Post by Freedom on Aug 2, 2012 0:49:13 GMT -5
Do your worst. This is from a dream too.
I came in and saw the thing I couldn't do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the wall vivid deep magenta and on the wall slid a river of lights over a black horizon under a flaming sky. I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
I knew that outside the reflected window the black highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond, and in the living square the lights in clustered pairs appeared at the skyline to slip down and down the slope and make the turn and then glide silently across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same.
I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and all through the black night, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide down their never ending curve.
He could not see it. He was a blind man. Yes, an old blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our compassion or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to continue our sidewalk conversation and provide him some company. I was here to help him, no sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, or so he thought, to steal.
". . . tea?" he was asking and I knew he'd asked before.
"Oh, yes, thank you." He wanted to display his prowess in his dark kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter and all by touch, me watching.
I watched him and I watched the moving picture on the magenta wall, a shade darker now. The window reflected on the wall was in his kitchen, to the left through a flat-topped archway, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I moved to look through it but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture.
"I've got it." He thought I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute."
"Nice place," I said and moved away from him again to his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the magenta deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The lights in silent pairs moved down around the black curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall.
"Thanks. I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent-control."
"Rent control," I repeated. "I'm not from here," I said. "I don't understand what that means. Rent control."
"Means just what it says." He came out through the dimness bearing a tray with two cups. "They can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this old place down until I'm gone. You don't have that where you're from? Where's that?" He put the tray down on his little coffee table, took a cup and stepped to the other chair in the room. "Must not be many people?"
"No," I said. "Not many. But that's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Thank you for the tea."
That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his dark glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big.
I have no fear he'll ever be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and no one ever found me. I never went back to my job. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
I came in and saw the thing I couldn't do without.
It took place on the wall opposite the door. The setting sun stained the wall vivid deep magenta and on the wall slid a river of lights over a black horizon under a flaming sky. I looked and saw that a tin cabinet hung there and the river of lights lived in the mirrored door.
I knew that outside the reflected window the black highway topped the black shoulder of the hill beyond, and in the living square the lights in clustered pairs appeared at the skyline to slip down and down the slope and make the turn and then glide silently across the bottom of the picture and away. Ever moving, ever changing, always new, always the same.
I knew that in daylight I would see the chrome wink and the glass flash under the sun; and all through the black night, after the color had gone, I still would see the clustered pairs of lights slide down their never ending curve.
He could not see it. He was a blind man. Yes, an old blind beggar, the classic figure tapping through our history and our nightmares, stick in one hand and the other out to catch a coin or our compassion or our guilt. He'd caught mine. I was here, in his place, where he lived, to continue our sidewalk conversation and provide him some company. I was here to help him, no sneak-thief I -- not yet. He feared me not at all. My voice is gentle, womanly -- he had nothing, or so he thought, to steal.
". . . tea?" he was asking and I knew he'd asked before.
"Oh, yes, thank you." He wanted to display his prowess in his dark kitchen, how he could reach down his teapot, set his kettle to boil and his cups on the counter and all by touch, me watching.
I watched him and I watched the moving picture on the magenta wall, a shade darker now. The window reflected on the wall was in his kitchen, to the left through a flat-topped archway, and his head occluded it as he passed and re-passed. I moved to look through it but the angle was not so favorable -- it was the mirror that made the picture.
"I've got it." He thought I was behind him to help him. "Just another minute."
"Nice place," I said and moved away from him again to his living room, sat on his sofa. Watched the magenta deepen to violet. These are my favorite colors. The lights in silent pairs moved down around the black curve and along the bottom of the picture on the wall.
"Thanks. I'm lucky to have it. Thank the good Lord for rent-control."
"Rent control," I repeated. "I'm not from here," I said. "I don't understand what that means. Rent control."
"Means just what it says." He came out through the dimness bearing a tray with two cups. "They can't raise my rent or evict me or tear this old place down until I'm gone. You don't have that where you're from? Where's that?" He put the tray down on his little coffee table, took a cup and stepped to the other chair in the room. "Must not be many people?"
"No," I said. "Not many. But that's what I thought." That's what I was afraid of. "Thank you for the tea."
That was a year ago. I come and go. I carry a cane -- his cane, actually. I wear his dark glasses. I wear his clothes and it took me forever to get his smell out of them; a person's smell is very like his ghost, it -- you know -- lingers. I buried him in the yard, in the dark. He wasn't very big.
I have no fear he'll ever be found, they don't allow dogs in this building. No one missed him, no one ever came looking for him. No one misses me. I disappeared from my apartment and no one ever found me. I never went back to my job. What I bring home from the sidewalk, from the guilt of others just like me, pays my rent. And every night the sun stains the wall a deep and vivid magenta for me, and the river of lights slides over the black horizon.
) or did you mean: "It was on the wall opposite the door"?
