discovery

the tecontic plates of picture puzzles
fall and rise, with each taken breath
as the fish swim deeper into the body


of what we have not yet found.

red jellyfish

I have been a smoker for approximately six months. I've been smoking for longer, yes, but only recently fell into a groove, a brand and a habit. Late night car rides, generally alone; waiting for the bus or the train or a person to meet—when my nerves get the best of me. Camel Turkish Royals. Always.
For this particular cigarette, I had been waiting in line for something unimportant. I finished the smoke, clutched my leopard print jacket and walked around the corner to a vintage store, because my friends were meeting me there. I left the line and was not sad. But my friends did not come and so, I returned, limply.
My lungs were still full of nicotine and as my mouth began to rehydrate itself, a man approached me and asked if I had a smoke. Finally, I thought, others can recognize me as a smoker, which can only mean I truly am. Gladly, I reached into my pocket and retrieved the blue pack. "Do you need a light?" I asked. "Yeah. actually," he said. "I'm a terrible smoker."
For one reason or another, I was not compelled to join him. Instead, we talked and I became infatuated. As his cigarette drew to half-finished, I saw my friends round the corner. They came over and we all talked to one another. The man was named Jacques and he lived in L.A. We were college freshmen from New York, with sick parents and empty wallets. I was the love interest. She was the gay one. The third as the odd-one-out. And then, we became a story. After the fall into designated places, we grabbed our new identities and watched Jacques play the guitar in a room filled with trendy, Minneapolis lesbians. When the music stopped, and the lesbians filtered out, my two friends and I went to say hello to Jacques. "Let's go out front and have a cigarette." he said, and all three of us followed him, like lost children.
Outside, we were yet again, surrounded by short haired, thick glasses-strew women, and their younger, sexier girlfriends. We make small talk with Jacques, and another man—the drummer—named Josh. I am nervous and anxious and unwavering in my fictional persona. Josh leaves and so does the third-wheel friend. I stay to smoke another cigarette and Jacques stays with me. We both want each other and it is obvious; only I am not drunk and he must be. We tell the gay friend to go inside and she does. "I really want to put my hands on you." he says. There is nothing I want more and I tell him so.
Strangers come up to greet him and he does not let go of my back. I put my hood on, and he puts on his and we move closer and closer to kissing. "How much weed have you smoked today?" he asks and I say none, because that is the truth, but I am not offended by his questioning.
We kiss and it feels like the time I went swimming at Coney Island and the red jellyfish circled my twisting body. I was not scared, and strangely unsurprised. I knew the jellyfish could sting me, but it didn't matter. They were there and so was I and there was nothing the other could do about it.
After the kiss, I left, knowing I would never see Jacques again. I felt something I had not felt in a very long time. I could sense the energy beaming out from inside me and all my organs opened and lifted. I was fixed. My emotions were no longer urged to constrict and tighten. I was not afraid to feel them or of what could happen if I did.
I was healed, finally. Soon after, I began speaking to my oldest love, and though I had no idea whether my heart would be broken once more, I did not care, because I was ready to try again.

thanksgiving

She wanted to be a model in airplane bathrooms. The light that suited best.
Surrounded in furs and sky beneath, she learned her lesson. This is it, this is not, she said. She said. She learned. Just as children.

The Italian man slept in the aisle, and left no room for tight skirts and lengths of legs.

When cities were drifting, she drank-in fear. In its depths, she wanted to escape. This was the essence of her life, of her being and she knew it would cause great trouble later.

Mistakes are mistakes and some people think they are ok and others do not. You must learn to lie. To lie is to keep people happy. That is important.

That line is made of dust! She says. No, no, it is made of cloud.

She crosses the street, looking both ways, and gets into a taxi dripping with guilt. Let’s be quiet and look at the lights.

lazybones (part one)

Heavy hands weighed me down. The empty bottle I grasped seemed almost full. The air that blew in was cool, moist, bitter. My house was pandemonium. People and friends cluttered in hallways, in little knooks, in bathrooms and corners. I was throwing a party. A going away party for my best friend, Fred, who was leaving for France the next morning. While Fred busily schmoozed with old pals, whom everyone was always slightly acquainted with--never friends, always pals--I was standing, lonely, by the open window, embracing the breeze and tightly gripping an old gin bottle. I dug into my dress's pocket for a pack of cigarettes, for licorice or gum, anything to prop my unused hand and unopened mouth. No luck. No mouth prop. So, I continued to glance out the window and wait. Wait for someone to realize who I was, Daffodil Bowers, theologian, educator, novelist, actress. Failed theologian, educator, novelist, actress.
"Need a light, baby?" Fred stood gently behind me, holding an unlit cigarette. 
"Why yes, dear. That'd be lovely." I said to him, widening my mouth to a smile, holding out my vacant hand. 
 "Tomorrow, it's all gonna be gone. You’ll still need lights and I’ll be lost, wandering the streets of Paris, searching for a dead cigarette to birth." he said, looking out, over the massive landscape of bodies in my living room.
"I’m gonna miss you so much, Fred." a tear was beginning to fall from my green, sullen eye, and I wiped it away, ever so quickly.
 "Tonight is our night," he said, holding up a glass of gin and lime. "let's kiss 1947 on the lips and wish it the most glorious farewell!"

"But my dearest Fred, it is the middle of July. 1947 is in its prime. It's not time to say goodbye." I whispered in Fred's ear, taking a small drag of tobacco.
"Well, Daf, I suppose you're right about that. It will be gone soon enough."

The doorbell rang. Someone in a blue coat answered it. A cluster of well dressed men and girls entered. Fred went to greet the new arrivals and left me, in the company of the window, with a lit cigarette and an empty bottle of gin.

father

I haven't slept with a woman in nine months. I keep my blinds shut and my eyes closed. On Sunday afternoons I take my daughter, Iris, out to ice cream and a movie, before returning her to my ex-wife's doorstep. On rarest occasions, she spends the night, curled on the broken sofa bed, clutching a ragged blanket, with two fingers drooping out of her wet mouth. Iris looks like me as a kid, with stick straight hair and brown freckles advertising her nose and cheeks. She speaks and moves identically to my ex-wife, Meredith, taking small steps, pressing her heel back hard; slow, harsh breaths in between sentences, words that coil up and around her teeth. She is the flood of my mind, and when I see her, I become a different person: less cynical, more father.

Iris is seven, slender and tall. She goes to school around the corner from my house, and most days, I take her home. This has become a ritual, like Sunday ice creams, which, in reality, is more for me than her.

Today, while walking the twelve blocks to Iris's mother's house, she tells me about the ocean, its explorers and the mystery that lurks in its deepest crevices. Someday I will be a sailor, she says. Me too. I say. I follow Iris up to the top step. She puts her tiny hand on the gold knob, and as I skip down the concrete stairs back to the street, she pushes the heavy door open, disappearing inside until tomorrow. I walk home, staring at the ground, holding back tears.

My apartment is on the top floor of a medium-sized building in the west edge of Park Slope. Below me lives a washed-up ex-punk who used to shave his head and wear leather. Now, he’s into presidential elections and the "hot-ass waitress" who works at the restaurant down the block. His name is Martin and he is my best friend.

We've known each other for the three years since I moved in, directly following my depressing divorce from Meredith. Martin's never been married, never wanted to be married, but nevertheless convinced he has plenty of illegitimate children floating around the city, reliving Martin's own youth and impregnating one another. I tell him he's vulgar, and he sticks his finger in my face.

As I turn the corner, I see Martin sitting on the stoop of our building, smoking a cigarette and twisting the toe of his shoe. He looks up at me and squints.

You've really got to get laid, man, he says.

Thanks Martin, I say, tousling his long hair with one hand and pulling the keys out of my pocket with the other.

Martin and I climb the stairs, silently, single-file. We reach Martin's floor and he turns his head. This means I am supposed to come in, to drink beer and watch porn. I shake my head a gentle no, and bite my lip all the way up the final flight of stairs.

Twenty minutes later, there is a knock at my door, and it's Martin, holding a twelve pack of Rolling Rock, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. I usher him inside, rubbing my face and tightening my lungs. He sets the beer down, lights the cigarette and stares at me. What? I say. Get dressed, he says. I shoot a weighted burst of air out my nose and reach for the cigarette.

We can't share smokes, man, he says. That's for fags.

I go in my room, lie on my bed and masturbate for a while. When I finish, I get dressed and comb my hair.

Back in the living room, Martin’s lying on the bench where I take off my shoes; the bench under which Iris hides when heated games of Hide and Seek are stirring.

Get up, I say.

I don’t want to be in my house. I do not want to be in my house with Martin. So we go to that restaurant down the block, with the "hot-ass waitress" and shitty food.

We sit in a booth and the waitress comes over. Martin winks at her once, twice. I realize I've never known her name. I shift my vision away from Martin's obnoxious fluttering eye, and towards her chest, where I know a nametag will be. Iris.

Your name is Iris? I say. My name is Iris, she says. We order and Iris leaves. Martin and I both feel neglected. She should have stayed longer.

Don't fuck with my waitress, man, Martin says, later.

We pay the check and go home. This time as we travel up the stairs and come to Martin's floor, he doesn't turn his head. He’s angry with me and I’m angry with him for being angry. My face flushes.

The next day, I pick up Iris from school and accompany her home. She graces me with new dance steps, a knowledge of brush strokes and color choice. She kisses my cheek and runs to the arms of her mother. I leave before I can spot Meredith's lingering face and feel the rush of regret that usually follows.

Instead of going straight home, I stop at the restaurant where the other Iris works. Her hair is curly and hangs below her clavicle. I want to push it behind her ears and kiss her neck.

I approach her, pulsing with fear. Hi Iris. Hi, she says back. Iris is my daughter's name, I say. Well, I’ve always liked it, she says.

Do you want to go for a date?

I said that too quickly. My entire body contracts with hatred for itself.

I don't even know you, she says. But what the fuck.

It’s easier now. I write my phone number on a napkin with the skittery pen that sits in my jacket pocket, and go home with a rare smile pasted across my face.

There is Martin, sitting on the stoop, frowning, with a soggy cigarette hanging between his fingers. Hey man, you really do need to get laid, he says. Hi Martin, I say. We go inside and this time I feel obligated to go into his apartment for a beer and pornography.

Iris calls me two days later. It’s a little past eight, and I’d been reading the newspaper and smoking out the window. I let the phone ring twice before answering it.

I don’t know much about dates. I have never known much about dates or fucking or being in love. Martin believes himself an expert, but is as lost as I am. Meredith knows these things, but I no longer know Meredith.

The next day is Friday, and when I go to pick up Iris from school, I see her mother's long, stoic body draped over a railing, looking beautiful. I stand still. She sees me and gives a half-smile. I wave and go up to her.

How's what's his name? I say.

Fabian. His name is Fabian and he’s just fine, she says, annoyed.

Well, I have a date, I say. With a waitress.
Thank God, she says.

I leave, sad I cannot participate in my daily routine.

On Saturday afternoon, Martin comes over to help me choose an outfit for my date with Iris. He walks me to the restaurant, though I ask him not to. Iris is perched on a stool, wearing a short dress and black tights. Her hair looks less limp, but still grazes her collarbone and makes me tingle. We go out to dinner and it is good. She tells me where she lives and I take her home. We kiss a little on the doorstep.

I feel swollen with a once familiar tenderness. Strange sensations ooze out of me and bleed down onto Martin's sullen, sunken life.

I meet child Iris at her house the next morning. We go to the park. I want to tell her about big Iris, but I’m afraid of her reaction. I will always be your only girl, right Daddy? she always says. Of course, baby, I say. If only I could explain. Not today. Not tomorrow. And then I forget about it, while Iris describes the intricacies of an Easy Bake Oven and her future career as a chef.

I see the other Iris again later that week. We go dancing, and kiss harder at the door. She does not invite me inside, and I am grateful.

The weather warms. Martin and I begin to drink beer on the front steps and throw stale bread to the pigeons. Iris and I go on another date. This time, I go to her house, where she is drinking red wine and listening to Cuban music.

I'm making dinner, she says. I’m excited because that means we're going to have sex. We drink coffee and discuss our childhoods. She asks me about my daughter and my ex-wife. I tell her only about Iris, because Meredith will do nothing but flatten my desire.

We make love and it is not awkward. Afterward, she lights a cigarette and smokes it lying down. Pools of smoke escape the sides of her mouth. We have sex again, before I dress myself and return home.

Martin comes over the next day, while I am still in my pajamas, and asks if Iris and I fucked. I say yes, and he looks disappointed.

Months go by. Little Iris celebrates her eighth birthday; big Iris celebrates her twenty-ninth. A pit of guilt grows in my stomach. I see my girlfriend Iris almost as often as I see my daughter Iris. Meredith gets engaged to that man and throws a party. She invites me and my "waitress”, and I figure it was as good a time as any to introduce the Irises.

The party is on a Saturday night. Iris answers the door and stares blankly at the other Iris. Hi dad, she says. I know she is angry because she calls me dad and not daddy. We go inside and remove our shoes. Little Iris is not impressed with big Iris, and I can feel the tension building like bricks. This is Iris; her name is just like yours, I say. She's my girlfriend. Immediately, I can sense the fury held in my daughter’s fragile body. She extends a hand reluctantly towards the intruder, and smirks.

After little Iris goes to bed, big Iris and I separate, mingling with brokers, Italian businessmen and their wives. Meredith, severely drunk, moves next to me and whispers in my ear.

I am still in love with my ex-wife, so we fuck on the bed I used to sleep in. Meredith laughs and I cry. I get out of the bed, ashamed and dirty, and start to leave the room in search of Iris. But she is standing at the bedroom door, and I have no time to make an excuse. Meredith peeks out from behind me, resting her head on my shoulder. I am burning flames and fire and hate. I hate Meredith. I hate Iris. I hate Martin. I hate beer and porno and sex and I hate myself. I take my shoulder back from Meredith's chin and weep in Iris' face.

Iris and I return to the living room, put our shoes on and leave. On the sidewalk, she holds my hand, then kisses me softly.

This is what love feels like, she says, as she walks away, not looking back.

I like this show

Two people sit silently in their living room, on a Friday afternoon. It is a little past four and the weather is lousy—rainy and cold.
The first person, a man, sits in a chair, staring at the big-faced clock that hangs on a wall in the kitchen. The second, a woman, files her nails and crosses her legs together tightly. The man speaks first.
What time are you expecting 'em, honey?
The woman answers casually.
Well, I don't know dear. Anytime really.
The man continues to stare at the clock. The woman stops filing her red, callused hands and glances over at him. The man looks back at her and shakes his head.
Maybe I should give 'em a call. You know, just to make sure they aren't lost or in an accident.
The woman reaches to her left, picks up the brown telephone seated next to her and hands it to the man, before returning to her nail file. The man grabs it and begins to dial.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
There's no answer. the man says, hanging up.
You were barely on the line. the woman says.
Okay, I’ll call again. he says, redialing.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Nothing, the man says, looking back at the clock.
The woman gets up and goes to the man.
I'm making myself a drink. Want one?
I suppose.
The woman walks to the large cabinet nested in a back corner of the room. She opens a bottle of vodka and pours it into two glasses. She takes a glass to the man, and one back to her seat. She lights a cigarette and moves an ashtray to the coffee table in front of her.
Maybe I should give them a try. she says, setting the cigarette down in the ashtray.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
No answer. I hope they're all right.
The woman retrieves her cigarette and finishes it, while sipping her vodka.
Would you like me to turn on the television? the woman says.
I don't see why not. says the man.
Now, the room floods with sounds of cheering strangers.
I like this show. the woman says.
Me too. the man says.
Ring. Ring. the telephone rings.
Hello? says the woman.