke, the cold air, the ground, each other and our product together. Hearing the pine burn, the trees move and a marmot call. Knowing where we are. Knowing where each other is. Feeling each other. Learning how to touch softly. She takes my hand. She moves it gently, along her stomach up to her breasts. Gently, gently.

Later in the night I awaken by myself, emptied, alone. I hear her behind me. I can feel her back press mine. I could roll over and put my arm around her and touch her breasts. The thought arouses me, but I can still feel slight pain from being over stimulated. I don't wake her. Rather, I turn on my back and look at the sky. 

 

I can see more stars than I can count. And yet from pictures I've seen, pictures of millions of stars, millions of light years away, or more yet, pictures of galaxies, millions of light years away containing millions of stars, I know this vastness before me is such a small part of ...............what? the whole? the infinite?  

Why is it here? Why does it exist? Why do we exist? And who am I, one of five million on a planet that is so small, no other living being from another galaxy could see it. What role could I play in all of this,........... in any of this? Do I have a role? Does anyone have an importance within this scheme. What does it mean that even if other beings exist that because of the vastness we will never be able to meet them, much less even probably communicate with them. What does any of it mean? What does anything mean?

* * * *

A party in the "cabin" celebrating Aura's return. Lots of people: They arrive in threes and fours. The house is full. Five couples dance in the middle of the living room. Groups of people discussing politics in the bedroom. Quiet party. Everyone is stoned. Listening to the music, to one another talk, finding out who the other people are, where they are. Some sit on the floor. The music is louder. People talking very softly in the back rooms.

  

Pastels are passed out by Aura. The ceiling is within reach. Girls on chairs. Others on tiptoe, stretching. On the floor people sitting and lying people watch the ceiling take form. Change. Reds, blues, faces, animals. Water colors on the windows.

  

The only words come from the music. The music is loud, but feels soft. Carrying out an ancient ceremony. Music becomes the god, the guiding spirit. People sit down in twos and threes and stare at their work. They watch the final transformation. Now everyone is sitting back or lying on the floor. The lights are off. A candle is lit.

  

The pictures take you in. The colors create an untouchable world. They merge with each other to create a significant whole in which you can move. Through time and space you can fly.

Looking at the pictures created by another race of people thousands of years ago, a race of cavemen whom we can only know through their pictures. The music has transformed men into gods to create a world. They stare at their world; they move within it. They retouch it with their minds.

Aura, I am lost in this world without. Anxiously searching for her, first in the bedrooms. The kitchen. I find her talking in the back-yard. She is showing Rodger the shadows created by the trees and moon. The slow, imperceptible movement of the moon and the swaying of the trees create fantastic creatures in motion. Changing and never the same. I stand; watch and listen, then turn to leave. I do not want to see their pictures In the cabin, I take three tranquilizers.

Aura, Gery and I plan a trip to Baniff. An openly expressed daydream in which we immerse ourselves. But we know it will happen. Preparations. We get part-time jobs. The trip is two months away.

Trying to go to sleep. Aura not in bed yet. My eyes hurt. My head aches. Go to sleep.

Aura comes in, she has been crying, sits on the end of the bed, staring at me. I am uncomfortable. I look at the pastels on the ceiling but can't get into them. The bed vibrates. She is crying again.

"What's wrong now?" She is on the foot end of the bed by herself, crying.

"Hey, don't cry," I softly say. She doesn't respond.

After a too long a pause she asks, "What's wrong with me? Why do I act as I do? I hate myself."

"Why do you say that?"

"Don't you hate me?."

"No."

"You should after all I've done to you."

"What? You haven't done anything to me. You haven't, have you?"

She told me about her freshman year, her unhappiness, her loneliness. How she had to join a sorority because she needed to belong to something, anything. The University was too big. She joined because there was a place for her. "I guess I was used to having; therefore I wanted." Then she realized that her loss of individuality and freedom would be her payment for the security of belonging. 

"But then Marty came along."

"Marty?"

"Yes, Marty, .... Marty Fisk. Do you know him?"

"Sure, everyone does."

She lived with him awhile. He gave her a new world, a world in which she could free-fly. "I had both freedom and someone."

Her first year had come to an end. Home for the summer. Glad to get away. "But I couldn't stand to be without Marty,. though. I wrote him. I wrote him a second time. I needed him. I hated being home. It was nothing compared to school. My parents responded to me as if I had not changed at all in the time I was away from them. When I first got home, I felt neurotic. It was as if there were two "me's," their child and the person I had become. But slowly I started to become their child again. Their reaction to me, their treating me as a child made me become a child again.  

I wrote Marty a third time and told him to come visit or come get me. Without replying he showed up." 

Her words hesitate, then work their way out of her mouth and hurt me.

"I slept with him in my parents' house. He was the first person I ever slept with." 

I stared at her. The dried tear streaks stained her cheeks. Maybe she thought it was my turn to cry.  

She waited.  

I waited. Did she think I thought she was a virgin? Pure. Innocent. Our first kiss at the airport. A slight pressing of the lips. Innocence?

"He blew my parents' minds. He was not what they thought a young man should be."

Did they know you slept with him in their house?  

Who was this person with whom you made love? This Marty Fisk? A name, Marty Fisk. Another way of life, another being. My thoughts block her voice from penetrating my consciousness.  

"Hey, Marty, if you can get some good stuff, get me some. Do you need the money now or when you get back? ...... How much? .....All I can afford is ten...."

Marty is back. "You were right. This grass is amazing shit."

Two o'clock in the morning, four people sitting around. Two bennies each. Some food. Some music. Then this amazing grass. Only the flowers........no seeds, no stems. Marty has been around for a long time. He was here in Boulder before I came. Did he ever go to school? He probably knew what people meant when they said marijuana was getting into the high schools back in the Fifties. He was probably supplying. I bet he saw High School Confidential and Mary Jane and knew what they were talking about.  

"Dig it," he likely said. "Dig those raunchy flicks. Man, they don't know where it is. If they would have, they would be handing out joints at the door so everyone could have a good laugh."

Did she sense I wasn't listening? She had stopped talking. Did she want a reply? What could I say to her? I wanted this silence. I wanted her to stop talking about him. Or was it herself I didn't want to hear about? Maybe it is my turn to cry. Could it be my innocence again? I didn't want to hear. She didn't wait for a reply but continued.

"When I got back to school, I was a changed person. There could be no compromising. It was the first time I had done something that my parents wouldn't have wanted me to do. I didn't tell them."

She gave up her place in the sorority, her place in school, for him.  

What did you gain? A life, a new way of living. Lying to your parents so they would still send you money. Then when they quit, selling pot with and for Marty. Being paranoid about selling - a bad way to keep a world alive.

"But it was beautiful. At the time there were fifty to a hundred real people in Boulder. Marty knew them all. They all knew Marty. He was probably the main reason for some of them being here. They had come from all over. Portland, New York, San Francisco, L.A. They made their base in Boulder. They took off again. They stayed with us, then we moved in with them. Their experiences were our experiences. A single world with a single object, a new, better way to live. A life worth living, and someone which whom to share it: real people and a real life. It was great. It wasn't a plastic nine-to-five, robot existence, but intense, meaningful. For awhile we stayed with these people away from campus, downtown, then decided to move into the mountains. Marty said before leaving, 'It was beautiful, and if it wasn't real, it should have been.'

"Right in the middle of November, Marty and I moved into a cabin with the idea of starting a commune in Spring. We lived by ourselves for a month. It snowed and snowed. By December, it must have been over seven feet. Everyday it snowed. My mind .....

 My body started going............. through changes. There was too much to which I had to adjust. I had almost forgotten the world of my parents. But sitting up there, I thought of it again. Marty said that it only existed in my guilt. But I couldn't rid myself of it. It had a hold, a slight but strong hold, and it began to eat at me. I knew rationally that that world didn't work. I knew it, and I knew that it wasn't for me. But it was there, inside me.... At times I wanted it back. It was simple, clean, healthy, young. I cried because I had lost it so easily. I blamed Marty. For eighteen years I lived a certain way, a way that Marty destroyed. No, that's not fair. It was just that he presented a world that seemed to work better. I couldn't be taken care of all my life, he told me and he was right. I knew it. I had to create my own world, something I could believe in, something that could make me feel more a live than ever before. But it was in that place, in the mountains, where I quite taking care of myself. I quit caring. I wanted to taken care of again. I got sick, physically sick. I think it was from not eating right.  

"We started fighting. I didn't think of what he gave me, only of what he couldn't. We had found a Monopoly set on the top shelf of a walk-in closet. We played, and it helped. But after three days of playing, we had to get out. We decided to find some people to live with us. We decided to go down to the Tap to drink and to look for some groovy people, and play monopoly. It took us a half a day to get his truck to the main road. But we didn't mind. We had a goal. We were fighting, but this time against something other than each other. We were working together again. But then when we finally got there, in front of the Tap, he decided he didn't want to go inside, but wanted to take the game and visit some of his friends to play.

"'No!' I screamed, 'It's my game, you gave it to me! The game stays with me.'

"We had a fight right there in front of everyone. He grabbed the box and pushed me. I fell down and began screaming. I got up, yelling. Words were pouring from my mouth without control. I kicked him. I hit him. The rage from the last few month exploded in me and from me. I hit him again,......... and again. He began laughing and turn to walk away. I kicked him,......... I meant to kick him in the butt, I swear I did, but he had turned back around..... all motion stopped. His face turned white, and he fell to his knees. He looked up at me with his pain-filled eyes. I reached out to touch him. He reached out to touch me. I helped him up. But then he hit me with his closed fist. I fell bleeding. He threw the game. The box top hit my chest. Paper money was still falling when I got up. I cried. I ran and cried. I went to a friend's place and stayed with him for awhile, but couldn't stand it. I started staying around at different places, not caring with whom. I wanted Marty to know. I hated him for destroying me, my life. I hated myself because he was still deep inside me.

"I tried everything to get him out.

"I got back into school. I came here. I lived with you. He went to San Francisco. After living here for a while and when things slowed, I realized that I needed him more than I imagined. I couldn't get him out of me. He left a need, a craving. I went to New York. I went to Virginia to stay with a friend. All of this to rid myself.............. I wanted him to come back and see me living with someone. He didn't. I went to New York; I went to Virginia and came back. Marty didn't." 

Silence fills the room, then she began to cry again. "All I really wanted was to want someone and for that someone to want me ........ But do you see what I have done?"

I lay back on the bed. I wish I could tell you it's all right, Aura; I wish I could. But it's not. You know that it is not, don't you? I close my eyes and feel the coldness in the room.  

She is afraid. She knows she had said too much, and knows now that I know too much. She has opened herself and is too vulnerable.

  

Say something to her. Make her unafraid. No! I pull the covers up around me. She gets up, takes her sleeping bag and walks from the room.

In the morning, without Aura beside me. Smoking a cigarette in bed. The noise from Gery's room ceases. Aura enters.

"Gery and I are leaving."

"Today?"

"Today!"

"Impossible."

"Wait and see."

The pastels on the ceiling look hideous in the early morning light. The textures are harsh and grainy on the plaster board surface. Aura finishes staring at me and turns to leave. Are you in love with him? Could he think he loves you? Maybe he has loved you all along. Maybe it's not that. He is probably taking her away because she needs to go, to get out. Will she return as she did last time?

I spend the morning listening to records with Aaron's earphones. Opening my eyes at irregular intervals to watch the loading of Gery's VW camper. My eyes shut to concentrate on musical patterns. Aware that I am blocking out the activity in the house, my closed eyes become only a darkness of consciousness. This darkness over my thoughts blankets the music from my mind, the music I need for complete escape.

Aura, Gery, and Aaron make final adjustments in the camper. I stand in front of the cabin. Aura and Aaron pass by me and enter the cabin to get sandwiches. Gery stops in front of me, "I'm sorry that things turned out the way they did."

Are you? Yes, I can see you are. I turn and go into the house; Aura passes with confusion on her face and says good-bye to Aaron.

Two days ago they left. What have I done since then? Nothing. Sitting. Waiting. For what? Maybe it won't work out for them. Maybe he will turn her off. Maybe she will hitch back without him. It's stupid to sit and wait. Just wait for it to happen. For what to happen? Anything. And if she doesn't come back? Still wait?

Night sits heavy. Where would they be now? They must have stopped for the night. Aura--so much was said that should not have been said. So little was said that should. Two people meet, words are spoken, not understood. Both go their separate ways, not knowing each other or themselves. Times goes so slowly, yet these are supposed to be my fleeting years. Nothing but disaster could relieve the monotony which hangs around my neck. I sit, wait. Not live. I don't challenge. I exist. I mustn't wait. I must catch the quickly passing moment and fly. Come wind, blow and set my sails again. Place me into the wind. There will always be other times, other places, and many other faces. Don't let me die, remembering. Let me create a new, beautiful life, so beautiful that it will justify itself.

Four o'clock in the morning. Not having slept. Walking up into the foothills. Alone. Waiting for the sun to rise so I can appear to be living. Last night I could not even pretend to myself. Waiting for the sun. Birds singing in my ears. No other sound. Birds, loudly crying to each other. Calling. Each trying to be heard above the others.

The sun is rising. All is quiet. The red mass on the end of the earth slowly takes form, an expanding half circle. All is still, but the stillness finds me dead. I hear the sunrise crying his birth pains, "I am always being born. Not living, or dying, but being born." I move westward, hoping to retain it cries and to muffle mine

To have an eternal sunrise.

But the sun climbs higher. The red turns white, the morning grows warm. I turn to walk down the mountain. Calmer

* * * *

Aaron and I talk low, concerningly as he pushes his ten-speed bicycle by the crossbar. He dons his small brown leather and canvas pack over one shoulder and under that chain and a lock attached. But he will forget to lock his bike and wear the chain all day. He always wears climbing boots, blue jeans, and a thick, bulky sweater made in France (his only purchase in Europe). A dark blue turtleneck is visible above the crewneck sweater. Three people pass us and smile. Some of his friends, no doubt. He smiles in return. I just walk past.

"I am going back to school and get my Master's in Physics," he states in a matter of fact manner.

"Why?" I ask.

"Very respectable, and besides that, I'll be able to move back up above Aspen without getting hassled by my parents. They'll be able to say, 'Yes, our son got his Master's, and now he's living in Aspen.' Very respectable. A compromise on my part, but they are paying off the land if I get the degree. I have been living up there for two summers now, working, trying to make the payments. I have been building a cabin, but it is not winterized, and so I have been coming down to Boulder to work in the winter."

"Why didn't you stay up there and work?"

"It's too expensive, and the winter people are too wild. The summer people are bad enough. Before I could finish my cabin, they passed an ordinance against it. No cabins could be built under a certain size. Mine was too small, of course. They also made certain items necessary for safety. Items which I could not afford. The sheriff came up to see me before I could even finish completing my original concept of the cabin. When I get the Master's, I will return to finish it. On the land there is this slab of granite protruding from the ground. I have been carving on it, making a gargoyle, not getting very far, but it's coming along. There will be time for everything. The first summer I was in Aspen, I met this woman. Amazing woman, tall, thin, big eyes. Very striking, with poise and a gracefulness. But she was also calculating, sophisticated, and domineering, the society breed type. She knew how to play games so well, one couldn't tell when she was not playing. Maybe she never stopped; I don't know. She was strong, though. She knew what was happening in other people, and nine-tenths of the time she was making it happen. Her thing was that she never disclosed herself. She told me that her parents were forcing her to go to Europe, and so she went. I missed her. Can you believe that? I knew where she was, who she was, but yet I wanted to be with her. She wrote, telling me to come over. I worked all summer, not spending anything except on the cabin and food. Then in the fall I found a ride to New York from the ride board, caught a freighter, and I arrived at the appointed place, the northwest corner of Notre Dame, at the appointed time, and waited for three days. She never showed. One of those days I met a guy who turned me on to hash. We ended up standing on the corner where I'd been waiting, back to back, watching for cops, passing the pipe.

"I left and hitched around Europe. I really got sick and ended up in a hospital in Italy. When I got better, I started to hitch to Vienna, but met an American who knew Eleanor and said that she was there. I didn't go, but came home instead. Maybe all for the best."

Aaron is going to the library, going to start studying again. He was always alone and wanted it that way. He came out of his seclusion only on rare occasions. But after Gery and Aura left, every day we would talk. Every night he would go to the library. Every night I would go to the Tap and come home "droned," drunk and stoned, to a dark house. I never awakened him, or he never said anything if I did.

The Tap. The eternal Tap--"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." Half drunk people, holding half finished beers, existing in limbo. Too many people pressed together, in a slightly too hot and humid, dingy place. A low ceiling pressing down. The incessant talking, talking , dreaming, cursing, hoping, screaming, with only half the people believing half the stories: dream talking, "I am going to do.............I am going to be.........."

"There must be some kinda way out of here." The juke box plays Hendrix. 

 

But then again, two dollars in quarters, at the right time, and after twelve the dancing is good. Because it's your choice, one after the other.

Sitting in a booth made of large unfinished lumber, like what would be in a log cabin, merde carved on the table. Knowing who carved it. Feeling close to that person just now. Knowing why she did it and feeling her mood. I finish my beer and get up to get another. 

 

When I return, two people across from where I sat, talking about love. A boy and a girl.

As I resume my position, I feel like I am barging in so I say, "Just went for another one." They ignore me.

"If and when she catches, up to the man, the man is through, she no longer will have a need for him. She will have outgrown him. She'll seek another person to make her grow until she uses him up. This is not only true for women, but for men as well."

Far-out chick! I smile, place my elbows on the table, lean forward to listen.

"Then there is a lot wrong with love. First of all, one person will never be continually happy with just one mate. If that is true and love only grows because of another person then how can a marriage last?"

"How many do?"

I interrupt. "Marriage is a social disease made by the society to protect its women. But it is on its way out now."

Both of them ignore my statements.

"The second thing," he continues, "is that people are just using one another to gain their own ends."

"Hey, man," I break in again, "grow up. Everyone is using everyone else to some degree, and all that we do is for ourselves. When we give to another person, it is really for ourselves, our own gratification. It is only when one person hurts another person to gain his own end does our society consider it selfishness. But in our reality it is only a matter of how badly your actions affect someone else, right? I guess this is a question of morality. Is the harm you do to someone else worth what you personally gain? How much will you gain from something, and how much will that other person lose? You must balance out the consequences. How much will you feel the gain, and how much will he feel the loss?" Hey, that was pretty good, I wonder where I got those statements? 

 

Dead silence. I wonder if they are thinking or are putting me down for butting in? I didn't know I was so moral. I smile.

 

"You may be right." The boy broke the silence. "Let's say it is true, so you as an individual have to decide the harm you are doing to another person and balance your gain. What will make you decide to play fairly after you see the other person is getting the wrong end of the scales? Also, since they are your scales, won't the balance always be in your favor?"

  "But everyone has his own scales. All must weigh their own decisions. As I have said, it is a question of a personal moral code. There is no universal code to make this decision, this subtle distinction. Not even in nature is there good and evil, right and wrong." I was trying to change the subject

"If you keep hurting people, they will leave you unless they want to be hurt," the girl adds.

"You are right that it is each person's decision but you aren't completely right that there is no universal code to help us make our decisions. I can name two right now. The Golden Rule and the Categorical Imperative.

"The Ten Commandments," the young girl chimes in.

"So," the young man continues, "it is not only a matter of weighing the effect but would you want other people to act the way you act, especially towards you............. Another balance, another weighing."

  "School must not be over yet," I say smiling to her, but turn to him and say, "Those aren't universal,...... natural; those are human creations, social structures to protect people."

  "No," she says back at me. In my mind she was now trying to change the subject, "Not yet. Aren't you attending classes?"

  "No."

"What are you doing?" she asks.

  "Nothing. What are you doing after school is out?" I ask with more than just curiosity.

 

  "There are about six of us who are looking for a ride to Mexico. We only want to stay two weeks or so because some of us have to work this summer," he answers.

"Maybe I can take you all. I have an old panel truck, but no money. So if you can pay for the gas.............."

"That would be great! We'll split it six ways."

"I have to say maybe cause I don't know what is happening yet. I am kind of waiting for someone."

"When will you know?" 'he asks.

"Probably in a week or so. Don't stop looking for a ride."

"I've been thinking," she says.

"What's that?" the boy says.

"If everything you say is true, then is that why most people feel so much pain during an relationship and especially after a break-up?"

I smile, lean back, and listen to a song. 

 

The boy answers, "Yes, I think what they are feeling is a need for each other."

"Right, but isn't that need love?" she asks.

"Maybe a certain type, but also a psychological need, a dependency. What must be happening is that one person fills the other person's needs, and he doesn't have to struggle to complete himself, and as you were saying, when one person no longer needs what the other person has to give, he will leave to find someone else. This also may explain why people hurt each other while they are still in, quote-unquote, love. When one person moves the wrong way, he threatens the other's security, what the other person is using him for. One seems always to get hurt in this type of relationship."

I quit listening and watch them gesturing to each other, communicating. They're pretty hot for each other, something I didn't see before. They have probably just met and are still making the initial steps to discover each other.

Six new people. Mexico. Change. It couldn't be bad. 

 

"No, I will for sure," I interrupt.

"Fantastic," she says. 

 

We start talking about the trip, settle some plans, then he turns to me and says, "Your implications are that humans are just animals."

"Yep, thinking animals, maybe the most aware animal, but that makes it the most pathetic. We are aware of our own possible destruction. We know we are necessarily going to die, and yet we struggle, for what? The most humane thing would be if the sun supernovaed, without warning, so we wouldn't live in fear the last few minutes. 

 

"Thinking about that makes me thirsty; anyone want another?" I say laughingly.

Neither respond. Waiting at the bar. New plans, new hopes, new excitement. I like them.. I like them a lot.

* * * *

My panel truck. Seven people crowded together. Five facing each other in the back and two in the front. Everyone sits on packs and suitcases which are covered with open sleeping bags. Been stoned, being stoned, and someone lights up another. A closed truck. Driving forty straight hours, only stopping for dinner and gas. Trying to sleep stoned. Wheels talking to me. Dreams and hallucinations merge confusingly. Trying to stay awake to keep the driver awake, then being too paranoid to sleep because I think the truck may fly off the road.

Being stoned and fucking lost in another Mexican town. Not knowing how to get out. Four o'clock in the morning. I, as driver, say, "All we wanted to do was just drive through. We didn't want to be here again, lost." 

 

Was this trip just another escape from myself? Flashes in my mind. 

 

The car is stopped. Being stoned does not change the questions but only intensifies them. Nobody making an effort to drive and get us unlost. Leaning back to feel the warmth after a cold night.

"We were at this corner fifteen minutes ago," someone says. I jump from my internal thought. Everyone laughs.

 

"I'll drive," Michael says.

 

"I feel," Eugene says, "as if we have been in this truck forever and will forever be here."

In the back of the truck, I lean on my rolled-up coat. It is nice and warm now, and by magic we are on the open road again. I fall asleep in the warming sunlight that cascades through the windshield.

The radio speaks to us in Spanish and then plays music. The chick, Audrey, and the guy, who I still don't know the name of, the couple from the Tap that night I decided on this venture, are in the front. He is driving. On the front seat, valuable room for another person goes without request, for they are alone with each other.

Five of us sit crossways in the back, unaware of our location and with only an abstract concept of our destination, a spot on the map. One joint has been around since sunrise.

  

Michael is the only one who missed out on it. His hard face is softened by sleep. His sensitivity is subtle. He observes, knows where everyone is but is a loner. He knows but not what he knows, loves but doesn't touch. His lower jaw drifts with the bouncing truck. His head is lodged in the corner at the rear of the truck across from me. Two sweaters protect his head from the bouncing. His legs with the blanket on them create an army tent. It sways with the motion of the truck. The tent covers my stretched out legs, but my feet stick out near his elbow. My staring awakens him, and he opens his eyes, smiles, then closes them again. I scrunch down. My chin rests on my chest, and my knees rise and create a longer tent.

Michael sits up, then turns to Phan sitting beside him, "Do you have a cigarette?" "Sure." Phan turns from the word-picture he paints for Velvet and pulls the cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Then turns and goes back into the world as seen from one hundred thousand feet. The final judging of the master road builders of the world. "Every builder was trained by his country for this task. Each builder has a lifetime of work invested. The world's hope for a greater road system rests on the outcome of this experiment. The first two countries to be viewed are Mexico and the United States. Mexico (we have to write down on our score cards)--good. points.: many scenic routes--bad points: not enough direct routes. As we fly over the L.A. area of the U.S., we see--oh my god, this road builder was completely mad! Out of his fucking mind!" The five of us laugh.

Phan has probably been stoned continually for three months, three., maybe four joints a day. It's his stuff we've been smoking on the trip. Velvet, sitting next to him, is rolling another bomber. She sits with crossed legs. A sheet of newspaper is on her lap to catch the overflow. The car jolts; she recovers herself. Eugene, sitting next to me, rubs the top of Velvet's thigh with the top of his foot. She lights the joint and passes it to him, then to me, then Michael.  

Michael draws slowly, then holds his breath, exhales before passing it on, and says, "I was thinking while you were fantasizing," stops himself, "now don't take this incorrectly,...... that humans could find purpose if we could only strip ourselves of all false beliefs and have no illusions. Like humans could believe that there is no afterlife, then we would be closer to seeing the reason for existence, the real reason."

"What if there is an afterlife and you don't prepare for it?" Audrey asks.

"What if they found out there was no reason?" I interject, "It's all one big mistake. A fluke! A chance occurrence. Or worse we are bacteria in the butt of the Universe."

Eugene. "No. There is a reason if only to transcend what we are now, to become a better person. And Phan's story is not such a fantasy as you may believe. If more people believed in reincarnation, it would be possible for one man to devote an entire life to perfecting one skill, like road building, and every man would come back at least once as the master road builder."

Phan. "Wow, to see what you're really like by projecting yourself on a grand scale."

Eugene. "Yes, and by seeing this, you could rid yourself of the bad karma and transcend even further."

Michael. "You've been spending too much time reading the I Ching."

The truck stops. The driver's tired face. "Pit stop." He turns back around and shuts the engine off.

 

Everyone is out, walking around. The gas smell disappears as I walk across the road trying to smell the Pacific.

* * * *

An island off Mazatlan. A deserted beach seemingly with no one but us. Propping myself up to see the ocean. A bloated fish lies on the hot, white, sandy beach. Ten feet away a half-drowned snake moves unconsciously, trying to escape the incoming tide. I watch it struggle, lying on my blanket in a different state. Would I fight as the snake fights, or would I let my life slip away as I lay here? Could the lapping waves, the hot sand, the full sun and my state make me not fight if it were my turn to choose?

"We really got some amazing stuff, didn't we?" says a girl who helped Eugene make a contact. She joined our party for the day.

"Huh,.. Yes," I answer. She had been in Mexico for two months and plans to stay longer. She has a motel room in Mazatlan and showed us this island.

The day passes imperceptibly. She and I enjoy playing games inside each other's mind. Building a sand castle, letting it wash away. Finding sand dollars and star fish, only to lose them in the sand. Losing trains of thought and conversations in the multitude of interruptions. Sitting under a shelter built of palm leaves. Touching now and again. Four of the group leave to go to town to buy food. They have to hurry, the boat - that goes back and forth to Mazatlan - stops after dusk. Audrey and her boyfriend and this chick, Beth and I are left. We swim nude in the warm sea then sunbathe.

"Come stay with me in Mazatlan," she says softly.

"Fine."

The others return. We eat. Then sit and watch the fire. The sparks fly off and land in the sand. A joint is being passed. Another is being rolled. I realize we won't leave tonight, we can't, and lie back. Beth, talks, listens, talks again, then lays her head in my embrace.

Morning moisture. Cold. Everyone moving very slowly or still trying to sleep.

"Beth,"- in a whisper.

"Yes?"

I wanted to say something, something I felt for her, something important, but I lost and just said, "Let's go for a swim." 

The water is warm but turbulent. It rejects our bodies, forces us back to the beach. We sit by the fire until the sun warms us. We sunbathe, sleep for a while. A pineapple is left from last night's feast - lunch.

Rejecting joints all morning, only to give in now. "If we don't leave now, we never will." Beth and I prepare to leave.

"We'll miss you," they laugh. We smile.

I take my sleeping bag and shake the sand, saying good-bye again. I smile. We walk up the beach, looking at the sea shells opened on the sand. The shells are blue and green blue butterflies, flying in patterns. Walking carefully not to disturb them. Sand crabs come out of their holes to stare at us. We stare back and laugh. Turning to see the people on the beach, not ten feet away yet, we wave once more. Looking down at the butterflies, holding each other's hand, we fly higher and higher. The sun feels warm on the top of my head. 

 

Voices; we turn slowly and realize we have only gone twenty feet. They are laughing at us because they know we will never get off this beach. 

I laugh too. My arm around her, I look in front of me. The most blue ocean and sky encounter whitest beach I have ever seen, which the gently curves into a light blue haze. The sand flares heat and wavy palm trees in the distance.

Maybe it is all a mirage.

I look back. My traveling friends are now in the light blue haze. We come to the turnoff and then under the cool, green palmtrees. The shacks we saw on the way here come into view. We are in Mexico, I remind myself. The smell of Mexico comes back, and a piglet runs across the path.

* * * *

A love affair. It will only last two weeks, I tell myself. Two weeks. Not even making plans to meet afterwards. Both of us knowing we have another world to which we will return.

But we don't think or talk about our other worlds. For two weeks, learning about another person. Again feeling what another person feels. Again sharing. When did I before? With Aura?

We lie on the bed in the motel room. Sand covers the floor from our morning swim. Two days without pot.

 

Aura and Boulder push their way into my mind. Aura - loving what she was to me, but instead of becoming what I loved in her, relying on her to give it to me and keep giving it. 

I pull Beth close to me. I begin kissing her. The past disappears.

The two weeks pass. Beth and I are in the truck with the six others. We hold each other's hand. Talking in low whispers, not saying, nor wanting to say anything. Caught in the present moment created by the past two weeks, waiting for the future, feeling uncomfortable in a futile moment before the end.

Michael is driving. "Where should we let you off?"

"Anyplace along here," Beth answers.

I slide out of the back of the truck with her, still holding her hand. Her hand releases, and without saying anything, she turns away. I climb back into the truck.

"Why leave?" Eugene asks. "Let's don't go home."

We all look at each other and begin to laugh. "Let's stay. Yea!" Everybody cheers.

 

So we do, only to be kicked out of Beth's apartment four days later by an excited Mexican landlord, threatening to call the "Federales."

Five people sick as hell. I was one of the lucky ones. I drove.

A long, beautiful drive up through Mexico. Thinking of the past two weeks.

  

An escape into Mexico. How many adventures begin in escape? How many times must one escape, only to find the universe from which he fled around him, still inside him? The long, forty-hour drive down, a touch of apathy, and a brief encounter with another human being. Finding all human beings alive, wanting, hoping, desiring as much as I. I know I am returning, not refreshed by the vacation, but refreshed in my newness.

Across the border without them finding anything. Do our clothes, the sleeping bags, the truck reek of pot? They pulled the ashtrays, and nobody could remember where they threw the roaches. Nobody had thought to empty them. But no roaches, lucky. No trouble with the truck. Lucky. We all pool our money - just enough to make it. Lucky.

* * * *

Boulder again. The cabin. No one home. Trying to sleep.

A phone call from Aura at Gery's house in Nebraska. "Where have you been? We have been calling for four days. Nobody has been home. Anyway, Gery and I are heading East together. We are not coming back."

Surprisingly, not being upset. Trying to go to sleep again only to be awakened by another phone call from a friend of Aaron's. Then a phone call back to Aura.

"Hello, Aura, listen, Aaron was killed three days ago climbing."

The clatter of the receiver hitting the floor. Then a crying scream.

"Hello, Gery? Aaron was killed up Boulder Canyon, climbing. About three days ago. A freak accident. A boulder cut his rope before the fall. There was nothing to prevent him from hitting the bottom. He was dead when his partner got to him. No, I just found out myself."

The receiver hangs itself back on the hook. The effect of his death hits me. I touch myself, thinking I have changed. But I am the same. I reach out to feel familiar objects. Nothing has changed. Only there's a pounding ache in my chest.

Is this all death can be? A pounding ache? The world should have jolted from the shock. Why is everything the same?

The world is lacking a person, a human being, but the world moves in the same way. Why? Why did he die? Why was it him? Why wasn't it me? Why shouldn't I seek and find it now? Why shouldn't I let everything go?

* * * *

My words stare back at me from the typewriter. A sick feeling engulfs my body. The words I have written were not the words I so desperately wanted to say. There is so much that I should have said. How can a relationship be placed on a piece of paper? How can the feeling of death be expressed? 

 

Maybe it is just me. Maybe I am afraid to go all the way? Afraid of what I will find. Or maybe I just do not know how to say what should be said to say what should be said.

Melancholia is inside of me, growing. Is it because of my inability to express, or are the awakened memories just too real?

  

I want to destroy all I have written. Why? So that it won't be organized. So I won't have to read it? So it won't be before me? Do I want confusion to reign again? No, I couldn't stand that. I should try to get back into it. I should write, using more detail,. so it will go slower. Maybe then I will be able to see the past more clearly. But maybe I should accept what I am, and where I am. Then work from there. 

 

No. I will rewrite what I have already written. Doctor, when you reach this place, you will have already read what I have rewritten, not even aware you have done so. You will be one step ahead of me, where I am now. But you will lack the depth of two writings.

Maybe not, though. Maybe you will be able to understand more than I will ever know about myself. This writing is as objective as I can see myself..............see, right now. Will I ever be able to see these writings from a completely objective viewpoint? A subjective outflow is all that the writing is now--a release of feelings that have been pent up for years. They should be released so I can rid myself 

* * * *

In this second writing the scenes of action are clearer and closer to what happened in my past. In fact, I can remember that part of my life pretty clearly, now. But sitting here, I couldn't tell you what happened after Aaron's death.

Get back into it. Aaron was killed. I won't see him again. Even if I went back now to the cabin, he wouldn't be there. Get deeper. In the cabin, feeling his death. His clothes are here. His bicycle is here. Where is he? 

 

You were here four days ago; where are you now? Aaron, you said there was time enough for everything. Where is your time? Where are your unborn dreams? You said you could make everything happen. What is happening to you now? Who will build your cabin? There isn't time for everything. There is hardly enough time to do what we have to do. You should have done what you wanted, when you wanted. You didn't need to play anyone else's game.

All you needed to do was live.

A very long camping trip into the mountains. Lasting how long. I don't know. Returning to the cabin to get my clothes. Saying good-bye to a dead life, to dead people. Saying good-bye to an old way, not knowing where the new way will take me, or even if there is one, just knowing that it is time to leave, time to get out, time to quit thinking.

Drugs become my escape, my salvation, my new life. A new drug, a new experience, a new life. Past and future dissolve into the present, not wanting to care, not wanting a past nor future. The present stands before me dislocated.

  

My eyes are heavy. I feel myself falling into my body. Not knowing where I am, not knowing where I am going......not caring. Chaos

.  

Every movement, every mental change an effort. I don't want to understand. I don't want to change the chaos. I accept my new life. People, who are both strange and strangers, give me a place to stay. They speak words I can't understand. I don't care. I don't want to know them or what they say. Move. Go.

Moving unconsciously from place to place, only feeling the drugs inside. Only staying one night in a place. Not wanting to slow down. Not wanting to look around. Wanting chaos, seeking disorder, from party to party, stoned, and becoming more stoned. Feeling one drug wear off and the next becoming dominant. Taking anything I can get. Booze, cigarettes, pots, peyote, synthetic mescaline, acid, psilocybin one after the another, continually high.

 

Only the highs determine the passage of time. Feeling the drugs within me. My body doesn't move, but acid still moves my mind.

Regaining a part of myself, to find I am at a party with the people with whom I went to Mexico. How did I get here?

Opium-cured pot. A strobe light. WAM! Everything is so slow. Moving so slowly. My mind leaves to drift around the room. Where are the people whom I knew? Where is Mexico?

Flashback--past drugs catch hold again. Unreal light penetrating. People-move. Their feet don't touch the ground. Seeing an apple suspended in mid air with an undetermined destination. Life and death frozen before me.

Food. Feeling warm, soft V-8 juice coat my tongue and move down my throat slowly. Root beer, effervescence hitting my face then exploding inside my mouth. Feeling better. Barbecue potato chips: Tasting the sugar, the chili, the salt, the potato. Lemonade to wash the chips down. Tingling sharp on the inside of my mouth. 

 

The strobe is changed to a different speed. Faces and hands become an infinite moment along a continuum. Two million hands. All moving. Michael stands in the middle of the room, spinning a string of pearls. The pearls become a spider web, a propeller on an airplane. The strobe is changed back again. Slow. Everything is so slow. The pearls are caught in different positions--never the same.

My eyes close. The mental becomes real. Have I started trip, never to return? Do I want to return? An attempted suicide? Where is someone to talk to? Not recognizing anyone. Too many people whom I don't know.

  

I have got to get out. Can the strobe light be seen from the street? Hell, this place is going to be busted. I have got to get out!

Cold air. Night. House lights. Where am I? Where am I going? I've lost my truck. Lost, recognizing nothing. Which house was I in? God, what a dumb move. I have no place to go. Another party? Where? Someone mentioned another party. Written in your wallet--1865 Arapahoe. But where am I now?

Here comes someone. What can I say? Sir, do you know where you are? Could you help me find where I am? God damn, he's walking across the street!  

"Hey, uh, hey, wait a minute." Running up to him. What am I going to say?

  

"Do you have a cigarette? Really, I need a cigarette."

"Yes, here. Do you need a match?"

I shake my head. Placing the cigarette in my mouth, only to have it fall on the curb. Picking it up again, wiping it off the best I can, then placing it into my mouth.

"If you light it that way, you'll be smoking the filter."

I turn it around. Trying to get a match out of the book he gave me.

"You have already got one in your hand."

"What?"

"You already have a match in your hand."

"Here, you light it for me," Handing him the cigarette.

"Are you sick?"

"I'm really messed up. Stoned, and I don't know where I am. I'm lost, floating in space around a cold planet."

"We had better get you some place."

"Fine. You can take me here." I hand him the paper with the address. A long ride in a silent car. Deep inside, feeling myself crash. Wanting to get out of the car. Not wanting to feel the bad vibrations of the good Samaritan next to me.

Trying not to think of what he will say when he gets where he's going. "I picked up a real drug addict, my first real addict."

Wow. Fuck you, mister.

Standing in the doorway of a loud party. Trying to get my bearings, thinking I am feeling better. I listen, absorbing the noise. Everyone dancing, some with drink-in-hand.

"The neighbors are complaining. The police have been here three times already, and someone called the fire department," a girl says, laughing to a boy next to her.

I walk past say nothing, but I think this is no place for me, what if they come back and take me away. Inside I am crashing. I find a space on a couch in the corner and close my eyes.

Four or five in the morning, still sitting in the same site. My vision is blurred from the smoke and from lack of sleep.

Everyone is gone except for three girls and two boys. Wondering where I can find a blanket. The girl whom I heard on the way in says, "I'm going to bed. Anyone want to come with me?" She walks into the bedroom. I look around, then follow her.

The lights stay out. I get undressed, feel for the bed, and get in. She is already there. I feel her body against mine. I begin to touch her.

"Do you know my name?" she asks.

"No.

"Then don't touch."

She rolls over. My laugh shakes the bed. I roll over and sleep.

Three girls live in the house. I stay for a couple of days, sick, sitting in bed, coming down. Thinking that the girl I've been sleeping with might be getting involved. She pays too much attention to me. I couldn't take an involvement, not now. I've got to get out. Where?

Out walking around. Not saying good-bye. What could have said to them before I left? I walk, trying not to think-- filling my mind with the physical world.

Sleeping on someone's floor. Not knowing whose. Two people come in.

"What a wild party."

"Where?" I ask.

"Down at Tundy's."

I get up and go down the hill, looking for the address. It must be early in the morning. No cars on the street. Cold. My breath pours out and is left behind as I walk.

  

I climb the stairs outside the building. Shit. It must be over. No music. A screen door is leaning against the building on the first landing. I turn to go up the second flight. The door is open, one window pane is broken. The apartment is turned upside down. Beer bottles are everywhere. Empties. Half filled. Bottles turned on their sides, wet spots on the rug. The furniture is turned upside down, piled in the middle of the room. Cigarette butts are everywhere. A spilled ashtray in the doorway of the bedroom.

 

I look in. Four people on the bed, sleeping. A set of feet, sticking out from under the bed. A person I recognize sleeping in the fetal position on the top of a desk. I smile and return to the living room, prepared to sleep on the couch. Why is everyone sleeping in that room and not in this one?

"Hello," a soft voice calls out from the mass of furniture in the middle of the room.

"You were Aaron's roommate, weren't you?"

"Have you been sitting here the whole time?" I ask.

"Yes.

"I didn't see you before. Where is Tundy?" It wasn't a rhetorical question, I wanted to know he wasn't around.

"I realized you didn't see me by your start when I spoke. He's in the mountains. He's tired of parties, but rented the apartment out for a case of beer. He'll be back in a couple of days."

I smile to myself--good. "Maybe I'll just wait for him."

"Don't stay here. This place is disgusting."

"I don't have a choice."

"Come home with me."

"OK, why not?"

Back outside. Really, why not? Was she waiting there all evening to take someone home with her? Horny, probably. How did she know I was Aaron's roommate? Maybe I've met her and don't remember.

"My name's Jane. We met at a party of yours at the "cabin." I was with Aaron."

Silence. "You don't remember, do you? We were standing in the kitchen and I asked you about Aaron, but you said you had to get some wine and disappeared. I didn't see you the rest of the night. When Aaron drove me home, I asked him about you. He really liked you."

"You looked familiar, but I couldn't place you. I must have already been drunk at the party in the cabin, because I don't really remember.

"What did I miss at this party tonight?"

"I came here thinking I would find some of Aaron's friends, but once I found out what kind of party it was, I knew I wouldn't. It wasn't so bad when I first got here, but it kept getting more and more disgusting. I couldn't believe it. People stood around and applauded. I just couldn't believe.............it was disgusting. They weren't human beings at all, but animals. How can those girls look at themselves in the mirror without feeling ashamed? They acted as if nothing mattered, but tomorrow will come, and they will hate themselves. They will hate what they did and who they..............they couldn't possibly respect themselves. After watching it, I wanted to disassociate myself from the human race 

 

"I have just been sitting here all evening, staring, not being able to believe, not wanting to believe," she pauses and catches her breath to calm herself down. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have exploded. I have been sitting there all night, really upset, but with no one to talk to. It was as if everybody but me released his pent-up emotions."

She drove without me saying a word.

A nice clean apartment near downtown. A warm place. A soft bed. I don't wait for her to get in before I do. I try to stay awake, but fall asleep.

About noon, waking, she is not in bed. Did she sleep here and get up early? I lie in bed, thinking I should get up, but not wanting to. This girl is too straight to get mixed up with. I am not going to get involved in this scene. I've got to out of here.

 

Thoughts begin to drift in my mind without control.

"Hey, dinner is ready. Hey, wake up. It's time to eat."

I open my eyes. She smiles at me. It is condescending, but not forced. Night is with us again. I get up. We eat.

"I have to study after dinner," she says to remind herself. "I have a test tomorrow."

"Right now, you are the only person I know who is still studying, or who is even in school."

"I can believe that."

"I'll do the dishes, since you should study."

After the dishes, I walk into the living room where she is reading with pen in hand. She looks up. Her expression makes me feel uneasy, but I sit down and pick up a magazine. I begin reading.

  

Twelve o'clock. "I had a terrible night's sleep last night. I am going to bed," she says.

Why did she announce it? Should I attempt to sleep with her? Does she want me to? I don't want to get involved, but I really want to stay here. I'm sure she didn't sleep in the bed last night, so maybe she doesn't want me.

  

Going to bed with a chick should be like going to the movies. Both people should enjoy it, and if it's a good feature, both should learn something. When it's over, both should kiss and say, "I've had a lovely night. We must do it again sometime." It should be like that, but what am I going to do now?

  

Should I go in? I am sure she would have indicated if she wanted me to. Maybe she doesn't care. Indecision is a bore.

"Hey, it's morning. Wake up. If you want to still sleep, you can have the bed. I'll be back after my test."

Into the bedroom, her impression is still in the bed. I crawl in. The bed is warm. Her smell remains. It is not a strong smell, but distinct, perfume and body. I sleep badly and awaken feeling worse. I smoke one of her cigarette butts left in the ashtray by the bed, hear the front door open and packages laid down. She walks into the room.

"You look worse now than yesterday."

"I don't feel well."

"You know you can stay here as long as you like. The rent and food are paid for by my parents. They're divorced and both are trying to win my love by sending money. So there no trouble there. You can sleep on the couch.

"You know Aaron's death crushed,.......... blew me away also. I can understand what you are going through."

I stay because I have no other place to go. Weeks pass. I read. Listen to the radio. We eat two to three times a day. (Looking back, I think that was important.)... But still:......................

Night. Lying on the couch, feeling the emptiness of the day. A void. The time passes so slowly and without event. The day is imperceptible, even now. Lying in bed in the same position as the night before, with the same feeling of emptiness. What was the day? What will tomorrow be? Death could be no worse than this void. There is nothing to go on to, no reason to go. In the day, boredom; at night my mind switches on, and hopelessness pours out; but what am I going to do? Just wait? My life at its best is a fifty-year-old, sorry whore, awaiting death, but knowing it won't end.

I interrupt a mundane conversation with "Look, you know why I am here, don't you?"

"Because you want to be?"

"You know I am not in love with you, and that between us nothing can exist. We are in two different worlds. Right?"

"I am glad you're not in love with me. There would be all kinds of difficulties if you were, like, I wouldn't let you live here. But I think we are both living in the same world. We both lost someone dear to us."

Feeling the sincerity of her answer, we grow closer without fear.

My boredom drives me into Jane's world. Meeting some of her friends--people who live in a different world than I, knowing now that both worlds have existed side by side without realizing it. These people don't need to answer any questions because they were given the answers. They will take over their father's business, why should they worry? What questions do they-need to answer? Everything is planned for them, prepared. Life has been, handed to them on a silver tray--"Take what you want." No, they do not worry. Why should they?

I want not to worry. Show me how not to worry.

Teach me--show me, I yell to this new world. You have something I need. Reach out--touch me, bring me back into your world of contentment. Show me how to quiet the questioning. Give me the answers to believe. Give me answers I can believe.

  

I start going to parties where you need to drink to say and be what you want. I begin to lose myself in this new world and my desire for change, but know this life won't end, unless I do something.

At night, after Jane does her homework, we sit and talk. She talks about her past.

"I come from Denver--born and raised there. My parents didn't have a lot of money--but they had enough. I have a younger brother. I don't know what to tell you. I guess the only thing out of the ordinary is that my parents got divorced a year ago. My brother is nineteen and off at school.

  

"When we grew up and left, Mom and Dad decided they didn't have anything in common and got divorced. Everyone tells me that this is always the way it happens, but I can't believe it. Two people living together for twenty years, not having anything in common. But I really don't want to talk about it. Tell me about yourself."

"Your parents must not have really known each other. They probably grew apart because they didn't share their worlds with each other.

"I could tell you about what happened in the last two or three months."

"I want to know what happened before. Earlier."

"I don't have anything to tell either. I was a very unhappy child........................ Is it really about Aaron you want to know?"

A quiet "yes" surfaces from her. Then she explains: "We went to school together in Denver. We had always known each other. Our parents were good friends. We went steady in high school, but when we got to college, he started changing. I couldn't understand his change. I thought, and still think, it was a stage he was going through. "That's what I wanted to know about at the party in the cabin. I had the feeling he invited me because his parents made him or to show me that I didn't belong in his world any more. It was as if he left me behind for another life.

"When I saw you at Tundy's apartment I thought I could learn more about what happened to him."

"I didn't know him before I moved into the cabin," I answer.

"Didn't he ever mention me?"

"We never talked about the past."

  What could I tell her? That Aaron never mentioned her, that he didn't think enough about her to even mention her, that maybe he left her for another woman. Paris standing on a corner flashed through my mind.

I quickly started talking about the three girls, the friends from Mexico, the Mexico trip and that affair, other girls and other affairs. I know she isn't listening. I know I am disappointing her but continue anyway.

"You couldn't have loved any of those girls? How can you make love to someone you don't love? It's kind of sad."

"No, it isn't really. It's not sad that I am here, even if there is no reason for it.

"No, but it is not sad in that way. It is sad that you fall deeply in love."

I laugh. "I don't think I would want to. To only want one person. I can't even imagine it. Can you?

  

"A friend of mine says you can love anyone you can make love with, and he's right. I loved all of those girls, as much as I could love anyone at the time. It wasn't especially for sex, either. I loved them as I can love you, because you are here and you are you." 

 

Silence. "There must be a better way to say it. Because we are in the same mess..................no, because mankind is to be pitied, I can let myself go out to all people who share my fate. And I can be here to comfort you and you can be here to comfort me. In our case it is not physical. But because you are here, and we in essence share the same struggle, we can help each other, because we share the same destiny, we can empathize

"Did that me sense? Can you understand what I am saying?" but before she had a chance to answer I added, "Another reason I can get very close to all the girls that I have is because they need me for that minute, that hour, or that day, and I need them."

"I think you are wrong. I had something with one person-- with Aaron. It is sad and abnormal that you can't fall in love with one person. That you can't direct all your love to one human being. I loved Aaron, and his love for me filled me so full that it overflowed and I directed it back into him."

Her voice broke with the emotional strain. "I stayed up too late last night, and I have to go to an eight o'clock class tomorrow. We'll finish this conversation some other time."

"Sure," but knowing we never would.

* * * *

We begin to go everywhere together. I take her into the world I once knew. We spend hours in the Tap, talking to each other. My old friends look at us as if we are in love.

We say nothing to the contrary. Some of them speak to us, but say nothing. They stay distant, even in their conversation.

I don't know them anymore, and they don't know me.

Jane and I go to the movies. The movie has been sad, and she is still crying when we leave. She holds her tears back, looks at me; her face grows red, and she tries to laugh. "I suppose you think it is stupid to cry."

"No. If there is something to cry about. Go right ahead and cry. For me there is no reason to cry. I wish there was..... I wish I could still believe there is something to cry about.."

We step off the curb. Headlights are on top of us. Screech of tires. My left side feels the impact. 

 

Jane, still standing, looks down at me, "Are you O.K.,?" 

"Sure, it just knocked me off my feet." I stand. My leg hurts. The driver is out of the car.

"So you're not hurt. It's lucky I wasn't moving fast."

He gets back into his car. "You kids should look before you cross the street.

"We're sorry. We will the next time," Jane says.

"Hey, man, it was your fault. What, are you drunk?----- Hey, don't drive away!" I bang on the roof as he drives by and yell, "Fuck you!" 

As the car turns the corner, Jane takes my hand. Her hands are cold. I jerk it away. "Can you see his license number? Y 23...... God damn it! It was out of state. Did you see where?"

"We have to be more careful," she says.

"That fucker--it was his fault. He is supposed to stop behind the cross walk. He left the scene of an accident."

"You are not hurt, are you? It was just a bump, right?"

I shake my head.

"We'll let's go home."

Those fucking Cadillac drivers think they own the world, an obscene machine riding through the suburbs of life. Secure in their unawareness, cushioned from the real world. Don't let it touch you, don't let it get near, stay hidden in your world of pleasure.

We arrive home, climb the steps to her apartment. She is tired. Exhausted. She stops before reaching the door and hands me the key. "Here, you open it." 

We hear a screech and then deafening crash of steel. It shakes the stairway. Jane holds the banister. She shrieks and releases her hold, running down the steps toward the accident. I run after her.

People from the surrounding apartments run into the street. T.V.s are still blaring inside.

 

I catch up to her. She is looking at a man's head stuffed through the windshield of his car. Blood is pumping from his neck. It has already caused a stream which finds its way off the smashed hood of the car and flows into the gutter. Jane tries to run, but is unable to move. Her fixed stare is at the man's open mouth.

 

Her body shakes. I touch her and break-through the barrier to her self. She begins to run. I catch her. I hold her. At first she fights, then gives way to me. I help her up the stairway into the apartment. 

 

She goes into the bedroom. I hear an abrupt weeping scream, then silence. I go into the kitchen and make tea.

 

Coming from the kitchen, I stop and watch out the window. The ambulance pulls away. No siren, just a flashing red light. Dead.

 

I take the tea into her. She is staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes are bloodshot and watery. Her mascara has smeared, making her look ghostly.  

She sits up and mechanically sips the tea.

I sit on the foot of the bed with her, drinking mine. We finish. 

Are you better?"

She shakes her head to reply, but stares blankly at me. I take the cups back to the kitchen. Then return to the window, smoking a cigarette. The street has been cleared of the car. 

What did it hit? The fire hydrant? The tree?...A suicide? The flashing red light of the police car is turned off, and it too leaves the scene and only the broken glass and blood remain to remind people of the chaos that just occurred.

As I move my head, the glass sparkles under the streetlight. The dead man will sleep tonight without dreams, and I will probably sleep with nightmares. I question my own confusion, the chaos in my mind. I see Death choose a place for me. I run. But no matter how fast I run, he will take me. He will touch me, and what will it mean?

 

Why should the ambulance have taken away a corpse instead of an injured person? Taken a dead man away to a place unknown to him, a place he has never seen and will never see? His wife will know this place. The morgue, where he is now, will forever be a place in her world. 

 

The smoke from the cigarette stings my eyes.

What does it mean that he will not see his wife's tears and will not see the world which he tried to build with her? He will never know the worlds he hasn't seen, nor will they be interrupted by his death. They will continue on without knowing of him or his death. His death has only affected a small part of the whole, only one set of people in this world, and the world continues without him. Tomorrow the street will be cleaned and the memory lessened. And then one day in the not too distant future, finally no remembrance. What does it mean?

I stand in the doorway of Jane's room. "I am going to sleep with you tonight," I say. There is no reply.

Darkness hides the bed, but it creaks. Sheets rustle. I put the remainder of my cigarette out and enter the room.

After a two-day deliberation, I decide to re-enroll in school for the fall semester. "What are you going to do at the end of summer?" I ask Jane. "Are you going to school this fall?"

"No. Graduating." Her voice is a little cold and distant and has been since we slept together.

"I didn't know that. Tomorrow I have decided to go home to see if I can get some money for school."

"You mean to your parents'; that's really great." The sincerity in her voice made me feel better. "Do you think they will give it to you?"

"I don't know. If they want me back in school, they will. They have it; I know that much."

"What's going to happen if you can't get it?"

"I don't know. I could work, but the kind of jobs I can get pay so little, it would take me a year to just get enough money for tuition."

"How about a scholarship or loan, or something like that?"

"With my grades, impossible. I completely failed summer school, and it will be lucky if the school let's me re-enroll. A loan maybe, but I will have to pay it off. That's a sure trap. I'll be caught by the society for sure. What kind of job could I get with a B.A.?

"I want to be going to school to learn. Can you tell, I'm stoned?"

"No. I thought I smelled it. But I didn't know you smoked pot."

"Someone up at the Tap laid a joint on me. It is the first time since I met you. I remember the feeling, but it has become strange to me. I should have saved some f or you.

"That's all right. I only smoked it a couple of times, but nothing happened.

"You have to smoke it a while, but some people get stoned right off. I wonder why? Let's listen to some music."

"No, you go ahead." Her voice is distant again.

Maybe, I say to myself as I put on the ear phones, it's because of a stronger set-way of viewing the world, an inability to let go and let an alternative reality enter? I wonder? 

 

Smiling at myself is still fun.

* * * * 

I wake up the next morning before she and write her a note: "Thanks." 

Driving down Denver-Boulder Freeway, thinking about what I am going to say. How much will I need to get by? How are they going to react? I have nothing to lose by asking.

Denver. My truck stops and waits for a new Ford pick up truck to pass before turning onto the block where I live. My old, beat up truck stops in front of a gray brick house. In two years, nothing seems to have changed, although the houses seem smaller. Waiting for memories to arise. Who's cutting the lawn? It's too professional for dad's work. Waiting for some of the five years that lived here to flash back.

Nothing. Seeing children play in a front yard similar to my family's. All the homes are similar in some way. I have never seen that before. Never looking at it, but being in it. I have never been apart from it before and looked at it objectively.

Inside, that night. "No, you can't have any money. I don't care what it's for, the answer is no." "We have wasted too much on you already." "You gave us this song and dance last time."

"Would you at least sign a release form?"

"What's that?"

"A form stating that you are not financially responsible."

"Be glad to."

No money. Back in Boulder. Meeting some people in the Tap who say I can stay at the place they are staying. Did I leave anything at Jane's?

Jane. Could I have fallen more deeply in love with her? What do my feelings mean? We would have to separate eventually anyway. But knowing that if I don't go back now, we will never again know each other as we do.

  

What is this feeling? Sadness? A loss, for sure. We will never talk as we once did. No, there is nothing to get.

* * * *

The door to this place is always open. People come and go at will. Sleeping on the floor with four other people who are crashing here. These three girls from the dormitories, another chick from Denver, and a guy who is on his way to New York from San Francisco. He has been here for two weeks, and nobody has hassled him yet, so I stay.

On the week nights I go to the Tap, on the weekend to parties. Daytime and most of the early evenings, I work as a bus boy in a restaurant. It's not so bad, some tips and free food.

Standing in the Tap with a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. I lean on the partition between the booths, listening to the juke box in front of me. Voices from both booths create a din. Only single words break-out to be heard.

 

Another record begins, and I get into that rather than the terrible conversations. 

I see a friend of Jane's approach. I assume my position before she arrives. My back side takes the brunt of my weight against the partition as I cross my feet as if to look comfortable.

  

"Hello," she says. I smile acknowledgment and sip my beer. "Jane told me to tell you--if I saw you--that she is in Denver, and she will be living at home until December."

The recording lifts from the turntable and is placed back in its slot. She catches my eyes looking at the machine but continues.

"In December she is going into the Peace Corps." A quizzical smile appears on her face.

"Was there anything else?" pops out of my mouth.

A rapid "No" and a quick "Good-bye," as she joins some of her friends.

  

"Thanks," softly emerges from me but is not heard.

I check my pockets for quarters to play the pinball. Nothing,.....I walk into the back room anyway to watch some people play who I know.

Later I hitch to a wide open party at Phillip's in the mountains.

  

As I remove myself from someone's van, fading light and pine trees of various sizes surround us. We are right in front of a large round wooden, modern cabin, with windows everywhere. No light issues from the windows and only pines trees can be seen as a reflection. Can the plains be seen the second story balcony?

Over a hundred people are here. It was advertised in the campus paper under "Personal." Fraternity and sorority, greasers, hips, mountain people, artists, students and professors, people nobody has ever seen before, people from Denver. People flowing out of one cabin into another, almost out of sight of the first. The smaller is an older log cabin in among the trees and now darkened mountain. I enter the larger modern one.

Seems like everyone but me has brought his own.

Music mixes with talk, shouts, and laughter. A big fire in the hearth in the middle of the room is the only luminate in the room. People packed together.  

The first hour is kind of slow.

Then the volume of the music is increased because of a chant of ten people trapped in the corner. When the music is even louder, people begin to dance. Distorted shadows move rhythmically on the walls. People in the loft above me begin to pound on the walls and floor in time with the music.

The whole room begins to dance clockwise around the fire. A pagan ritual around an open fire. The mood and beat of the music carries its dancers. At one time savage then sullen. The smell of pot begins to fill the room. Joints are passed freely.

I put down my glass of wine and accept graciously. Some people leave ..... ..paranoia. A boy reaches out from the loft and begins to swing nude from a rafter. People on the fringe of the room notice him first. People stop dancing and watch him. Some laugh, pointing. He swings quietly; the fire's light reflects from his moving body. Almost all have stopped dancing. Someone makes a loud comment. A girl directly under his swinging stops dancing and looks up. She screams and begins pushing her way out of the room. Many people laugh. Everyone laughs, people fall on the floor laughing. More people take off their clothes. They mingle among the clothed people. Some minds are blown. No laughter now.

Many people don't know how to react. One by one they begin to exit. Some try to laugh; some try to be comfortable, but cannot. Their exit is not hasty, but subtle. "Nobody, including themselves, will think they are square if they leave nonchalantly enough," says a boy sitting next to me.  

After a half an hour a noticeable difference in mood and types of people permeate the room

.

"Everybody got freaked out," yells a voice from a nude body.

Others are daring each other to undress. The room is now half filled with naked bodies. Three quarters of the nude bodies are male. The clothed are all males. Why did the woman leave? A threatening situation? Embarrassment? For a while I watch, smiling, but begin to feel alone.

I sit on the floor and-pick up my glass of port. A small sip. The glass is back on the floor. I sit with crossed legs, my elbows on my legs, and my chin resting in my hands.

The entertainment is over. I sink into the wine-pot high.

My stomach feels queasy, my thoughts ramble. Everything is pleasant enough. The world moves slowly during the day, slow enough to keep order. A world by myself. Walking into the foothills.

Free chamber music concerts on campus. An open back door into the basement of a campus movie theater makes Thursday nights disappear in subtitles. The library is almost always open. No one bugs me. I do what I want. All this eats the time away, but the enjoyment is missing. All these meaningless acts keep the boredom away. The knowledge that I lack purpose and all my actions are meaningless destroy my love of doing anything. When I was younger, it was this love that gave me many of my reasons for living. But it is gone. I am not that young any more cannot believe what I did then. Why go on living in these pleasurable actions? Actions without meaning, without cause, without any effect except some pleasure.

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