Sunday, September 26, 2010

Spinning into Wonder





The water in the tub had gone luke warm.  Her wine glass was almost empty and still her heart was heavy with the conversation she was about to have.  Felix owned the most beautiful penthouse loft space in the neighborhood.  Grammercy Place just beyond the park.  He was a multi-millionaire and one of the best on Wall Street.  Even though the market had taken several hits; the dot com debacle, the real estate crash, the stock market crash, the failure of Lehman Brothers and the Madoff Ponzi Scheme, Felix seemed to be King Midas.  It was a sixth sense and he could always smell where the money could be made.  Ashley admired and respected Felix and his talent for turning seeming lead to gold but he was transfixed by material gain and she realized after many years of trying to have a relationship with him that she was another possession to be had.  She never doubted that he cared for her and he genuinely did but she felt that she was not much different than a favorite pet or a Ferrari or a private jet.  There was a soft knock on the door.

“Are you okay in there?”  He asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Thank you.”  Ashley replied.

“May I come in?”  Felix requested.

“Um.  I’m still in the tub.”  Ashley said.

“I’ve seen you naked before.”

“I know, but…”

“Look, I’m not going to jump you in the bathtub.  I just want to…understand…” He said unable to really form his thoughts.  His voice trailed off and his forehead made a soft thud as he leaned against the door in frustration.

“Alright.”  She conceded.  He slowly turned the knob and let himself in.  He put the lid down on the toilet and sat down quietly for a moment collecting his thoughts.

“I’m worried.”  He sighed.  She looked at him questioningly.  “I’m worried that I’m going to lose you.”

“Felix.  I already told you I’m not interested in making it work.  It doesn’t.  It won’t. End of story.”  She explained.

“First.  That’s not what I’m talking about…and second how can you be so sure since you brought it up.”  He answered.

“Okay.  What are you talking about?” She replied a bit defensively.

“I’m talking about this whole obsession with that old house.  It really would’ve been better to bring it down---“

“You don’t understand because you can only see what’s right in front of you---right in front of your eyes and that is the main reason we can’t get along---.” She replied indignant.

“Calm down---I said I want to understand.  Don’t cut me off if I’m trying to meet you halfway. Give me a chance. All I’m saying is that the obsession with the house feeds into what I perceive as a possible illness or emotional issue manifesting as voices or hallucinations.”

“You look that up on Web MD?”  She said curtly.

“Are you going to talk to me or are we going to fight?”  He said.

“Why did you buy the house for me?”  She asked changing her tack.

“Because you wanted it and it made you happy and I haven’t seen you that happy since you had that great gallery show in Williamsburg.”  He answered.

“If it is detrimental to my mental health, aren’t you contributing to my downfall?” She said sweetly.

“I’d give you anything.”  He said and he reached out to touch her but she pulled away.

“You’d give me anything but the thing I wanted.” And she turned her head away and stared down at the milky bathwater.

“Tell me.  What is it?” He said inching closer.

“You.”  She said softly.

“But I’m right here.” He replied.

“Felix.  I got used to being second choice with you.  Your work always came first.  You’re unavailable.”  She explained.

He stood up took the blackberry from his belt opened the lid of the toilet and dropped it in.

“I’m all yours.” He said.

“You’ll buy another one tomorrow.  A better, souped up model with the same number.  You will always take calls during dinner or on vacation.  You’ll always be up and on the computer or the phone in the middle of the night trying to make that deal---more. You’ll always want more.  You won’t be satisfied.  I can’t satisfy you.  I can’t replace your addiction to wanting more.  And I’ve always wondered what it is you’re trying to fill.  I tried to be that thing that fulfilled you but you’re insatiable.”  She said.  He slowly stood defeated.

“You’re a good man.  You’re a caring person.  But I never knew if you were really in love with me…like I was with you.”  She said.

“But I was---I, I am.  I can’t let you go.” He said as he moved closer to the edge of the claw foot tub.

“It’s too late, Felix.  You’re too late.”

“What are you talking about?” Felix replied.

“There’s someone.”  Ashley said and her voice trailed off.

“Who?”

“I know what it feels like to be completely connected to another.”  She said.  “I didn’t have that with you.”

“What’s his name?” Felix asked a bit possessive.

“Her name is Chelsea.”  Ashley said.

“What?” Felix replied in disbelief.  He sat down again on the toilet and held his head in his hands.  “A woman?  I never would’ve thought.”

“Neither did I, but it happened.”  She said.  “It’s happening.”

“Fuck.”  He whispered.  It was obvious there was no competition.

“I will pay you for the house---every penny---if it takes me fifteen or fifty years, I will---“ She started.

“Please---just don’t.”  He said growing upset. 

“I don’t want to be ob---“ She began.

“Ashley---I didn’t buy the fucking house to get in your pants, okay?  I bought the house because you loved it---you wanted it and I wanted to see you happy…again.  I don’t want your goddamn money!” He yelled as he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

“I’m sorry! FELIX?” Ashley tried to say.

“It’s your fucking house now.  I don’t care what you do with it---sell it if you want---make a ton of cash and go to Italy with your new girlfriend and paint for five years. I don’t really give a shit.  What I give a shit about is you talking to people who aren’t there.  That’s what I want to know!  That’s what this is all about!  I’m afraid you’re losing it and that the best part of you might slip away into---.”

“Madness?” Ashley said.  She had stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel.  “You’re afraid I’m a paranoid schizophrenic?” She asked.

“Yes, YES, I am.” He replied. He stood against a wall of windows with the skyline of downtown Manhattan behind him. “I’m afraid that you will slip into obscurity when the world needs to know your talent.” He shrugged.  It was the most profound and meaningful thing he had ever said to her in their decade long relationship.  The words made her cry because it was the very first thing that Felix had done that was entirely altruistic. True charity is anonymous her mother always said.  He was making himself anonymous for her.  True charity seeks nothing in return.  Perhaps it was his lesson to learn.

 

 

The home pregnancy tests lined the shelf and all she could do was stare at them.  A George Michael song from the nineties played over the pharmacy’s pa system as a bored cashier did a little half jig behind the counter.  Maybe she wasn’t really pregnant, Chelsea thought.  She had been a few days late before.  Maybe the stress of the cemetery and the upcoming trip to London interrupted her cycle.  Or maybe Ashley had affected her rhythm.  It was a common thing.  If you spent a lot of time with another girl usually you’d sync up with her. She took a deep breath and reached for the kit.  She slowly read the directions on the back but she was so distracted she couldn’t comprehend.  The words looked like jumbled letters. Another customer was ambling down the aisle and moved into her peripheral vision.  She put the test back on the shelf and looked for another brand.  She noticed the old woman standing close to her.  She had stark white hair and she looked Chinese.  She held her prescription glasses several inches from her face trying to identify a particular box.  Chelsea noticed that the woman was standing in front of shelves upon shelves of feminine products.  Perhaps she was shopping for her granddaughter, Chelsea thought.  The old woman caught Chelsea staring and she smiled kindly letting her glasses drop to her chest.  The old woman pointed to the ept test that Chelsea had just handled and clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Good!”

“Excuse me?”  Chelsea asked nervously.  The woman took her arm lovingly and Chelsea’s body tingled all over from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.  She felt dizzy and overwhelmed yet peaceful.  The old woman was a balm to her.  She spoke in an unidentifiable language.  It didn’t sound like Chinese.  Chelsea’s experience with Mandarin was that it was clipped and short and sometimes loud.  Whatever the woman spoke was refined and flowed and pleasant to the ear. They moved to the end of the aisle and stopped and the woman who was much shorter and a bit stooped stood before her.  She put her hands up and let the palms hover only inches from Chelsea’s face.  The woman’s smile was beaming and it seemed as if at any moment she might start giggling.  Chelsea felt amazingly calm and ethereal.  All the fears and anxiety faded away like an old memory.  She felt strong and courageous and full of love.  There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do.  She could smell the woman’s breath and it was sweet and, perhaps, a bit smoky like sage.  The old woman seemed to be whispering things as she held her hands out poised for an embrace.  To Chelsea’s ear it sounded ancient. Yet as she stared at the woman’s mouth it did not move.  The George Michael song had faded into oblivion and the rhythmic beat of drums reverberated through the store.  To Chelsea’s surprise it sounded Native American.  She opened her eyes and took in the woman’s face and wondered if maybe she was American Indian.  Maybe her language was an obscure native tongue.  The old woman moved her hands and smiled as if she had a secret.  Chelsea could feel her charkas spinning, especially her belly Chakra.  Slowly the woman took her hands and clasped them in a kind of prayer, her own hands becoming a kind of shell.

“Say ‘Thank you Ansa, please’.” She said softly.  Her eyes were intense yet soft.  They were profound pools of compassion.  Chelsea was startled for a moment because the woman’s English was so clear. 

“Say, ‘Thank you Ansa, please.’” The old woman repeated.  Chelsea was unsure of herself then she thought, what could it hurt?

“Thank you…Ansa?” She whispered.  The old woman smiled and giggled and clasped her hands ever tighter.

“Please…” The old woman instructed.

“Thank you, Ansa, please.”  Chelsea said.  The woman opened up with laughter.  She was so joyful that it stunned Chelsea.  Her reaction seemed appropriate for winning the lottery not uttering a few words.  Suddenly Chelsea could feel herself filled with incredible power and light.  She felt as though she could float.  The experience was so potent that she could actually feel her cells rearranging.  This is what a blessing, a real blessing must feel like, she thought.  She turned and looked at the tests lining the shelves and decided she would wait until after the trip to London.  Maybe the old woman was able to read her mind and her half wish not to be pregnant was granted.  The ambient noise of the pharmacy cascaded in and this time Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ crashed into her serene state.  She had to laugh.  Who was programming the music in this place?  She looked at the pharmacist who had to be over forty, wearing a bad toupee and mouthing the words as the song played.  Chelsea looked around for the old woman and found that she had disappeared.  She moved across the aisle parallel with the cash registers to see if maybe she was in the check-out line.  To no avail.  She thought nothing of it and decided to go back home and call Scott Whatshisname.  If he could remember that night six weeks ago then it would completely ease her mind once and for all.  The only drawback to looking him up is a misinterpretation of interest.  She made a conscious effort o be extremely straight forward in seeking only answers to questions and nothing else.  Hopefully he would be just as non-plussed by the whole incident if they indeed ‘did it’. 

Once back in her apartment she immediately googled Art Monthly, UK to see what names appeared on the masthead.  Scott Burton.  That was him.  She dialed the main number.  It would be the beginning of the working day in London so hopefully she would get a human being on the phone.  A sweet accented woman answered the direct line. 

“Scott Burton, please.” Chelsea said.

“I don’t think he’s in yet.  Would you like his voicemail?”  The receptionist asked.

“Sure, thank you.”  The international call was a series of long beeps not rings like in the states. 

“’ello?” a sleepy voice said on the other end.

“Uh..Hel, hello?”  Chelsea said startled that she had actually gotten him on the line.  “Scott Burton?”

“Yes.” He replied.

“Chelsea Barrett.  Art News.” She said confidently.

“Yes.” Scott replied.  There was an awkward silence.  She had hoped he would be impressed that her periodical was a much bigger, better publication than his.  Now she’d have to get right to the point.

“We met at the Gagosian Gallery, the Lichtenstein retro about six weeks ago---“

“Em, yeah.  You know, I’ve got enough material for that article. As a matter of fact it’s already gone to print, sweetheart.”  He interrupted.

“Scott, I’m not your sweetheart and I’m not looking for work.” Chelsea began.

“Oh…” He said confused.  “Did I get pissed with you? Look, I’m sorry.  I hope I didn’t say something offensive---“ He said trying to rush off the line.

“I need to know one thing, Scott.  I just need an answer and then we can never ever contact each other again.” She explained.

“Shit.” He said exasperated.

“Did we sleep together?” She said coldly.

“I can’t remember.”  He said sheepishly.

“Well try.” She demanded.

“Are you…like…pregnant, or something?” He asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss this at the moment.” Chelsea started.

“I can wire ye a few pounds to take care of it, but I’m not liquid---.” He replied.

“SCOTT!  Did we fuck around? That’s all I want to know.” She said impatiently.

“I don’t remember.  Look, can I call you back? I’ve got three people hovering over my desk.” He said.

“Yeah, sure.” She answered and the line went dead.  She knew he would never call her back.  He didn’t want to deal with her issue at the moment.  And frankly neither did she.  She just wanted some concrete information.  Suddenly she had a craving for Thai food.  She rummaged through her kitchen drawer in search of a take-out menu. There was a fantastic little Thai place three blocks up and an avenue over.  She would be good to herself tonight.  She would treat herself like a queen. 

Thursday, September 23, 2010

The Sky is Falling





Chelsea felt strangely out of her body as the cab pulled up to her 38th street apartment.  She was exceedingly fatigued and her eyes drooped even as she walked the flights of stairs upward.  It seemed like a never ending climb.  Would she ever reach her front door?  More than that she could actually feel the clean sheets against her skin and it was delicious.  She fumbled for her keys, turned the tumbler and instantly she was inside.  She threw her purse on the couch and then did a swan dive directly into her bed letting out an exhausted groan as the soft cool cotton made contact with her skin.  Her apartment was strangely quiet.  Usually the traffic on the street was reflected upward and car engines and taxi horns along with the occasional pedestrian cursing peppered the normal soundscape of her environment.  It was about six, the noisiest time of the day and yet the stillness was magical.  Caught between her dream state and waking moments she let her mind drift and the image of Richard in Green-wood cemetery and their brief passionate encounter seemed more real than the actual event.  She wondered if her exhaustion was caused by some metaphysical phenomenon or even paranormal experience.  He was not a ghost so she ruled out her ghost busting thoughts.  He became Ashley and the fact that she witnessed the transmutation excited and confused her.  The confusion was a result of logical, material thinking and so she tried to let her beliefs of reality slough away like a secondary skin.  In her intensely relaxed state she could acquaint herself with shape-shifting, parallel universes and the sum total of past life experiences incorporated into one physical body at the present moment.  Her transcendental musings gave way to sleep and dreaming.  She dreamt that she was in Ashley’s studio writing an article for an art journal.  As she looked down at her hands they were slightly puffy and in the dream she got up and looked down to find that she was pregnant, her belly distended with life at about five months.  She knew that Ashley was the other parent and yet biologically it was impossible.  In the dream it was not and she felt ecstatic in her discovery and as she ambled from the studio into a living space she found Ashley in all her androgynous beauty.  She was a woman and a man and yet at certain times she could favor one gender over another.  She toyed with the notion that if she believed wholeheartedly that Ashley had fathered their child then it could be so.  She believed in yogis and levitation, saints and transmigration even though she had no proof and had never witnessed it with her own eyes.  As the dream progressed her feelings for Ashley and their growing relationship increased intensely.  While awake she had never courted the possibility of a child because it did not fit into her ordered pre-planned life.  But now her awareness had been turned upside down and everything became possible. Like a lightning strike all of her pre-ordained structures had come tumbling down leaving a vast space ripe for creativity and a re-forming of her values and attitudes. She was momentarily roused from her meditation by people talking loudly in her hallway and down the stairs.  Annoyed that her reverie had been rudely interrupted she rolled over and tried to recover that magical sleep and wonder of dream.  Her thoughts moved to a party she had attended over six weeks before.  It had been an opening and all the top gallery people were in attendance.  She had had way too much to drink and so her recall was spotty at best.  She remembered chatting with an Englishman who was writing a piece for Art Monthly, a UK based periodical.  Gagosian Gallery on 24th Street, the venue.  The show was Lichtenstein, an obvious retrospective.  The topic of the evening was Damien Hirst.  The Englishman, Scott, bragged that he knew Mr. Hirst.  She recalled he was condescending and cheeky, but he was interested and under the influence as she was, she let her carnal instinct dictate the evening.  Suddenly she bolted upright completely awake and shaking.  She realized that she was late.  Not for an appointment but in her cycle.  Extremely vague moments popped into her head that she had actually slept with Scott the Brit writer.  ‘Oh, shit!’ She thought.  How could she have not remembered what happened?  She wracked her brain trying to recall the next day but all she could come up with was an excruciatingly painful headache and dehydration.  She recalled waking up in her own bed with no trace of anyone else.  Trying to make toast and coffee as fast as she could to alleviate the nausea of overindulgence, the entire morning after was a blur cloaked in pain and post margarita suffering.

“I’ll never ever drink tequila again, God.”  She remembered saying to herself.  She counted on her fingers that she was about five days late.  She jumped up grabbed her purse and in a moment she was out the door, down the stairs and walking quickly down the street to the corner Duane Reade.

 

 

It was a common custom in the early autumn for the citizens of the province of New York to let the Lenni Lenape Indians inside the great wall for one day to a place that was sacred to their gods.  In 1685 the Duke of York had been crowned King James the II of England and so the province was an official property of the royal empire.  British soldiers had increased and their patrols of the colony grew stringent.  Since Unega had become a wise woman to her tribe she was included in the procession and ritual in which the Indians presented corn, potatoes, turkey feathers and butchered deer to a spot that was west of their hunting trail later named Broadway and north of the Fort that guarded the tip of the island from naval invasion.  As they walked through the thriving town that was quickly becoming a city Unega saw the slave auctions taking place near the customs house.  The people were so dark that her own people called them the night men.  She had never really seen an African up close and though she was many yards away she could make out their extraordinary features.  Some were so black they looked like shadows.  They were prodded and poked, examined and humiliated treated worse than an old dog or a worn out horse.  It made her heart sink.  The clinking of their shackles as they moved slowly in chain gang fashion would haunt her mind for many years, she thought.  The Indian men had brought their deerskin drums and their rhythmic beat grew louder and more intense as they arrived at their traditional grounds. It would be the last time the Lenni Lenape would be able to pay their respects on this sacred land.  They were being forced to move further west and deeper into the Ohio Valley.  Some of the men cried because they would never return to the place of their fathers and grandfathers before they died. She looked up into the clear September sky.  The sky was so crisp and azure blue with not a cloud in the heavens that she felt she could see for a hundred miles. She whispered that on this very spot two pillars would be built by the white men and they would reach far into the vault and within the same generation they would be brought down.  The sacred place of their ancestors would serve as the opening to the spirit world for all the inhabitants of the city and the young nation. It would be a place of great sorrow and of great enlightenment.  Holy men would make pilgrimages to this place and utter incantations. Others would meditate for peace and still others would come seeking understanding.  This spot that the Indians called their own would be identified as a ley line, a powerful magnetic crossroad born of the earth’s deeply dynamic crust, a yawning chasm from the heart of the world reaching far up and out into the milky way and beyond connecting with any bit of intelligence floating about in the firmament.

Unega sensed that the night men were enlivened by the native drums.  Theirs eyes flashed brightly and they stood more erect and moved with purpose.  The red-coat soldiers seemed anxious and ill-tempered.  Quick glances between slaves and soldiers, merchants and liverymen betrayed an enhanced concern to quell violence.  As the last beat struck Unega could hear a man in the distance say, “Thank you ANSA, Please.”  It was odd since it was something that her father had taught her.  It was an acknowledgement of samsara.  She looked around that perhaps he had returned or that another of his countrymen had made the long voyage to this new world.

A shot rang out.  The slaves ran shackled together for cover and the freed ones took the opportunity to flee hoping to avoid slavery and servitude altogether.  The soldiers rallied, loading muskets and firing at will.  Dutchmen and Englishmen alike dove into the nearest shop, stable, Inn or home.  Embedded in the town’s citizenry Pirates had landed and they seemed to volley first sending the soldiers into a shooting frenzy and the townspeople into panic. Stunned by the violence Unega stood like a stone watching the event unfold almost in a kind of slow motion.  It was a classic diversion, an eruption of action that drew the people’s attention precisely to the matter at hand.  They preyed on survival instincts and the knee-jerk reactions of the citizenry while their thieving compatriots unloaded shops of their stock and ships of their loads.  As she looked down she could see that she had been hit.  Her face grew hot and her breath was shallow as the steady stream of blood poured from her abdomen.  Today she would meet the Great Spirit.  Perhaps, today she might even reunite with her father.  

“Thank you ANSA, please.”  She whispered and immediately she found herself gazing at the white-capped mountains of the Himalayas.  Though she had never physically been to Lhasa, the sacred place of her Father’s birth she knew that she was there now…in the wind and the snow.  The air was so thin she felt like she could hardly breathe but as she let go her breathing subsided.  Then the image of Tamanend invaded her mind and the sadness of leaving him filled her with sorrow.  She would love him into eternity.  No matter how many times she returned to the physical realm she would find him, recognize him and love him. 

Tamanend remained at the Lenni Lenapi stronghold performing a naming ceremony in the center of the village among the longhouses.  It would become Philadelphia so named by William Penn himself.  Ironically it means “The city of brotherly love”.  Two days would pass before word of Unega’s fate would reach her people.  News that would change Tamanend’s life and those of his tribe.  At the moment he enjoyed his time with his people on their ancestral lands, practicing the rituals handed down from their grandfathers, the ancient ones.  Soon enough they would have to move.  The Delaware were not nomadic as some tribes were.  They were farmers and fishermen.  They made their villages near waterways and fertile bottomland. They were peaceful and very much like the Quakers that were displacing them. Unfortunately so did the Cherokee and as their population grew so did their alliances and nation.  They were conquerors and they had successfully subjugated the Delaware.  Eminent Domain. 

 

 

Victoria shivered in the silence.  The entire grand parlor was dark except for a tiny portion of the ceiling where the house had collapsed.  The crisp blue sky let its light flow down into the frozen tomb reflecting off of the piled snow that pressed against the grand windows.  She was amazed that the windows hadn’t burst from the pressure.  She was in the silent blue of seeming twilight.  Everything was quiet.  She let her hands cradle her belly and she could feel her unborn child move.  Tears enveloped her.  The only thing that could take her now was the cold.  It had only taken moments for the house to crumble on that one side.  And her tears of joy for her unborn child turned to tears of grief as she wondered if Richard had been buried alive under tons of snow.  If he was gone it would be days before anyone would ever think to look for her.  She would die, too, from exposure.

“RICHARD!”  She called and her throat tightened as her agony came forth.  “RICHARD!” She swallowed hard and tried to recover a bit of silence to see if anything stirred in the stark stillness.  Nothing.  She heard the slight movement of the breeze that blew a few snowflakes down into her oubliette.  The crystallized water shimmered like gold dust in the sun and disappeared out of site as the shadows devoured them.  She heard a slight drumming and she thought maybe it was her heart beat moving through her ears, the tiny blood vessels constricting under stress.  However, as before the drumming grew louder and at times the rhythm changed.

“RICHARD!”  She called again and her yell morphed into a pleading scream laced with desperation.  She couldn’t give up.  She remembered that Ashley had brought food and that maybe today would be the day that Ashley might reappear.  Once she sees the house half torn down she will take action, Victoria thought.  How could she not?  And so Victoria set her intention.  If she sat still and thought hard enough, perhaps she could make Ashley manifest.  It was her only hope.  The drumming changed and the distant chanting of ancient Indian songs came in on the cold breeze. 

“Hello?”  She heard a voice say from a distance.  It was a man’s voice and it sounded familiar.

“Hello?  Yes---Hello!  HELLO!  I’m down here!”  Victoria yelled. 

“Hello?”  The small voice repeated.

“YES—YES!  I’m here!  I’m alive”  Victoria vehemently cried.  Then there was silence.  Victoria paced anxiously hoping whoever the stranger was had heard her.

“I’m here! Down here!”  She yelled as she craned her neck upward gazing at the small bit of sky through the hole in the roof.  She stood silent hoping to hear movement.  Then she heard someone say, “I think I heard someone.  It’s coming form down there.”

“YES!  YES! I’M DOWN HERE!”  Victoria screamed as loud as she could.  Suddenly the shape of a man’s head appeared in silhouette fourteen feet above her. 

“She’s here!” The man exclaimed.  Yet she knew it was not Richard.  As the sun hit the gentleman’s face she realized it was Mr. Watkins.

“OH! Mr. Watkins! Oh, my.” She exclaimed and she was overcome with emotion.  It almost felt as though her father had shown up to rescue her and her tears flowed easily.  She closed her eyes for a moment and chanted to herself, “Please dear God let Richard be alive.”

“It’s Victoria.  She’s alright.”  Mr. Watkins said.

“Victoria?” Another voice called. The sound of it melted her and her tears of joy moved into elation.  It was unmistakably Richard. And a smile bloomed across her face and she began to laugh at the events that had challenged them up to now. 

“Richard.”  She called out.  It was not a question but an acknowledgement.  They were going home.  Finally they were going home.