Ana (Part 4 of 4)

The grandfather clock’s arthritic and age-spotted hands indicated, by inscrutable conventions set ages ago at the first watchmaker’s council, that it was 8 o’clock—rather ironic seeing as though the clock had stopped discharging its duties for months now and was presently correct, but only by chance. A house waking. The usual hullabaloo. Spears of latticed light escaping from the blinds and tattooing themselves on the heliotropic parquetry. Everyone had assembled in the kitchen, except for my sister, whose irrepressibly golden hair, having probably just been coerced into a tidy chignon, seemed to demand the same undying attention that daylilies, for want of a fresh face, sought from morning sunbursts.

I sat on the wobbly stool and the irregular rat-a-tat of its helter-skelter rocking seemed to annoy everyone. Though it was reasonable to expect that all chairs were blind at birth, this one gave the sonic impression of a white-tipped cane continuously probing unfamiliar surroundings. Unperturbed and still somewhat mystified by the opium of sleep, I jotted down the raised eyebrows and disapproving faces and slipped the notepad and pen into my knapsack to avoid detection.

“Where’s your sister, Mandy?” asked my mother, as she surveyed my clothes for starry specks of lint, an improvident crease, or the slightest hint of imperfection.

“I don’t know.” I turned to my father and said, “I hope she ran away.” And with the palliative glow of a sudden revelation, I understood that whereas a hypnotist might repeatedly incant some subliminal mantra, I enunciated my prosaic observation too frequently, and it seemed to me then a grave strategic error since the constancy of the utterance was more likely to blunt its meaning than to tunnel itself into my father’s cerebral cortex, and as though to prove the point, the honey-lipped giant ate his butter and Manuka toast, payed no attention to my soliloquy, and all the while ruffled noisily the pages of his newspaper. “In case anyone is wondering, I saw her in front of the hall mirror.” He paused, took a sip of black coffee and added, “Why do we have so many mirrors in this house?”

“You have two daughters, that’s why,” said my mother in a disconsolate tone of voice.

I sat warming my hands on a bowl of oatmeal. “Are you daydreaming?” asked my mother, flitting around the table like a bee chancing upon a blossomy field of buckwheat.

I noticed a few strands of previously undetected silver-gray hairs on my mother’s temples. “Do you have to go to work?” I asked with solemn desperation. My mother’s mauve skirt, clear complexion, slightly turned up nose, coiffed hair, and eight-handed approach to kitchen duties were incontrovertible evidence that this morning, like so many before, was a thrall to modern domestic efficiency. She finally stopped for a moment and pulled up a chair next to me. “I already explained it to you, my darling. I have to. And I’ll see you tonight. A little later than usual. Okay?”

The reasonableness of her words hung heavily like a leaden sky. “I want you to listen in school, Amanda. No more making up excuses for not doing your homework. And no more stories. Do you hear me? No more Ana.” She touched my hair as a small child might touch an angel’s wings. “You know what Mrs Handly said, having an imaginary sister was not healthy. And that you have to learn to live outside of the world of fiction. Wasn’t that what she said at the meeting?”

“Yes, mother.” I lowered my head and stared at the frothy milk and porridge that was, it seemed to me, making gossamer clouds.

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Ana (Part 3 of 4)

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When Ana awakened from her concoction of sleep and mock-sleep, she was clutching the white dress, and her spiral-bound notepad, suddenly taking flight, carefully negotiated tall, snow-capped pines to manage a skillful crash landing in a lucky-to-be-found clearing. It was now nearly midnight and Alexa had vanished. Ana, feeling lightheaded, put down the rumpled dress, picked up the notepad, and, with a few mincing steps, made her way to the door where, pressing her elfin nose to the glass, she stared listlessly into the semidarkness. She looked in desperation for the would-be thief, while her imagination, fleeting across the candlelight paleness of the snowy terrain, was trying to produce tangible traces of a lost prince. She quivered in dim hope for some sign of the boy. After a time she grabbed hastily the coat from the back of the chair, put it on, and, leaving it unbuttoned, opened the door. A stream of cold air rushed in and wrapped itself around her like a boa wraps its prey.

“I’m still on duty,” said the gelid voice from the darkness. There was a brief silence till Ana whispered, “My soldier boy!” Tiny flecks of snow landed on the wings of her nose and he entered timidly, noticeably ashamed at having stayed out for so long in the bitter cold. He cupped his hands together and tried to warm them with his ardent breath.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, tensing her thin, dark brows.

He dusted the snow from his sleeves, squared his shoulders, and said, “Peter, Peter Menard, but my friends call me Frankenstein.”

Ana stood on the tip of her toes to see if there were in his eyes rumblings of a bellicose monster. “That’s a strange thing to call someone!”

“You see, my father was a tool and die maker, and he now owns a hardware store. I help out on Saturdays,” began Peter. “And since I always played with nuts and bolts as a boy, the name was a natural.” He turned to her, and seeing as if for the first time her bright eyes, was immediately struck by the queer impression that her satiny black hair was that of a proud gelding in the early light of day. Ana folded her arms and sighed. “So that was from your father’s hardware store. And to think I accused you of being a thief,” said Ana, reproaching herself for having reached an unjust conclusion. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Would it have made a difference? People believe what they want to,” said Peter looking deep into her eyes.

“I would have believed you,” insisted Ana leaning indolently on the bookcase by the window. “You never asked me for my name, though. It’s Ana.”

“I know. Anna with one ‘n.’ I saw it before, on one of your notebooks,” said Peter, smarting from his early discovery.

“You’re a spy, then. Sent from some unscrupulous government. But I don’t care. I still have your feather,” said the girl, lowering her suddenly doleful eyes.

“It’s very late and now that we have properly introduced ourselves I must go,” said Peter darkly. They had been moving closer and closer to one another, and Peter touched her milky cheek with the unexpected warmth of his sunfilled hand, after which, in an unbearable sweep, he turned around, opened the door, whence there blew a whirlwind of frosty pollen. And as though the razorlike cold of the night were his true mistress, Peter left silently and without a trace.

Ana (Part 2 of 4)

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They stood face to face, and after a prolonged moment heard the sound of footfalls coming from behind Ana’s bedroom door.

“You have to go,” she said in a muted tone. She reached for the icy-cold door handle, opened it and, gingerly yet resourcefully, pushed him onto the balcony, saying all the while, “Go back into the darkness. Go now.” The deathless wind transformed the snow into a sandpapery sheet, and once the door was closed, an eerie silence blanketed the room.

Anna crossed the room. “Can I come in?” said the shrilly soprano behind the door.

Having at once recognized the voice she rolled her eyes and said, “Yes, Alexa, come in.”

The door opened slowly and the unwelcomed girl stepped into the cocoonlike room, made her way to the bed, and sat down on the quilted duvet (the one whose colors reminded her of the riotous russet hues of autumn).

Alexa had her sleek black laptop tucked under her arm. “You’re going to do your homework here?” exclaimed Ana, unable to conceal her desperation at the thought that Alexa should choose this evening, the one with an august moon and a frozen boy waiting hopelessly on the balcony, to commandeer her room.

“I have an essay to write. Do you mind if I work here?” said the tall-as-a-skyscraper girl, pushing her hair back and exposing a snow-white ear, the other still sequestered behind a lavish curtain of gold.

“No. I mean why can’t you do that in your room?” asked Ana, her face reddening with an access of fury.

“I don’t want to sit in the dark,” replied Alexa, pausing and then smacking her lips..

“Couldn’t you put the lights on? You’re such a putz,” said Ana incredulously, after which she stood up and started pacing the room like a caged bobcat.

“Don’t ask so many questions–besides you wouldn’t understand,” continued Alexa, well aware that the small but important difference in their age gave her the upper hand in matters of fashion, for one, but primarily in the sanctimonious arena of unassailable logic.

“I hate you,” retorted Ana, stopping directly in front of Alexa and stomping her foot with a thud.

“No wonder you get sent home from school a lot,” said Alexa in the authoritarian tone of a rosy-faced dictator.

Ana was in no mood for vacuous pontifications. “Mind your own business.”

Her elder sister’s long lashes now dithered as she typed on her wafer-thin keyboard, and the silver barrette in her spring-garden hair shone brutishly in the light. “Do the kids at school still tease you? You don’t make it easy on yourself, you know.” The rumor that Ana had made an impolitic remark while at school swirled around the neighborhood like water draining from a bathtub. “You should really learn to hold your tongue,” added Alexa impassively.

“I’m the most popular girl in my class,” chirped Ana.

“In your dreams!” exclaimed Alexa, who lay curled on the bed like a soulless sultana. And with the swing of a malevolent arm she pushed a stuffed rabbit onto the flat weave carpet saying, “You’re fifteen. Why do you have children’s things?” Ana sat silently on a burgundy chaise clutching a soft percale dress that needed mending.

“You know, it’s freezing in here,” said Alexa. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No. But if you’re so cold you can just leave.”

“I told you, I have work to do,” said Alexa with frustration. “And why do you keep looking outside? You’re making me nervous.”

Unaware that she was interposing in her younger sister’s affairs and that, apart from anything else, reading aloud a short passage with the dull intonations of a librarian would only serve to heighten Ana’s belief that the stars, pinpricks in a dark, unmanageable fabric, were actively conspiring against her, Alexa nonetheless persisted in her recitation: “The Eloi are meek artisans that live on fruit and the Morlocks, who live underground, surface on moonless nights to feed on the Eloi.” From a comfortable repose, Alexa slid her feet from the bed onto a dense carmine throw rug. “Where are you going?” asked Ana with growing alarm.

“I’m going to see if there’s a moon out.”

“Don’t you dare,” objected Ana. “I told you there is one. Can’t you see it’s bright out?”

Alexa marched defiantly to the glass door to see the moon for herself. Unseen specks of snow at her feet, whose propinquity to the glass door kept them intact, were improvident and glistening reminders of Ana’s stolid secret.

“You’re right. I see it now, behind a cloud,” said Alexa, returning to the warmth of the bed. From that time on not a word was spoken, and sleep drifted stealthily into the room like a curled puff of smoke, and the insufferable bliss of having been given a magnificent feather was for Ana suspended over a pool of limpid dreams.

Ana (Part 1)

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It was early evening, and a thin band of tawny brightness stretched across the sky. For some time already a powdery snow had begun to fall. Ana, a porcelain-skinned girl, sat idly on her bed and gazed out of the French doors, which gave boastfully onto the soft ivory of a winter garden. At the far end of the property there stood an iron gate, and, in the dim light of the moon, the snow looked like a wavy quilt of fine silk. She cast a glance at the swanlike elegance of the wintry trees, and with a sudden turn of her head noticed a strange agitation near the cedar arbor where, out of the shadowy depths and into a rectangle of pale light, stepped a tall, sinewy figure. He disappeared again into the shadows, and to satisfy her curiosity, Ana, somehow believing she had seen a ghost, warily opened the door.

“If you stand there with the door open you’ll catch your death of cold,” said a voice that resonated in the chill air. It belonged to a young man in a black duster coat and an ivy cap.

“Then you must come in,” said Ana “but be very quiet. My father is a reasonable man, but would probably kill you if he found you here. And there’s no telling what my mother would do.” With great clarity Ana went on to explain how her mother had enthusiastically developed a hierarchy of punishment, where death by a poorly aimed pistol, for instance, was of lower standing than, say, the slow loss of vigor by secretive means. “But these methods are more or less dated and mother seems obliged to find new ones.”

She spoke in hushed tones, yet the boy was mesmerized by the animated girl who stood before him in a flowing white nightgown, like a sylph, and with the dry squeak of snow under his feet, he took a step forward.

“I don’t normally let strangers into my room,” she said hesitantly.

“But I’m not a stranger. I know your sister. Well, I’ve seen her here and there,” said the boy in a cheerful tone.

His voice had the freshness of a windswept field of buttercups, yet it seemed caught somewhere between the plush of boyhood and the diamond hardness of adulthood, and the first thing she noticed, as he stepped through the door, was a dusting of snow covering the felt of his mid-calf boots.

“Well, here we are, “ said Ana with a smile.

While he closed the door she fetched a leather jacket from her wardrobe and draped it across her shoulders, gently tossing back her voluminous hair. A thin wisp of perfume circled the room and Ana stood stock-still, several loose strands of her bible black hair crossing her lips.

“Do you have any other sisters?” he asked narrowing his eyes.

Ana paused for a moment and began with a melancholy voice, “No. There was a time when I did, and I had wished for my mother’s fairykin to die, and one soulless night it did.”

“You’re a strange girl,” he said knitting his eyebrows.

“What were you doing in the garden, standing so still? Are you a runaway?” She paused and bit her lower lip. “I’d like to run away, but my parents wouldn’t allow it.”

“But that’s the whole point of running away—no one is supposed to know,” he said, suddenly remembering to remove his cap.

She gave him a crooked look. “I know what a runaway is. I just meant I couldn’t do it. I’m afraid of the dark, for one thing.”

“I’m from the darkness. Are you afraid of me?” asked the boy, secreting his black cap into an empty pocket.

“No,” she said, clearing her throat and then placing an indolent finger on her cheek, where he had but a moment ago seen a dimple.

Looking around the room he saw pictures of ballet dancers and bookshelves filled with exotic looking books, and on a small writing desk were a music box, an apple peel on a rose-colored napkin, a notebook , and a box of sharpened pencils.

“I have something for you,” he began. “You may remember me by it.” He thrust his hand deep into the other pocket, made a tight fist, raised into the light his hand and, unfurling his long, pinkish fingers, produced a delicate white feather. A broad smile extended athwart Ana’s face, but alas his impressive sleight of hand was soon brought to an end by a resonant clang.

He crouched down and picked up a dull piece of metal and returned it to his pocket.

“What was that?” she asked with the heedless curiosity of a bear cub exploring a newly minted world.

“Nothing,” said the boy sharply.

“Let me see it.” He hesitated and then showed her the noisy offender.

“That’s something of my father’s. You’re not a runaway. You’re a thief!“ exclaimed the girl.

Personality, the scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs kind.

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The thing about personality is that either you have it or you don’t. And if there’s one thing I learned about weighing a modest five pounds (when I haven’t just eaten half a lemon meringue pie, as that tends to skew the result) it’s that you have to have personality, the scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs kind. In my case I reckon my plumage accounts for most of the measurable mass, and that I’d very nearly be massless without it, which has dire implications for the expansion/contraction of the universe argument. But these measurements, like life itself, are all very speculative—for instance, just how much can a bit of cartilage weigh? And bones the size of toothpicks certainly don’t register on any scale I know of—let’s face it, I don’t live at CERN (and the particle accelerator next to my water bowl is made of cheap plastic and probably a fake); I just live in a plain dog house, equipped with a sauna, two large screen televisions, and Mr. Frisky, a megalomanic armadillo, stuffed lovingly by Chinese factory hands with the plushest gossamer, bearing a chewed-off ear, like a cross, probably the result of some guerrilla war, most likely the brutal campaign fought against toy store owners in the 1980s—you must recall it. I wasn’t yet born at the time, but then again who was?

Shadows

Fear, photography, magicians

Shadows

Shadows are parasitic jokesters and are, in fine, always more frightening than their smartly dressed hosts. Look carefully. Were you wowed by the sparkling rhinestones? My assumption here is that most objects that throw shadows are vainglorious, violet-loving entities, and that may not be strictly correct. Still, it’s my page and I reserve the right to divide strands of truth as a prism divides light. But even you, dear reader, can see that shadows that do not match their benevolent masters are truly frightening.

My solution to recurrent shadow-induced nightmares is to widen the frame, for fear is always the result of a narrow context. Photographers are like magicians as they have the ability to alter the framing. A narrow framing tells a mere fraction of the story, and this legerdemain often suits their collective purposes. And even the landscape photographer, with a hyperbolically wide lens, may only be telling a part of the story, for what lens encompasses 360 degrees, what human has eight eyes? But what about the landscape magician? Ah, the frame isn’t wide enough for this tawdry mountain range—he backs on to the moon to get a fuller perspective. And if that isn’t wide enough, he moves to Jupiter and reframes. Still not true enough? He changes galaxy.

The Creature

Papillon Dog

Ariel


The creature (don’t be fooled by the cheery exterior) is secretly mourning the death of Peter O’Toole. Why is that? Because she urgently wants to go to the beach, which is oh-so similar to the Sahara Lawrence of Arabia so admired—or detested, or was it simply that T. E. Lawrence had divided loyalties or uncertain proclivities, all having little to do with undulating deserts and Egyptian actors which have a natural gift for wrapping themselves in once thought unphotographable mirages)–or even more benignly simple, was it the case of a film director (or editor, God only knows what happens in darkened rooms!) desperately wanting to use a match cut of a flame and the torrid desert sun? No matter. And she really does have a ‘no-prisoners’ attitude to getting someone (me) to take her for long and at times circuitous ambulations on bone-white sand, warm to the touch and garnished as though by a cherub’s hand with bits of seaweed, which has a habit, despite extraordinary caprioles, of ending up glued to her feathery tail, and it’s plain to most that she is oblivious to the hanger-ons, the way one tends to blot out pesky peddlers and vintage vagabonds near noisy bus stations.