Scene Twenty Nine
After we made whatever we made, love or hateful ravishing fuck, well I did not see her or hear from her for several weeks and retreated into dark depression. I traveled out of the City on the Long Island Rail road to my family dacha, then became quite drunk.
Strong Island, oh how your beaches become more cared for and more picturesque, the farther from the dark masses we go! Unmitigated, crisp dunes of unsoiled sand.
I have been out of the hospital for just under a black two months. I have been trying to put my life back together, as elegantly as possible under these shall we say, conditions. There have been some real complications, I am pushing through them best I can. Keeping my body moving, though my soul has been sold and my heart cut out, and my grand beliefs, well they are gone.
I am having great trouble separating the fakeness of my idealistic inventions, my creative proclivities from the objective real. What is in fact really happening, has happened in the papers of record, and on Instagram too! My imaginations must be totally divorced from what did in fact occur. Her lips taste different from in a dream or when rendered in my latest technicolored naughty painting. I am still hurting. Perhaps I will hurt forever, over that one woman that makes all the others pale in comparison. I shall die trying to explain myself to strangers and confidants alike. All of the time I am hurting, it’s not ever her fault. She is so flawless! She has never mislead me. Others perhaps she has destroyed or driven to madness, but I was like that when she met me in the wild days and cruel nights preceding the coming Great Revolt of 2012, perhaps it would not come that soon. Which happened? Or did it really happen? Perhaps it was all a bleak, hopeless dream.
You can’t make someone love you. You can try, but it will basically kill you, and maybe you don’t care. I don’t, didn’t. I won’t!
I now am wandering around like a listless zombie, a mechanical man with no heart and no soul and no sense of any purpose. None at all. Defeated, again. I mumble her name to the extinguished red moon crescent sliver, I warble in public, I tell mobs her name in grim poetical.
And worse, I am alone again. Which to a social creature like I, is a torture in itself. I have no more friends. Somewhere in what was once Brooklyn, well either there or in the Wild West Indies, or back in Mother Africa is my best friend Mickhi Dbrisk, the others are all dead or have completely denounced me as a mad man who squandered his gifts.
Being alone with the kind of thoughts I think, it is really quite brutal. Daria, who once told me I am the smartest man she has ever met, she said I must be so lonely. So unhappy all the time. She once asked if my face had lost the muscle memory for smiles.
Perhaps not quite literally or figuratively, politically or even of the life style of fight and nightery speaking “alone”; but alone then in the only way it matters to me, for after all that war and all that trouble. She is not with me, she is unimpressed with where I had spent my nights and years. She is unmoved by what I did or didn’t do in the war, in the Brooklyn nights, in Palestine and Haiti. She never cared and she never will, and it doesn’t make her love me more or less what I did in her name, to stay with her. It’s the past, she barely remembers any of it. The power of right-right now, we are in the future and the fire on the mountain, well those were tiny print words.
I stand on the beach, with my aging parents and we are drinking indigently. All of us still standing.
I wear a white pin striped dinner jacket, white linen pants and a soft white multibutton Barcelona cotton hippy shirt, my brother had once given me. My dark brown hair is slicked back with some cheap grease, now made hard and I look Italian. Or so some say. But I haven’t eaten any fucking pasta in many years, Piezan.
The waves crash big before us, we sit in the white wood pavilion on Main Beach, East Hampton drinking these date rape Margaritas that no one had over the years bothered to tell my father tasted like real shit, and got you angry an drunk, and made you say and do stupid things when Basque white wine, or Prosecco could have kept it much classier.
There are these big red signs saying “DANGER! NO SWIMMING.” As well as some local cops and some lingering life guards, seated near and on a sand buggy. There are picnicking civilians everywhere, it’s just half after 5. The big waves are all that remained of Tropical Storm Germaine, that the media told us would completely ruin the Labor Day Weekend. With or without the storm, the weekend was a total wash anyway.
What year was this again? What time was even ever now? 2011 I suppose, but who cares. Really whose calendar was important? Just keep showing up for work is all they asked. No one remembered the war years anyway, especially not these soft Hamptonites, these Citified citiots, these liberal plump Jews. What? Not even half patriots! What had even happened in the Middle East, what had happened in Haiti; it was just some vague sad day dream. Bloody really only for foreign brown faces you’d never meet. Though the papers say we are sheltering 12,000 Syrians, that’s good of us. What also of the ashes of the Brooklyn Soviet, trampled under the iron heel of our government? Had the Labor Day rising four years ago even occurred as I remembered it and wrote it down? What of all my dear dead friends? Where were they buried? The only things left to prove I had even been there, that it was even real! Had I even done those things in those deserts and ghettos and mountains; a paramedic card in my pocket, the edges singed from when I tried to burn it and Daria had stopped once me. Also, burns on the bilat of both my hands, from when she couldn’t.
And I still do dream of Ms. Daria Andreavna, when I so still even dream. Nothing is left of my original vision. Nothing has survived the Great War, or wars still to come. The Labor Day Uprising has been forgotten, all its principle leaders were lined up and shot. The Brooklyn Ghetto which we once called the Brooklyn Soviet, it is rubble. The development vultures are circling the ash piles and pilings and smoldered wrecks of our greatest hopes.
Avram Adon, my father the plump aging 75 year old dentist look very tired. And Barbara Josephina, my sorcerous mother she sips the poisonous confection and looks into the sea.
Talk now turns to medical school. We were notified by mail that while I was interned in the hospital camps, being corrected in thought, I had been accepted to St. George’s Medical school in Grenada. This would be a fine way to stay out of trouble and maybe secure my life, the parents thought. I did too. For I was tired, and no one; not the doctors, the parents, the lovers or the remaining comrades trusted my mind anymore. So smart, and so squandered.
All these sycophants that once drank my fine and ate my feasts and feted at my fetes, they smiled like clowns and listened to my speeches! Now where were any of them? Dbrisk is probably in hiding in Brooklyn, what’s left of the central ghetto. Andrew Lesce is renting a small apartment in the Isle of Man, he was not very involved in the rising at all. Erin is under house arrest in Queens, and the others are all gone.
My mind is collapsing, I cannot say yet why.
I have no more tears left. Not even for my face. Why are so many of my closest dead and I am cursed to be alive! The hospital camps took me, when I came out it was all over.
The waves crash and explode their foam and rip back out to the sea. They still evidently cannot predict the weather in this futuristic future of smart phones and devices. Where the oligarch David Rockefeller just had his 7th heart transplant.
My parents are talking about something, that I cannot even hear and I remember the terrible great tease of seeing Daria again on the roof, years after I lost track of her in the carnage and tumult of the revolution, well that was less than two months ago I found her, I remember us running into that Bulger Tavern and signing away our souls, and…no it wasn’t real. It was all just in some revolutionary soap opera I wrote mourning her. In the real world though, I ran into Ms. Daria on the roof, and I spent the last two months with her, traveling the three states without ever using our papers, and dancing and dining and reading her my novels, the memoirs about the war years and the poems I wrote in her name. And then, then she broke it all off again. For my sake, she claims.
“I cannot love you as you love me, nothing has changed…you are killing yourself again.”
“Well, I feel the ocean telling me to swim,” I say.
I disrobed my white finery down to my under garments. I told my father, “Tell her that I loved her.” “I won’t,” he replied into his drink. And then I took off running down the beach into the bluest blackest surf, hoping the mighty ocean would just carry me away, knowing I wouldn’t die this way, knowing that I would float back to the beach eventually. I just didn’t care about my body anymore, about anything really. She came back, and she was gone. I had thought I would never see her again, and then she came back! Perhaps just one week after I got out the camps! I never thought I’d see her again, that she’d marry a doctor or end up in a comfort camp, or die from too much partying.
I cannot make her love me, I cannot ever be good enough for her, and she stays with me only out of art and pity. She doesn’t even remember our tumultuous life together and apart during the revolt! She remembers only what suits her, and I am a broken man, that, well, razpizdai! I don’t give a fuck anymore. Into the sea.
And the black waters over take me, if there are shouts from the crowded beach I hear them not at all. Perhaps I will really die this time. In this world I have no special luck or powers. Perhaps I will leave my body and wake up in the mountains, wake up where I’m supposed to me, wake up and love myself again. Or die for nothing, as my parents watch helplessly from the beach.
Well anyway my mother knows how much training I have. Splash I go, and really, no one is coming in after me with how huge these waves are.
The black blue ocean enters my insides and rips me out to sea. Before I go unconscious after a three story wave breaks over me, I see her on the beach shaking her head. Judging me harshly for my wanton disregard. My utter selfishness! The rip tides suck me down and out into the brine.
As the rough and frigid waters overtook me, no, I saw no white light of god, I saw my feral Slavic goddess. Mocking me? Rooting for me boldly? I could no longer actually tell. For a cold and flowing liquid salt deluge would perhaps soon inundate my trachea.
As I drowned myself in those waves I saw the future! I never see white light, I see a taste of things to come, it was suddenly the year 2016, five years ahead and we had survived each other and become an unofficial couple. I lived then in this cute loft in the Central Brooklyn ghetto and there she was, no more suffering or needing. Having. It was incredible, I was so happy. Well such are dead dreams.
Dasha Andreavna, should I call you that in public, cheapen you a little with banal Americanization, maybe I should try. But, still I’ll never forget you, and I dear suggest you will always call me by my real name. No cutesterisms, subterfuges or ethno vernaculars!
I will tell you what beautiful nakedness looks like! Jesus of Christ she’s lying there in my bed and my eyes lock with hers, it’s so hot. The ghetto loft, the rolling of inbound and outbound trains rumble like the waves that last killed me. It is all like a dusk time dream, her blond hair lioness mane on my pillows, her buxom defiance and he eyes. Well her tits her tits and her eyes, for I am man. And the sweat rolls off us both, the loft is a bake box. I just cooked her paella, we put away almost whole bottle of 1,000 Stories, there’s proverbial blood on my lips, “Recite me one of Adelina’s poems!” A most curious and un-intimate request, as there are over 99 poems written to the tune of her being. And only maybe six for the woman that I loved after she vanished into another man’s arms, and I into grim two year exile in the provinces. The cold empty provinces, with angry white peasants, where it snowed for two years, “I want to hear your best poem for her!”
The wine took places each time that were nearly loving. Drugs and electronic dance music would kill everything every time, she was not trying hard. She was not trying ever to be in this space, this life we lived in the foothills of the city. Nearly starving in the shadow of plenty.
She lies there, not mine or anyone’s. Half naked in my bed. I am no longer even paid in occasional kisses, I am paid in time, for since the night we met, the night she almost killed us, the second nights we met, oh three years ago maybe; she passed to me a little note after sleeping in my arms for two nights in a forest, in the badlands of warehouse district; he note said, “Sad that it will end.”
And it had ended many, many times before. There is music that plays in my head and I hum to it, to focus. To bring myself back from the clouds, from the war effort, from the targets, from the evil we fight; I hum and I rush back into my body. “Reset,” she whispers. Whenever she notices me do that, she loves only mind, if she loves even that.
“You are the smartest man I know, you’ll figure out what to do,” she once said, she is the one who later convinced him to go into exile to acquire the resources for his, shall we say doomed campaign of insurgency.
“Bring me back to my home,” he orders him. Many tortures had and would befall Valera, called in this latest game Sebastian Adon; but nothing was exactly the level of excruciating hurt bringing her back, over and over and again dark or daylight to her keeper and maintainer.