She

Copyright © 2008 by gabriel leif bellman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Introduction1

she2

Epilogue

(_________)

Dedication (universal)

to the people i’ve met in my time on this planet

this world is so incredibly rad

only thanks

to you

Dedication (specific)

for laila anais tamer morael

(resting)

Introduction1

I started this process two years ago with one of those ideas that rushes through veins in pure adrenaline and won’t let go until you figure out what to do about it. The idea was straightforward: life happens in moments, and if you pull one life apart like a frog, nailing down its limbs to a biology table, you will cut through lots of green flesh before you hit an organ (if you ever do).

John Lennon said: life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. He said cool things and seemed to really enjoy being around and sang beautifully and was murdered. I don’t think it is supposed to make sense.

Like all adrenaline, the initial burst wore off, and thus began the long utterly human challenge of pushing through defrosted glass and pumping gas through normal veins while constricted by laundry (I always need quarters) and checks written to utility companies (love that electricity). These supposedly menial tasks tend to fill in the dead space in days like water poured into gravel. It is very satisfying to end up back where you started by removing the day’s piles from you. But that does not lead to weightlessness, it just brings one back to stasis. The quest continues (keep pushing the rock up the other side of the mountain).

The project kept humming along at the glacial solar powered gentle pace of the one beating heart that moves blood through elephants (the rhythm of the world—with its ebb and flow). Slow. Still, it cures a body of modern depression to let things all the way out. I often think of the poor writers (and by writers I don’t mean writers) who hold onto ideas unwrit their whole lives. Do not be this. Times are heavy enough. The universe needs you to take up the least amount of space possible. Don’t hold things in. Let it flow through you and don’t hold onto the bad things or the good things. Holding on causes the heart muscles to atrophy.

Life does not happen linearly and meaning does not come from moving along a path. Ultimately, one’s life and love are a mashed potato of moment and memory. This novel represents one attempt to find meaning in a life that might have been lived, were the world not so cruel. (I won’t explain what that means, because there has to be some mystery in the universe, and this is an introduction, not a summation).

We must press forward despite postmodernity and with expressions other than wryness on our lips. We cannot deconstruct humanity, and not all smiles are smirks that have been widened (let your teeth show—who the hell cares?)

We will survive rationalism and pragmatism only if we laugh embarrassingly. The world is full of war and famine and celebrity outfits. Distractions abound. Do not think for one moment that any of this has more gravitas than you, sitting and thinking about your life on a park bench with a glass of orange juice.

We share a (brief) magnifying glass and it focuses sunlight on our faces. We might just see each other for a brief moment before the sun comes out from the clouds and bursts us into flames. That is the best case scenario (and it doesn’t sound like it, but it’s pretty darn good). This journey is to be undertaken with nothing less than an intensity and elevation that rivals Icarus. It is not for art’s sake that we seek this. We are fighting to fill our soul with enough that it might float when trapped. This is not the era where myth and storytelling die. Our evolution does not depend only on numbers and news feeds and mapped out molecules. We need more.

Look around at the lonely drifters eating lunch in work shoes ready to float away. We will not even notice the vacant bags of skin left behind if we cannot find how our experience of existence coalesces with made up stories. Reclaim a bit of magic (but pack light just in case). Post-post-modern is a movement of reclamation of the destructed.

I mean this to be a work of some seriousness (truly). In that manner, it differs from a fart joke. But not by much.

(We’re supposed to laugh at all of it in this short life, not just the funny stuff).

Be kind to yourself.

Don’t think it doesn’t matter how you feel because the world is calloused and busy. We cannot accept emotional disengagement cloaked as academic discourse. Yes, maybe art and reality blend seamless and what difference does one thought make. No. It’s your thought. You get to have it. The world still spins for you just like it did for the romantics and the surrealists. The scientists can call it what they want and the hipsters can tell you why it isn’t a big deal. Don’t buy it. Excitement will not pass you over.

You still get to live here, and it still makes a difference.

—glb.

december

2007

__

"Outside a rambling store-front window

Cats meowed to the break of day

Me, I kept my mouth shut, too

To you I had no words to say

My experience was limited and underfed

You were talking while I hid

To the one who was the father of your kid

You probably didn’t think I did, but I heard

You say that love is just a four-letter word"

sung by Joan Baez/

written by Bob Dylan:

Love is Just a Four Letter Word

__

she2

maybe you’ve seen this one . . .

(these things happen. usually like this.)

she goes into the hall.

the hall accepts her lithe body, wet footprints on brown strips of hardwood, faded from traffic. she passes through. she sits at her desk. the photographs blocked from her eye by stacks of bills and books she intends to read, even tolstoy and mark twain. she hasn’t read anything by mark twain except that frog story in years. she loves the frog story. the computer stares at her accusingly like a librarian with eyes torn out and replaced with tiny suns, orbiting around her head, focusing with glasses the pinpoint stare that bursts paper and bugs into flames. she checks her e-mail. she has to know right now. whatever she can cram into the sinus cavity and brain and ears and mouth.

she wants information. there is a message from him. not really a message. a link to a page that makes fun of politicians in a creative way and makes her laugh and feel clever. he keeps her in the know, feeling like she is a part of the living flesh. she does not feel she is decomposing. momentarily.

her dress makes her tits look small. they look good small. she is small, a teacup her grandmother would say. her tiny stretched legs holding a delicate hip, bouncing softly on sculpted feet. blonde hair combed out as she lets the towel soak up most of the droplets running down her skin. she smells like herself. even with all the lavender soap. she turns on music as she gets dressed. she has watched people in movies get excited for evenings by playing music. she has watched her friends do it. she plays simon and garfunkel. it works. she is singing. her mood is enthusiasm and anticipation. she is aware of how sexy she is. she is aware of how somebody watching her would think she is cute. she is aware of how adorable she is. she feels female. she shakes her hair out and drops the towel. it falls like a tree blown over.

the panties are perfect. pink. they cup her ass and don’t show any of her hair. she is waxed smooth around and the panties could be painted. not just pink, they are fiery pink. with little strawberries on the sides. she knows the visual contrast of pink against her black dress will melt even the toughest lozenge. if anybody is lucky enough to get her dress off. or look up it. she is aware of her value as an object to be coveted. men and l women will fawn over what her clothes hide. her panties are the secret knowledge that she has more than anybody expects from her. she is not such a good girl.

she does not look at the clock. she is one hour late. she sings with her eyes closed. the towel lays in the middle of the room like a dependable golden retriever. she steps on it. it dries the bottom of her feet. she could just as easily put it back on the towel rack but does that when you don’t have to. she drops her black dress on top of the towel. too formal. she puts a black skirt on that is just right. it has that ruffle in the back. she drops her blouse that does not match the shorter skirt on top of the dress on top of the towel. her voice sings louder. she looks for the perfect top.

the phone rings. ‘i’m coming!’ she feigns exasperation. she loves to vent her frustration at whoever dares to disturb the meditative ritual of her evening preparation. if she could, she would spend the entirety of the night getting ready for the night and after her lipstick and makeup and shoes were picked out just perfectly she would walk down the hall and admire herself in the mirror and then turn around and tear it down and climb right into bed. she would go out for a vegetarian omelet in the morning and maybe buy a new book to pile onto her desk or go to a museum and stare at a painting of a giant yellow square. it would make her happy. in mind and body.

the phone rings again.

the candles smell like almond. she laughs in the phone. now she is ready to imagine herself exiting the apartment. now she will let herself be convinced. she stops laughing and yells. she is on her way. what’s the rush. she will meet him there if he is in such a rush. she smiles. he isn’t. she hangs up. the joy on her face glowing of the need to be somewhere by something outside of herself. purpose. someone else. she powders her face. she hates powder. she gets it into her eye. she puts drops in her eye to get the powder out. she washes her whole face again. ten minutes pass. she hears her phone ringing but doesn’t answer it this time. she knows she is late. she grabs the brown boots that zip up past her calves. she looks sexy in the mirror especially when she turns her head like this. when she worked on the ranch in wyoming for a summer she looked like this without even trying. she plans on moving back someday. not now. grabbing her keys, she exits. she turns the key in the lock and takes two steps forward. she stops.

she forgot something.

twenty six.3

she still tastes the mint in her mouth. the slippers covering her feet are sewn into her pajamas. she disappears under the soft flannel candy cane sheets on her bed and imaginers herself to be underwater and using her slippers as fins. the tiny dog climbs under the covers with her and she whispers to it not to tell anybody but she will take him with her to mars when she figures out how to fly. the universe is full of magic. when she sees her parents emerge with loud squeaks from climbing the stairs it is as if the sun was shining directly in her eyes.

she is frozen and cannot do anything in her mother’s presence but await instructions. her mother has plenty of instructions. from her father she wants only a hug. her father has plenty of hugs. the tiny dog is killed by a car backing out of a driveway.

she hears the neighbors telling her parents. the voices are high and then low and the speed of talking changes. it is clear to her that things are being hidden or changed because of her presence in the universe. when her mother approaches her with news about the dog she cries. hiding under her covers flopping her flippers and with her eyes closed she is in mars. she sees the dog in her mind with closed eyes. she can smell his fur. she can feel his warm wet tongue on her face. it smells like dog food. why are her parents so upset. what is death. he’s right here, behind her closed eyes.

she dreams about swimming in warm water with fish made out of gold. she cries when she sees the empty food bowl in the garage. she forgets to take out the garbage in her room. her father brings a new puppy home. she names him mars.

five4

she’s late to class.

as if it were a given that the world notices the rhythmic pulse of bells and rotation and orbit. she was eating a sandwich. the avocado taste lingering in her palate like a question. she removes the lettuce and wipes it on the outside of the bread. it smears like white finger paint. she eats the lettuce and imagines herself as a healthy california girl rabbit in a convertible car filled with vegetables. she reads in magazines about the salad craze of california. she looks at her blonde hair in the mirror of the bathroom. it’s like golden threat that could sew up the scrapes of all the knees in the world. she eats her lunches alone in a stall.

she hates the other girls. or they hate her. she wants them to ignore her. she has seen the havoc they can cause. the word out of the party that a girl with glasses asked the tall girl with the jordache designer jeans and the newest clear swatch watch if she would let her put a cucumber inside of her. now nobody talks to the tall girl in the whole school. they say things about how her glasses made the cucumbers look smaller. they call her the cucumber girl

maybe it never happened. nobody heard it but the girl with the jordache jeans. she doesn’t want to be called anything like that. she wonders if it is possible to put a cucumber inside of yourself. it seems like most of the popular girls have friends that got a vegetable of some kind stuck in herself at a party. she hears about parties. she is eleven.

her rail thin body is good enough to make the swim team. it turns her hair ever so slightly green, although her dad swears he can’t tell the difference. to be fair, he is colorblind. she quits anyway. but not until the next year, when she realizes the risk of having hair slightly green. she wonders why nobody calls her cucumber girl. she does not share this thought with anyone. she knows the danger of playing with matches. she is careful to keep from starting rumors.

the road is snowed in. this time of year the sound of the occasional crunch of snow and the dull echo of words swallowed up. standing at the old lodge it is easy to imagine this white capped mountain in the summer as a tropical hideout, with rubber plants and snakes slithering around. cobras risen up and green poisonous snakes you can’t recognize laying next to giant pythons with lumps as big as half-pigs stuck in their massive bodies, churning digestive acids. when pirates attack you leap from mountain peak to grab rope tows and slide away.

she asks the teacher where to get more white crayon.

over meatloaf cold from yelling, she watches her sister scream a lecture at her mother about the types f skirts that she is entitled to wear. her mother doesn’t like seeing the parts of her sisters underwear that you can see above the waist of her skirts. her sisters says curse words and storms out and rides in cars and smokes cigarettes. she doesn’t ask her sister what she does.

she doesn’t want to have to keep a secret from her father, if he would ever ask a question about what her sister did. he would not. he knew better. her mother would. she did. it came as a great relief to always tell her mother that she did not know what her sister was doing all those nights. even when she didn’t come home until morning. she has her ideas. she worries about the gossiping cucumbers.

she never said things to her mother that were lies. she never said things that were guesses either. she had learned in math class that it was better to say when you did not know right from the beginning. once you started with saying something, you had to show your work. you couldn’t engage in any observation without being stuck to the inverse brown cone that all the flies outside the science class made their graveyard. if you didn’t know something, it was less embarrassing to hold it inside you like a vase waiting for droplets to fill it eventually, rather than trying to put it under the sink and try to fill it up and having the whole class laugh at where you why multiplying negative numbers made them positive as it spilled all over the blackboard in the teacher’s furious effort to control for chance. the teacher made her feel stupid for not realizing that if you had