The Hungry Artist

(Note: Every other day or so, I’ll post the next installment in my series, Myths & Meditations. This one comes next after “Breathe” from the section, “Meditations: I am Here and So are You.”

Two young girls stand side by side. One is at least a foot taller than the other, gazing with a sideways glance at the smaller. They are sisters, but you couldn’t tell by mere appearance. The taller one has a hook-like nose and prominent grin. The other’s face is round with a flat nose and eyebrows that are barely there. They both wear loose dresses. They both have crooked-cut bangs.

There was a time when the older sister in this photo was an only child. Her bangs were not as crooked. Her outgrown dresses were not yet hand-me-downs, but kept in the closet just in case. Her gaze in photos directed at her own awkward feet and not at someone else.

And then her sister was born. Soon it seemed her sister was a permanent fixture, attached to her side. It felt as if her sister had always been there. No photo was necessary to demonstrate their closeness. Nevertheless, the older sister cherished this photo. She kept it snug and safe in her wallet. Years later, she found an old photo of herself by herself, which she compared to this one with her sister. She barely recognized herself, a time and space she occupied without her sister. Her sister – still here – with a face now rounder, now worn.

Now the older sister is no more. The remaining sister now takes pictures by herself. She seeks to fill that motionless, empty space.

Prior to this day, I had never stopped to read the Obits, which without fail come right before Editorial & Opinion. And yet by the time I got to U.S. Politics, I sensed something was missing. At first, I ignored this feeling, but when nothing in this section grabbed my attention, I flipped back to the beginning.

Imagine traveling from San Diego to Los Angeles and not spotting those buildings in the shape of a woman’s breasts about an hour into driving. Without this landmark, you may lose your bearings and begin doubting that you’re on the right path. You may even turn back. Which is what I did. I turned back to where the Obits were supposed to be and they simply were not there.

First, I looked for signs of mischief. Perhaps the deliveryman wanted this section for himself. There were no rips or tears to speak of. Then I checked to see if the day’s obituaries had been placed elsewhere in the paper, perhaps accidentally. They were nowhere to be found – not clumsily placed in with sports, not even confused with the comic strips.

I didn’t stop there. I searched the online version of the paper of the same date just to see if the same error (assuming this exclusion was indeed an error) had been made. First, I clicked on “Obituaries,” and then on “Today” where you’re given an alphabetical list by last names. No A’s, B’s, all the way to F’s. And then I clicked on “View All Obituaries.” Blank. So then I tried “Yesterday.” There was something like 30 deaths reported, 5 names starting with B and only one T.

What was it about Today? Could it be that there were simply no deaths to speak of? I clicked on an obit from Yesterday and this is what appeared before me:

JOHNSON, JOHN G. Born July 1, 1952. Died May 1, 2003. John wrote books. He died.

And another:

VARGAS, ANTONIO 2/25/60 – 4/13/03 American Cremation.

These were only two of many listed under Yesterday, but none for Today.

I decided to call the local paper and ask them for an explanation. They said they’d look into it and get back to me. In the meantime, I read more obituaries. I read some online and every single one in the daily paper until I recognized a predictable pattern in format: name, date of birth, family background, youth, marriages, life passions, education, achievements and awards. And yet this simplicity of structure led me to jot down these inquiries as they came to me:

Cause of death. Why do some state it, while others don’t? Most often, those that don’t are write-ups of individuals who died at a ‘natural’ age, say anywhere from 70 to 80. The cause of death, therefore, should be obvious. Those that do state the cause of death often do so in this manner: Betty died peacefully in her sleep. How can one know such a thing? Does this not assume that sleep is universally a tranquil experience? What if instead, Betty fought against the nightmare of death enveloping her as she lay in bed, her soul clenched in its claws as it pulled her down into a gravity stronger than that of the earth, her mind alert but without the ability to speak or cry out, trapped in a body failing in its functions, minute by slow minute, hour by hour? Of course, none of this is said in Betty’s brief obituary. Unlike fictional structures, obits have room for only the necessary. No obit writer – professional or not – drags out the really unusual or grisly details such as a stake knife to the heart or accidental suicide. Left to the discretion of the family member or friend, death is reduced to its most clinical, basic explanation.

Dave has been survived by his faithful wife of 30 years and a grandson and one niece. Don’t those who survive know that they do so? The information, then, can’t be for their benefit. Then for whose benefit is this bit written? Dave’s wife and teenage children continue to survive for the sole purpose of keeping his memory alive.

Liz was preceded in death by her father and mother and eldest brother. You know the saying parents should never outlive their children. The legacy of this natural state of human affairs – though there are exceptions – must not be broken for you, dear reader of the daily obituaries.

I read on. I read the local who are dubbed famous and thus take up almost the entire page, squeezing into tiny print the John Gs and Anthony’s. Unfair, I decided, considering that both large and small in fame takes up equal amounts of space when deceased.

Smith, George, Professor whose research in particle physics played a vital role in the first space shuttle design. Included are all the little details that emphasize the importance of his specific contributions to the scientific community, leaving nothing to the imagination. And so, Professor Smith’s legacy is consigned to Lauded Professor of Physics in almost 100 lines.

John G. wrote books. He died.

Had the Lauded Professor been summarized: Smith, George Professor of Physics. Contributed his part to the whole of the scientific community, how many more one or two-liners could have been made to fit?

MARCUS, LEANN Lived a full life, demonstrated by her loyal dedication for 30 years to the firm.

LIZARRO, CASS Loved her family, loved the Lord.

FRANCO, JULIAN Predeceased by wife and now they are together in heaven.

KOVAN, GER Mother of 2, Friend of Dozens.

DURAN, DINA Chef extraordinaire, devoted godmother of Lizzy, loving cousin to Fred, Robin and Chance.

I read so many that they followed me to the grocery store. I began reciting them like lines of poetry in the fresh produce section:

RHYDE, RONALD Left us on July 11 at 0815. Passed away in the company of a visiting troop of showgirls.

LIN, LEE Born in Los Angeles, California, the land of opportunity. Died somewhere else.

While skimming the sugar content of packages of candy:

ALVAREZ, EDWARD Surgeon at Sharp Medical for 40 years. Died two years after retirement.

SOMMERS, BARB Experimented with new forms of plastic surgery. Luckily, died before every needing any.

CALLIS, DIMITRI Wrote Y.A. novels. Married 20 years. Left behind a wife but no children.

BACKER, BECKA Author of children’s books. Died without ever having them.

At the gas station:

PARKS, NATHAN Mazatlan Mortuary, (740) 221-3318.

TATE, RONALD FAYE 01/24/36 – 10/7/2015 Preferred Cremation & Burial.

VALANZUELA, MANUEL “MANNY” ZEPEDA Preferred to dig his own grave.

At the liquor store:

Larry would never forgive us for a sad story, so in honor of his life, we raise our glasses of Vodka and tonic and say, “Here’s to you, dear Larry! We love and miss you terribly.”

Larry may have strolled this same aisle once – the shelves full of alcohol of all kinds. His friends had to choose something. They chose to toast his taste in drinks and happy songs.

I still have a choice – London Dry or Dutch Gin. I cry. Two for one, top shelf, or sales bin.

Sum me up. Fold me. Place in drawer.

Months have passed and the local paper hasn’t called me back. When I finally reach them, I wonder what their story will be. I wonder if it was simply an oversight and if they’ll work back retroactively. I say don’t dig up the dead. There’s plenty to read already.

He offered her braids
left them that way –
relieved of rubber bands and ribbons
and then planted a tree
and let the acorns fall free

He never shed a tear
when speaking of her pain with clinical ease
only stretched one band – a red one
back and forth with one thumb
and forefinger

It snapped at the last
right out the window
and he’s been searching
for it ever since
among the weeds
and under the acorn tree

She ventured to the movie theater for a special triple feature of Rossellini films. She especially looked forward to her favorite of the three, Germany Year Zero, the story of a young boy who believes his father deserves to die because he is weak. Jean chose the third row from the screen, in a seat where she could put up her feet.

She propped up her boots twenty minutes before the start of the first movie. At ten minutes till, the theater’s low lights came on and the seats in her row remained free because the third row is considered far too close to the movie screen. Jean saved the seat to her left with a handbag filled with treats, and the seat on her right with an overcoat.

The curtains parted and the lights dimmed to movie-friendly dark. First came commercials, then previews, whispers, giggles and coughs, crunching of popcorn and candy and sipping of soda through straws. Jean brought her feet down and straightened up her back. Her boots made a squishy sound when she lifted them from the sticky floor. Her head itched under her cap and she scratched. Voices within her vicinity clamored until one rose above the others and dominated in pitch as it predicted the opening scene of Rome Open City. Though she had already seen it, Jean wasn’t sure she could agree. It didn’t matter, for she thought better to keep her speculations to herself.

Still, in the revelry of this movie theater experience, Jean would be somebody, instantly. She got up to adjust her skirt, and as she did, she glimpsed behind her a trio of friends. They looked nothing like the voices that claimed to have already seen all three Rossellini films as she had, and to understand and speak Italian. When she sat back down the voice immediately behind her grumbled about stiff legs, and about how she would be unable to stretch them or to rest her feet for the entire time.

“Is this seat taken?” asked a figure in the dark mapped by the flickering lights from the screen. Yes, yes it is, she whispered back, knowing perfectly well the seat would continue to be filled by nothing but her oversized bag. She thought about this rather than the scene on the screen. Someone would notice somewhere that the seat was really free. He’d tell the usher who would then ask her to give up the unclaimed seat, thereby embarrassing her and ruining the movie for her and everyone else for the rest of the evening. And so, before the transition of the opening scene to the next, Jean gathered her belongings and carefully made her way to the left aisle, where she chose the most inconspicuous seat, the one right next to the wall where she could rest her head now and then.

This was a Friday night special feature, and so it came as no surprise when the four remaining seats in her row eventually filled. Just thirty minutes in to the first of the war trilogy, Rome Open City, Jean needed to pee, so she excused herself, saying sorry for each body she had to climb over. She left behind her overcoat, box of mini-pretzels, and half candy bar. She didn’t return to her seat until nearly the closing credits of the first film, all the while loitering by the women’s restroom, emptying her bladder every ten minutes or so until the 32 oz. of soda she had purchased before the film were completely depleted. As she did so, her thoughts returned to the first scene of Rome Open City. She sat helpless on the toilet, unable to confirm or deny absolutely the musings of the audience member who had vocalized his prediction of the opening scene. When she returned to her seat, she found the seat next to hers unoccupied. This struck her as a good thing. She could now place her bag on the seat rather than underneath. Much time passed and no one returned. Jean found it difficult to concentrate on the first episode of Paisan, the second of Rossellini’s war trilogy. Too bad, as there were still five more episodes to go. She found it difficult to sense whether she still smelled shower-fresh and so instead, peered at the figures beyond the empty seat, hands planted in popcorn bags, faces transfixed to the screen. She sensed her own mouth hung open and that she was breathing heavily. She decided to rest her bag on the now unoccupied seat.

During the brief intermission before the final film, Jean had no need to use the bathroom or to get up and adjust her skirt. With the buzzing of others to others around her, she decided to observe the embossing on the wall. The color was of a deep red. The design resembled the tail of a dragon, and she traced it with her finger, imagining.

At the end of the final film, Germany Year Zero, it was now close to one in the morning. With her eyes closed, Jean concentrated on the residue of young Edmund on the ground, and how it looked like he was only sleeping. The sleeping looked exactly like the dead up there on that looming large movie screen, shared with strangers she would more than likely never, ever meet.

1979

I met Grandpa for the first time in a photo: Bushy eyebrows, full lips, wavy hair cropped close to the head. Dressed in a wool suit jacket worn over a white dress shirt, bow tie with a crosshatched design.

Full-frontal profile in the color of sepia crookedly cropped and set in a 12 x 18 inch frame. Indiscriminately written on the back of the photo in blue ink cursive, Miguel Cecilio and the year 1938.

From a purely historical standpoint, Miguel Cecilio’s moustache resembles that of Hitler. Yet, he looks more like a Romantic poet pleading for you to see into the complexity behind those soulful eyes.

Mama said she was born in 1941, though her birth certificate states 1940. That mean that this photo of Grandpa labeled 1938 must have been taken only two or three years before Mama was born. Mama said he died when she was three. He looks no more than 30 in the photo, which means he both became a father and died at a relatively young age.

Papa says that Filipinos tend to date their photos arbitrarily, meaning no one knows for sure if this photo was really taken in 1938. Maybe Grandma (assuming she’s the one most likely to have labeled the photo) decided to date it on the day Grandpa gave it to her, rather than writing down the year it was actually taken. Or, if Grandpa didn’t give it to her, perhaps the photo slipped out of the pages of a magazine, cookbook, or out of Grandpa’s private diary only to be discovered accidentally. Perhaps Grandma found it stuck between the cushions of Grandpa’s favorite armchair, or underneath the kitchen sink. No one knows for sure, but what this does mean is that there’s the possibility this photo was taken years before 1938 – say as early as 1930 or even 1928. If this is the case, then this man who would become my grandfather became father to my mother at an older age than imagined previously, which would mean that he didn’t die all that young after all.

Whatever the case, what is known for certain is that the man in the photo, Miguel Cecilio, left behind a family in Spain (a wife and son) and some time later married a woman in the Philippines, the young woman who became my grandmother, who was a mere teenager at the time. He and she had two daughters together.

This one photo remains of Grandpa Miguel Cecilio, an up-close profile of his face with a moustache and brown eyes. He appears young in the photo, and by any standard, a handsome man.

1944 (or 43)

Grandma told her two daughters – the woman who became my mother and the woman who became my aunt – that their father had been killed by a wild boar while hunting, that he bled to death after being gored by said boar.

Adult male wild boars develop tusks that serve as tools and weapons. Adult female boars also have sharp canines but not protruding like the male.

Wild boars forage in the early morning hours or late afternoon. The male lowers its head, charges, and then slashes upward with his tusks. The female, whose tusks are not visible, charges with her head up, mouth wide, and bites. Such attacks are not often fatal to humans, but may result in severe trauma, dismemberment, or blood loss.

Miguel Cecilio did not lose a limb. A female boar – in an effort to protect her young – might have charged him. He did not stop to observe whether the boar attacked from a solitary position or from a sounder.

It isn’t of vital importance to know whether the boar that gored Miguel Cecilio was male or female. Either way, an attack could lead to blood loss, which could lead to one bleeding to death. The story goes that Miguel Cecilio bled to death from a fatal wound, whether a bite or a slash. Such attacks are not usually fatal to humans.

Grandpa only knew his daughter – the woman who became my mother – until the age of three. He never knew that she would die of a rare cancer at the age of 58. Only five percent of women who get uterine cancer get this most deadly kind.

1979

She placed his photo – a kind of oracle of a tragedy yet to come – on the table at the entrance of the hallway, between two fancy candelabras so she could look at it inconspicuously on the way out the door each day.

This habit of photo worship began when Josephine was very young.

1950

Lourdes, Miguel Cecilio’s wife, built a shrine. Lourdes kept the shrine for years after Miguel’s death, dusting and polishing the crosses and frames each week, one at a time. At the time there were plenty of other photos of her husband. None of them were in color. Some were sepia, others black and white. Josephine, the older of the two daughters, happened to grab the photo that would become the only surviving one, rescuing it from the fire that burned not only the entire shrine, but all the other photos when she was nine (or ten). The fire was put out in time to save the home and their lives.

All of this occurred a short time before Lourdes, the mother of Josephine and Patricia, sent them away to a Catholic orphanage.

There the nuns in charge of Josephine and Patricia stole their valuables – jewelry, money, hairpieces and stationary for writing letters home. That is why Lourdes never received any letters from her daughters while they grew into young ladies. The nuns left the photo of the young girls’ father, Miguel Cecilio, alone because it did not appear valuable – neither the photo nor the plastic frame in which it was held.

Josephine slept with the photo under her pillow. She often snuck it out at night after the nuns made their rounds and under the sheet with a small flashlight, she admired the smooth skin and beckoning eyes. She tried to match any memories of her father with the man in the photo and came up empty. She tried to picture the shrine photos before they burned, but the flames always got in the way. In time, the only memory she had was the figure in this one photo.

The sisters’ beds sat side by side, and often, after the nuns made their ritual rounds, they would scoot their beds together into one. Patricia asked for her turn to sleep with the photo under her pillow, not because it was of any real importance to her. As the younger of the two, she wanted only to emulate the older. In fact, being the younger, she felt no kinship with the handsome man in the photo who happened to be her father. But in order to be the good big sister that she knew she should be, Josephine acquiesced and hesitantly handed the valued photo to her sister every other night.

1955

At last, in the bloom of their youth, their mother Lourdes removed Josephine and Patricia from the orphanage and brought them back home. Josephine, now a teen, lacked the same fervor she had had for the photo of her father and gave it back to her mother, who set it inside a drawer (she couldn’t keep it on display as she was now married to another man). The photo survived the passing years of forgetfulness, and somehow ended up once again in Josephine’s possession.

1980

One day, on her way out the door, Josephine forgot to look at the photo. At mid-day, she tried to see her father as a living, moving being in color, holding her three-year-old self on his knee. She failed. Rather, she saw a large rifle mounted on the wall. When she blinked, the rifle was gone. In its place was an overcoat, which when she approached it in her daydream smelled like medicine and Lysol.

Beyond

By the time Josephine reached midlife, she had had several children. I, the youngest of four girls, one day inquired about Grandfather Miguel Cecilio. I used to tell my classmates the story you told me, I said to Mama, in the fifth grade. My friends would giggle and ask me to tell the story again and again. Had Grandpa really been killed by a wild boar? At last, Mama told me, rumor has it he really died of a fatal illness, most likely cancer, one of the real leading causes of death.

I look at this one surviving photo of Grandpa Miguel Cecilio again and again: The same bushy eyebrows. Full lips. Wavy hair cropped close to the head. Brown soulful eyes. I try to see passed them. All I see is this one thing. This one thing only.

Kitten cradled in crux of arm
Sleep comes swift for two
(In the bedroom)

Brother crawls up hallway walls
All bare hands and feet
(I hover underneath)

Eyes spy Brother reach the peak
Made of cottage cheese
(While they sleep indifferently)

Only yesterday Mother made
Brother’s head into a knocker
(Once into the tile twice harder)

Slide quietly under Spider-hero
While he holds up hallway walls
(So as not to disturb the sleepers)

He creeps into the bedroom
Curls up head to feet
(Meanwhile the sleepers continue to sleep)

Forgive them he says in the language of dreamers
For they know not what to do
(With a head too hard to bruise)

Walls remain fixed as Brother grows
Far too long and big
(To creep and crawl like children).

V4 of WordRiver Spring 2012 is now available for purchase. It includes my short story, “Arms and Hands.” Enjoy! http://wordriverreview.unlv.edu/2012/

The cat purrs. A whistling sound comes from its nose. She lies in another room but can hear with her eyes closed. She cannot hear the padding of the cat’s feet.

He’s been practically deaf since age three. Now a grown man, he simply turns down his hearing aid when he needs to think. For example, now in a loud bar, he nods his head while instigating lines of rhyme or reason.

The cat is under the cabinet. She can tell by the jingling of its bells. It must be licking itself or stretching its feet. She chooses to listen to the bells rather than the people speaking on TV.

He sees a finger coil a curl, the snatch of an earlobe. That one smiling and laughing will have trouble sleeping. He can tell by the way her hands tremble while she’s drinking. And how she looks away and stares into the ceiling.

I don’t remember, she says, to one particular book on the shelf. So she pulls it out and begins reading it again. And it all comes back to her, as in a feeling. The cat pounces on her lap. Unexpectedly. She kisses its feet.

He will memorize the bar scene like a movie script and remember it vividly, mostly because he doesn’t drink. And then one day – for the life of him – he won’t be able to recall the details, or the order in which they happened. He won’t remember the reasons. When he goes to the bar again, he won’t even notice the brand new furniture.

The names are new and so is her mood. She scoots the cat off her lap. It lands on its feet. She lies down on the couch. The cat returns to her lap, licks her cheek. She talks in her sleep. It nibbles on the last page read. Something about the beginning and the end.

Clock strikes eight, on the hour, twelve hours after waking up late at eight. Day has turned to night. Still sit idle.

Eyes opened at 8 o’clock in the morning to the sound of a bird chirping outside the window. Or was it the sound of the lamp by the bed going click-click-click, or the kitchen clock tick, or hum of the fridge.

Chirp of one became chirp of several – the chorus of the world. They and the world awoke all at the same time, and the quiet of the night burst into song. It is all.

For one could lie in bed forever like this. Let the drizzle softly tap the metal. To lull or to wake.
One sits alone.
Between the hours.
Between the tryst.

My dual monologue, “God is in the Ceiling,” from my completed collection, Myths & Meditations, and two hybrid poems, “sunrise. sunflower. unblinking eye.” & “Father Said,” from my collection in progress, Specter, are now published in the 15th Year Anniversary Issue of Big Bridge Magazine. The link is available in the Bibliography.