1
I
They grew up in a small river town along the delta. Jenny learned to swim in the Sacramento
River, a place where ferryboats chugged with passengers waving from the deck, where barges cut through
the channels carrying minerals, and wind surfers glided across the placid surface when the wind opened its
wings. Drawbridges either elevated from their center or detached and twisted ninety degrees to the side so
boats could sail through. In some places, cable ferries toted townspeople across the river and back. At
home, Jenny sensed the seedy mosquito breeze across her skin. The silt bottom river passed her house in
the backyard. She could see water lapping on the shore. She clasped her hand around the back of her neck
and wiped off the tingling sweat. Smells of bass mixed with tiny purple violets. Golden cattails protruded
from the bank. Jenny brushed her hair from her eyes, looking for Serena, her sister. With thistles stuck to
her calves, Jenny got down on her knees. Her toes curled into the shifty sand and dirt and empty
clamshells.
Tonight, they’d go the local Bass Derby, a place where fishermen chugged beer and the smell of
night crawlers mixed with sticky cotton candy. Puffy corn dogs with mustard and the two-story slide were
the attractions for Jenny. She finally heard Serena squealing with glee from the top of the bank, and saw
her holding their father’s hand. Serena’s short bowl hair cut and light blue eyes glimmered with happiness.
When Mother ran to him, she grabbed his arm. Mother pushed his sleeve up and investigated. Father
pushed her mother away and let go of Serena’s hand. He took off his shirt and plunged into the murky
waters. Serena waddled to the shore side. Mother, with her long black hair framing her desperate eyes,
squatted down on her knees. Jenny’s chest tightens, her eyes dried out. She ran her fingers through the
cattails watching for her father to emerge from the river.
2
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation.
3
III
One glorious morning, a wall made of stone and mortar appeared in front of Jenny and
Serena as they kicked dirt and swatted bugs. It emerged out of the soft dirt and detoured into the river.
A lavender cat jumped up on the wall and began licking its paws. Jenny got on her knees and Serena
crawled on her to get up. They tried to catch the cat but it ran away so they plodded along, careful not to
fall, when they came to a crossroads. At the sandbar in the middle of the river, a flight of steps appeared to
the left; and to the right, they saw a canopy of trees surrounding what looked to be a hole in the river.
Upon closer investigation, it looked to be a well dividing the river’s flow. They climbed onto the barrier
and hung their legs off the edge. In the hole, they saw a pool of water and a staircase with a handrail. They
spiraled down pale sandstone steps carved into the earth. Inside, ivy and flowers flourished from the
conical walls and a waterfall plummeted from out of nowhere. The clean clear water smelled like daisies.
At the edge of the pool, Jenny stared into the creamy green ripples. Chubby black fish swarmed at
the edge. She took off her clothes and dove over the fish. She paddled around and watched Serena
jumping from a large rock with an echoing splash.
Serena called to Jenny.
Jenny called to Serena.
A story materialized in the fog.
4
I
Set on the ridge across from the Auburn Ravine, Jenny’s home overlooked the North Fork of the
American River. At twenty, she waitressed at the Shanghai, and one day she tripped over a guitar player’s
foot. He told her how pretty she looked. She smiled. By the evening, they downed a bottle of whisky and
began chipping away a gram of speed and doing lines.
After the drain from her sinuses subsided, her mind sharp and clear, senses high, she bathed. The
soap left her skin dry. Her thin bleached hair dripped down her back. The towel irritated her skin.
Without touching the tile floor, she stepped to the mat and saw her reflection in the mirror. Bright eyes,
black pupils, where they would travel, where they would hike, where they would live, and how often they
could get high. The lotion soaked into her skin, and she got ready to impress Jacob, putting on mascara and
ebony eyeliner, which darkened her hazel eyes green. A rose-colored lip-gloss made her thin lips full. No
underwear, she wore a pair of baggy sweat pants ballooning off her narrow hips and thin legs.
Topless, she sat on the toilet seat and pulled out the mirror from the drawer. She slid the glass
straw, clouded with the residue of meth, onto the end of a pipe. Holding a flame at the bottom, she rocked
the pipe from side-to-side and then pulled the lighter back so the crank could melt into a pool before she
took a hit. She inhaled and held, the exhale went straight to her head. A few more hits; she sat on the
toilet seat listening for Jacob, an animated smile on her face. She moved without moving. Her body knew
where to take her and where it wanted to be. It knew how to walk, how to sit, how to sort through the
house, the books, the boxes, the television guide, the bills. Her body could feel itself, while her spirit
waited for the signal to breathe.
Nothing but a sultry rain fell on the house. She stepped outside barefoot and smoked a cigarette
under the porch. She left the door cracked. Across the street, someone entered the neighbor’s house. The
sound of ice cracking.
In the garage, she found Jacob next to a ladder. He moved away from her and sat on a toolbox.
He rubbed his eyes and cupped his hand over the open wounds in the crease of his arm. He collected his
5
paraphernalia and put it in a red duffle bag. The daze in Jenny’s eye settled among the cluster of black and
blue bruises on his arms. She led him back inside. On the couch, she pulled her knees into her chest and
shook her head. Her bottomless pupils. “Let me make a call,” she said. “I’ll get some more.” She licked
her lips, swallowed what saliva she had left. “This time, I want to shoot it.” A crisp wet night hovered
outside the stained glass window above the fireplace.
At the dealer’s, she scanned the parking lot from her car. Her breath steamed the inside of the
window, and she made an upside down smiley face with her finger. She brushed her bangs to the side and
then sat on her hands. A light rain splashed through the driver’s window. She entered through a tattered
door, a fan hummed in the corner of the room. The dealer handed her a pipe, and they took turns taking
hits. Power hits rushed into her lungs; the taste of biker fuel exhaled from her chapped lips. Her body took
form. She could feel the length of her limbs and the twist in her spinal cord.
When she returned home, she found Jacob’s body curled up on the bed. His legs stretched out.
She poured a glass of whisky and water and turned off the bedroom light. Then she pulled the crumpled
blanket off Jacob and spooned her skeletal body behind him.
6
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. My other self was one such person.
By this time, having kids wasn’t in the picture and my parents, sister and half brothers drifted
away. This was a time when meth monsters, ghosts, and psychedelic realities opened their doors. On
drugs, I could operate in society while searching for that utopian high.
Grounded in my self-made reality,
my soul, centuries old,
my roots buried in the earth, reaching for a place outside of time.
A memory of my sister.
A swing for my brother.
A tattoo for my other brother.
A house for my mother.
A Harley for my father.
Leaves brown, the riverbed dry, a historical mythos remembered and forgotten,
bodies living and dying together and alone.
7
III
Sweaty mangled hair, scalp itching, eyes hollowed,
no hunger, no work, no bathing, no sex.
Jenny turned off the television.
Mahogany auburn hair,
Cellophane hazel eyes,
Skin—blanch white.
Jenny thumbed the lining of her underwear
watching rain splash and dance against windowpanes.
The draw, the call, the taste.
Razor in hand, she chipped the meth & dropped it in a tarnished spoon
Licking her fingertips, holding her breath & dripping water over the glass rock
The edges softened, sliding down walls
and she patted the end of an orange syringe.
The bubbles popped before she removed the flame—
Her bowels loosened in anticipation.
Lighter flickering, the flames smoldered under the spoon,
spiking up so she stopped so as to not char the speed into a black crust.
Brushing static bangs away from her eyes,
She balanced the spoon waiting for the liquid to cool.
Into the pool, she dipped the needle askew.
With a pull, the rubber stopper skidded inside the tube.
With a light push, the needle’s tip spit a cluster of air bubbles.
She tapped the syringe and squeezed the air out.
Sleeveless, her left arm exposed a relief map of veins.
Jenny tied off.
8
Cells lit up beneath her skin,
The needle glowed probing the interior of her blue vein
and she locked her elbow in place.
Her finger joints cinched the syringe out—
Just enough to see a red cloud of blood flooding into the solution
Her transgressions inscribed her flesh.
Her heart cavities expanded with a silent beat—
a forced cough—she inhaled screaming.
She shivered and exhaled florescent light
with sounds of power lines filling her head
feeling her throat, her stomach churned.
Electrified skin covered her body.
Vibrations synchronized within.
Vomit in her mouth.
Clear tears rolled down her face.
The room echoed ghostly footsteps.
9
I
Attending classes was normal. Reading and writing was normal. Studying in Paris was normal.
Learning to play the fiddle was normal. Graduating from college was normal. Using drugs and alcohol
was normal. What wasn’t normal was smoking weed in Amsterdam without a job or a class to attend.
Jenny unpacked some clothes, some books, and some yarn. Max unpacked his bass. He swung it over his
shoulder and was gigging that night. In a system that didn’t need anything she could offer—in which she
had nothing to do—of which she wasn’t a citizen, justifying her worth jacked her perspective. Past server
jobs qualified her to work at a local bar dumping bowls of weed and tobacco ashes into an orange pail.
But, she’d be an illegal alien. That was an interesting twist.
As the story goes, Jenny and Max crashed on a Dutch woman’s floor and made it their home.
They waited for a rental to open up on one of the numerous dank boats along the delta-like canals. Her
contribution meant kicking back at cafes and savoring naked moments of a simple life that came from
smoking weed on cobble stone streets alongside cops without guns atop shaggy Clydesdales.
One night, the bar filled with smoke like a hot-boxed car. The smell of Humbolt County—the
room dripped with red candle wax. Blues grooves swirled across the floor and to the bar where Jenny sat
drinking and tapping a candy machine filled with plastic filters. Max unhooked his bass and stepped off
stage. He said that Michelle said that she could busk with her on the streets outside cafes—Jenny said
nothing.
Amsterdam streets stoplights were in the shape of cyclists: Jenny hopped on a bike to find
Michelle’s street gig. She rode along a row of closely packed houses next to a canal. Over a stone bridge,
she dodged several pedestrians before arriving at an ancient weight and scales station. Surly pigeons with
thick necks pecked at her feet when she got off the bike. Inside the station, free wireless signs read, “Please
Wait Here”—Jenny waited. Half her size, Michelle’s childlike body slouched close to the screen. Her
sturdy square fingers rattled over the keys. Her round chipmunk cheeks made her look cherub.
Michelle slid the keyboard back and said, “Since summer’s picked up, I haven’t had to busk.” She
grabbed her sunglasses. “It’s too late today but maybe tomorrow I’ll look for a place to work. It’s easy.
10
I’ll play the accordion and you can collect the money. We’d make more this way, and I’d split it with
you.”
Jenny reached in her backpack and found nothing. She figured busking would be just like
waitressing except no dishes to pick up, only tips. That would be nice. Would she have to smile?
Michelle scooted closer to Jenny on the bench. “So how are you? Max’s been working.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Jenny ran her fingers through her hair and suggested going to a bar. Searching
her front pocket Jenny found what she was looking for and popped it in her mouth.
Michelle said, “So what do you do again?”
Silence.
Fluffing her curly brown hair she prodded for more, “How old are you?”
Silence.
“I’m like twenty-eight.”
“You know what they say? Whatever you’re doing by the time you’re thirty is what you’ll be
doing the rest of your life.”
“I’m a student.”
11
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. My boyfriend Max was one such person.
By this time, learning to matriculate in Amsterdam wasn’t like Paris where academic walls
guaranteed my structure and identity. While Max spoke to the crowds with his bass, I hung in the rafters of
Amsterdam. My mood stagnated and this eventful city became a claustrophobic three-mile radius filled
with weed, pills, women, and synthetic cocaine. After we arrived in Amsterdam, my sister, Serena, left.
So, a bassist and a student remained. He got work; I didn’t. In an unfamiliar territory: employment,
education, identity, and self-reliance became a problem. Max was gigin’ but not making enough, for my
sense of security, and I sunk further behind the scenes.
I had no reason for being there. I was there for Max and my sense of adventure. When my money
ran low, stress settled in. I didn’t want to start over. Dependent on matriculating into a system, into a
system that didn’t need anything I could do, that fit into some marketable category. Justifying my value to
society? For me, inspiration moved one way or another based on my desire for self-gratification. It was so
much easier to know the eyes of others, to reflect what they wanted me to be. I could have worked at a bar
illegally, dumping bowls of ashes into an orange bucket. The fact that I had no residency rights to make a
living freaked me out. We could have continued living in the Dutch woman’s flat when I said, “Max, I’ll
stay, if you can keep me high.”
Two months later, we flew back to Colorado.
12
III
Jenny split in two,
her body, skin, blood, bones,
the Other
a spirit, guardian, host—
awake inside her body
awake outside her body
she swam in an icy glass of vodka
One sunny snowy day,
the Other maneuvered the wheel
turning and stopping
stopping and going along Interstate 25
along the Rocky Mountain divide
Near Colorado Springs,
Jenny’s body craved food
In a parking lot,
the Other avoided hitting a man with her van
The Other stopped and
ambled Jenny’s body like a puppet
to the hamburger stand
The Other stopped and goed at each light
and turned left on Harmonic Road
The Other missed a ditch
And parked crooked in front of
an empty house
The Other put Jenny’s body to bed and
pulled up the covers
and she slept until awakened
by a thirst she couldn’t quench,
in a place she didn’t recognize,
in a body she didn’t know
The room echoed ghostly footstep
13
I
In a funky, honky-tonk city, Jenny lived with Max in a home overlooking the sea. And one chilly
night, a cold front rolled in and a fog veiled the bedroom window. She knocked the radiator with her knee
and the pipes crackled. She took a lengthy sip from her drink. Above the mantel, she admired her mother’s
painting, hung above the mantel, and pulled the comforter over her legs. Someone once told her she should
keep a journal so she propped her back with pillows and started writing. The steady hum of the radiator
finally kicked in. Things had never settled between her and Max, especially when she and Jacob had an
affair.
That night, Max left for the road without a word. The clock ticked. The night wore on. On the
empty spot next to her in the bed, she placed the pad and pen. The light bulb flashed on and off. She
flipped through channels in hopes of finding the right film. When the phone finally rang, she knew it was
Max and didn’t pick up.
That morning, joggers jogged, but not Jenny. She tossed her books, fiddle and pills on the
passenger’s seat. Her car choked once and stalled. One more turn of the key, and she took off. Classic
masonry cracked sidewalks. Fog layered the city streets. Waves broke against Ocean Beach on Highway 1.
The Dutch Windmill marked her descent toward Orchid Lake, a town not on any map, a town inhabited by
both spirits and people alike. Before she lost her cell signal, she sent a text to Serena to let her know she
was alive. She popped a pill. She thought of her last day with Jacob. A dry mouth, thirsty body, she tried
to swallow the pill and it got stuck in her throat before she could wash it down. She choked, hacked and it
finally went down. With the window cracked, she turned up the music. Her car felt broken, the road
uncertain. The air smelled alive, hints of salty sea life. Jenny continued to drive along the winding road.
Her eyes burned. Max knows. A knot swelled and lodged itself in her throat. She drank vodka and Sprite
with a splash of cranberry from her thermos.
At the turnoff, a white waterfall plummeted down granite cliffs, from a place where only seagulls
hang-glided. Elephant seals barked, conglomerating on their coastal community rocks. Jenny looked at
herself in the rearview mirror. Blue redwoods and dwarf juniper marked the road to Orchid Lake. In the
14
clearing, a pyramid, made of massive stone boulders and covered by florescent yellow moss, masked the
horizon. A flaming beacon of fire raged atop. Spirits inhabited the town, people, spirit and flesh alike.
Jenny stopped for a plate of refried beans and rice, with avocado and tomato on the side.
15
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. My lover Jacob was one such person.
By this time, I was standing on the sidewalk in Orchid Lake, a spirit woman and her husband
walked in front of me. Without Jacob, there was no reason to be there. I remembered our conversation:
“It’s up to you if you want to kill yourself,” I said.
Jacob’s body flinched; his face released expression. We went about the morning and had more
drinks and amphetamines.
Jacob said, “I need a gun for protection, for food. They took my rifle away from me. They took
my right to hunt and to feed myself.”
His hair matted from sweat, the oxycontins depleting from his body, feverish. I changed the bed
sheets often. I made him take a bath and change his clothes. He had no teeth. He would only eat canned
clam chowder. My pills kept me up and alert so I could deal with him; I didn’t talk him out of killing
himself. That morning, Jacob posted his Martin guitar on Craig’s List.
That afternoon, a man dressed in jeans and a cowboy hat stopped by. A woman stood behind him
and smiled. Jacob made the man promise not to resell the guitar and to play it with his body and soul.
Jacob played the guitar. They could tell his talent, he had that star quality, the sound of a showman, his
playing heartfelt. I watched his hands slip; they didn’t notice. He cried. The couple didn’t know how to
react. I put my hand on Jacob’s head and gave them a look that everything was okay. They bought the
guitar.
16
III
Four days later, Jacob shot himself.
Four days later, Jenny stopped using.
Back & forth, her pen scrolled across & down the page
Bony fingers, wrinkled skin, she pondered upon the page
Of family—decisions, across & down the page
Language veiled—suspended ink, now upon the page
She forced her hand fixed, across & down the page
Knuckles relaxed, she took pills and wrote upon the page
Draining her pen relentless, across & down the page
About a life that could have—should have been upon the page
Another man—imprinted—across & down the page
She thought of him, tapping her pen upon the page
Whispering forgiveness across & down the page
Drinking, she welcomed death upon the page
An angel appeared, she scribbled across & down the page
and she drank into the night—
the Other upon the page.
17
I
In a dream, the hour was late. The warmth of the room intensified. Jenny pushed the comforter off
and wrapped her auburn hair upon her head. She could feel her pulse beating through the artery of her
neck. Her stomach felt light. She caught her husband Max at the windowpane watching the snow, lightly
falling. Then she recalled a song sung by Jacob and how she wept for his memory earlier that evening.
She understood her husband’s jealousy. She took a drink of water from the glass on the bedside table. He
turned toward her, unable to talk. He took a step forward but stopped. His gaze clung to her. While she
had explained she had met Jacob before him, Max had said nothing. She got up to leave. He didn’t stop
her. There were small gas lanterns in the passage and down the stairs. A bearded man hunkered over the
bar gulped his hearty stout. No one questioned why she left in a nightgown on a snowy night.
Wind swirled across the evening sky and left trails of sapphire blue tunnels speckled with dry
green and white. Not a snowflake in sight. Her feet stuck to the mucky brown streets. A yellow-green
band of light outlined the rolling blue hills. She saw the tip of the church steeple in the light. She lifted her
nightgown so it wouldn’t get dirty. She shivered. Her hands and clothing turned a dusty blue. Each star
boasted an intense spectrum of varying hues: an orange nexus emanating circular waves of salmon orange,
lemon yellow and a green, greener than a pale, pale turquoise. She wiped her hands on her gown. The
brightest star was surrounded by white with brushes of lime and purple-green. They were young stars,
except for the one in the distance, which had a dazzling deep orange-magenta halo.
A young man approached in a carriage. She felt for the door and clenched the knob in her hand.
Her pulse anxious, inside warm soft thoughts.
A young man stepped out of the carriage, “The moon is in rare form tonight,” he said. Two horses
snorted in unison. The yellow-orange tips of the crescent moon formed a full circle.
Wrapping down from the sky, a white tail of the wind whipped Jenny’s bum. Her cherub cheeks
blossomed. “Jacob,” she gasped. She admired his big dark eyes.
Resuming their walk, as on Orchid Lake, so long ago, Jenny quietly cried. Jacob brushed up
against her and whispered in her ear. In the blue hills, under a canopy of trees, leaves dripped from the
18
limbs. The grassy surface turned into a pool. They regarded one another as their clothes disappeared. She
looked down at her body and then at his. His had curly dark hair in the right places, his body lean and
muscular. Her arm crossed her bosom, she leaned in and placed her other hand on his chest. His hand on
her face; he traced her lips with his finger. Motley lights swelled around them. Skin. Lips. Palms. Hands.
Flesh. A fiery glow, like the stars of eons past, radiated from their bodies.
A wayward wind cooled Jenny’s skin. She pointed at a star merging with the moon. Jacob
reached for her hand. Her husband’s distant gaze. She ran her hand in the silky riverbed. The trees
separated, and a bridge materialized in a non-chromatic glow. Jacob released her hand.
An unknown familiar man walked across the bridge. She sensed him, and her body swirled into
the painted night.
19
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. My dream lover was one such person.
By this time, the painter’s brush swirled a wet blob of black and white between mountains of green
rock. Cement floors cooled my feet. Leaning forward on my toes, I died on the rocks below the bridge. A
wad of barreling blue strokes of paint gave birth. I outlined this creation with fluorescent green while I
turned the brush in an arc. I felt the cool air come in from the streets.
When I let Jacob go instead of following him, my life split in two. My life was played out in this
universe and in another. In this one, I was lost, not grounded, my future unknown. In the other I cut my
wrists. There was no right or wrong answer in death. Death evolves. Death is life. It was okay to die.
20
III
Jenny is not here
breathing
chipped meth
pipe, flame on glass,
pipe rolls no boiling
a pool of molten rock
the hits
pipe fills with smoke
next hit, hold, peaking high exhales
rosined bow
fiddle, shivering strings,
bow screeches no meter
tuned
the notes
bow glides above strings
fiddle full, tone, silvery high exhales
they
encourage her touch
desire her flesh
taste her fingers
penetrate her anxiety
mold her voice
use her limbs
harmonize her soul
breathing
she’s not here
21
I
At the edge of the pool, Jenny stared into the creamy green ripples. Chubby black fish swarmed at
the edge. She took off her clothes and dove over the fish. She paddled around and watched Serena
stepping through the mucky silt floor in order to get to a large rock off which she too jumped. A fog
materialized and words appeared floating in the air.
Serena called to Jenny.
Jenny called to Serena.
They visited in a room, in a house, with the sound of musicians playing outside.
With warm eyes Serena said, “I was telling my husband how I much I’ve missed you.”
“You know how things are.” Jenny sat down next to her, her bones aching.
Serena came from the kitchen where she prepared a meal; her hat flopped with the motion of her
body. “Don’t be that way. I know how hard this is for you.” Serena clasped Jenny’s puffy hands into hers
and ran her hand up and down her palm.
“I need a drink,” said Jenny.
“Some time here and you’ll feel better. Before the memorial, you’ll have supper with us.”
Jenny filled the empty space and said, “Max is on tour. He won’t be at the memorial. He sends
his regards.”
“I’m sure Max wishes that he were here,” Serena said. “Jacob was such a troubled soul.”
Jenny’s hands shook slightly and she started to sweat. Her affair with Jacob, no recourse, and
tears edged their way to her lids. A humming bird vibration could be felt under her skin. She stood up.
The silhouette of her neck curved like the arch in her long back. She finished her drink, “You know I love
you.” And she walked outside where musicians were playing in the streets. A sketch artist sat on a stool
reading a book. Tents protected vegetables, nuts, and dried meats. Buckets filled with ice, displayed
iridescent abalone shells cased fish, oysters, and mussels. She pulled a wooly poncho over her head. Her
face bloated, she continued to sweat and entered the bar.
Her spirit guide, Tenoch, broke the spell when his dog pounced through the table and jumped on
22
her lap, falling through her body and to the floor. The dog started chasing its tail. The bar smelled damp
from years of ocean air seeping in and out of the wood. Jenny asked Sam for a cigarette and ordered a
drink. “Do things always work this way around here?” She lit the cigarette.
She could feel Tenoch’s energy illuminating next to her. She looked into his chocolate blue eyes
and they softened, his dazzling image dulled. “It’s time. The doctors of your world helped, but come with
me into the pyramid.”
She exhaled a circle of smoke and turned the tumbler. “What do you mean? The meetings are
working. This is just a small slip.”
Tenoch’s image shimmered, black and red ink brilliant against his brown skin.
“Not now, Tenoch. Let’s go back to the way it used to be. I miss our talks. Tell me about the
Spanish invaders.” Another circle of smoke floated away.
“Don’t change the subject. Your body is here but your spirit is lost. Your other self will
overcome you and you will be without flesh, like me, but still feel the pain.”
A couple of tourists having drinks ran out the door. Guys playing pool jested over the tourists and
continued with their game. The bartender, Sam, put on his tough look behind a pair of black-rimmed
glasses, “Come on guys, it’s the weekend. I can’t afford you spooking the customers away. Take it
upstairs.” He hung the dish rag out his back pocket.
Deep blue ink tattooed Tenoch’s cheekbones. He wore the same tanned loincloth, the same hand
sewn ceremonial cape, the same gold medallion of the sun, and the same black and red headdress he wore
the day he was sacrificed to the gods. He displayed his small jagged teeth and led Jenny to the pyramid.
23
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. I was one such person.
By this time, walking across divides while my pen trailed behind, tagging along, avoiding,
absorbing and inscribing. Cool sweet smoke. Sweetwater. The smooth taste of a hit of speed; the roll of a
memory into the night echoing in time and unfolding my path. The crying and the changing impressions
moving on a page that came from within. Sweetness. That small acid flavor that exploded on my tongue
and opened my mind. Shift, transition, blissful highs and comfortable lows. Long melodic tones. Weeping
drawls. Gypsies wandering with roots throughout the lands. My aching bones thrilled by treading time
and living one life after the other over and over again—postulating the moment that one-day it will all
become clear.
24
III
Jenny followed Tenoch into the pyramid where freshly fallen snow reflected honeydew sun as the
distant barren plains transformed into glistening arrays of light. Her cheekbone twitched, and she brushed
the sensation away. Her clothes changed from a sweater and jeans into dress made of deer’s hide; she had
to pull the skirt down to cover her bum.
In the cloudy blue sky, a blast of golden stars funneled to the earth. Bewildered, she headed
toward the spectacle, but the shower ended and a teepee appeared with massive snowdrifts at its base.
Clouds of charcoal smoke puffed and swirled above the dwelling. Paintings of warriors and dancers
covered the buffalo hide teepee. Tenoch kept his distance and she stayed further behind him. Gunshots
splintered the silence. Then she heard another kind of music coming from the teepee. The rhythmic
vibrations traveled through the earth and air and tickled her feet and toes. The next wave of music rose
from the earth and surrounded her like her mother’s arms. Tenoch slid his rifle into its case and unhooked
his bow. Then the music stopped.
A deep vibrato voice sung, “¡El Señor and Señorita, entra por favor!”
Jenny held her stance. The finely sewn canvas door opened and a long arm covered in orange and
yellow triangles motioned for them to come in. She noticed the arm had no wrist, hand or fingers.
Curious, she waited. A second box-shaped head with a flat face emerged wearing a cone hat and sporting a
rectangular black mustache and square nose. It sneezed and said something he couldn’t understand and
disappeared back into the lodge.
Next to Jenny, a dark translucent dog materialized, jumping up and down. The dog shoved its
muzzle into a mound of snow and rolled on its back. Bouncing up from the snow, the swish of its shadowy
tail brushed against her leg. With a wave of her hand, she shooed the dog away and grinned.
Voices stirred inside. A third white and blue angular face appeared from behind the canvas door.
It smiled at them with big red teeth. A clarinet floated in the air where a hand should have been and she
heard, “¡Nosotrossomos Roma! Ensámblenos en música.”
25
The enchanting tone of a female’s voice, unlike any Jenny had heard, lured her closer to the
teepee. They entered the teepee and discovered three musicians. The first one that peeked out of the teepee
hovered above a chair. Up close, it had an iridescent yellow face with orange triangles. Its clothes were of
a shiny satin material cut in geometrical designs. Its happy round eyes laughed without eyebrows or lashes.
And, without any hands or fingers, it began playing a strange melodic strum on its guitar.
The second spirit with the grey box head placed its guitar on the floor. Then it moved with grace
and stood next to a stand up bass. It placed the instrument in front of itself and stood while giggling like a
child.
The third spirit with a white and blue angular face sat in a chair and picked its red teeth with a
fork. It burped. On the small round table two uncorked bottles of wine lay empty. Behind them, a
smoldering fire roasted five prairie dogs and a snake.
The first spirit with orange triangles and a yellow face spoke: “During my third life, my name was
La Niña de los Peines when I was born in Seville, Spain in 1890. You may call me La Niña. My blue
friend here is Dionisio Aguado, he was a composer in Paris in 1825. Next to him, the man with the box
head and a patch over his right eye is Francisco de Asís Tárrega Eixea, from Barcelona 1904. He’s a
master musician and composer, known as the “Sarasate of guitar” and we are happy that you are here.
Please, join us.”
26
I
At the edge of the pool, Jenny stared into the creamy green ripples. Chubby black fish swarmed at
the edge. She took off her clothes and dove over the fish. She paddled around and watched Serena
stepping through the mucky silt floor in order to get to a large rock off which she too jumped. A fog
materialized and words appeared floating in the air.
Serena called to Jenny.
Jenny called to Serena.
Floating on her back smiling, Jenny told her sister about guys she had been with & how wonderful
it was. Serena swam around Jenny. They swam. Floating on her back, Jenny told her sister about guys she
had been with and how horrible it was. Jenny dove under. They swam. It was a hot Delta night, and Jenny
was twelve years old. She went to bed in her swimsuit. Her father’s friend came into her room to use the
phone. While he spoke, he rubbed his hand up her leg, as he had done before. She lay on her stomach.
Her legs open. This time, his fingers slid inside. Sensation swelled numb.
They swam in the pool.
The pool got deeper.
They swam in the ocean.
They swam in the river.
They swam.
Jenny couldn’t reach the bottom but she dove trying to touch the bottom like her father.
She was afraid. He wouldn’t come up for hours.
The tracks on father’s arms.
Mother checked his arms.
27
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. I was one such person.
My
body
voice
the other
memories
my mother
stories
untold
daughter
transcribed
drunk
my pen
forgot
unfolded
I did the laundry
& the dishes
& the toilet
& the tub
& then vacuumed
& alphabetized my books.
28
III
Twisted arms, crooked back, naked in her creation:
Jenny slipped through
her flesh;
her inquisitive eyes exposed.
She searched for herself and found a way out
away from her bodily bondage—
She cast a spell on herself,
leading her elsewhere, concocting potions to covet her heart.
Crying and lost, she sought death—
She listened.
She flew to the crime—
her body serrated, her blood curdled,
her body a shell, her bones crushed,
the Other returned through her eyes—
her body sutured, her blood flowed,
her body flesh, her bones healed.
29
I
Jenny ran her hand across her mouth and eyed their unusual bodies. Glaring back and forth among
the three, she heard echoes of her sister calling her name. The translucent dog jumped up on her chest, and
Tenoch and the three musicians laughed.
Thrown off balance, Jenny pushed the dog off her chest and waited.
Tenoch paused and said, “Look Jenny, their faces and bodies are of the rainbow and the
mountains. That one over there has no hands and yet it plays music.”
Jenny watched as the three musicians glowed. A ray of golden light sprayed from the top of one
of their heads. The translucent dog chomped at the droplets in the air and then crouched down on its belly.
She knew this was magic. A swirling purple smoke surrounded them and made her light headed. She
inhaled. Her pores opened, and she began to sweat more.
The second blue spirit Aguado spoke, “Forgive my friend here. We’re still learning to control the
lights and liquids that spray about. The other day, Francisco tripped over our dog Pablo.” Aguado rubbed
its angular jaw; a white cone hat floated above its head. “So much has happened since we came to this
place,” it said. It pondered another moment. “As I was saying, Francisco tripped and landed on his box
head and this grey ¿Cómousted dice el limo?”
The first spirit La Niña translated, “Paint, tell them paint.”
“Gracias mi amigo. Si, paint shot from his ears. This time, it stained the walls. Usually stuff
around here disappears but not this time.”
The three musicians began to laugh and Francisco stepped in to tell his side of the story, “Si, I was
an old man before I came here. To my surprise, this body does not ache. After falling, I stood on my head
for some time before flipping to my feet like an acrobat. Back home, I could have been a matador with this
body.” He demonstrated his athleticism by diving into the air and landing on his head. The dog barked,
shaking its body and then he ran through the wall, vanishing in front of their eyes. This time everyone
laughed.
La Niña settled them down and said, “Jenny, you may clear yourself here.”
30
Aguado picked up his guitar. Francisco bounced to the corner of the room and a piano appeared.
Then Aguado started explaining how he invented this special technique of strumming the guitar with his
fingernails. He apologized that he had no hands for them to see. Francisco knocked his box head on the
piano waiting for the signal to play.
The teepee became warm and waves of light splattered Jenny’s skin, which cooled dry. Rhythmic
cords surrounded her, brushing up against her hair. The vibrato drove deep into the earth and she trembled.
The piano accompaniment soared and shadowed harmonious cords floating in the air. The three musicians
nodded to one another. A lower register from a pair of drums Tenoch played made the dirt on the floor
dance. A mellow sonata drifted.
La Niña’s voice turned into small stars and sailed away. She told Jenny to have patience, “The
sweating will pass. This lodge allows us to share our experience. The winds are changing.” Yellow and
orange rays beamed from the triangles of La Niña’s clothes and collided on the walls. Pablo barked bright
orange tennis balls, which La Niña caught in mid air and tossed them through the wall calling for Pablo to
fetch.
La Niña waved the lights from his eyes and said, “Mi amiga, your father loved your mother.”
Jenny couldn’t stand any longer and sat on the floor. Pablo came back with a ball in its mouth and
placed it in front of her. She held it for a moment, its orange goo dripping on her hand and tossed it
through the wall.
La Niña smiled and said, “Now, let us show you the flamenco. Si, mes amigos!”
Francisco ran his missing hand along the keys, leaving a trail of red sparks.
Jenny grabbed a fiddle that appeared above her head and played. When she stood, the bow was
smooth to her skin. When she played, sparks flew from her fingertips. Her teeth pressed together tight, her
foot pounded on the floor. The tepee rattled, sending sound waves throughout the barren plains. She
played so fast and so hard that heat generated from her body, lifting the walls of the tepee and revealing the
melting snow. She admired her hands and watched her body dematerialize.
31
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. Tenoch was one such person.
By this time, I had been through a rehab program for alcoholism, taking Antabuse, and attending
AA meetings. This was my last hope. It worked, for a while. Then one day my close friend Ann thought it
best if I seek his help from Tenoch; he’s an Aztec Indian. For two centuries, Esalen Indians and Aztec
spirits have inhabited Orchid Lake, located in Big Sur on the coast of California. It was in the 1960’s that
a group of hippies came from the north to get away, and the community expanded—people, spirit and flesh
alike, started living together.
I ended up in Orchid Lake because Max and Jacob played gigs at the local bar.
Yes, we knew each other, but I met Jacob first.
Then, I met Max through Jacob.
Then, Max and I got together.
Then, Max and I had some hard times and I went back to Jacob.
Then, Jacob and I continued to use.
Then, I went back to Max, and we got married.
Then, Max and I had some more hard times, and I went back to Jacob.
Then, Jacob died, and I hit bottom, and Max and I divorced.
So by this time, the healing session with Tenoch couldn’t have come at a better time.
32
III
Jenny followed Tenoch out of the pyramid, and where the freshly fallen snow had once reflected
honeydew sun, the street in Orchid Lake was empty. Her cheekbone twitched, and she brushed the
sensation away. Her clothes changed from a dress made of deer’s hide into a sweater and a pair jeans; she
had to pull the sweater down to cover her waist.
“I have to go to work.”
33
I
Once upon a time, Jenny fucked the wolf, broke the glass slipper, exchanged recipes with the
seven dwarves, charmed the fairies and partied with the trolls.
Once upon a time, Mehmet the carpenter inquired about her destination this beautiful day in this
beautiful car along this beautiful Mediterranean highway.
“I’m writing a story,” she said. “Do you want to be in it?”
The young man, quite surprised said, “But I’m only a lonely carpenter and you’re a beautiful
princess in a chariot pulled by white horses.” His hands rough, he took the rag from his back pocket and
began wiping his head.
Jenny knew this story had already been told. So she changed her point of view. She changed the
scene. She went to her trunk and pulled out an easel and planted it in the middle of the parking lot. Gobs of
oil flew to the left and to the right. Orange and yellow stars appeared a church, a town, blue hills, and with
the last stroke a large tree and she swooped him away.
“The gods brought you to me,” he said.
Jenny was part Oak Tree and Mehmet was part Olive tree, and they fell in love under a Sycamore
tree. In a harbor on the Mediterranean, she and Mehmet sat in a café drinking Turkish coffee. When his
sister arrived, she told them the future by flipping her finished cup of coffee upside down on the saucer.
The mucky sediment at the bottom slid down the walls and left a pattern to be read. She said, “You will
fall in love over and over.” This made them uneasy. Mehmet placed his hand over mine and smiled.
Singing from the mosque told the time of prayer. Sailboats in the harbor rocked. Pigeons cooed and a cat
rubbed its body against the menu stand out front.
34
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation. Mehmet was one such person.
By this time, I was coming out of the closet. The awkwardness of driving drunk was nothing
compared to actually having to be present and aware of me and the person standing in front of me, and
having to talk to someone—straight! What a feat! High, my mind and spirit were always elsewhere, which
made it easier to handle the energy and ideas of other people. I thought of being high as ‘multi-tasking,’ a
way that both parties could benefit; I, on the one hand, in a bliss outside myself while on the other talking,
walking, working, and writing to make ends meet.
I warned Mehmet.
35
III
“O, to Miss J who thumps the piano just like Fats Domino!”
She’s a depressive animate woman, fingers flying across the keys,
interpreting, expressing, her soul bedazzling.
Her name is Miss J.
And, this time, she would let him know her game.
“O, to the man who falls into Miss J’s languid eyes!”
He knows she plays for him—
her gold colored lips, her dark black skin,
her fingers pounding and pounding,
sweat flying from her brow,
her voice clairvoyant, she drowns him in her love.
“O, to the man who hears Miss J call his name!”
A wild woman wipes the man’s tears from his chiseled face: dust and nails lay on the floor.
The bass, the drums, the sax—
the man catches the pulse of her music;
Miss J bats her eye lashes;
the other woman is whisked away.
“O, to long nights after the gig!”
Running thru rubble in the street as if running through a garden on a mid summer’s night,
Miss J jumps the stairwell to get away from the man in the crowd.
Her backup singers sucker punch the man at the corner,
and she clings to some half-hearted dream of finding her true love
as seen through the foggy windows of a stormy night of sex.
“O, to Miss J who prays to the gods!”
Miss J waits for a reply when
Scissors and knives fall from the sky
An eyeball rolls down the street and over a car and around a hydrant
and near some homeless people lying in a gummy stuck alley
under papier-mâché tents and then it rolls back and forth under
her feet next to her bottles of whiskey, lines of cocaine, and bindles of hash.
She promises to be good, so she may find her true love.
“O, to Miss J’s arteries of mechanical blood flowing like the clock-head machine!”
Streets glow, with the rising sun, she waits to see her love from the iron bridge;
she’s watching transports of robot slaves through mazes of railroad tracks;
their un-decorative masks complicating their overwhelming obsession of sameness;
she feels a pulse in her neck and runs to the end of the bridge and bends down on one knee
and presents her heart on a thorny rose plate.
36
“O, to the skeleton choir that serenades on Miss J’s wedding day!”
Wearing white leather shorts and a white lace veil and yellow hornets swarming,
she says his name—
he says her name—
and pigeons peck at corn nuts and ants stomping across their path,
they hold hands watching screaming seagulls hover
while the choir stands upon her wedding dress train with their skeleton heads bopping
and crooning until she spins on the top of her head and sings a song for the crowd.
“O, to my love!”
Miss J wears an inanimate smile and throws her piano out the window
when homeless people fix the piano and use a crane to place it on the love bird’s roof.
Big nosed people sniveling cries of praise call her name—
Miss J! Miss J!
The husband builds a catwalk along the eaves of their house
and clovers fall from the sky
while another woman pirouettes in front of him and
while another man weeps at her feet.
“O, to Miss J who falls in love another day!”
Miss J plucks the piano strings off and uses them as a tightrope and
balances like a circus clown back to the city where she does summersaults in the streets
& sees the crowd waiting at the door to hear her play.
“O, to Miss J who thumps the piano just like Fats!”
37
I
Jenny left the island of Cyprus, in the Mediterranean, and returned home before the Thanksgiving
holiday. She arrived early and had rented a room on the Delta King Ferryboat so she could rest before
being with her family. Expecting to have a few drinks calmed her nerves, being on the river calmed her
nerves. Old Town Sacramento smelled of candied apples and unclean street gutters. She heard a
steamboat’s horn blow in the distance and a pack of Harleys rumble by. Out the taxi window, a group of
tourists admired the old-timey Orleans and Union Hotels on Main Street. A mother kept her children in
front of her to keep them in line. At the dock, Jenny yanked her suitcase off the coble stone road and over
the wooden planks to the Delta King. She paid a man to take her bag down the rickety bridge onto the old
docked steamboat. As a child, she recalled being on the river watching fireworks with her mother who held
her tight as explosions of red, white and blue filled the dark starry night.
The next day arrived. The family: her brothers had kids while she and her sister hadn’t. Mother
prepared dinner; garlic buttered asparagus and stuffed turkey. The aroma drew Jenny to the table where
candles flickered. She fell into a zone. She regarded her family. She thought of Mehmet and his family.
Her mother leaned on the counter; her face cringed and she rubbed her hip with gentle gestures.
Jenny took a drink from her thermos. Mother counted the chairs and guests. She repeated this procedure.
The grandkids took turns asking if she needed any help. Mother placed her hands on her hips with her
elbows pointed sharply behind and said, “You made it back safely? This is wonderful news. How is
Mehmet?”
38
II
The future, l’avenir, to come, refers to someone who comes and whose arrival is totally
unexpected. We create our reality, and the one whose arrival is totally unexpected is the one who can
change our creation.
By this time, I realized I was that person.
39
III
Jenny practiced BikramYoga because Tenoch told her to. In this yoga, an instructor leads a class
through twenty-six poses while in a room of 105 degrees Fahrenheit; and the more the bodies, the more the
humidity increases. Jenny hated the heat. She’d always hated the heat.
One day, Jenny told her instructor about Mehmet. Returning from Cyprus, for the third time, she
experienced the reality of humidity for the first time. Like a reptile, she lay naked on the tile floor gasping
for air through her eyeballs. For Mehmet, the weather was normal. Mehmet was normal in contrast to her
drug-addicted-alcoholic past. She told her instructor how one day she would meet a man who would come
from a drug-addicted-alcoholic past like her own and that on that day forth, they would live happily ever
after. She said to her instructor that she was unsure about Mehmet, who had rubbed her scaly lizard belly
with a calm soothing hand.
The instructor, smiling like a cheetah smelling tiny flowers said, “Well honey, I’m glad to hear
that you’re stepping outside your box.”
40
IV
Flesh & love split into particles
& waves of light & waves of sound becoming sky& stars
& moon & sun & earth
& Jenny wept
& grasses wet, feeding the earth & spidery roots, clinging to the dirt &
the oak tree & its leaves filtering oxygen, circulating air to comfort
Jenny who curled below the oak tree canopy crossing her legs &
feeling the bark coarse—skin touching skin—she—tall gazing beyond
& praying memories, alive & dead. The wind blew through branches
& her hair & the sap dripped down her back. Molecules & atoms
exchanged positions & the tree & the woman & the spirit became
one—nourished.
Her third eye opened brilliant & she ran her energy through the bottom
of her feet & to the centre of the earth, connected by a silver thread,
when a path of light opened between the universe and her & she fled
into the cosmos dancing in between the earth & the cosmos & herself
instantaneously aware of the other & celebrating her spirit reincarnate
through the silvery thread.
Elegant universe, string vibrations, her cosmic self opened:
Mehmet’s eyes in hers & the unspoken spoken.
Grounded in her body & tears fell from her eyes & sky & stars &
moon & sun & soaked the earth grasses wet. The oak tree shook its
leaves awakened by the morning sun & she shivered
& felt the earth between her toes & knelt.
The silvery thread released.