Mounted trout of suspicious hue
hung on the walls where the remnants of pencil scrawl surrounded them and bled
outward. Reinhardt got up close in a half-hearted attempt to decipher what was
said there, but his eyes functioned at half capacity since the fire and even
before that when the beams of the sun found a haphazardly-hung mirror once and
bore themselves in a point no bigger around, he imagined, than a mosquito, onto
the bare red flesh of his retina. The proprietor discouraged close examination
anyway because he thought the secrets of something enormous rested there on the
plaster of the walls of the building he had purchased three years previous and
he wanted to be the first to unleash it, to staple his name forever to events
such as no one had been able to imagine since the days when the Titans (or something
like them) roamed the earth and challenged one another to contests of strength
and realistic storytelling and the people in the villages and the metropolises
close by fled in every direction because they were afraid of what they would
hear. Old-fashioned tedium sits on the fence row like a cat and when you
attempt to chase it away, your limbs are stiff and uncooperative and you
realize you only have about twenty more truly viable years left, if that, and
you ought to get busy constructing the arbors someone you love or tolerate has
requested, or get busy studying the black arts before it is too late, before
those who know you by sight and reputation begin to rethink their position on
encroachment, on taking to the skies with cardboard wings. Cortez whispered in Reinhardt’s
ear when he was sleeping and what she said sounded so much like the howling of a
pack of wolves that he thought for a moment, as he rose slowly from the
underworld he inhabited when he did not inhabit this one, that he was somewhere
on the vast steppes and the ice that helped define that part of the world was
in his eyes and on his moustache, and his fingers had turned black from the
cold, which was not a presence or a state exactly, so much as it was an idea of
the sort you think up when you have nothing better to keep yourself occupied.
No pressing engagements with your accountant, no wayward strolls along the lip
of the canyon where once, when you were a child, you saw a man jump to his
death with a smile on his face, and you were never as traumatized by what you
had seen that day as everyone seemed to think you ought to be – their every
question, their every gesture communicating this to you as loudly as if they
had been holding a megaphone. But why must it be trauma exactly? Why unravel
the fabric at the center of your abdomen given the fact that what one witnesses
at any given moment is hopelessly outnumbered and undone by what one witnesses
at all other times and in all other places? And this was precisely the message
Cortez was attempting to deliver, her lips on the rim of Reinhardt’s ear, her
breath heavy with the intoxication of this all-inclusiveness, with this
immersion that swamps and swallows the significant, that submerges it in the everyday
enormity of breath itself, and whatever is not breath, is living between one breath
and another like a stonefish lying in wait between stones, only twice as patient.
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