Perhaps a Swimmer

Water flows around her fingers and the sun is burning her back now, she can feel it burning her back now how long has she been at it now and for how much longer? There was a time when she could go on forever but that was long ago. Continue. Past the point where you can make it back. But do turn back, be on the way back. Just in case it doesn’t work out. Don’t want the taint falling onto them. Need to leave a shadow of doubt. And so turn back, but not in. Parallel. Perhaps unseen a boat will strike hope to God it happens quickly. No pain. Blood is okay if I don’t see it, don’t feel it. Big boat let it be let it happen in an instant. And before the sunburn starts kicking in, before the sunburn hurts. Drowning preferred. Said to be like falling asleep. Better if I could just fall asleep. If I could just fall asleep. Still I was a champion. Hear them now. What got into her? Finally putting two and two together. All that time on the porch, staring at the ocean.“She’s getting creepy in her old age,” and “took it much harder than I expected.” “What?” “Selling the house.” “No. Mother. She wanted to bring mother here, so she could die here.” Yes that is true perhaps but no mother was too old and well they are the ones in misery that can’t forgive themselves for. They have to live with it. Long swims. Out past the jetty and back. Hear him now. “She had a death wish, that one. Nothing we could have done about it in the end.” Just like him. And her: “Perhaps. We could have done a better job reading the signs.” Perhapses and Signs. She is oh so good a Perhapses and Signs. “Oh come on don’t blame yourself.” Certainly no chance of that ever happening. Not in his case. Certainly no chance at all.

Music now. Hear music now. Isn’t is supposed to be light white light. And a figure. Mother perhaps emerging from this light and calling me home. Isn’t that the way it is supposed to work? Intermittent. As I come up for air. Boat. From a boat. Perhaps that is it. Perhaps this is the one which will run me down. How many are there? Wave. Don’t miss a beat. Obviously know exactly what I am doing. Wave. High sign. Thumbs up. Yes they are impressed until they see it on the news. Could it be? Same one? Must be. No. Gone now. Must look better than I thought, stronger than I thought. Look better than I feel. Conditioning. Spite. The challenge. Nothing to lose by going on. Nothing whatsoever to lose. Just me on the sea. The occasional boat. A shout passing over the ocean. Breath in air, and sound. Soon water. Salt. Thinking ought to speed it along. Thinking takes energy, doesn’t it? Perhaps.

Film Stock

Pamela kept going along, going along, then hit on something, tore or cut it out of her notebook, and put it on the wall. A few days later she came back to see if it stuck. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t, and other times it needed a word added here, a word added there, a word moved from one place to another. Sometimes this applied to phrases and sentences. Sometimes too this didn’t stick, and she found it on the floor. She left it where it where it fell, letting it lie to collect boot prints and protect the industrial loft’s floor. Over time a carpet formed, ever changing as the open window or draft from the shaft way let in the breeze to shuffle things around, boot prints and stains forming ever changing patterns. She liked it this way. She photographed it, photographed the floor, noting the time and date on the back of each Polaroid print. This she continued to do until the Polaroid Corporation stopped manufacturing film stock for her camera and her supply was exhausted and the cost of acquiring what little stock remained became prohibitive. At this point she collected the prints, arranged them chronologically, and installed them on the wall. She called the installation The Floor, sent out fliers, bought some beer, wine, and cheese, and invited people to come and see.

On the day of the opening she thought of collecting the deleterious from the floor, some of which had decayed and become soil or very much like it. She examined the floor carefully to see if anything was growing there but nothing was. So she left it as it was.

The opening was a success. Critics raved, took photographs, called her a genius, asked her all sorts of questions about its making and many lucrative commissions followed. “Come and do my house, come and do mine.” Two collectors offered to buy her apartment lock, stock, and barrel and install it, Cloisters style, in their own homes. She found this amusing, then depressing, because they did not quite get the point, had missed the point all together. They would be better off making their own. And she decided to tell them this, nicely, politely, sending them notes, each one personalized with something she remembered about them, thanking them for coming and for the praise and interest and describing in detail how they could make a piece like hers of their own.

The only problem, she said, was the camera and film. They would need to buy or manufacture their own.

Annotation

It little matters that an idle king

by this still hearth

among these barren crags

where horses were toward eternity

if the Red-Slayer thinks he slays

in Xanadu where Kubla Kahn

depends upon the red wheel barrow.

–

Buffalo Bill’s defunct.

Just like that.

Yes.