third place fiction
One Jasper Evening
Late in the jasper
evening with moon bells on her toes, Mirabelle decided to stop eating.
It had been months of decadent table settings, fine wines and cakes all
laden with that good friend of hers, that black morning bird that sang
songs of discontent all through her ears. She had strong longing
for something between solitude and hibernation. She wasn't in the
mood for friendship, although she craved it badly sometimes. Too
many people in her life right now to get anything of any importance done.
Perhaps she was being ungrateful by now finding herself in a position she
no longer wished to be in. She always seems to figure it out when
it's just that much of too late.
She never contemplates
suicide. Only change. Her mind is often elsewhere, off on some
dream she wishes to fabricate into this reality. And the energy is
there, if only scattered like fairy dust throughout her veins. She
had ADADD in the latest fashion of pop-psychology terms for someone who
is constantly distracted. Like a magpie in a silver shop. She
is chained by something that no one can see and therefore her own giftedness
eludes her.
On winter days
and holidays she desires the impossible lift from the thing that is weighing
down her down. She's been accused of many things in her lifetime,
like not working up to her potential, living in her own little world, thinking
too much, and of all things, of being lazy! And innocently enough
she has listened to these people who supposedly care about her without
regard for her dreams. But something inside of her keeps her coming
back to those dreams that refuse to die out. And now she can feel
the energy, like millions of tiny electrons on fire, swarming around in
her veins. Something it is boiling and splashing out of control like
tomato sauce on high and other times it is low and cool and intense like
dry ice. Once in a while it surfaces and the rest of the world catches
a glimpse of what's inside, but as quickly as it surfaces, it retreats
into the unknown again.
This ball of light
illuminates her empty shell so that it is full of life. Take this
away and she will perish. It's no longer about the obvious.
It's about the hidden, the quiet, the tiniest things in the world that
no one takes the time to see. And it's about time she moved on to
the grass into the woods to seek solitude and shelter from the plastic.
Seldom wanderings and trouble almost always found a way into the insight.
Tonight is not the right time for hoarding all of this preciousness under
your plum velvet hat. Visiting all of the rich, luscious places in
your heart in private could be seen as selfish but she didn't care.
To her no one could be trusted with her most secret desires. It was
not because they were fragile but because they were too important to let
fall into the hands of someone less than worthy of such idealistic insight.
So, she had no audience.
All that was well
and good enough for the time being because she needed the solitude.
For a time now she has been interested in how other people's energies affect
her and she wasn't sure that the energy in her life now was in her best
interest. Often she felt like other people were using her energy
and that she was getting little if any in return. But from this thought
forward things became increasingly complicated. It was a risk she
had to take. Simple solitude. Not a hard thing to come be really
unless you were Mirabelle, the easily distracted and often dual personality
of introvert/extrovert. After much coffee and contemplation she would
find the acoustics in the elevator perfect for verbal rantings in the key
of E. Presently she was contemplating lunch.
The problem with
her seeking solitude would start with the ring of the phone and then progress
into a lunch date over coffee or chess and ice cream. Exhausted,
she feels she owes everyone her company as if she were crepefilling spread
to thin. She wishes she had no phone, at least for today. And
she hopes it last for awhile. And it's not as if she's all that much
excitement, it's just that somehow people feed off her energy until she
is completely drained. Her ideas seem to spur their ideas until little
bits and pieces of her drift away and she is left empty, hanging over a
cliff about to fall into this great expanse of nothingness. She just
needs to be alone. And it's not that she minds others benefiting
from her knowledge or her energy, it's just a desire to gather some energy
for herself for a change.
So, off to Hermit
Land she goes, wallowing in it most attractively. She's packed total
introversion in a suitcase and named it Jasper, just for fun. One
can't go around being all serious all the time, or vice-versa for that
matter. Now she's realizing that just last week things were going
in circles of stagnation and at the height of the cycle came an unforeseen
break in the monotony by way of travel. She wishes to be tangled
up in the imagery of the new for a while. She feels that is only
she could break free from what binds her she could reach some new height
of existence. She struggles with her existence. Questions are
the weights of the mind. Destiny, purpose, life and death.
These words are small and easy to pronounce, part of every human's world,
yet in a thousand different ways they all weigh the same.
Soft pillows of
eyelids and eyelashes close slowly over tired eyes still puffy before the
morning's coffee. She is no longer interested in companionship; she
flip-flops like a catfish on a hook, wanting freedom but not able to set
itself free. And through this, she realizes more weights are tied
to the chain. There are none that understand the inner workings of
this mind, none that can elaborate past the given, common, human ground.
This she knows and accepts. The thoughts that used to run through
her mind of the chance of two souls existing in the same ethereal plane
long before birth surface less often now. Besides, it's not time
for tea yet and she's hungry for something that wasn't cooked by her.
The letters are all in a row now, and they are all salmon and lime green
puffs of fluff-ball cotton waiting to be pounced on, sinking into the depths
of the soft mind like sleepy children down for a nap. Mirabelle sits
by the window thinking that it's a pity that thinking can't been seen physically,
as productive. So people just think one is lazy and shallow if you're
pretty at all. She begins to soliloquize: "money is scarce now and
caffeine is a cheap drug. To jog my memory of the old, I use liquor.
Anyway, it's not the 20's anymore. None of it's the same. Occasionally
it looks the same but that is an illusion created by oneself. So,
better keep an eye on that retirement fund and big brother at the same
time before we go down the chute into the fascist police state we long
to become. I fear America like a foreigner. I suspect that
there is a war on the poor people of this country and that we don't really
help other but help to keep them down and indebted to us to suit our own
purposes. I remember that summer we pretended to be grown-ups, drinking
gin and lemonade and playing cards. How innocently we embraced adulthood
when it was no threat to us. I was old once, and then I was young.
It's like playing dice; you never know what will turn up next, but that's
for you to figure out on your own time for I have forfeited enough information
already."
And with that she
climbed back into the black velvet cape and plum hat that alluded to the
mystery that enshrouded her. As a child she challenged life with
reckless abandonment. Her quest has always has been life even if
the rest of the world seemed to stifle it and control it. They pull
your wings off and leave you to crawl to work and then home again for a
drink, but then that has always been the complaint of the creative mind.
"If they speed things up any more we'll all look like Vienna sausages with
mustard and syrup in the blender." Mirabelle speaks to the sky.
There's always
an exchange too. The task is to find out what you're willing to trade.
There's always tea and incense that smells like clean laundry, both purchased
in a far-off land that is raped of its resources for elitist enjoyment.
She's spent this Jasper evening now simmering black bean chili by black
candlelight drinking tea and scotch left over from an old friend.
Smoking borrowed cigarettes. From one jaded romantic soul to another
we cross the threshold of pain across the candle was melting from black
to green. She's holding her glass to her lip and sipping even sips
of liquid that will eventually turn her keen mind to mush. For now,
it eases her frustrations with the world. But then, that has always
been the vice of the creative mind.
Melancholy loves
the color of the darkest night, absence of the moon. Royal colors
of purple, emerald, blue and burgundy flanked by iron gates in delicious
pattern. This is the imagery of medieval melancholy. Whispers
voices in ghostly tones resonate and reverberate through hollow corridors.
She becomes afraid of eating because the mood will change. Darkness
will dissipate when the void is filled with substance. Right now
the chains and the weights of it all is a comforting type of restlessness.
Screams run though the pores of her body. This type of feeling used
to bring on broken glass, now only the thought of it occurs. She
will show this to no one because she saves so little for herself and she
wishes to not be harnessed by expectations from another human being.
She sleeps.
She bleeds.
Barefoot and pregnant she's not, thank God. Addicted to coffee, she
is. The coffee is old and burnt now in the pot where it's been since
eight o'clock but she drinks it anyway. Hardly anything ever bothers
her like that. "You'd think we could get a decent radio station around
this place." She's waiting for her relief. A little reality
of her situation leaks in through the door. "We'll have to patch
that up later." She says, without much thought to the actual door
she was referring to. She's living on pretzels, burnt coffee and
stale cake, but she wanted to stop eating yesterday. "Soon enough
the world will open up somewhere for me, when I can't drink water anymore,
all I can drink is black. Six years old? I'm trying to remember
now. Déjà vu happened for the first time when?
Where was I living? Yes, everything is a little bit of blur.
I remember the dreams about texture; well, they weren't about texture,
they were of texture. I mean, that was the language of the dream.
It was in texture. Like rough and smooth, but made of something that
I've never seen before and it changed as I dreamed. Oh the place
was our old house, with my room in the attic. Yes, I live in an attic
now, all slanted ceilings or you could say they were the walls I guess.
Whatever suits you. No, I miss high ceilings and air. It's
like there's no air up there and what sir is up there doesn't circulate
even with the help of three fans. Yes, you wanted to know about my
childhood?"
Her pictures in
the first grade were all black sometimes, but her parents were in some
kind of social denial. They've always been in some kind of denial
concerning life. She can't imagine not searching for the truth in
everything, but that's why it's her job and not a vocation chosen by her
parents. Psychology doesn't have all of the answers either.
She's been delving into her own mind for a long time. Long enough
to start to know things that others haven't figured out yet. She
still wants all of the information she can gather from every source she
can find. And she's not really afraid of going crazy or anything
looking for the truth. So far her uneducated observations are as
follows:
No. One:
There are an infinite number of truths that are spoken differently according
to what "tribe" you ascribe to. This accounts for many of the conflicts
that arise with people who think that their way is the right way.
Q: Why does anyone
have to be right? And furthermore, knowing what we know about human
nature how could one thing be right for every one in the first place?
No. Two:
There is no ultimate truth really.
Q: So, does that
mean I'm out of a job?
Just redefined.
Her job is about life. The sometimes painful, sometimes joyful existence
some of us partake of. The particulars being housed in the suitcase
marked Jasper, it becomes an invaluable companion for the traveler about
to take up with the biscuit makers. There's no train to take and
no walking today. The biscuits makers await her arrival. She
is exhausted and needs another change of scenery, but not with company.
All of the cafes and coffee shops have gone under and there's no place
to lose yourself in this town. Also there is no gas in the car and
no money today either. No bike riding. Contemplating pawning.
But what? Hmm.
The day drifted
on the some ridiculous proportion not marked by time. And somebody
had eaten all of the cream puffs anyway. The keyboard of the piano
was uncomfortable on her lap, but she could still make beautiful music.
Somehow she was running her words together into songs. Illness had
struck and it wasn't hers. "Oh holy one who needs no help in this
world, no sympathy from anyone." Sarcastically she pounds out another
measure. We have the Cinderella Complex on our-hands now. In
the company of the bear and the pawn there is no real-life communication,
only bridges to be gapped. She is not important enough to be given
any responsibility so she never asks for any. Besides, it suits her.
She only wants to make the music. This is her job. Meanwhile
there is talk leaking from the other room, of weddings in October, and
flowers and dresses and cakes. "Cake, everything is about cake."
She imagines how it would feel to be getting married. She imagines
feelings of security basked in the light of normalcy. She threw the
instruction book she received at birth away a long time ago. "Oh,
the beauty of it all. The words. Pasty and stiff meringue when
one thinks of white, satin and tulle."
Now there's a yellow
crow who just flew from the holy land complaining about something unimportant.
The soon-to-be bride has left a quarter hour ago and the topic has changed
but is equally as mundane. Fuss, fuss, fuss about. Shout, shout,
shout around. They dance in and out of conversation now. Blonde
and red, he'd never admit that he misses her still. If he could he
would turn the whole world blonde. She admits it when she missed
him now. She supposes she's the better of the two for it. Besides,
all she ever was to him was a dress form anyway. In this day and
age all accessories are plastic. She picks up the Jasper suitcase
and runs everyone out of the office with her auspicious laughter.
Alone at last she opens it. "There now, everything is in order.
We've gotten a little bit of a late start today." She lifts the creature
up to her face so close it could bite her. She needs glasses and
sets it back down where she can keep an eye on it. It makes her nervous
to let it out of her sight. Report: Today she has eaten very little
today. Raspberries for breakfast and black coffee as usual.
Gazpacho for lunch with seven crackers. Nothing in between the lines
but black coffee. Always black. The weights are about normal.
Nothing extra looming overhead and if anything the weights are a little
lighter today as long as she doesn't think about devotion she should be
alright.
Security: Freedom
from danger of risk, freedom from care, anxiety or doubt, protection.
Balance: Equal distribution of weight. Considering all aspects.
Harmoniously integrated whole. "The day I lost my blanket, or it
could have been taken away from me because I had grown too old to carry
it by someone else's standards, I still believed in God. The grass
was green in our yard even though life had become kind of sad and hard.
I thought He was this person-thing floating somewhere above my head on
a cloud. I asked him for a new blanket and somehow my wish was granted.
He became the Genie and I became the Princess. The blanket was laid
perfectly spread out in the yard as if awaiting a picnic. It bore
satin silky around the edges with two tulips in satin of the same sort
sewn in the corners diagonally apart. After careful consideration
I picked it up wondering if some other child would be missing it or if
God had really answered my call. Luckily, I was not separated from
this blankie. The only other blankie I can remember was an old army
blanket of my Father's. It was a dark yellow ochre color with good
kind of satin silky, not the nylon tuff and it was huge. I can remember
lying in the kitchen floor wrapped up like a luna moth in a cocoon while
I explained to my Mother why I couldn't eat bacon. I was allergic
to it. I was sure the doctor had agreed with me on that one.
He was also the one that told me that I had to eat peanut shells because
they were good for me (I just liked the salt, I hated bacon).
Lies at a young
age for the purpose of manipulation are characteristic of a bright and
creative mind. This type of creativity needs guidance and nurturing
protection instead of the firm hand and the Protestant work ethic.
Somehow she survived and turned out to be just as melodramatic as she was
at birth, and just as misunderstood. But then, that has always been
the plague of the creative mind. She has ailments, and lots of them
every day, or so she's been told. She has lots of remedies for whatever
ails others too. She understood ailments like that. She enters
the next house of her left. It's a blue house, smallish, three bedrooms.
The largest front room doubles as a parlor and an herb shop. The
threshold is adorned with drieds of many kinds. Carmella is in the
back and does not hear her step up but already knows what she wants and
is preparing it for her. Mirabelle walks into the front room and
sits down on the deep blue velvet couch. Her hand traces the pattern
on the couch independently on Mirabelle's own thoughts. Her order
is ready. She and Carmella exchange glances but no words. They
sit for a moment and one of Carmella's assistants brings some rose hip
tea. They review the morning's happenings and discuss tomorrow's
possibilities. Carmella's eyes fix on the Jasper suitcase.
She nods to Mirabelle at the same time. Carmella is six years younger
than Mirabelle; she came here six years ago from the West but never talks
about her life before. The only thing that people know about her
is that she used to run a bird sanctuary for tropical birds that had been
mistreated by their previous owners. She had a curious relationship
with birds. It was as though she truly understood their thoughts.
Mirabelle has seen some photographs and papers but nothing more than that
concerning Carmella. Now Carmella runs the only herb shop in town
and lives in the rest of the house alone. There is a large hand carved
wooden sculpture in the corner resembling the solar system, but it is actually
a clock. It tells the two women that time has passed sufficiently
for their visit is nearly over. A gift from Mirabelle. They
part and promise to visit again soon.
- Mary Montgomery
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