Beginning of the Hollow1.He showed me how in the house behind the trees.There wasn’t much going on,but maybe a radio somewhere off wherethe others lounged by the pool watchingfootprints fade on cement. I didn’t have my headon straight, the way it’s supposed to be; there’s a certain disposition, you make it lookeasier than it is to understand the many awfulinfluences that freight each breath. A scrap of cloud, tissue thin, mocks the bluesurrounding. My intuition tells me this &that but mostly I’m unable to take the hint, to move out from under layers ofnarrative difficulty. Along these lines,the terrible neutrality that doesn’t feel wrongat first or maybe only does when I learn he keepsa close account of the variation in huesbetween originals & their reproductions. You hear rumors about feverish process—brokenbranches breaking into small sticks underfootare an apt comparison to current introspections.The disturbing mess defeats any high purposeattached to the daily special—two for one, extra steamy. A bell gets hung around his dirt-streaked neck & thus all isas pretty as the graces turning on pinpoints.It’s as useless being known as knowing how.2.There’s a motor inside each of them; they buzzabout, unnerving the bare assedteenagers who don’t come inside just becauseits getting dark. The tall one flings a yellowcap to the ground, declares better notpush me before disappearing over the dune.You can’t prove a negative but that receiptpulled from your purse would help if it weren’tsmudged by your worried handling. From this distance those cottages along the waterlook like piano keys or maybe the “teethof a comb” is more likely to transmit the messagethat thinking is as hard as you heard it is.Why does each profanity have a species nameattached to its basket? Bows, too.You trusted a genius you dated in high school &presently you have prospects; so much more,you are, than next in line at the water fountain. Sand gets in everything—a whispering multitude.You could be talking about the random dispersalof seeds or the role of wind in keeping onerealm separate from the other. Holler away, kids.Your voices go a-wandering in this sunshower, brightening the copper-green lichen on the bark.There’s harm enough that’s common to all.Great strides, though, are being made so soonwe’ll impart our new mode of fondness to others.3.How subdue the losses & minor dangers,the full array of mischief that blows in from afar?Like the ice sheets that made this place, eachwave holds its shape for only so long; rise &trembling fall, so they say. The bedroom’son the brink of a comfortable situation.Our faint cheer erupting at some remove soundsas if we are strangers to excessive sway. Another choice morsel of happenstance would complete the picture but none appearsto be more than merely available. That old absentpresence doesn’t quite work the charmit did in philosophy class. Their heads occur here& there above grass like empty spots that slowdown our ability to make conversation.Who prevails, who recedes? The felt declines—we dip within their steepening moods. About what he said haven’t you heard enough?That mistake combines too manyemotions with an ersatz sense of the fullness of meaning. Leafless the surrounding trees, so youcan be seen out there, flagrantly busy with sleek elaborations. Appearances aren’t yet in bloom,the arbor not quite the threshold to selflessintimacies as it was last summer. You’re alwaysasking why doesn’t this work, but did it ever?4.The two of them lying on towels taking picturesof themselves occasions an awkward greeting.Speculation about phrasing—to note how duststirring in late afternoon affects the rural vibe—goeswithout saying among the mood’s initiates.Something’s up out along the horizon; the gullsare making a mad racket. Gentle pressure rejuvenatesour attention. A slight misjoining isn’t an issue;clouds shrug, move on & weeds they decorously bow. A little dreamy aren’t they, these boys? Glidingdown the path, careful not to step on scurryingcreatures, they throw stones or kick dirtto sound an alarm. Same kind of heat spoilednearly all of the belle époque we planned.You melted right into the chaise, doped uplike being in a dental chair, colors gone fractalbehind closed lids. Descriptions of heartachepainted on a sign outside the lobster hut. Microdot barely gets us where we need to be.Paper soaked through, the panache gone from the typeface. The local gods churn out on-pointmessaging keeping us abreast of plausible outcomes;it’s not necessary that everyone finishesreading at the same time. A lane so narrow our carbrushes against overgrown lilac bushes. There’s a diving in, perceptions of motionsparking at the periphery just before enclosure.5.Nothing in hand on the subject in dispute, he allows his silence to be understoodas preface to a protagonist’s rich interiority.Sophisticated legerdemain ensues. Strange turnsturning from berm to hollow, a pinkish hazedescends—mutable, amorphous, perhapsmenacing in a horror film kind of way. But the equation grows increasingly unbalanceddespite strenuous attempts to… what? Smoke from beyond the tree line indicatesopinions about the common good are changing.The application requires reporting tidbits gleanedfrom sunset conversations on the patio—even the smallest grammatical slips might be momentous,worthy of fresh, discerning eyes. Wheels needto be ready to function; otherwise, your indolentreign will come to the sluggardly end so longexpected, a mere few rotations from going flat. Ethereal among more burdened souls—now that’s the way to embark upon the evening frolic.An empire of reasons not to watch that documentaryabout telepathic fungi & yet it has emerged asthe leading candidate for bedtime viewing. Intellection: a wobbly lamp revealing stainsleft by the previous tenant. Behold its mocking fruits.In daylight’s waning hours, his languorous eyedilates at the least beckoning of appetite. 6.A cookie won by a goody two-shoes for squeezing as much out of desiring as can be squeezed.Nothing hurts these penciled-in people—they flaunttheir imperviousness to deals gone bad, tiny screw-upsthat enlarge over time into what the manualcalls a stumbling block. Predestination figures in thisas an excuse, one that illuminates gray areas.He was born, he tells his guru, to act with aplombeven while enmeshed in the saving-the-farm plot. Beeping means the door is ajar; the sound of a note struck on a xylophone signals a difficult truthabout a man whose rocket flew to Planet X.The new tech is topflight so they expect more than us just setting watch fires on the highest dunes. Still,disasters keep coming round, each one remindingyou what can-do spirit does in a fuck -you world.I have a ticket to live on an island where everyoneowns an ocarina but the breeze does all the playing. They say winter wasn't much this year;didn't even, they say, kill what it's supposed to.Slick green leaves stuck to the windshield & youfeel overpowered by this, the view quiteunintelligible. A drowsy piece of world hoversbetween words like shine & smooth, but there's nothing but yourself in sight. Gathered bitsof air might constitute survival whenall this helpful thinking turns to fire.7.An appealing way he has quoting facts & fables,as well as the alternative title in ancient Greek.Nobody believes a word of it but the gistsatisfies a need to hear more about what’s lost.Rain must have come & gone; a tidy arrangementof drops on the picnic table testifies to the event.We learn to live with errors—our own,the ones that arrive unbidden in the mail.Someone out there wants to make beauty out of us. It was cold & they were lazy & the long daywas giftless. A portion of fear could be in the mixor more likely a general disinclination to behaveas if being free were possible. His mouth twistsunattractively to one side conveying such. The sky grew crowded with elaborate clouds;meanwhile, suspicions took hold that the alluringview—translucent turquoise band offshore where seals bobbed—was mere appeasement. The main thing I was ashamed of was how littleI resisted the thoughts coming into my head.Surrender, really, is the right word.You measure the quantity of the monotonous &figure out where you fit in on that scale.Nothing occurs suddenly—no pools of warmthamid the chill, no sightings of a pale, bare shoulder—so maybe nothing occurs. Already the airmoves as if aware of its own drab insinuations.8.Back at the shack, questions were tossed aroundin suggestive, flirtatious tones. What are those glintsof orange out there in the mud flats? Where’s the secretberry patch? Who will play the Thunderer? For a moment all was quiet as gnats seemed to pause,contemplative in the light from the window.He hung his pants on the hitchin’ post like a manwho made an honest living in this a mournful world. Pollen settled on everything & again we swept. When my buoyantly good spirits became the subject of whispered innuendo I knew I was a success.No one cares that you’ve read that Chekhov storytwenty or thirty times & can quote the part about the ladies who are boring & banal.Let’s try being objective, consider things in termsof latitude & longitude or number of syllables.Bodies aren’t much when it comes to waves—they glisten in the swash then tumble over. The shortcomings of this false Dmitry, numerousas they are, fail to wear out the kids’ patience.They’ve taken a serious attitude towardan incomprehensible force & will stick with himas long as the appetizers hold out. Days pass,languages pass: imagine that all of us get treatedwith caution owing to our unkempt hair.We’re country dwellers awaiting the pleasure waterbequeaths to us in our most solitary hours.9.You can’t counter childish resistance to full immersion.Lessons begin & end with sobs, an agitationall out of proportion to the delight being sought.A certain melancholy overwhelms, but that’s kindof a mask, isn’t it? The sulking mien, arms hanginguseless in order to show a spirit drainedby repeated exhortation. Palms up! Lean further!The mind hurries, ignores the pockedcondition of the road & then arrives—voluptuous. A gang of sunny souls crouches beneath redumbrellas, regiment of white caps in the distance—that’s the postcard you want to send. Just enoughsensation to taunt those who didn’t make the ferry. Perspective’s the trick: celestial orb or lightbulb, mist enshrouded island or bad prose.I take a position where I can be seen from either side;pretend to be a sentinel, a son of Sparta. So versatilethis sky, chasing one picture of itself after another. My approach: quiet, gradual, & unselfconscious, yet there wasn’t the wished-for surprise, fireworkscrackling overhead; instead, a domestic scenethat entailed disagreement about the properinstallation of a screen door in the house. Tool of dissembling, this hand of his workingthe buttons, then their consequence. Season nowunlocked, its shimmering flaws emerge, alignthemselves alongside allowances of shade.
