Mr. Fixit kept working. The rain kept falling. I opened a garbage bag full of letters and began to read. There were hundreds of them. I read things I had forgotten. I became uncomfortable. The letters were from two women mostly. I found some notes from women I could not remember, too, but most of the letters were from a most unsettled time in my life. I made mistakes that I have refused to make again. I have quit reading them for now. I just can't.
The house is a wreck. Every room is in disarray. But in the main, the walls and ceilings have been repaired and much has been painted. And still there is a long way to go. Mr. Fixit has to take off the next two days but will be here through the weekend. I am in a constant state of anxiety. Anxiety and flux. I only look forward to the evening's peace, the darkness, some reading and t.v. All thoughts of making pictures or music have been waylaid.
The rain continues to fall.
I found this photograph in the garbage bag of letters, an old Polaroid from a street vendor. It was the sort of Polaroid that needed to be wiped with the little squeegee of fixer that came in a plastic tube with the film. The vendor did not do a good job and the photo is fading into non-existence. I barely remember the photo now, even looking at it. The 1980s. Manhattan, I think, but I am not certain. The photograph is evidence of something, but I am not sure of what.
So much of the past becomes confused or forgotten. I sat with my mother yesterday talking about family things that I don't know. She didn't either. There may be some way to find some answers, but probably not. It is shocking to me that I do not know the name of my paternal grandfather. Neither does my mother. Her ignorance in this is more shocking to me than my own. Neither of us know when he died. I only met my father's mother once. There is a picture of her holding me as an infant. She died at the farmhouse kitchen table at the age of sixty, an apparent heart attack. It was said her husband became paranoid after her death and slept in a chair with a rifle across his lap. Was it murder? The old farmhouse was reportedly haunted, the one foot thick walls torn apart after her death as if someone was searching for hidden treasure. There are no survivors who can tell these stories. I am left with gaps and partial rumors.
I have had no luck yet at finding out how Emily died. I want a magic camera that will make photos of what has left, of what is gone.
That Polaroid is emblematic, perhaps, of the difficulties in understanding even a personal history. A photograph can become a sliding signifier detached from what it was or meant. Histories are fictions full of promise, signifying nothing. I am haunted by voices I cannot make out.
The house is a wreck. I am a ruin.
ReplyDeleteWell. You probably would have won a mullet contest, quite easily, had you entered.
https://nypost.com/2020/11/09/third-grader-takes-first-place-in-national-mullet-championship/
I'm silly. But I mean well.
These are strange, uneasy - hate to overuse the word "difficult" times.
I received a nasty text from the G.B. last night. I typed out a killer response but deleted it. Either he was really drunk - or just really pissed at the world and I was an easy target. I thought of blocking him but what does that do?
One of the Jersey Girls is angry at another and texted yet another Jersey Girl - who then texted two other Jersey Girls (me included on that last text) instead of the angry one dealing directly with the one she is "done" with.
When I checked on Ma yesterday she answered the phone "Unfortunately for you, I'm still alive."
All that to say - you are not alone.
Everywhere, everyday, every minute, someone somewhere is suffering. And all our - misery - adversary - discomforts feel to each of us - fatalistic to some degree.
Buk said what matters is how we walk through the fire. Didn't he?
I go somewhere else though - this morning.
“Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey.
Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.
Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore's pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn't see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.
"Professor," Harry gasped. "Your bird- I couldn't do anything- he just caught fire-"
To Harry's astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
"About time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."
He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry's face.
"Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him..."
Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.
"It's a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets.”
J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter, Chamber of Secrets
May your day of burning arrive, C.S. and your ruin become something - well - whatever you want.
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