Light was the Trickster
What else but?
Worked his wily wiles on man and beast, plant and mineral, land and sea and sky
Light is God
It was the smoke time, September, hot orange haze from distant forest fires, God’s acrid breath blasting disappointing offspring, people wearing masks, the city eerie and noirish, solar orb festering in the fetid air and extending blazing tentacles that would one day engulf and devour everything.
He liked it: the orange light, the red sun, the haze, the eeriness. Might even start painting again—masked figures, diaphanous landscapes, crimson ball casting its curse upon humankind. He would see a new state of being, see before anyone else just what would emerge from this period. For it was, as anyone could see, a period unlike any before.
The far towers glowed, the heat warmed his bones, just ahead through the tunnel of the near future lay Paradiso, an evening in the park, twilight, faces swimming out of nowhere, infinite possibility, the light…the dark
Living in perfect harmony
Until one rubs out the other
Chemical Brothers, We’re out of control…control…out…of…con…uh-uh-uh
But meanwhile
W an t wa n t wa nt s e x x x sex-x-x-x-ssss
I am
Passing Linda’s where they ate burgers and drank beer and laughed. She’d liked him, he knew she had. Where had she gone?
He looked away and kept moving—moving, one step at a time, away from the hurt—up the gentle shoulder of the embracing earth. Would anyone recognize him from the radiant summer of ’75 or the orange-colored sunsets of ’92 or or or, you’re a bore-or-or—now was the time that mattered, that guy back there, who was he, anyway? He went into an alcove and stripped to his undershirt, tied his sweatshirt around his waist, and strode forth reveling in his bare shoulders, same as ever, the sun pouring animal energy kissing his back
And leading, his faithful scout
The other
Shadowman
same crown of fluffy hair
same slim waist
same long legs
same anticipation
Yesterday’s desires today
Silhouettes were such good liars
He straightened his shoulders, raised his chin, strode toward the coming evening even now lurking just over the hills to the east and turning them a strange shade of—what, exactly? Color: always a way forward.
A scarecrow topped with an angry skull lurched across the sidewalk flapping up to people and begging, begging for money on the street, a dignified thing to do. Me, I’m a beggar, wow, good on you, Clyde. He suppressed his anger, so maybe it was partly society’s fault, said nothing, steered wide around the man.
Fuck you too, the man shouted.
He clenched his fists and about said Piss off, but instead said Jesus loves you
Fuck Jesus! Fuck fuck fuck
Nodding in dry good humor, he moved on but watched a group of women until they were safely past the guy. Crazy or not, threaten women and I’ll kick your ass.
Something glinted on the sidewalk, a patch of what—slobber–glinting in the sun, sun, the equal opportunity Sun God, lighting the lone man, the patch of slobber, the rich, the destitute, no difference, no favoritism. As it should be.
For we all become patches of spit
Festering sores of the world
Hissing serpent of white human noise filling the already poisoned atmosphere
Thickening mantle of stinking human effluvia slowly, but steadily more quickly, choking us
Out of control-ol-ol
Let’s put that aside for now, shall we? Now, we shall be king of the evening. Long and lean and tall and, roll back the clock and scan the olden calendars, parasangs upon parasangs of years, surfer Ts and bell-bottoms and sport jackets, poet shirts, the Hawaiian shirt phase, the punk phase, nouveau Cezanne phase—so many of him!—all compressed into a ranging silhouette, all in one and one in all, the never-ending story look ye and marvel at human tenacity, his shadow blazed up from the hot ground and ushered him on, across Broadway swinging bare arms and thrusting chest and goddamn it felt good to be alive, who needed anything more!
A young woman in a dazzling dress of diagonal yellow and green coming toward him in the crosswalk smiled, a frank and appraising smile, slightly rueful, maybe?
Well, that’s okay. He smiled, nodded, she passed, moving on, on, on, Okay, honey, I dig it
When the moment comes you will be waiting
time after time
Molly Moon’s and Odd Fellows vibrating with bodies, blah-blah-blah, how could man survive, but here he was in all his terrible vitality, astride the living rock, one more glowing figure at home in his native Pandemonium
I am
Okay, as of this moment, I can handle that. And the moment after that, and the one after that
She liked me. I know she did. Can’t fake that—that smile, that everything else. Old stick like me, he said, You’re just a pup, she said, smiling, so warm, that smile, touching his thigh. Pup, hell—nice try, baby.Twelve years on, could almost laugh over it, our sordid canoodlings, ha-ha, that’s life, not the only one to get dumped. If it was even that.
Sailing over Pine Street, Paradiso, heart beating faster—would she be there, God, she could be there!
But only kids, not even born when his face was a familiar here. But what was familiar from one period to the next? Man, the great abstraction
He ordered a wrap and a cap and sat in the corner. A young woman at a nearby table was pencil-sketching in a pad. He was tempted to ask if he could look, but he did not feel like intruding. Amazing how afraid some people were of other people seeing their work. Especially some old dude. Oops! She caught his eye, smiled tightly, looked back to her pad. He looked away and confronted a strange reflection in the glass divider. So, here we are.
It was those first visits that got him, thanks to his art-loving father: Art Museum, Henry Gallery, dim and quiet and smelling of age and mystery, floating images of faces and places full of strange subtle, floating in space and waiting patiently for people—for him—to come and stand with them. As much to get him out of her hair for a few hours, his mother (who did not share his dad’s art appreciation) put him in Cornish summer school at age ten, and took right to it, dear Walter Froehlich smiling and gently encouraging, the rich colors bursting obscenely out of their tubes and onto the pallet, glowing with color to create new worlds all his own.
He grew to maturity exploring Cezanne’s greens, Turner’s golden vortices, vast worlds past and future, copying L’Estaque and Sunrise with Sea Monsters, not bad at ten feet, then mixing yellows and greens into a new Elysium of meadows and sunsets and evanescent figures. Throbbing with joy, he went in with two others on studio space, cranked out product, and damned if he didn’t hit the nerve, things sold, a couple of corporate hangings, a gallery opening. So long ago.
And now?
Staring out the window, wondering if she would glide suddenly into view.
What happened?
She happened.
After her, lost it. Fell off the planet, let it all go, painting, studio, caring. Carted his work up to his room and locked himself in the slimy cell of self-loathing, so easy to lie back and let the years glide by, answer to no one, a world of one
Was he really so self-insufficient?
Didn’t even know her, a bare eyeblink, here and
Gone
She might have been crazy, for all he knew
More trouble than worth
Except he knew better
He let the years run by, then nostalgia and fear caught up with him. Pissing it all away—idiot! He joined a night class on technique at Central Community, hoping for rejuvenation and company. Most of the students were younger but they all shared the kinship of the struggling artist, and after class some of them (and him, young again!) would troop over to Paradiso and joke about the hopelessness of trying to do art. Class ended but he kept returning to Paradiso for a few weeks, hoping (against hope) to keep the energy going. He never saw anyone from the class—where the hell had they all gone? Paris? New York? Off to fling themselves haplessly into the art world, make it big. Who knew, maybe some did—it happened, especially if you had charm and a good line and passable talent. And youth.
Would have been—would be—nice to see Paris, park easel in front of The Raft of the Medusa and have a real workout. Maybe meet someone.
There is still time, brother
Yeah, well
The light flooded in, casting in bronze the new and eternal young people of Paradiso. A painting, sure, maybe, file it with the others. He kept his eyes from straying back to the reflecting divider, nasty thing, on further reflection he found he had nothing more to say to any of it, just eat-drink-shut up-be happy, we’re all facets of some gargantuan diamond, a funhouse mirror.
Reflections never lie. Always was a face-maker, now he had a pace-maker. Ha-ha. The young woman packed up her drawing and left in a faint whiff of lavender. So, mister genius, why are you not painting anymore? Why are you feeling sorry for your fucking self instead of working? Is that a thing?
Pathetic
Oh, yeah, there were others before you, Sweetheart
Number one told him he was shallow
Number two smiled tightly at his paintings
Number three enthused about his paintings, his clothes, his cock, then moved to California
But she—she listened and smiled at him, at the table over in the corner where two boys flirted. She, with that gorgeous impish grin and raised eyebrows, as if in a state of constant wonder. So, how long have you been a painter?
Well, fuck. Could happen again, just schlepp the easel to the park and be twenty years younger. Retracing steps sucked, but sometimes it was the only way forward.
He slipped out and stared into the distance toward town where the sky was turning a Turneresque burnt umber. Could only shake your head at such vision, in a guy born in the fucking eighteenth century! Impressionists, big deal—Turner had invented a vast new world decades earlier. What would you make of this world now, JMW?
He walked slowly, savoring the light, feeling it warm him, even now. Even now, he felt awareness grow in the setting sun, awareness and light.
Attain small realizations.
What I am, I do
What I do, I am
What am I to do
Even now?
Yes, even now.
Crossing Pine his partner dangled from his right side. Thicker, now…a stray wisp of hair…was that a slight bulge? Illusion—delusion: vanity, all. Stand up straight! Past the bookstore and the eaters and sidewalk schemers, past the skate kids and ball-kickers, on into the trees, up where once was a reservoir and a bleak cinder path and none but marginals and restroom lurkers, now gathered the people of the transitioning age. Was she sitting nearby, watching him? Ah, so he still comes. Again, he straightened his shoulders and scanned the horizon. Not likely, but possible. Oh, damn possible.
He sat down on a bench facing the pool and let his eyes drift and settle on the trees. Always, the trees, the way the sun lit them up, golden-green crowns against the sky. Man did not deserve such beauty. It was still here, waiting, offering. So, maybe some new take on landscape, his first and deepest love—a new technique, softer, gentler to soothe the times, limey and creamy, eye lotion
A few women sat here and there, but no familiar bone structures, only strangers with obscure faces and secret intents. The yellow light and slanting shadows hinted at autumn, stirred desiccated husks of memory and regret. He sniffed the stench of old fantasies tottering zombie-like through the twisted lanes of his withering brain.
He closed his eyes. What the hell had she looked like?
Twelve years. June, hot, seething, shirtless, set up in the park with his easel, working on greens for class, reliving youth, making another stab, dusting off the old him, afternoon in Elysium. A voice: “Mind if I look?”
He turned and met her eyes. Hmm! “Not at all.”
“I like the green.”
“My favorite color.”
“Why is that?”
How did you answer? They talked, their eyes danced, their bodies inched closer, he folded up his gear, put his shirt on— “Don’t put it on on my account.”
God
Walking, closer than two strangers should, but then wasn’t that how it started?
“I like to feel close to the earth, no matter how urban we are, we’re still creatures of nature.”
“I totally agree! I wish people could just be more, I don’t know, natural.”
She slipped her arm through his, and better to have died then, but no, I’d like to do art but don’t have any talent…You might surprise yourself…I’ve always found painters sexy…no describing the feeling, sure in hell couldn’t paint it, just moving together, the charge humming, flowing, building. She looked up at him, nodded toward an alley, into an alcove where she pressed herself into him, kissing, kissing, heaving, warm hands took him, unzipped—
Here? Now?
Uh-huh!
God, how she laughed!
The Long Kiss, why did it have to end?
They straggled giggling from the alley, had burgers and beers at Linda’s, and the inevitable So: Why did you decide to become a painter?…Oils smell sexy…Can you make a living just doing art?…Mmmm…I’ll take that as a maybe…So, what do you like?…Travel…Where have you been?…Not much of anywhere. I’d like to….
That quizzical half-smile.
Come home?
A too-abrupt head shake. Can’t tonight. Call me
He did, and she came to a gallery night, hung out and admired his paintings and laughed at his self put-downs and drank three glasses of wine, and that night came home. Next morning he reached for her, but she was already standing. She pecked him and vanished into the universe.
Did she move? Another guy—a husband? Maybe something happened, maybe she got sick and couldn’t answer his calls, was laid up with some ailment or condition. Maybe she wanted to see him but could not see him!
No answer
Two weeks later
Three
Maybe she had been taken prisoner, maybe she was being kept from answering her phone! He thought he saw her once, from a bus going downtown, his heart ran all over this body and he levered up from his seat, but she was gone and the bus was past the stop, well fuck, get off, run after her—he slumped back down, trembling. Was it even her? Had she even been real?
One morning he woke and knew exactly what he had to do. He set up a small canvas and began to paint her from memory. The human face was the ultimate challenge, his technique lacking, but he had to see her lips again. A few tentative strokes and he thought he had them, not sure, but close enough. Damn—why?
The lips remained closed. The jawline immovable, the eyes—black. Only a suggestion, an approximation. An exercise in—what? Catharsis? Expurgation?
He consigned the lips to a friend’s gallery and netted a cool hundred. Take that, Baby.
Come, the gathering twilight, Elysium, youth, laughter, dogs, fecund mammal energy, little flesh islands populated by sordid fantasies and fetid hopes. And he? Aging pile of guts, stinking offal packed in a bag of decaying skin, seething vessel of clashing vibrations, nattering neurons, electrons. Result: art. Also lasting psychological damage, loneliness (did animals get lonely?), feelings of inadequacy (surely only humans ever felt inadequate). But look around, the beauty of trees and sky, people laughing and being natural. Salvation.
No, she wasn’t there. Wasn’t anywhere.
She had been toying with him. It couldn’t have been anything else. Using him as a sex object.
Sex toy—moi?
Oui. Monsieur le fling.
He had to laugh. Well, why not? Still, it was a hell of a couple of play dates.
More than a lot of poor sods got.
And what higher calling was there than mourning lost love. A little Chopin, please.
Let it guide your brush, and let beauty emerge
And joy
The trees, the sky, the faces, the colors were waiting.
For him
He would bring his easel, start again, make a bold new push, be fresh, alive, open again. Young.
Twilight deepened, he felt a new peace as he let the realization settle in and warm him.
He sat immobile, happy just being out with the trees and the young people just being, sweet young things, fresh young bodies moving with nature like young bamboo, faces like flowers, flowers that bloomed, faded, and died. Did anyone look at him and wonder? Who could know he had been haunting the park long before it was what it was now, when it was a reservoir ringed by hard concrete, a cinder track, still, solemn, haunted by haunted figures seeking sex, violence, where one night he’d been chased by a marauding gang, Hey-hey! ran for his life, made it to his apartment back door with them breathing down his neck, could’ve died that night, lopped off in his prime, but something brought him through, to paint, to love, to feel.
The faces all seemed to be peering at him, as if waiting
Okay, so:
I am the elder! Come, pay homage!
I’ll give you something to see!
He would bring his easel, and wonderment to their faces. Maybe one face.
Figures moved in and out of the trees, merging, melding, portending a new genre, a new race, willowy green elongated creatures, part human, part plant. Flower-beings, adapting to a new environment. A hundred years from now, they would see him as a great visionary, a prophet.
A ray of sun lanced through the trees and his partner kneeled before him, fuzzy and blurred around the edges, now, paler, less defined. Fading, even as a new man grew inside.
He stood and gazed at the human-flowers and the trees and felt it all come together into one throbbing, pulsating whole. He legs tingled, he felt like running out onto the grass and dancing, I’ll show these guys what revelation is—what ecstasy is!
The light was going, his twin was fading now, poor thing. He—it–looked so alone, lonely, one-dimension of solitary existence, paper-thin specter on the edge of vanishing, almost as if it had a life of its own.
Maybe it did
The Other
Partner
Me
Now moving, independently
No, impossible
A trick of light
Nevertheless
Silhouettes don’t lie
Trickster. Okay, I get it. Fine, have your little fun. I know what I look like, thank you.
No!
But I must.
Arms spread, fingers grope, If she sees me, she will see me waiting, she will come
He stared up at the darkening sky, at the trees in minute procession, dream of fertile, febrile youth
As the silhouette of a young man
A nimbus of light around his long hair, his slender body
his chin beard rakish, his strong arms swinging
his long legs striding
turning
raising a hand
Sayonara, sweetheart—au revoir, mon cher
Walking away into the twilight.
His eyes moved to the pool, the dimming image of a post-industrial world, water rippling sweetly, orange sky dimming to purple and gossamer white and other shades he had no word for, impossible to capture, inviting him not to paint but to feel
What is man but mostly water?
Stripped to his essence
Tingling with joy at the new life now in front of him, he gazed around at the dimming faces and stripped to his purest form (pure as light, naked is light) and moved like light into the water to the middle of the pool and stood, feeling the earth move to let him in and hold him, turned slow circles, arms spread, splashing up water onto his chest, water, the native element
Throwing back his head
Ahhhh!
A young Black man took off his shirt and shoes, waded in, Yeah man!
The crazy man from down the street slouched in, burst into laughter, and splashed him
Dude!
Gotcha!
Got me!
A woman with gray-edged hair tiptoed in, shoes in hand, wobbled, grabbed his arm–“I’ve always wanted to do this!”
“Glad to be of service”
A smile.
More bodies entered the water, some fully clothed, some partially, a few stripped naked, all wraiths in the gathering darkness, silhouettes dancing and rippling in and out of dimensions and man, what a painting this could be but maybe better as a dream, splashing and shrieking and frolicking and laughing as the sun gave a little shiver and before vanishing expanded one light year closer.