shaking the kaleidoscope

she cupped her hands close to her chin, the dim light from the deck surreptitiously caught her breast (higher), eyes. her eyes lingered, flitting over the contours of her hands, cupped as if holding the first diamond, or daydreaming, possibly. inside her hands i imagined she was daydreaming. daydreaming of the two us laughing at big, fellaheen cocktail parties on the boardwalk of some distant harbor, somehow, another distant, glittering boston, and overhead the skyline intermingling and intermixing with the christmas tree of stars shimmering in the night sky.

(a pretty girl with a british accent reading paulo coelho excerpts to friends beneath the boardwalk. )

in reverse.

ryan was grilling ribs on the deck beneath the pear tree, helen in the kitchen cooking accompaniments. the sweet smell of pumpkin pie. everyone was gathered in the kitchen, or on the deck with the o.s.b. constructed club-like seating, three candles lit. oh, and some in the living room. ample pabst in the refrigerator, and dan lighting the coal for the hookah. there were streamers, and party hats, some balloons, everyone was gathered for jon’s birthday.

the ribs were ready and helen finished the mac and cheese casserole, green beans, and corn bread. we ate and discussed yesterday’s summer.

when the plates were cleared, emily brought out the cake. it looked like a chocolate volcano, and she made jon pour vinegar into the top. the volcano cake overflowed.

“we’re supposed to eat that?” landon asked.

emily ripped the volcano off. "plaster of paris!" she said. underneath was a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. “fifth-grade science project!” someone yelled. sophomoric, sure, but good for a laugh. everyone laughed, and the party was underway.

the fete continued on, and the birthday was wonderful. people filed out intermittently. towards the end of the night, the plates were being cleared from the deck. i was talking with ryan about his plans for the year and the designer he’s having differences with. as the last people were leaving, i looked out on the deck and the moths were fluttering furiously around the light overhead. she was standing on the far end with her hands cupped close to her chin. i watched as she stood there silently. then as if parting the air for her ghost to pass, she separated her hands and a dull-grey moth escaped into the sad night air.

we left and went back to her apartment.

grey light through the oblong windows, a saxophone droning down the street.

“i’m happy to be going to bed.” she said. “that was lovely.”

“it was, wasn’t it?”

i entered her bedroom. a brown rose was poised in a slim vase, and on the opposite wall hung a painting of what appeared to be icarus shooting an arrow into the zoroastrian motif of a rising sun.

the mist on an ancient village

we left and began walking, talking. she moved with long cool strides, her dress swooshing, and when she arrived on the corner, looked up to face the moon, like, as I say, a buddhist priestess charting heavens high oriels.

we walked to her apartment, past the improv studio, the pear tree, the rich mud on the side of the street. when we arrived I looked into the jazz and brunch joint below her flat. the seraphin moon brought out every, ah, every curious fingerprint on the glazed glass façade.

“an airplane headed to iceland,” she said, staring up at her private night.

“that sounds like a fine trip.” i said.

"i’d love to…”

“mmhmm.”

her apartment gave the sensation of a caravaggio, like colorful but dead leaves purloined in a puddle reflecting the nether sky.

"south of the border, west of the sun" sat impatiently on her coffee table next to the jenga box. her piano, on her piano, was a very dead wreath. we both took a seat on the bench in front of the coffee table and she started to roll a joint. we smoked as i arranged the jenga blocks.

i spotted a vintage photograph of a handsome lady in a gray, finely tailored suit and a gentleman with a pale chrysanthemum in the buttonhole of his cutaway coat. it bored into my tea-infused mind, through the portabello french doors, around the corner and into the subway to the coldwater flat at west 23^rd street, lower east side where a man in a derby hat, leather vest with no shirt and pencil pants opens the door holding mayan codices in one hand and a pot of boiled birdseed to roll and smoke in the other.

“if our bed hadn’t creaked with gentle rhythms…” the man with the chrysanthemum said.

“edgar. he doesn’t want to hear about our relations.” the woman said.

“our relations. say it again. it sounds lovely.”

the woman frowned, her tresses drooping abe darbys.

“if you’ll excuse me.” the man in the derby hat said.

“your turn,” she said, as she gently placed the block on my finger.

a pear grew, its orb tender and sweet

i'm older now. and the ululations of the days seem more pronounced - an endless stream of workweeks and weekends. time seems to be a river, and our memories float down, beginning in a porcelain bowl where a japanese woman litters paper into the water to watch it take shape and color, becoming flowers, houses, people, concerts in muddy fields at midnight, only to place it all in the river and watch them float away, sighing incredible sweetness.

i woke up early this morning and played "mistaken for strangers" by the national. it hardly fit the circumstances, but it felt cool and eerily appropriate:

"you have to do it running but you do everything that they ask you to
cause you don’t mind seeing yourself in a picture
as long as you look faraway, as long as you look removed
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters

you get mistaken for strangers by your own friends
when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery citibank lights
arm in arm in arm and eyes and eyes glazing under
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over
surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch
another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults"

i stood before the bathroom mirror in my boxer shorts and lathered my face with shaving cream. it's a daily habit of mine. shaving, that is. but today an odd thing occurred. i smelled of four years old. as proust recognized the taste of the madeleine cookie soaked in a decoction of lime-flower tea and felt happy, recognizing his childhood in combray, i felt four years old.

at four, i remember watching my father shave in front of the mirror. he had on only his underwear and v-neck t-shirt, lathering his face with cream and shaving in front of the mirror. i thought it was the coolest thing. whenever my parents asked me what i wanted for christmas that year, i told them i wanted a razor to shave with dad. i got a toy razor that christmas in my stocking. from then on, he'd give me a dab of cream and i'd wipe it off, mimicking his motions with the toy, plastic razor.

at five, catching fireflies in glass jars on the fourth of july. the sound of parties in the suburbs - expensive laughter and cheap food - the fireflies i let loose as the fireworks shot into the sky.

at six, joining my mother in the herb garden. it was early autumn; the leaves were beginning to turn. barefoot in the garden, the cool breeze, pant legs rolled up, "i really like this, mom." i said. "you're so romantic, liam." she said. it felt mushy at six. i probably said something along the lines of... "no."

i stepped into the shower feeling that acute sense of melancholy happiness. i smiled. the circle of myself turned up at the corners. the world dropped gently all around.

a leaph phluttered outside the window.