Another Poem

     Despite several poems finding their way onto this blog, I realized today that I've yet to introduce one. Ironically, the poem you're about to read is a narrative one and presents itself fairly literally, so whatever introduction I'd give will likely be echoed in the work itself. I will say, however, that I recommend reading this on a desktop computer (as opposed to a mobile device). The mobile version of my blog compresses the text, as would be fine, but it so happens that the formatting (spacing, verses, ect) of the poem is also squished to fit thy telephone. So for best results, please read on a laptop or desktop—something civilized I BEG you.

     As always, thank you so much for reading.


In The Garden

I read The Bell Jar in the garden one afternoon.
Lemongrass and spearmint fought on the breeze
and I walked slowly, thumb and index finger holding
and left hand turning page after New York Plath page.
Absentminded and content, I grazed on sugar snap peas
half-ripe blueberries, and crimson raspberries. The incessant
whir and chip of hummingbirds harmonized with whispering
birch, alder, maple and I pause; I squint into the forest,
pick a seed from my teeth, and mock the cackling jays.
Solitude indeed, yet hardly alone—the ever-beating
heart of nature thrives, drives its gouts of green life
to the soil under bare foot, the nettle avoided beside,
and murmuring heads of lettuce, regal in their ruffled
purple gowns. I breathe deep and read, walking still,
listening still to the forest’s choir and the field’s buzz
and the garden’s hum. I would capture, if I could,
this peace, imprisoned in a bell jar for all to know.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VIII

“Something potent, Connor dear,” Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie’s eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation. They did so gradually, stepping back and forth between us and the bar counter until Connor slid across two very strong Cuban colas. Rosie introduced herself as well as Deborah’s lack of social prowess would allow. Alice responded politely, but she seemed uninterested in pleasantries. She clutched her drink tightly and rapped her fingernails against the glass. Small finger first, moving up to her index finger, each nail struck and sang, and I watched in bored fascination.

“Your friend doesn't drink?” Alice asked.

I nodded and then shook my head, turning slightly towards Rosie. “Not tonight. Not tonight?” My concentration felt tired, so I dumbly repeated, “Not tonight.”  

Rosie furrowed her brow. If there’s one characteristic I remember from our childhood, it was that Rosie never showed frustration. Instead, she appeared thoughtful and usually replied with a vague compliment that danced on the line of sarcasm. In hindsight, probably she was always sarcastic and I never knew it. Either way, she looked to be deep in thought upon hearing my not tonights.

“I never drink.”    

Deborah laughed too loud. “Nobody never drinks. Unless they’re Quaker. Are you…?”

“She’s Methodist,” I answered. “I’m Methodist and Chet’s Methodist.”

Alice seemed unconvinced. “Chet’s Methodist?”

I raised my eyebrows from behind my glass.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Chet’s Irish. I’ll bet he’s Catholic.”

“Not all Irish are Catholics. Plus,” I added, “nobody in Missouri is Catholic.”

“That’s a lie.”

“What does it matter?” Deborah whined. “Catholic, Methodist, what’s the difference? I’m tired of this place. Let’s go to The Branch!”

Ignoring the request to leave the apartment, Alice smirked. “Only one lets you plan ahead.”

I nearly choked on my scotch. Managing to swallow, I reached back and slid the empty glass to Conner. My elbow brushed against Rosie and I felt her move closer. I don’t know why, and despite years of intentional distance from the people of old Canton, a sudden urge to be alone with Rosie washed over me. It struck my stomach and electrocuted the whiskey plummeting through my esophagus.

I turned and faced her.

She touched her necklace and stared up at up me.

And just like that—the feeling was gone. Completely and utterly gone. So I flashed an unsure smile and pointed at Deborah. “For an hour,” I said, “and then we come straight back to Chet’s. We’re here to celebrate his apartment, not tour Manhattan.”

Though she was clearly excited, Deborah rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Chet didn't earn this place. His parents…” she waved her hand “...like everyone else.”

Alice sighed. “Maybe I’ll hang myself before next year.”

“Oh do come along,” Deborah pleaded.

“Only because you’re going,” Alice said, looking at me.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. I know Chet won’t get upset with you for leaving.”

I grunted in agreement. “Yes; he trusts me, myself, and nobody but I.”

Rosie didn't smile. Deborah, however, burst into laughter and flew to the dining room to collect a few others.

The stale smell of city drifted over the street and sidewalk, and the air was bitterly cold. A steady stream of cars passed on the road, most of them noisy taxis with anonymous hats and hair bouncing around in the back seat. Steam rose from a manhole in the center of the street; it mixed with car exhaust to create a frigid bouquet of what I imagined to be the very breath of Manhattan. I sighed deeply and watched my own breath wither into the nighttime air.

Deborah’s group of seven or eight shivered and huddled their way down the walk. As not to be overwhelmed by their incessant chatter, I chose to walk slowly and trail from a distance. Just before we left Chet’s party, Rosie stepped in front of me and asked about my studies. I replied well enough, but I was in a hurry to go out and come back. Leaving a warm place on a cold night is always worth the feeling of coziness upon return. Not that Chet’s apartment was especially homey, but a place’s decor doesn’t matter to tingling fingertips and red noses. So I answered Rosie and left with a promise to return shortly.

“Come on!” came a cry from ahead. “Quit dawdling!”

I raised my hand and waved good-naturedly.

Rosie clearly wanted me to stay. I never understood why she insisted on seeing me that night, but it was obvious that she hadn't come for the food and drink. Each word she spoke was carried on an expectant air, as if she felt I was about to reply with something entirely out of context of the conversation. But I always replied normally and she simply nodded and responded in turn. Accepting Deborah’s plea to leave the apartment was likely an excuse to clear my head and return with a better grasp on Rosie and her existing in New York. Sure, she had crossed my mind in previous months, but a thought is nothing close to the pining that she seemed to expect.

I took another deep breath and broke into a full stride. It really was quite cold.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VII

         
“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Chet grasped my shoulder and nodded fervently. “Exactly, my friend. Exactly!” He paused and leaned in close and said, “You know, I almost regretted sending my note with Deborah. She’s so cluttered and all, you may’ve never gotten the slip.”

I couldn't help but laugh as he ducked his head shamefully and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, pal,” he said. “Laura Henley is here. You remember Laura, dontcha?”

“Of course.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of Alice lighting a cigarette by the window.

The kitchen was full and very loud. A patchwork of platters lay atop the island counter in the center, with an array of appetizers that’d put the president to shame. I scanned the endless plates of olives, crackers, cheese, and mushrooms and wasn't hungry. A window connected the kitchen and dining room, and a tall man was passing dishes of food to waiting hands on the other side. I recognized him from another event, but I didn't care enough to ask for his name.  

Laura Henley remembered me with an exaggerated hug and nearly spilled her drink. She was hardly drunk, but the loud atmosphere had her excited and foolish. Nodding politely, I left her to hang on Chet and found my way through the opposite walkway.

The bar was rectangular, and would have been identical to the sitting room if not for a severe lack of furniture. Cabinets had been installed against the narrow wall to my left, and a counter stood in front. While certainly not vacant, the room held a more relaxed air, and the people in it were talking in calm tones.

“Whiskey and soda, please,” I said.

Chet’s good friend Connor was making the drinks that night. He was proud of his alcoholic knowledge and innate ability to mix anything perfectly. Any of us were wealthy enough to hire a bartender, but he insisted on manning the station all night. As he chose a glass, I leaned against the oak counter and looked to my left. The dining room activity rivaled that of the kitchen. A chandelier shone brightly above the table, and many young people sat around it, eating, drinking, and laughing.

“I heard you might be here,” said a voice behind me.

I thanked Connor for the drink before turning around.

She was wearing a crimson sweater over a blue dress. And not a light, childish blue, but a deep, navy color that looked like an empty night sky. Her chestnut hair was rich in the bar’s dim light, and her eyes smiled.

“Hullo, Rosie,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

She was standing quite close.

Despite my best expression of boredom and reserve, I could tell she knew I was surprised. On account of my schooling in New York, it had been two years since Rosie and I had last spoken. Honestly, I never expected her to come east at all, let alone attend a party in the city.

“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” she said.

“So was I.”

“You never came home.”

“My mother was rarely sober after Sand died. You probably know that better than I do. When she died, it just wasn't worth going back and remembering it all, you know?”

I was sorry for telling the truth. It was obvious that Rosie, having offered simple condolences, was very uncomfortable by this point. I retreated to my drink and studied her over the rim.

“I’m here with Laura,” she explained at length. “My aunt lives in Maine, and Mother decided that I should spend the spring with someone cultured.”

Voicing my initial surprise, I replied, “Wouldn't have expected you to stop by New York.”

“Laura convinced me to stay a few days before Maine.”

“Your mother approves of Laura?”

Rosie laughed. She had a bright laugh, but it was surprisingly soft and pleasant to hear. “Oh no,” she said, looking at her hands and then back up to me. “Mother has no idea I’m in New York. My aunt is the adventurous type. She’ll write my mother and say I arrived a week before I did.”

“So I suppose you’re officially in Maine tonight.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Officially.”

“Wanna drink?”

“No.”

I felt bad for drinking, but I took another sip anyway.

She broke the silence again, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

I nodded and said, “You look very nice,” and meant it.

“Thank you,” Rosie said. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is there a place we can get coffee? Is anyone still open?”

“It’s New York, everything’s open.”

“And the coffee?”

I shrugged. “There’s a cafe on this block, but it’s old. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Connor can make anything in the world.”

“Is there a place you like?”

“I like it here just fine.”

A burst of feminine laughter entered the bar and Alice waltzed in with Deborah at her heels. Alice moved with a graceful sort of confidence; a walk that drew one’s sight first to her hips and then to her piercing grey eyes. I gazed over Rosie’s shoulder, completely missing her soft reply.

Something potent, Connor dear," Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie's eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation.

The Lonely Old Man: Part VI

                        Start of Tale #2    

The Tenth Avenue snow was furious at the sight of me. It shouted in my ears and forced itself into angry little dervishes that skipped around my feet and across the pavement. The taxi had cost more than I expected, but I brought extra for thievery like that. To be frank, my pockets were very well lined since my mother’s father had died. When everyone fought in Europe, he was at home making money in the riveter industry. I’d say he hired ol’ Rosie and painted that canvas himself.

Anyway, the money he left was enough to fill my account and send me to Columbia. When Chet decided to show off his fancy West Side apartment, I was living a cab ride away. He sent a note through a mutual friend, begging me to attend his party for old times’ sake. So I took the cab from my own apartment and suffered two melodramatic stories from the driver. Don’t get me wrong—I despise parties. But I’d much rather drink myself blind out of boredom than sit in a rancid taxicab and listen to crazy Joe whine about his estranged former wife.

Chet’s flat covered nearly a quarter of the sixth floor. It had everything: parlor, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, full bath and shower, and an east-facing balcony with decorative rails. I left my shoes in the tiny foyer and stepped gingerly into the parlor. It was furnished very modernly—that is, modern as modern could be in 1951. Large, cushioned sofas sat against the wall to my left, with polished coffee tables and brass lamps flanking each one. Doorless walkways led to the dining room on the left and the kitchen on the right, both connecting in a bar next to the balcony door.

I knew most everyone in the place. Some had preceded me from the university, others lived with their parents in northern Manhattan, while still others traveled from New Jersey and Philadelphia. Those from abroad had already found a hotel for what night was left after the party. As a whole, it was a wealthy, entitled group of 20-somethings who, as most at that age, felt drawn to empty excitement and the taste of alcohol.

Granted, I was no different. But throughout my tenure at the university, I had myself fully convinced that I was somehow different; aloof, unique, and mysterious. I tried to convince the people around me that I knew something they did not. Quite successfully, I might add.

Almost immediately after entering the room, I was approached by two girls my age. The first was the mutual friend through which I had been invited. She was a nervous blonde gal who never seemed to finish her sentences. She had an unfortunately long face with a look of constant panic. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, flashing a smile and then swallowing it. “I was beginning to worry that...”

I nodded hesitantly and glanced at the other girl. Her name was Alice, and I had spoken with her many times before. She was tall, dark haired, very beautiful, and very, very rich. If not for her sharp wit and sense of humor, she would have been the epitome of those whom I tend to avoid.

“You’re not dressed like a beat,” she observed.

“Not this time,” I said, straightening my tie.

She smiled.

The nervous blonde gal began to say something, but was distracted by the arrival of more guests behind me. Stepping out of the way, I again turned my attention to Alice. She was recovering from a dainty coughing fit.

“How are your lungs holding up, Miss Walker?”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. “Only as well as your liver.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Always the optimist, aren't you.”

It was my turn to smile.

“We’re both going to die young, you know,” she said matter-of-factly. “I bet everyone in this room will go insane by next year and hang themselves. Don’t you think?”

I shrugged and didn't reply, for I could see Chet approaching to my left. He greeted me with a loud shout, a great hug, and his trademark silly grin. Alice stepped back patiently.

I had always liked Chet. While many of us from old Canton left the farming life—often to places of wealth and prestige—Chet remained his jolly, genuine self. He got a kick out of everything remotely funny or interesting. I still remember the late parties where he’d laugh until his face turned as red as his hair. He was the type of fellow who could fill a flat with people from two rival schools—simply because they all liked Chet.  

“I knew you would come, I just knew it!” he was saying.

“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Roughly Hewn

Dr. Henry Sullivan, coroner and forensic pathologist.  

Voice journal on cylinder phonograph.  

November 9, 1894.  

Having spoken with Mrs. Kavinsky, mother...of the deceased. 

Prior to our conversation, I hadn't considered the possibility of suicide. It seems dramatic, childish, and quite tasteless as far as statements are concerned. After all, there is no real point in making a point if you can’t point to it afterwards. The murder (for I still hold to my initial diagnosis) positively reeks of villainy—no political or social agenda could have possibly found its way into the motive. I am convinced of this for two distinct reasons:  

First, the method; that is, a woodsman’s axe. Admittedly, an axe is ironic, if not fitting, for the situation at hand. A series of blows were received in the victim’s abdomen, just above the waist. As the precision of the strikes grew with the wound’s depth, I imagine he was rendered immobile within a few short seconds. It is interesting to note that the killer was thorough, complete, and did not leave until the axe met the forest floor. This denotes a methodical procedure, likely one of vengeful nature.  

Second, the location. Brendonshire Woods are not...theatrical. I imagine our beloved departed was pursued into the forest, and, hindered by his physical state, was easily seized and quickly subdued. Throughout my meeting with Mrs. Kavinsky, I was kind in the way I described my sort of mental sleuthing. But I do consider much of what I didn't tell her to be the absolute truth.  

As this hospital’s chief medical examiner, it was my original duty to perform the autopsy. It was that initial procedure that lead to the interest contained in this recording. I cut into the corpse with a pruning saw and sculpting chisel. His internal organs, though severely mangled by the axe, retained their form excellently. They, as with the rest to his entire body, consisted of a hard, oak-like wood. 

Allow me to repeat myself: the subject of Wednesday’s autopsy is entirely wood. 

I cannot express my shock and utter confusion at this discovery. At first glance, his skin is a very human shade. It wasn't until removing the sheet and touching the body did I realize a mere scalpel wouldn't do. Presumably, and according to Mrs. Kavinsky, his bodily movement was clearly inhuman and really quite stiff. As can be expected, the wound looks akin to a crudely chopped tree. The entirety of his internal makeup looks to be literally hand carved. From the lungs to the appendix, our poor victim is very roughly hewn.  

Tonight will be a restless one. I feel as if the man atop my autopsy table is...I feel as if he is no man. As if he is some morbidly fascinating apparition sent to torture my soul—or some supernatural curse sent to torture his. 

I will attempt to resume this journal tomorrow evening. Heaven knows if I am to become my own carved statue in the meantime.

Heartbeat

Dear (You),

Traffic was awful. The rain only increased as daylight fled, turning Evergreen into what can only be described as a parking lot. The windshield wipers wailed endlessly and hardly made a dent in the rivers streaming in front of me. You were right - I should have replaced them before it got this wet. The left headlight is out. It would’ve been wise to fix that too.

The neighborhoods seemed to go on forever, and I would be lying to say I didn’t get lost once or twice. My excuse is that I haven’t been in North Everett in years. But you, my dear, will always be the exception. I persevered through those dim houses and finally found Colby, following it uphill until finally reaching the hospital. The parking garage was too dark and surprisingly full, forcing me to crawl two levels with one headlight and wipers that now skipped noisily across the glass.

I don’t know if I parked straight. I didn’t care at the time and still don’t. The downpour was no kinder to me now than it had been in traffic. By the time I had crossed the street and found a sign indicating the correct building, my hair was plastered hideously against my skull and over my eyes. Stepping into the lobby, I shook my head briskly and dripped over to the receptionist. She nodded in response to my breathless inquiry.

The elevator was busy; I ran to the stairs and immediately slipped on the first step. Grabbing the banister, I hurried up the flight and around the corner to even more steps. The lights in the second story hallway were dim and had an eerie green hue. I gave my head another good shake and strode down with as much confidence as I could muster. Ten paces ahead, a nurse rushed from a room to the one directly across the hall. I quickened my pace and checked the number plaque of the room she had entered. It was my stop.

The nob felt cold and the door was heavy. Even before the room met my eyes, a rhythmic tone entered my ears. It beeped loud and clear, even above shouted demands and technical terms for metal utensils. I pushed the door further and stepped forward with the beat of the machine. I cried out when I saw you – head turned limply to the side; sweet lips engulfed in a clear plastic cage; hair in disarray. The crimson dress I had given you was soaked in a liquid slightly darker than the cloth it stained.

The beeping tone faltered. I stopped dead in my tracks. The man nearest your wound seemed electrocuted by the next tone. He plucked a utensil from a beckoning hand to his right and turned quickly back.

The beep took longer to arrive this time. I tried to call out but nearly vomited out of panic.

The tone arose again, this time at a higher pitch...and didn’t stop. It went on and on and on and rang interminably throughout the room and deep inside my head. They put horrid paddles on your poor chest and lifted you violently from the bed. Once, twice, now three times.

The piercing noise remained. It was at that moment the doctor turned from your motionless form and looked me dead in the eyes. I understood.

My heart beats for the both of us now.

Yours eternally,
                (Me) 

The Lonely Old Man - Part III

Tale #1

The first event occurred three weeks after my thirteenth birthday. I was a summer child, having been born on the twenty-second of June, and as such, was oblivious to many things. Oh, I liked to think I was wise. But at the time I didn't even know of events. And certainly not the way I know them today. Events are quite the bane of my existence, do you know? But of course! That is why I'm telling you these things! This is the tale of my first event.
 
Thirteen-year-old me was an explorer. I dug for insects, ran after rabbits, climbed trees for the view, and broke my ankle twice in the attempt to fly. Mark my words: if ever you wish to fly, do not use chicken feathers and balsa wood. You'll break your ankle twice. However, even a white plaster cast could not halt my discoveries. I would simply color it with charcoal and then hobble back into the forest and fields.   
 
I often wandered to the Red River that passed by three miles from my home. Its banks were steep, with long grasses falling over their sides into the water. That is, the grasses grew on my side of the river. The opposite bank was flanked immediately by forest, and many of the smaller trees bent over and made V's in the water. Very rarely did the earth slope to meet the Red River. The nearest place it did so was a mile downstream from my part. A dirt road opened its wide mouth there, melding itself with the pebble beach.      
 
As I said, the first event happened three full weeks after my birthday. And it happened at the river Red. The sun was bright that day and pierced its rays through the forest ceiling. I ran down the road, accompanied by children both above and below my age. We leaped from one patch of sunlight to the next, half naked in the heat of the summer. There were near twenty of us there. Me, of course, and also Sand and George and Annie and Harold and Frances and Rosaline and Johnny and Thomas and Big Thomas and Gus and Aiden and Chet and Nance and Robby and MaryAnn and Laura and Luke and Lizzy.              
 
We were a noisy lot as we skipped away; the older ones tried to shout louder than the rest as to instate some sort of order. My brother, Sand, was the leader of this movement. He was my elder by two years, and mirrored our father in wiry build and bold auburn hair. I too had auburn hair then, but not the stature of my brother. Not only was he tall, he was also the strongest boy I knew. Admittedly, I was often jealous. But admiration was stronger, and so shown constantly on my face.       
 
"Almost there!" was the cry, even when we were a half mile from the river. Bare feet trod even quicker than before. As we neared the road's mouth, my brother shouted at George to untie the fabled rope swing from its bed in some high-up bough. He skipped once and leaped into a sprint, tearing off onto some forest trail.
 
To this day, I still remember how our swimming hole shone in the high afternoon sun. It seemed as though the stars of heaven had come to dwell on the surface of old Red, blinding us with every ripple and crease. We stood in a breathless jumble, our towels cast upon the lawn.
 
"He-e-ey O!" came a shout from above, and we turned to see George whiz over the grass and loop high into the air. Releasing the rope, he hovered a moment then flailed pathetically until disappearing into the river. 
 
A great whooping and hollering went up from the rest of us. Sand led the charge. I followed close behind, breathless with excitement and smiling from one ear to the other. 

The Lonely Old Man - Part II

"Good morning," I ventured.

"Yet another," he replied.

A smile tugged at my lips. I had heard from the neighbors that he was dreadfully pessimistic, and these first words seemed to fit the mold well. So too did the tone in which he said them: slow, almost cautious, with more than a hint of apathy. In any case, he proved his neighbors' statement to be true. I should have listened closer, I thought, considering how absentmindedly I had conducted the interviews.

I cleared my throat, dragging the nearest chair to his bedside. "You have made quite the name for yourself," I began. "Just the fact that I'm here is really..."

"I care nothing of names," he interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The name of which you speak is my reputation. I don't care for it!"

I furrowed my brow, expecting him to say more. But he didn't. So instead, I sat in expectant silence for over a minute, watching his bony right hand fluctuate in a pattern of tight and loose grips upon the umbrella handle. Eventually, I attempted once more.

"You might be interested to know, sir, that..."

"Son, interest is dead in my bones."

My eyebrows rose involuntarily. For a long moment I sat very still, unsure of how to reply. Through what limited experience I have, flattery tends to be the greatest lubricant of conversation. For everyone alive cannot resist speaking highly of themselves, and even if their own lips deny self, it is usually in the hope that someone else will counter with a kind word. So I've found that handing out compliments is very handy indeed. Plus, it eliminates the other person's need of fishing for those compliments. If there is one thing I can't stand, it's fishing. I think it's vain and unattractive.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," I said at length. "Perhaps you might be interested in answering a few questions for me? To our mutual benefit, I assure you." 

He scowled. "What benefit of mine?"

I shrugged pitifully and said nothing. To be honest, it was something I read once and thought it sounded eloquent. There really wasn't any benefit but my own. And even that I was beginning to doubt. But I persisted, saying, "I'd very much like to hear your story. That is all."

"My story?"

"Yes, if you're willing."

"My story is eighty-three years long."

"I'm sure it wouldn't take eighty-three years to tell," I said.

The old man smirked, simultaneously furrowing his brow and raising one eyebrow. His mustache danced as he attempted to chew it. "You're right," said he. "In detail it would take even longer."

"What if you just...explain your solitude? That would suffice, and will probably shave a few years from the eighty."

"Eighty-three."

"Yes, eighty-three."

The old man hesitated, taking a moment to peer up at the umbrella. He shifted and spun it, as if to avoid being struck by rain. Then: "Very well. But I must explain by three separate tales, and you must stay for the length of each. Because if you leave before their completion, I'll simply continue on my own. And I'll not repeat myself! Are you willing? Then do make yourself comfortable. Yes, I will allow your machine. It is a good thing to have, for I'll not repeat myself!"

The machine of which he spoke was a recording device given to me for graduation. I had used an old cassette recorder during high school, so it's nice to have something compatible with my laptop. And I was glad to have brought it. The Lonely Old Man was long winded to say the least. Inflection occurred often, casting him into a memory daze of sorts, during which I would pause the recording and sit patiently. In the end, however, he remained true to his word, completing each of the three tales, or "events" as he frequently called them. I have transcribed each word to the best of my ability, and subsequently arranged them in this manuscript.

So. Herein lies three tales as spoken directly by the Lonely Old Man...    

The Lonely Old Man - Part I

The title of this paper is not a descriptor.

It is his name.

None other can be remembered, nor can it be found.

At least, I'd rather not find it. There is something romantic - in the most primitive definition of the word - about a nameless person. Especially when there is somewhat of a legend attached to him. In a sense, that legend becomes his name. Hence, the Lonely Old Man.

Some say he lost a wealthy fortune. Others say his heart was broken. Still others say he was part of a secret government project that involved nuclear cardiology and birthday clowns. Personally, I like to think he's some sort of a basket case. You know, something that can be diagnosed. But whatever the case, he now lives in the uppermost room of my grandfather's apartment complex. Alone. And he has for as long as I can remember. Of course, I'm only eighteen, so that's not too incredibly long. But still...all alone?

The building was an old one, thus the liveable attic, and so did not have an elevator. Some unholy number of steps reached to the final hallway, where a tiny flight of stairs led the way to my destination. I'm not entirely certain how long it took me to climb up, and I'm even less certain I want to remember. But regardless of said hike, the highest hall finally appeared, whereupon I stopped before the Lonely Old Man's doorway.

The idea for this dissertation had come weeks ago. I, as a future psychology major, wanted to enter my freshman year of college with a glowing resumé of completed diagnostics. When reminded of this old man, I eagerly sought an interview with him. To decipher a seemingly unsolvable mind...what better way to disprove any and all doubters of my genius? 

There I was. About to enter the abode of the Lonely Old Man himself. All those hoops I jumped through to get to this point were of no consequence now. Ascending the six steps to his door, I took hold of the brass nob and stepped inside. The room held a musty scent, not unlike an old bookstore. It was as if a thousand ancient novels had opened their leaves and vomited every grain of mold into the air. My nose itched terribly. 

The room was not especially large. It was rectangular in shape and not wide at all. Each wall was constructed from vertical wooden boards, cut away just enough to fit the door-frame in which I stood. As the building's roof was directly above, the room's ceiling was very much slanted. It's highest point was at the left side of the room, coming down at a warped slope to the right. Pots, pans, books, papers, photos, clothes, and shoes littered every available surface; including the floor.           

Finding a place amongst the clutter, I saw a bed to the far right of the room. It was liberally arrayed with patched quilts and multicolored pillows. The Lonely Old Man sat at the end of it, his crooked back pressed against the wall. He had a long face, with wispy eyebrows and a white mustache. Thin, equally white hair sprung from beneath a knit hat. The right sleeve of his long underwear was the only bit of clothing, that, aside from the hat, wasn't smothered by the quilts. In his right hand was held a black umbrella. Its copper tip scratched at the low ceiling like a one-clawed cat.

"Good morning," I ventured.    

Musings

The pines stood before me as immovable pillars, protruding from the earth like fingers beckoning to heaven. I followed their suggestion and gazed upward. Low, patchy clouds scattered the night sky in wispy formations; light, yet swollen enough to be dubbed patchy. At first I thought them to be reminiscent of a blanketing smoke. But then my still-adjusting eyes caught sight of the stars. Each visible speck of fire shot through every available gap in the clouds. The larger ones winked at me knowingly before I broke eye-contact to stare at another. 

At the pinnacle of my awe, I saw the whole sky as a woefully shredded veil worn by a beautiful bride. For as I searched, I could glimpse beyond the veil, resting my eyes upon a yet unnoticed star, or a bold shard of reflected sun. The longer I stayed, the more I discovered and was able to see of this theoretical bride. I imagined a shooting star would make a perfect tear.  

               A third scene to appear 
               In the light behind my glistening eyes
               Is that of painted cathedral panes, 
               With sacred candles burning 
               In the diluted depths within. 
            
               Steeple in a shady gown of ink 
               As a blind man's reach, 
               A chapel house glowing is
               Warmth in any wandering evening. 
               Windows tall, dim colors personified 
               By shimmering fire inside. 
               Fingertips tremble upon these, 
               And I might see many tiny, dancing 
               Druids of molded wax, 
               Fleeting, beckoning, silently singing 
               Through the images of stained glass.

Days in a fleeting, half-dreamt passing, weeks in glance at the past, and months in a memory of skies clear and warm: Autumn is a fire put out. It is a blown breath upon a match's head, whereupon the glow is vanquished and smoke remains. Flora becomes deceased, skeletons remain in the dirt, frail and dry. The smell of lightly watered dust is the aroma of the season.   

The sky is now a blanket, reflecting most beneath and all within. Wisps of our ceiling touch gracefully the skin of the earth. Anything thriving might now be considered dead, though the wind, master of motion, retains the racing pulse of my peers in space. For with the heavens now closed, I turn my eyes to the road, to my feet, and to the air. All is whispering. All prepare for the stars to reappear; this time with a bitter cold and unprotected still.

I am amused at the steady rotation on which my gaze is fixed. Because with a view of the lights I am awed. With a view of the low I am intrigued. And then I am once again awed by the heavens, but now through the cloud of my breath. In turn, spring will return my eyes to the earth, and to the movement upon it. Two fixations of my interest, two ways to imagine infinite numbers and beauty. One recites passages of their near immortality and power and blazing trek; one whispers sweetly a song of adventure. One commands incredulity; the other touches my skin and connects.
 
And in His hand all these are held, proclaiming that we, I and the stars, I and the green, I and everything from the soil beneath to the blackness beyond, are fully the Lord's. And will stare through space and wind and time until He decides my joining with Him.