Not the Break

There's your idea. And then there's your book. And the movie about your book. And the making of the movie about your book. And signing tour. And the video.

There's your idea. And then there's the reality. The writing of it. The making.

And then, you may have to decide if you're going to shop. And sell. And re.

Re.

My editor (who isn't my editor, for the record,) scratches his head and says, "No one is ever going to believe he wrote this." He looks at me like I'm high.

"Only those who know him, won't." I'm looking at my shoes. They are 3 inch heels. This summer it's all about wedges. And I will do that. But I prefer a classic lady like high heel slingback.

He looks at my shoes, following my lead. "Veronica, you have to re-write this. You have to dumb this down."

When I was 7, I was an onion in the Health Pageant. Just my little face, and my little legs stuck out of this huge white soft globe of a costume. Little amber and green sprouts coming out of the top. They made me wear sneakers. A little ballet flat would have been better. "I am so fucking sick of dumbing down."

I like to think I was the best onion PS 105 has ever seen.

"Ok, let's break this down." He is writing something. He is working. This is his job. This is what he does, and this is where he does it. For somebody else. For somebody signed. For someone chosen. "You were hired to do a job, that you have not exactly done."

"I did it better." I feel obstinate. Obnoxious. Somewhat toxic. That rancid onion left in the crisper drawer, that grew. And turned. Unnoticed.

"Are you OK?"

Well, define "OK", and open a bottle of wine, and give me about an hour. And I'll answer that. "Yeah. Fine."

He gets up and walks to the door. He thinks this will lead me into following suit. Hey Pal, you're the one looking at my shoes. Not the other way around.

"They're Bellini's." I snuggle deeper down into the chair.

He opens the door. I smile.

He isn't a patient man. He's a business man. But he's known me a long time. "Veronica, I have a meeting. You have to go. And, I know you will rewrite this, to fit the project." To sound like someone who is being paid to be published. Not someone who's being paid to write.

You are the only thing that can break yourself. Empower yourself with that. And don't extend yourself where you can not take the break.

I get up and walk to the door. I nod. He's right. I will rewrite this. And I will not break.

"I just wanted you to see what this book could be." I pat him on the chest as I leave. I'm not the small one this time. I don't care how you twist this. I'm not.

This is for trying. This is for the people that control their own destinies. This is for the writers that do what they have to, to write. This is for every little onion who didn't get to wear ballet slippers.

This is for me.

The Lower Half

For a moment. Just a moment.

At risk.
In kind.

Great Expectations is probably one of my favorite books. Not what I'd call a page turner. Tiring to read sometimes. But I've read it. Six times.
J. made me think of that today. Beautiful. Tasteful.
Like a rose when your favorite flowers are daisies.

We are all storms.
By name.
In deed.
Undone.

She was colder than snow.
And he wasn't.

Nothing breaks you, except for yourself.

Retreat

She folds her hands on her desk revealing a Catholic school education. Which I wouldn't have guessed since she's wearing a navy suit. It's a commonality among Catholic School survivors: adversion to navy and most blackwatch plaids.

"It took you a long time to write this book." She tilts her head curiously.

"True?" I start building the wall. My heart is about to take an arrow. I can feel its imminence. I can't imagine a publisher stating and restating obvious and oblivious points and nods as the build up to screaming "We're signing you!! Here's your check! We love your novel!"

No, I'm quite sure this is heading in the opposite direction. I need something to hold on to. I need to brace.

I start humming in my head. "And I know I may end up failing too but I know you were just like me, with someone disappointed in yoooouuuuu...." God I love Linkin Park.

I'm drowning her out in my head. She almost sounds like Mrs. Othmar now from the Peanuts and Snoopy cartoons. But I can still make out some Words. "...[insert famous author here] was rejected by many publishing houses before he finally published his first book..."

My favorite commercial of all time is that one with Martin Scorsese, where he picks up his pictures from being developed. They're of a child's birthday party. He's looking at them saying, "I can't believe this. I lost the narrative thread. This one, far too nostalgic. I have no choice I have to reshoot." And he buys more film. And as he's leaving you hear him on his cell phone: "Timmy. It's your Uncle Marty. how'd you like to turn 5 again?" Best commercial ever.

"I wouldn't even know what category it falls under. It would be very hard to find...."

I enjoyed the Douglas Adams books as a kid. A Kid. And then I was surprised the movie was too childish for me. Fondness can be temporary. And time-relevant. I've said this before. I confuse missing with remembering.

"Are you even listening?"

Yes, to at least 3 of the 12 voices in my head. None of which are yours.

She sets her folded hands back down on the desk. "I'm sorry. I just can't help you right now."

"Did you like it?"

"That's not the point." She's tilting her head at me again. Curiously.

"I know. No point. Just curious. Did you like it?" I didn't ask if she thought it was good. I know it's good, I don't need anyone to tell me it is or it isn't. I want her to tell me something I don't know. I need people to tell me their minds. Their thoughts. Their souls. I need to penetrate. I want to know if she liked it.

She pulls her glasses off and tosses them to the side gently. "Yes. Yes, I liked it. I liked it a lot. It's one of the best damn books I've ever read. I can't stop thinking about the characters. They stayed with me."

My chest knots. As if I'm being punched from the inside. I have to remind myself to breath.

"I didn't expect to be involved with them on that level."

I'm watching a ship sail away. A ship I missed.
I fight the desire to cry.
I know a door is closing, and that I won't knock again. I can't go through this. I don't have it in me. I have the Words in me, and I can't let them become stained from this. Or is that an excuse. Every thing births something else.
The road split. And the life that I did not choose keeps going, and going.

I'm aching at this moment. I know what's coming. And closing. And wrong. My soul has bled and wept for this, and I can't make it stop.

"But I don't think it's marketable. I don't think it will sell. I don't know how we'd reach its audience. This is a business. There's nothing I can do for you."

But how do you know? You liked it. Other people will like it.

"It's a brilliant book. Brilliant. But it's a bad business decision."

I'm thinking about that scene in the movie Magnolia where Jason Robards is dying, and he's talking about the things he did wrong in his life. "The regret. The fucking regret." And how I cried the first time I saw it. And the second.

And I'm thinking about how the frogs falling from the sky made perfect sense to me in *Magnolia* (thank you J Dryden). And how I had to explain Jacob's Ladder to all 5 people I went to see it with, privately. Because none of them would admit they didn't understand it in front of everyone else. Instead they each "claimed" not to like it with the group.

I'm outnumbered. Again.

Quote of the Day

“It’s pathetic how we can’t live with the things we can’t understand. How we need everything labeled and explained and deconstructed. Even if it’s for sure unexplainable. Even God.

‘Defused’ isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.”

-Chuck Palahniuk

Quote of the Day

"The only thing that separates us from the animals... is we have pornography."

-Chuck Palahniuk

Quote of the Day

"A slut is someone who sleeps with any body she wants to.
A whore is someone who sleeps with anyone who wants to sleep with her."

Skin Deep

We are in Martha's vineyard late one summer, we are eating lunch at a quaint seaside cafe. We are both silently people-watching: two women are the subject of both our thoughts.

One is a devastatingly physically beautiful young woman, thin and tan and lovely, in a bikini, gravity not yet her enemy. A young man is doting over her, another young man is trying to get her attention. She is posing, and fixing, and primping, as if insuring that everyone at every angle can see what she looks like in the sun and sand. She seems annoyed when she does not have the attention of a third young man who isn't looking at her, so she clears her throat until he does. Then she smiles and slips her sunglasses on.

The other woman we are watching is our server. She has a broad beautiful smile, and big bright eyes. She has her hair in pigtails, she is probably in her early 30's, slightly over weight and wearing no make up. Prominent laugh lines. Witty banter. She is not what you would call a physical beauty. She looks and dresses a little "different". Her baggy cargo shorts are not flattering. She has a strong and vibrant personality, she makes us laugh out loud, and she makes perfect eye contact when she speaks. People around her seem happy. She seems happy.

She walks away from our table, and we begin to eat. I am looking at her as she goes into the kitchen. "That girl, ... I wonder if she's lonely."

He isn't looking at me, he is looking out at the beach as he replies, "Oh I know what you mean. That poor girl. She will never be able to trust that any guy that is with her is truly in love with her, or with just her physical beauty. There are a hundred of her right now on this beach. And that's sad. It's like, how will she be able to find someone that she can feel safe to grow old with, because when her beauty fades, so might he."

...pause... I look at him, ... and realize, ... he is talking about the skinny pretty girl. Not the waitress.

Then he grins at the waitress and says, "Now that woman,... when she marries it will be for life. The man that falls for her falls for her, her soul and her differentness and her personality. Not anything temporary or transient. And she's the only one. There are not a hundred of her; there is only her. She can feel safe to marry because the man that falls in love with her, will love her forever."

He's looking around, he's not even realizing how important this is.

This is a man worth knowing. This is a man, and the way his mature and wonderful mind works. This is Paul. I ask him, "Do you think she will find the man that loves her like that?"

He makes a face like I'm nuts. "Are you kidding?? That smile? That personality? God, yes. She has no worries."

Now, whether or not she would agree is another story.

He looks up and down the beach, eating popcorn shrimp and French fries, as if what he is saying is common knowledge. Common sense. Everyone should know this.

I love the world through eyes.
I want to see the world this way.
I want everyone to see the world this way.

Interview Part II

"Hold on a second. You're the one that took a professional business interview, and turned it into a seduction. I would not have given any job, to any one who couldn't remain professional for at least the length of the interview." He nods at the end to punctuate it. He looks proud of himself for having said this. He places three bills into the check portfolio and closes it.

I'm eating an olive out of my dirty martini. I pull it off the toothpick with my tongue and follow his eyes to my mouth. "Do you know any one more qualified to write for you? Honestly."

"That's not the point." His eyes come back up to mine. "I was asking you a question. It may have been an inane question. I may have had reasons. I was trying to test you, that is what happens in an interview. And instead of trying to answer it, you turned me into a giant gland. Would you want someone like that working for you?"

I have to grin at that. He's been witty all night. He's been smart, and funny, and he's holding his own with me. I've enjoyed his company. I've enjoyed his hard working suit and his inexpensive Seiko. I've enjoyed his glasses, and his chin length dark hair. I've enjoyed watching his Adam's apple move as he swallows, and I've enjoyed watching his mouth. "The way I answered your question, was to prove to you by showing you, what qualifies me as a writer."

"Point taken." He nods to the waitress as she takes the check. "But there were other ways to make that point."

"Not as effectively." I take the last sip of my martini.

"No?" he follows suit, finishing his Captain and Coke. The evening is ending, and he has to take his chance and finish making his point. I can see him building up to this, preparing to say this. Nervous, but focused. Direct. He clears his throat and summons the courage. "If you had not been attracted to me, at all, would you have done that? Would you have actually said in your interview, 'I wonder what your hungry mouth tastes like?'"

Ok, he had me. "Point taken." I get up and I walk outside. He's close behind me. And he's right. I would never have turned the one on one into something sexual to make my point had I not thought of him in that way. He's made two excellent points. And he has the sexiest mouth I've ever seen.

He looks around the street, and he starts to ask me where I live.

I step infront of him. I back him into the building. I put his hard working suit against the brick wall. He's looking into my eyes. I step closer. He puts his hands on my hips. I begin to lean into him. I'm about to kiss him.

He sinks, shrinking backward, like he's resigned to something. "Does this job mean that much to you? Do you really want this job that badly?" He looks like he's afraid of my answer. His eyes are darting back and forth between mine. Waiting.

"You picked an odd moment to ask me that." I run my thumb across his lower lip. My face is so close to his, that my knuckle grazes my mouth as my hand moves. He looks a little disoriented. Then, he looks like he's hanging on to his question.

"No, I didn't. Veronica, if you're going to work for me, I can't do this. We can't do this. I can't kiss you if you're taking the job." He exhales, and I can taste his effort in his breath. "Do you want the job?"

I close in the inches. Closer and closer. He's wide eyed, nervous, anticipating. I brush his lips with mine, and I feel him shudder. His mouth is readied, I can see him salivating. He closes his eyes. I feel his hands on my hips. I see the hunger in his throat. I listen as he holds his breath. I softly part his lips with mine, barely touching him. I lean into his body slowly, holding his mouth at the threshold of a kiss. Gently I close all the inches, meeting his body with mine. My fingertips on his face, my forearms touching his shoulders. My chest pressed against his chest, my stomach to his. I feel the tremble, I feel.... everything.

And I kiss him. I let my weight lean into him. I kiss him. I kiss him, like I described... With a sensual thirst ...The most delicate my sexual willingness can ever, ever be. I let my thighs rest against his for leverage. And then I press my hips into his, ever so gently. I give in to my weight. Full contact, up the line of his body. And I kiss him. Really kiss him.

I pull back, separating each contact: thighs, stomach, chest, lips, until only my hands are left, on his shoulders.

I smile. "Good night, Paul. Thank you for dinner."

His hands let go of my hips. He looks a little bewildered. "What are you doing to me?"

I smile. And I walk away.

I make it all the way around the corner. I'm out of his sight. Safe, and hidden. I have to stop to catch my breath. My hands are trembling. My lips is quivering.

I'm weak.
But only in the knees.

Interview: Preface... For the Most Part

Anyone who's read my posts knows that for the most part, I only write about moments passed. For the most part. With time, these events become clear enough to be revisited and written. I do this. This is how it works.

Something new for me, however, is how to change details and omit names to protect anonymity. I'm not good at this. This part is still a learning process.

I don't think whether or not it was a marketing company, or an advertising firm changes the moment illuminated. For the most part, I don't think describing the work I did not get makes any difference to the way he wet his lips, which to me was more important. I don't believe the point is lost when facts are changed, or left out completely.

I don't over explain. I don't over detail. Not when it comes to the whole picture. Just the essence. I try to focus on one moment, or on a series of moments, that are told with clarity and illumination. I let those moments unfold the story. I leave out the rest.

I appreciate comments and emails. If I didn't, I wouldn't be posting. For the most part, I will answer what's asked, grateful for the interest.

And for the most part, I'll keep going.

"You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue.
Anyway the thing is what I really mean,
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen."
-Elton John

Interview

"Tell me where you want to be in five years." He's looking at my resume. At least I think it's my resume. For all I knew it could be the next interview's resume.

He's attractive. He's in his mid 20's; younger than I am. His hair is chin length, dark brown, extremely sexy. He glances up at me over the top of his glasses. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes." I sit up straighter in front of his desk. "I don't see what that has to do with this job." It's a writing assignment. Like hundreds of others. It's a marketing writing job. I can do it in my sleep.

"I'll be the judge of that." He looks back at the papers in his hands. His suit is not terribly expensive. Neither is his Seiko. I'd say his clothes are hard working, not designer. It's his marketing agency. Small, new, and all his. He's sitting back in his leather chair. I smell Cool Water.

I push my shoulders back, "You have great teeth."

"Thank you. Now answer the question." He squints a little, as if he won't even contemplate losing his concentration.

OK. I'll play. "Well, I'm in the process of buying a second home in Vermont right now. In 5 years I should h-"

"I don't care about that." He writes something. "Where do you see yourself emotionally."

Emotionally? I try to see what he's writing. "I don't understand."

"If you don't understand emotional growth, what makes you qualified to write?" He looks at me as if he's annoyed.

Oh... This is one of those interviews.

I don't react. Where I will be emotionally 5 years from now, my understanding of emotional growth, and what qualifies me to write, are three separate things. I know exactly how I'm going to handle this.

"Recently I wrote about not being able to remember the last time I was kissed."

He stamps his foot to the floor as he repeats his initial question. "Where do you see yourself 5 years from now!"

I'm staring into him. I maintain my rhythm, my calmness. Undisturbed. As if I can't hear him. "I've been hugged. Good hugs, good friends. And I've been fucked. Hard. Long. And well. But kissed?" I shake my head once.

He's looking at me like I'm crazy. He's distracted, but he keeps composure. "Can you please answer me?"

"You know when you can taste the kiss before it happens. You have that thirst in your mouth. That longing. More intimate than sex. So revealing. All desires exposed. I can not remember the last time I was kissed like that."

I level my stare as if I'm taking aim. "And that first kiss." I touch my mouth with both hands, softly. "Do you know that kind of kiss? Do you know what I'm saying? The most sensual part of yourself. The first breath. The inches closing in between you. The hunger in your throat." I drop my vision to his mouth. "The kiss, that becomes the physical manifestation of every urge in you, body and soul. It's the most delicate your sexual willingness can ever, ever be."

He stares. He blinks. He recovers. "I think so."

"Right now, I am thinking about your mouth. The curve into the nape of your neck. The shape of your lips, the movement of your jawline... What your hungry mouth must taste like..." My eyes trace his chin, down to his Adams apple. Then I trace his lips, first the top lip, then the bottom. He's watching. He can feel my eyes. He's frozen. Waiting.

Something releases in his eyes. It exhales slowly. He's offguard. He wets his lips, self consciously.

"I want to teach you something. Right now." I move in closer, to the edge of my seat.

He nods.

"This is what qualifies me to write." I sit back in the chair. "When I tell my story, you forget about yours. Just like how you forgot about your interview."

He's thinking. He sits back. He takes a long pause, looking at the papers instead of at me.

Finally, he pushes the papers away. "You're right." He takes his glasses off and wipes his eyes. "You're qualified. You're probably more than qualified. But I can't give you this job. I'm sorry."

Now I'm the one offguard. The look of surprise is apparent on me. "Why?"

"I cant have someone like you working here."

"Like me?"

He clears his throat and says, "Smarter than I am."

Well I can't argue with that.

OK. Maybe I overdid it. If he's being sarcastic, then he won. And if he's being sincere, then I lost. Either way, I don't get the job. Somewhat embarrassed, I pick up my messenger bag and head for the door.

He stands up nervously after me. "Wait." He shoves his hands in his pockets, "Can I take you to dinner?"




"Mouth is alive with juices like wine,
And I'm hungry like the wolf."
-Duran Duran

Staying

Talented and gifted are two entirely different things. The latter isn't about being good. It's being inspired. No choice or amount of practice will refine or dismiss it.

Some stuff you just don't need to go into.

I admit nothing. I got an alibi. And no motive. And an uncle with the NYPD. Besides, you can't prove a fucking thing.
Of course, it doesn't look too good that I'm holding the weapon, does it.
Don't. Just don't.
And if you're going to, then Do It. Take it. Make it worth while. Make it mean everything.
And don't look back.

I didn't say forever. Don't assume.

Shit, I forgot to get gas.

I went through a period of airport addiction. I was fascinated with airports. Sitting there, watching planes take off. The going. Pick a city, any city.
But in the end, you're still landing here on Earth. You changed nothing but your zip code.
That part is meaningless. The leaving. The cumming.
It's the Staying that means something.
That was something I didn't do. And, it seemed every time I took a chance and did, everyone near me became fascinated with airports.

I went alone.

I was nice to someone recently, answered questions, and tried for some reason. In return, he ignored me. Several times. That's affecting me.

And then, there were none.

Coach

"What you have to remember about the Industrial Revolution, is that these people literally woke up one morning, and watched every single aspect of every day completely change." I was sitting on the coffee table indian style, he was leaning forward on the couch, listening to me as if he was getting something.

"Every task, of every day. Things that used to take weeks, could now be accomplished in hours. Think of the inventions. Think of the impact. Out of no where. Steam. Power. Harnessed. Textiles. Electricity. Engines! Imagine, engines, out of no where. Everything changed, drastically and irreviversibly forever." I'm handing him The Third Wave by Alvin Toffler. "That's your angle. The every day life of a common man."

He takes the book. "It's kind of like now, with the information highway. Or Satellite radio."

"It's much much more." I try to get him excited about the idea. And I can see he's close. "You were born in an age of change. You buy a computer knowing in a year it will have to be replaced. In your life, you knew TV, then VHS, Cable, Satellite, DVD, DVR, Tivo... you know technology is constantly changing. You expect it. You know a new invention will be obsolete in your lifetime. These people didn't. They had no idea what was coming. These engines, these automations... they were absolutely the first of their kinds!"

I try to show the inspiration in that, and then the atrocity. "And so did all the ramifications. Socially. Politically. Economically. The world fighting to keep up, the mass complications. Mines. Factories. Labor. Muckrakers. Marxism. Captialism. Think about it. The changes there people saw. And felt."

He looks interested. He's locked in.

He's picking up the books, all of which I selected for his paper. Many of which, would not jump to mind when you think research bibliography for a college paper on the industrial revolution.

"Anyone can regurgitate facts, Tony. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a journalist reporting facts. Or do you want to Write something. Do you want to find the human link, and write."

He collects my notes, my outline, my materials. I can see it, I know the look. He's writing in his head.

He wanted to write this himself. He didn't hire me to write the paper. This job was completely the other way around. He hired me to coach him into writing his own paper.

"So how do you know so much about the Industrial Revolution, anyway?"

"I don't." I shake my head, and motion towards his packed Jansport. "They're the ones that know so much." I smile at him, and I mean it. "Just read, Tony. Just read. You can know anything you want to know. Just read."

He smiles back. "I'm going to get started on this tonight." He's excited. That's what I wanted. "You made it sound so interesting!"

Everything is interesting when Words are involved. "Email me your first draft." I walk him to the door.

"I will." He leaves to go home and write his paper.

I like these jobs. I like that he wants to write this himself.
I like that he wants to write.

Quote of the Day

"I only called her the next day because I left Chinese food in her trunk. Not to get into anything heavy." -Fred

Forever the Child

He walked around like a giant among us. He was proud. Everyone complimented him. The book was a minor success, his first one. And he was drinking in his accomplishment. Celebrated by his peers, complimented by his heroes. He looked strong, and savored. He was at the top of his game.

I watched as the guests were leaving, one by one. He was kissing people good night, handing out coats, accepting praises. And invitations. And handshakes. A box of hard covered books was disappearing next to him by the door; complimentary copies for his guests.

I thought, what a triumph. What a good night for him. After a rough few years he had emerged. He was smiling in a way I had never seen. He was bright, and brilliant. That smile, that pride. I believe it may have been the best moment of his life.

And then, it wasn't.

His father reached him at the door, one of the last guests to leave. He leaned into his father, to listen. Then, I saw his smile vanish as if it had been slapped off his face. I tried to hear what his father was saying. I heard some grumbled words: Disappointed, embarrassed...

He responded, with a meek voice and wide eyes, as if the blow had found its intended target, leaving him unsteady and shaken. I couldn't hear what he started to say. I couldn't hear anything after that. His father made a dismissing hand gesture towards the books, and then his father left.

He stood still for a moment, shoulders down, head bowed. Drained of pride. Robbed of his moment. He was looking at the floor. He was lost. Gone.

I intercepted the final guests moving toward the doorway. I stepped infront of him and said the good byes and thank yous. He slipped away behind us.

When they were gone, I locked the door.

I found him in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I hated his father at that moment.

Nothing crushes like that. Like the approval constantly sought, never received, from a godless parent.

This Road

"And still we continued on through the night,
Tracing our steps from the beginning,
Until they vanished into the air,
Trying to understand
How our lives has lead us there."
-Jackson Browne


I left the bookstore like I usually leave a bookstore; sad, frustrated, bitten. It's cold so I pull my peacoat closed and bow my head to the wind. A nod to mother nature, a humbling of myself. Who knows.

I drive the road home.

I drive this road, remembering the many drives that it has held.

I remember a slow drive in the rain in my old Hyundai, with all the windows and sun roof opened. It was warm, and raining, inside and outside of the car. I was wet, and gliding, feeling the soft rain on my face and arms and chest. It was exhilarating, to feel the rain while I drove.

I remember blaring Van Halen in the sunshine while these guys in a green car drove around and around me, changing lanes and waving. I remember the long drive alone in the snow after a party where I felt unwelcomed. I remember that diner. And that one. I remember many drives to several homes. And I remember many drives at sunset; driving down to Manhattan, reaching that one point where on a clear day, you can see the whole skyline.

I look at the exits. The towns. The thoughts. The waiting, the leaving, the coffee, the clubs, the friends, the lovers, the driving. The driving.

So much of me is on this road.

It leads someplace. It's the foreplay path to many events, many moments. I travel through for a reason. I come here to go some where. This road has been the means to eruptions and events. Just being on this roads lends expectation. Desire. Regret. Inhabitance.

This is the gateway memory. This is apprehension and strife. Many of the memories are good. That's not the point.

All declarations follow wars. All treaties follow anger. All breakdowns can only come after a period of building up. This is chaos. This is the way we live. This is the earth rotating. This is what I've left on the highway.

The Wordless Epic

This is the earth of me. Not what I evolve into, it's what I was born as. The primal. The first.

We walked into the gallery at about 11:00pm. I listen to the Words people say. I hear "innovative" and "brie".

My friend is heading towards the bartender. "Red?"

"Please." I let my vision fall to the cheese and grapes. I focus on the conversations around me. I pick Words and phrases, and file them away. West 8th... Champagne... His best work... cab ride... beautiful...

I take the wine.

I excuse myself so I can meet the pieces alone. I walk through the art slowly.
Twice.
I find myself coming back to one. When I'm ready, I give myself over to it.

I listen to it's conversation. It speaks volumes, with out even one Word. Nothing of Earth will ever be so mesmerizing to me, as stories told without Words.

A woman takes a stand beside me. She looks at the art, and says, "It's amazing, what he's become."

"Become, my ass." I sip the wine. I can't take my eyes off it. This is who he is. Not who he becomes. This is the most base innate guttural animal natural part of him. He didn't become this. He regressed this. He returned to this. Inside of himself, deeper and farther than most people can go.

How. How can he find this way. How can he say so much without Words?

"Are you OK?" The woman is looking at me, not the art. I can't return the effort. I can't take my eyes from this just yet.

Yeah, I'm fine. I'm in church right now.

She makes a huffing sound. I finish the thought out loud. "You worship your way, I'll worship mine."

The world goes away.
And I see what he's showing me, I see his god. Maybe not my god, but I see. What he believes, what he wants you to feel. I see the image, and I peel back the layers.
It's another level. I know the plane.
It scares me, how quiet. So much is being said, in such quiet. In no Words...
No Words...
Telling his story...

And then, I see how painful and isolated he was at this moment. The story unfolds like one solitary instant that revolves around and around on top of itself. I see him Wordless, hands on canvas... I can see how he loves god. I see that feeling save him. I see him give his throat and his all. I see him give this Wordless story its reverie.

And that's when it transcends.

It leaves the earth. And it becomes the earth of him instead.
The whole world becomes as personal as god has.
He came out the other side.
That's when I see it.
I can actually see it.

I see god loving him back.



I remember something the editor said to me. And I look at the art silently speaking,
On and on...


And this is what genius sounds like.
.

The Sound of Genius

Lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.

"I'll email it to you." He sounds annoyed. "Just clean it up. Just, make it sound genius."

And what does genius sound like, anyway? "So it's already written. You just need me to re-write it."

"Yeah." I can hear his Ipod in the background. I can hear what sounds like Duran Duran - Save a Prayer. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing, that his editor can't do."

"It's not just editing. It needs more. The thing has no style or anything." He's getting frustrated. Yeah... It is Duran Duran. I love this song.

"So, you want this in my style?" I press the phone closer, trying to hear the music instead of his voice.

"No. In his." He's approaching mad now.

"But you said it had no style." ...Feel the breeze deep on the inside, look you down into the well . If you can, you'll see the world in all his fire...

"Veronica! God Dammit!" I can hear him clicking on his laptop. "There. I sent it. Just make magic with it now, alright? I need it right away."

Take a chance like all dreamers, can't find another way. You don't have to dream it all, just live a day. "OK, I'll look at it and see what I can do. I will send it back to you tomorrow."

"No!" His yell startles me. "I need it now. 30 Minutes."

I open the email. He's right, this is a mess. "Triple my normal fee."

"What?!"

"You're the one having the emergency. Not me." I squint as I read the first few lines. I hit reply and start typing already.

He was probably expecting a different response from me. He listens to the clicking of my keyboard. He's silent, listening to me type. I'm typing, and listening, too. ...And you wanted to dance, so I asked you to dance, but fear is in your soul...

"Alright. Alright. But it better sound genius."

(That's ingenious, says the paypal whore to the editor whore.)

He hangs up abruptly. I don't want to take a hand off the keyboard, even for a second, so I just let the phone slide down my chest. I got right to the fucking; no foreplay, no reading it over once first. No getting in the mood. I'm always right there.
Always.
Right There.

And he demands it in 30 minutes? He knows I'm always right there. I'm not going to feel badly about the price hike. This thing is probably 2500 words. I won't even have time to read it over when I'm done, let alone go back through it for a second mine sweep. He knows I can write this. This fast. This unprepared. But he won't read my novel.

I feel confidant, and used, all at the same time. The most unimportant sound of genius.