Pure Bred Chihuahua
Copyright 2001

31/12/99 – 15-6-2001
7th draft

by
Marco Zaffino

A small square window, and behind a table, neck bent, inspecting some fine English
tweed is Ernesto, my tailor. He has a hunch, a pronounced kyphosis stemming from
osteoporosis, which stems from his tiny frame and the fact that he sits crossed legged,
sewing by hand, lapels of my fitted jackets, being sat head heavy in front of a sewing
machine shoulders tight and high and tense, or from standing over that same table
twelve hours a day.
The light that sprays through the window knows his silhouette very well, as it
does the dust that speckles and falls and swirls in the golden cyan light. The light is so
special in my tailor's workshop, simply from the sun's reflection from the Moroccan
blue wall that encases my man here at his work. The Moroccan Blue wall is a stride
away from Ernesto and is a welcome neighbour, because behind that bright blue
washed wall is a small Italian Café where Ernesto and I drink coffee and play Italian
card games and here is where I feel calm and happy. He teaches the old card games to
me: Scopa, Ascapilliatutt', Brischolla, Bracciolle, Hmm!
I feel honoured when he puts down his needle and takes me next door for some
games. He never takes the tape measure from around his neck though and the cards,
pictured with effeminate boys, Jacks, Kings and Cups, and Swords, Coins and Clubs and
Princes on horses; the cards always hide in his inside pocket. Pins on his lapels. He
loves being what he is, a tailor and his measure is like a badge of honour. He has a
picture and a prayer of John the Baptist on the box for the pack of cards: he told me that
John is the patron saint of tailors.
Great, he needed a good tailor, I say.
He has photos of actors, singers and newsreaders on the wall, and me as a matter
of fact adorned in his fine work, all smiling and with their arms around him. Every lapel
is visibly his by a hand stitched seam, embroidered dimples that come from Calabria but
now reside in Rochdale, England. This is where I go for my suites. I travel from New
York for these devastating encounters of Cards and Chess and Draughts, but the distance
is not a problem as you will see later, by the quality stitching and other things that will
come to show themselves as and when.

He tells me about Calabria, where he said good tailors are two a household, so it
was impossible to make a living. Rochdale, however, needed and still needs a good
tailor.
Why? I ask, Why Rochdale?
It was where my Grandparents settled.
Oh, I say.
Scopa, he takes the final cards on the table. Your turn, he smiles.
I put a six down.
But why Rochdale?
Why Rochdale? He puts on a solemn face. Why Rochdale, he repeats and I think
oh I've said something rude. In Calabria there is nothing. And before the war there was
even less. Our family was not the poorest in the area, but God damn it we were poor.
You English or Americani don't know what poor means. My Mother had five children
to feed, alone, when that bastard of a Father ran away to Milan. I was only Six years old.
He fell in love with a post-mistress and they disappeared. God curse their souls and
children, he said. My mother was a seamstress and oh so beautiful. She was a better
tailor than I could ever be. She could make wedding dresses, suites, trousers, anything,
shirts, anything with the roughest material she could dress a prince. She taught me the
skills I use today. We scraped our living and along with what tomatoes and fish we
could gather we lived, if that's what you call it. When the children were older, our
Mother died and a tear filled in his left eye and only his left eye. This is when Aldo and I
were forced to leave the country. My sisters married and are doing quite nicely, thanka
you very much.
I meant geographically. Why Rochdale, not Why leave Calabria, why Rochdale?
Oh.
It actually sounds Idyllic.
Comé?
Your life in Italy; I couldn't help myself.
His eyes went red, and then he cries Scopa and slaps his card a six on the table
and screams with laughter. He gets sarcasm.

My grandparents had friends in Rochdale, and dat is a dat.
I put down a 3. You have a 3, I say, and I'll….
He puts a King down.
What were you going to say?
I was going to tell you why Rochdale. It is cold, it is grey, the houses are red and
damp and the people were prejudiced. We ate worms in blood, we were WOPS and all
O' dat, but eventually it was okay and then it was good.
Some other immigrants arrived to take the flack!
Italians are as racist as the rest.
I suppose, I say.
It is true. One thing I am ashamed of is the Italian racism. And they don't a like
animals very good.
Men are men eh?
It shouldn't be though.
No Ernesto, I know.
Mostly the English are pretty good, he said. Dentists are so cheap. They used to
be free. In Italy all my sisters have no teeth. They were so beautiful and now they look
like old fat witches. They used to look like Sophia Lorraine. But she could afford a
dentist. If you can't afford a dentist in Calabria it is a door and string.
I twist my head at the thought.
He took my 3 of coins or diamonds on the last card of the last hand, which
means that he can take all the cards that still lay on the table, and then we count. Points
are now 7 to Ernesto and 2 to me.
He shuffled the cards as though nothing were actually happening. Such a speed.
I will tell you your last three cards.
Is that fair?
Is that fair, he laughs.
I got thrown out of a Casino, he began, for counting cards. How can you stop
yourself if you know how to do it?

I suppose it's in the game.
Never a truer word.
Ernesto dealt my 3 cards, then his own and then he put 4 cards on the
table. You take a 3 if you have a 3, or if you can take the sum of your card, if they are
facing you. You go for coins, I prefer to call them diamonds, you go for 7s, best of all
the 7 of diamonds and you go for the number of cards you take and if you have a 3 and
the last card on the table is a 3 then you have a Scopa which is a point in itself. 2 or 4
players as 40 cards will allow no different. First to 11 points wins. It is a simple game,
but I have never beaten Ernesto. How can this be? In 2 years, I have never beaten
Ernesto at Scopa. Asapilliatutto, yes, Brischolla, yes, but as Ernesto says: Scopa is the
game, and I never lose, and will never lose!
One day, I say.
I look to the box and say that it is John who is helping him.
Ernesto sways his head and questions the statement for a second, Puo essere.
Who is patron of gambling? I say.
Non lo so.
Bo! Aldo Says
Damn fine coffee, I nod to Aldo.
Damma fine, Aldo replies with an accent as strong as this here ristretto.
Ernesto began telling me, again about how Aldo and himself came over together
as young men after the war. He hadn't been included in the army for health reason and
Aldo was able to dodge conscription, whereupon they left Calabria for Manchester.
Why Lancashire?
I don't know! he shouts. The M62.
The Emma seextie tooo, Aldo repeats and laughs.
It was John. Giovanni Baptista.
I laugh.
No serious… I looked it up.
What?

Motorways… John the Baptist is the patron saint of motorways. Jeesus! And of
Tailors, he pops a 7 down and takes a 3 and a 4,.. and just now I remember he is saint of
Motorways.
No.
Yes.
So.
There you go.
Okay.
So Aldo finds these two shops in Rochdale. 1947.
You have been here 53 years?
Yes.
I met my wife here, I did everything here.
53 years in one place, I say incredulously.
I put a nine down, a horse.
He takes the horse with a horse.
I take an ace with my ace of diamonds.
He dips his head as if he hadn't seen that coming.
Okay Meester Vernon, I better concentrate.
I pick up a small cream pastry with strawberry, cream and short pastry and some
subtle use of a liqueur that I can't quite fathom. Followed by a sip of coffee; perfect.
Green, I say.
What?
The lining. Green silk.
Green for a brown suite?
Green.
Green is all right.
Ernesto begins to think about the green.
He deals more cards and I have the 7 of diamonds with the 7 of clubs.
Ah! He screams.
Green will be fine I think.

He looks at me through squinted eyes.
Aldo takes a defensive post behind the counter. He cleans some glasses and
makes a few clatters in the sink which also begins to annoy Ernesto.
40 cards end: we count up. 7 to Ernesto and 6 to me.
All four points, I say. That's unusual.
He just looks at me.
Okay, I shuffle the pack of cards. Slowly, unpractised. I deal him a card, me a
card and two on the table. Him a card, two in the middle and one for me, him a card, one
on the table and one for me.
I don't believe it.
What? I say. And I have never seen him do this. He shows me his hand in
disgust.
A three, an ace, an ace.
That is a poor hand. On the table was a three and three twos.
Now that is amazing, I say.
He takes the three with his three.
Two and two and two equal my six of cups, I slap the card on the table and shout
Shhhcopa!
Oh God, I hear Aldo say. He's scuttling around.
He puts an Ace down.
I turn my card around slowly and it too is an ace.
Non credo, he says, non credo.
No I think green is the colour. I smile. What do you think Aldo?
I don't hear you!
Green… Emerald green.
No, Ernesto shouts. No Emerald I will not do.
Why?
He puts the last ace down.
…Because emerald green would be a disgusting combination. I could not.
I turn my card around.

No he screams.
SSSHHHCOPA!!!
Fan'cull!
That's three points already, in the first hand isn't it? 7 you and 9 to me.
He does not reply.
Dark green.
I have never lost.
There is always a first time.
Dark green then, I repeat.
Okay dark green, yes, yes, yes, yes, deal the bloodin' cards.
I deal the cards.
What about blue?
Yes, yes, yes, obviously blue.
We gather the cards and play on.
Blue would be nice.

Not one word was spoken as he showed me his new cloth, for my next suite. He just
kept shaking his head and murmuring to himself.
I pointed to a heavy plain wool and a light tweed, the navy blue silk and a sap
green.
He measured me, just to see if I had changed shape. Maybe I had eaten too many
cakes. No my metabolism burns more calories than it is possible to eat. Coffee gets rid
of my water and keeps me nicely de-hydrated. I must drink more water, I think as he
measures my hips. 29 inches. Bones.

Three days, he says.
Thank you Ernesto.
He grunts.
And I really am sorry.

We look at each other until he smiles. Then I smile.
Thank God, I say, I don't want to get on the wrong side of you old boys. I don't
know where you might leave those pins of yours, eh?
I have never lost!
Well Ersnesto, you will always be the king.
Hmm…
Two days, I say.
Ciao Bello.
Ci vi diamo.
*

Marigold, how's it going dear?
The mobile phone makes my teeth buzz.
Oh you know. How about you?
Well I've been measured for two more suites.
Brown?
Of course.
Of course.
Lining blue and green.
Nice.
And Chico?
He's vibrant dear, don't worry.
Well I have to.
He is fine… I've just bought some fluffy boots.
Why?
Why? I don't know why. I look good in them though.
You look good in anything.
Where are you staying?
Manchester. Airport. It's okay. Quite nice actually.

I'm bored Vernon.
Can't you go visit someone?
I just did. Now I'm tired and even more bored.
Go to sleep then.
We can dream together.
Ok.
Ok.
Where do you want to go…. To…
We could go to Prague.
No, I shake my head.
What's wrong with Prague?
Prague is beautiful I just don't fancy it.
Sydney, Perth… the desert?
Hmm, maybe.
Africa.
What a neat idea, I say, we don't dream in Africa, do we?
I hope we get there.
Oh why shouldn't we?
Two, three more days and I'm home sweetheart.
Two days.
Yes.
Two days is forever.
Well, it's only two days.
I can't sleep for two days.
Or three, I can't count…
I can't sleep for three days either.
You could give it a good try.
I certainly could try.
We have a lot of work to do when I get back so get some rest, okay.

Yes Vernon.
I will too.
Yes Vernon, sleep well.
Africa's a big place.
I know.
Bless you Marigold.
Bless you couscous…
Hey you know, a thought to sleep with.
What?
Did you know that John the Baptist is patron saint of motorways, as well as
tailors?
No.
Yes.
Well that is news.
And what's more, I beat Ernesto at Scopa.
Well done dear.
He's never lost…
Before. He's Italian; he still will have never lost.
I laugh.
In three days he will have lost the memory of your victory and he will be
undefeated card man of Manchester.
Rochdale.
Rochdale.
You're probably right.
It's only right.
I've never lost at Monopoly you know?
It's true.
Okay dear, I'm going to sleep now.
It's not night yet. Sun's over Arizona right now, bedtime for you, tea time for
me. But I may sleep in time with you. I'm so bored, it's making me weary.

Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams.
Don't forget Africa.
Okay Vernon. Night Night.
I plug the phone in to recharge and leave it on, just in case we don't meet up in
Kenya or Uganda, or if Chico has a turn.
I text a message: LOVE YOU xxV
I don't get a reply. I can feel her snigger as she gets it. She's probably just told
me 'to shut the fuck up and go to sleep.' Which I do.
At 3a.m. I get a beep on the phone, five discordant notes, John Cage, which I
downloaded one time. Text message: OH! CARMINE IS COMING TO SEE YOU…
xxM
I reply: THANKS… xxV

6a.m. and I hear a knock at the door and God bless him, Carmine is standing in the
doorway of my hotel room holding a newspaper, a lemon tea and a percolator full to the
brim with mocha for me.
Carmine.
Vernon.
It's 6 o'clock.
The train is at 7 o'clock so get ready.
It's important?
More than you will ever know, Carmine looked to my eyes and then to my
stomach. Come on my good man. He laughed.
I hate it when you look at my belly.
Excuse me.
No problem.
I'll just sit and read this here paper, and you, you shave; perform. Then we'll go.

The train was surprisingly quiet. I was beginning to wake up to that dull throat that
occurs in memories of early morning and bad watery black liquid that is sold on trains.
Carmine looked bright and breezy, a twinkle in his eye and he seemed to be on task
mode.
What's going on Carmine?
I won't tell you why, we've got to do this, not yet but I'll tell you what we are
going to do, or rather what I am going to do, with your assistance.
What are we going to do? Or you?
I'm going to do it.
What am I going to do?
Just watch and record it to your memory like we've done before.
Record what?
Like I say, there are things I can't tell you as yet. Ne Pas Encore. But I have to
stop something happening. It's rather important.
You're not going to tell me are you?
No but you'll see…
No… I repeat. Thanks.
Just remember he's a bad guy. And he laughed again.

When we arrived in London, Carmine, who was dressed in finer clothes than myself, for
he had introduced me to Ernesto, yet he himself had found a tailor far superior to even
my man; Carmine, diplomat, renowned gentleman, titles all over the place and so on and
so forth, with his sublime energy, lighter than any man on earth, found a young man, an
innocent young man, or so I thought, in a toilet of a restaurant, where I had just eaten a
fine Venison fillet with a prune and brandy sauce with roast potatoes and freshly podded
peas, with me by his side, on that same train evening, he grabbed the young man, and
with a nine inch chef knife, Sabatier, I noticed, he plunged the blade into the boys liver
and proceeded to raise the blade up and across the torso cracking through the rib cage
and sternum, splicing the left lung. Carmine left the knife in the young man and

let him fall. He then disappeared from the scene drenched in blood, leaving me to do the
same, which I did.
He had his reasons I suppose and I had other work to do but my air was too crisp,
fogging, over-powering. I was gasping for air that was too sharp for my lungs to take.
Grasping the ether for some semblance of sanity. I could not find any. At moments like
these, and I have had a few, one just carries on and one tries to forget.

Here's where the titles should go up. Sophisticated music, classical or melancholy jazz
as the blood drips, gathers, pools over the white tiled floor, symbolising some very over
used symbol, the face of the beautiful young man, bleaching to full bleach out: where
Rochdale can disappear to big cities, expensive meals, espresso, visits and ideas that
may not have a place; so the psychosis can finally begin and red bricks can fuck off.

Whispering Prophets

If you saturate one of your senses, in a particular way, for example sound, your hearing,
like I am now, simply done with the help of a Sony walkman, or is that Sony, like God
and God; you can do extra-ordinary things. Based around what others might say is a
psychosis or a pathological anomaly, hypnagogic states of grandeur, or simple delusional
aberrations la la, what my psycho-therapist calls schizophrenia, as he hates any other
term like psychiatrist, psychologist, as they are as he says completely different terms,
practices, and to help his own paranoid fear of split personality has to specialize in his
much more holistic version of banter, or medicine, or western consternation and
experimentation. Anyway, I have to go to him because of things that have happened in
the past, where I got caught doing things, things that normal people don't do. If I don't do
them in the rain then people see something a bit weird then the police are called in and
then I either go to an institution or I go to my shrink, quack, fuck, doctor or whatever.
These too are names he disassociates himself from for some reason. What I was trying to
say before the voices in my head lead me away from the point, was that I knew that
something was about to happen. I don't just visit Florence for nothing. Sitting in the
perfect situe, with a beautiful waiter, with beautiful pastry and perfect espresso, I know
that some 'thing' is about to happen.
I'll describe the scene a little more: firstly I'll tell you what else I am doing. I have a
Walkman on, and I'm listening to Miles Davis, extremely loud on a Walkman so
sophisticated that you wouldn't believe. When The American government read this
chapter they are going to have to invent it so that their remote viewers have a better
tool to help them see all the things that they maybe shouldn't see. My Walkman, and
you don't have to believe me if you don't want, not only deafens me to the world at
large but it clinically saturates my entire system of hearing, not just the auditory areas
of the brain, but the whole system, which nearly cuts off all my other senses; except
smell, which intensifies. I might go further into that later. So I'm listening to Miles
better than anyone else has ever heard him, except maybe he himself, and I'm drinking
coffee. My cells are probably vibrating in his rhythms. My hair is black; I am very thin.

Some people think that I am anorexic. I am not I just prefer smoking and drinking
coffee to eating, unless the food is good enough, then I will eat like the pig you all
dream of. I like wearing red, but I don't, I generally where chocolate brown. Sleek and
sixties. I look very smart. 'A shame it is,' old women say, 'such a shame'. So I'm
sitting like an extra from La Dolce Vita, not far wrong as this Walkman makes me see
either in intense colour bleaching things out with beauty or it makes me see in
monochrome. The choice of monochrome is mine. At the moment I'm seeing in multi
techofucking panaramavision sponsored by cola and the world is mystifyingly superb.
Florence with the tones of sienna and crimsons and russets and greens and white
marble.
The piazza is full of modern unassuming, some pretentious beautiful people, lots of
tourists, a lot of Swedish today, which insights my libido. There we go my eyes are
clearing, I won't be able to describe our beautiful scene much longer. The head is
getting faster and I'm going. But I haven't.

What's happened, happening, I thought I would be at some far off destination. Shit it's
here; I am visiting here. This sometimes happens for what reason I don't know. You
have to be fluid enough to go where it tells you to go, not the voices, IT. Okay so I'll get
us through this you may not have been on-line at a vision before so here we go. I am
very alert. The world is going monochrome. I am choosing red, the shadows prevail,
glares vanish, and here it is. I am visiting I am visiting. There is a girl running in front
of me, you, if you were in the square, you too would see a girl, but she might look as
though she were skipping or gently jogging, if that is at all possible, behind her you
might see a man gently jogging behind her, about 100m at her back, I see terror in the
girl, you don't, and I see that the man following is a beast. Shit.

I am in the Police station and the police want some kind of statement about the man
who was chasing the girl: Not my words. I have very little difficulty describing what I
saw. But I have to change a few details. I have to dull my memory for them, but it is
not the tie that might offend their sensibilities, or the moustaches or the scar on the left
cheek, but as I am still in visitor mode, the assailant who is too giving a statement not
two desks away, has a most distinguishing feature or features. The distinguishing
features being that beneath the father's hue there is another. Another man, another
spirit, a spirit of another man, I don't know but he is sending the subliminal message of
I'll eat your mother, and that fucking skippy little girl if you say anything against me.
He also tells me that my friend is being monitored, and she might have been crushed as
we speak. Subliminally.

Every now and then I too think that Henry my psychotherapist has the unfortunate duty
of helping a lunatic, but this is not a phase of the moon and I truly see this truly fucked
up looking twat in front of me. I tell the Police that that is the evil sonofabitch and I tell
them that he was seriously abusing the child and God knows what would be left of the
girl if the valiant police had not been around to curtail the situation... That I will testify,
being of sound mind and all.

I'll calm down a bit now. You may pick up on the atmosphere or speed of writing when
a visit is coming along because it is quite likely I'll sound as though I've just ingested
amphetamines or some such drug, which I don't; not for moral reasons but for the
simple safety and strength of my body and mind. If I didn't calm down you might not
like me. And also as I visit I may talk through you, who knows? Maybe that's what this
kind of stuff does anyway. I tell you something, visit you and then you in a kind of
hypno-sanitised state think that I've told you something. Be that as it may, my
'whatever' has visited your whatever. So please be careful, beware and if you find a
word that has more history that ten years in the script throw it away. Leave yourself
open to words of that nature and you've got scaffolding holding them strong, and
buildings, architecture made of bricks, sandstone, then marble, and natures and they're
all fucked up, sapping your energy as we speak, as you think what religion does for
you, what philosophy is doing to you, what

architecture of ideas is holding your freedom. Shit these words are really quite
powerful, woe betide words like heaven and hell, because I've visited those places too,
and so has my friend: I shall introduce you:

Have we visited Heaven and Hell?
She's not answering; I think that she is a bit shy.
I'm not taping you? Marigold is sitting on a leather couch in the most luxurious palace
flat in New York. I am here too. Coincidence? No maybe I'm just a rich mental state
who affords his pleasures around the world. No. Marigold is truly true. Truer than you
or me and I love her dearly. And that is not in a New York way. Definitely not in a
California way, but in an absolute way. In a way that depicts love.
Marigold tell them if we have visited Hell, heaven and all the other wondrous places.

Shut up, please…

She speaks words of true wisdom.

We, or I suppose I, have also found the place called love.

Love is not a metaphorical dilemma. Love is an actual place and I have visited it. It is
Golden in it's middle state. We all have our own version of it, yours my be soft, hard,
black, full of beans, or diamond like, allowing your feet to subtly nestle in it's power
and majesty.

Yes we have visited these places.

Marigold speaks again.
Before we descend into a more sci-fi situation, and I know that is a frightening place;

before we go there I will tell you why this is not sci-fi, because this place called love is
here and it is right now and it is not a substitute for an idea. Some of these words when
you visit them are not just scaffolding. If you can visit and they let you through, you
too will see the golden planet as it is now. You will see your planet, which we call love.
The size, you feel, the gratitude it gives, the unconditional way it grants power, but you
have fire to walk through and a few guardians to meet. They fuck with you and then,
there you are having a conversation on Mount Sinai. This isn't delusional banter. My
planet directly translates the words I say, so I speak wisely. Not as wisely as Marigold
but certainly the words mean something and that is rare. When you visit them you say
them with retreat.

Marigold is nodding.

The planet is under your feet right now. And that is what we are fighting for. We may
now touch on Sci-fi.... but only from time to time, I would call it magic realism.

You tell a Sufi he's talking magic realism, if he has anything about him or her, he'd cut
your throat. If he's had any such enlightenment, he'd fuck you right in your ear, which is
where we began.

I am calming our new friend now. He has seen many things and he is trying to help
you. When you, society, call him schizoid, then he gets a little stressed. You can get
stressed you know, even when you know.

We decided to describe what we are doing as a trio, you've met our mentor already; he
actually lives in Rome. We are not super heroes. We are just learning. And Vernon;
when you have seen what poor Vernon has seen, then you too might turn schizoid.

Properly. The chemical makeup is changing in our minds. We are evolving. This is a
word to beware of. Evolving. Awareness is taking us to places and changing our
receptacle. Our reciprocal or brain/body is changing. Ours for the stronger as we test it
every moment. Yours is regressing. It can be no other way. You are weak and losing
the battle for the golden planet. This upset Vernon, as he is much more socially
conscious than me. I am Marigold and I don't care for you too much. I don't mean this
offensively, but you really don't have much meaning in my make up. You have your
ways and I have mine. And in the long tradition of zelf-help: I am happy with that.
Happiness there is a word you should truly look into. It means and smells of pitiless
shit when you visit's it home.

This is our apartment. Vernon and I live here. Each room has different tools to perform
our duties. We are messengers and that is all. We are visitors. We have awareness that
has developed for viewing. Others are better at being warriors; others are certainly
better at communication, some are caretakers. We view and bring back the information.
Carmine does the rest.

In the first room we have green and the second room we have red and in the third room
we have yellow. The room we live in, this couch for example is brown leather, and the
floor is tiled cream and chocolate brown: bourneville. The equipment that is installed
in one or two of the rooms looks like something straight out of a mistresses nightmare
chamber, and if the police ever call or Henry ever call, the psycho-therapist, we
certainly don't show them the red room. A glimpse at the yellow sometimes, just to
frighten them, but not the red room. The suspension harnesses used for pure listening.
Incorporated in the cow hide and the sheep skin lining, there are insect like acupuncture
points for those hard to reach injections of awareness. We got the idea together and it
works. Millions of years of intention in a little insect, stick it in your Governing Vessel
or your Bladder meridian, your Small Intestine meridian and there is a beautiful
manifestation of hybrid communication. It works but I wouldn't recommend you doing
it. Carmine has many talents and acupuncture with insects is one of them.

When he goes to a place with mosquitoes, or even scorpions, for example, he actually
tests what the reaction would be if it the insect or creature in general bit him on the ass
or on the arm, on particular points, what the reaction would be. He says he has tested
this with many different species, mainly the smaller ones but he has risen as high as a
tigre. The effect of which he said was rather conducive to a don't fuck with me kind of
listening and a visiting that took him to real bad war zones, then to meadows where he
could have stayed for ever, where the animals were pure mythology, dragons, gorillas
in rainforests, gentlepeople dancing gymnastic feats on mountain peaks, the visits were
a blend of adventure, carnage and probably the beautiful visions of the world you or I
might find difficult to see. If you had a Tigres tooth in you forearm. He wondered what
it would do in his Heart meridian. Heart three, shao hao or lesser sea, his particular
favourite, which is also the most delicate of human energy, on the inner side of the
elbow in front of the medial epicondyle of the humorous. It is a magnificent point of
tranquillity added to a tigre's tooth, if survived your perception would probably travel
well. He said once. You wouldn't expect his adventures if you saw him, but he is
capable and will introduce himself properly to you, I am sure.

Maybe I should take you as I don't want to be facetious:- on a journey. I like to be a
little more all encompassing than our dear friend Vernon. He is a dear friend, I can tell
you. He believes he can help you know. But that is his way and it may send him mad
one day. I myself find I have to disengage from all of you to do what I do seriously. To
stay calm in the places we go can only be sustained in my system, if I make a pact with
myself. A pact or an oath to what words resound to, a pact that this is death. I am going
to die. It is a place where you can find nearly all your energy to deal with most things.
Some things need Carmine, for reasons I have not the talent to convey. To my all-
poetical journey. If you would like to vision, then we will go. I say vision because you
most likely won't believe that you have gone where I am going. You will have, just
because, but like your dreams, you probably feel that when you wake up, you have
awoken. I may disagree on a few points there.
I will warn you that in a vision time distorts. Really it is our time that is distorted in

to a beautifully rendered continuity. This is a magical story in itself. Imagine the will of
a world to stretch a time of relations and repetition, of space within moments, of
lightness in times of pain, of expanses in glimpses, deserts in city complexes; time truly
is a wonder, and so too is our linear depiction, but it is only a story.
I will set up. This consists of a more visual feast. You may have been at Vernon
sound displacement; I prefer to soak my eyes in colour then to lose it. The loss instils a
great sadness in my energy and it searches for my intentions and off I go, to where I do
not know. But that is the beauty of journeys. I can by a ticket for California, but if I get
there I don't know. A bit like flying Terrorist Airways. You never know exactly where
you're going to land and with whom. The only difference is that the mad guy holding
up the plane generally can't see you, and if he can then you may have a battle on your
hands. Most people who journey are power trippers who know nothing of awareness.
They just want to fuck on you, hook into you and sap away. Which is fine. They are in
their reality, right. They intimidate or embarrass me though and I will kill them.

Okay, so, here we go. First of all I will my self to go to a specific place. Carmine and
Vernon know where it is. So here I am now in my favourite place, I'm charging up like
a car battery. In this world I can feel all those tensions of the day lifting, or sometimes
they drain, but no they are lifting to the heavens. The heavens take them and I begin to
charge again. Charging a few times. Loading up you might say. I wouldn't say that
myself, but Vernon might. Carmine would describe it as letting the universe feel your
intent. The universe very rarely gives a shit if you are good or bad. It just notes how
willing you are to go. It sees your discipline and your intention. If you are clear it will
send you. If you are not you might go but a part of you, something like scepticism may
get stuck at customs and your journey will be dirty until you find yourself in a situation
that needs your full attention, suddenly that part of you which is scepticism is needed,
vroom, your in full journey mode and half of you is reeling from a culture shock.
Dragon is burning down your neck and you have just had to overcome thoughts like,
'oh I really don't think that this is happening', or ' How can this be?' or ' another mental
aberration' while there's that dragon burning down your neck, and your scepticism feels
the heat, and is saying 'no this is just a heat rash' well it is not a heat rash and my neck
is being devoured. 'Delusional, delusional.' We all have these feelings; I think even
Carmine thought this way once. It is evil.

I can feel scepticism is not with me and I am in good journey mode. If you are with me
we shall go, if you are not you may want to wake up because you may have a problem.
Maybe it will be beauty in its true form. It may however be that dragon, or a fire dog
and your neck may burn and you may get a dislocation between head and body, or
some such wonder. If you do- see a shaman and hope he is considerate. Come with me
in good heart and we should be fine. If this were Vernon, there would be less warning.
Beware of power trippers. If you see any really evil bastards, hold hands with your
guardian angels. They will bring you back to your healthy time, your healthy book
reading spell and I will just tell you a dream that is probably going to be quite boring.
But I hope you enjoy your flight. Air Marigold is about to take off. Intention scanned,
Universal fuel- full, death is by my side, guardian angel- on board- yes/no. Engines on,
the growl of time is dying, space is going all peculiar on us. Atoms are speaking to
atoms and getting on fine, ropes of rain are pulling us on... On... On...the rain is
changing to snow, we are in a cold country, we are back with rain, we are back with
snow and we are down. I won't say where exactly and I won't use the term Country-x,
or city -x, we are just here. Anyhow, there is a valley in front of us. Here we are: an
official site, maybe science; oil; military, I'm not sure, I will just describe, if you want
to stay do, it's your call. There is a man and he has a fluffy hat. This is very clichéd.
Cliché is a very tricky one for sceptics. By the way it takes quite a lot of energy to
speak in your way in this journey mode, so thank me later. Here were

are and we are back at the snow valley. Time has repeated as it does. The man with the
hat, dark green overcoat. Strawberry blond. Clean shaven, has a gun. There is a huge
lorry behind him. At about two o'clock there is a dome of snow. We are at the dome of
snow. It is like a shallow igloo. Someone here can journey, or is able to see energy. If I
were you I would sit in your chair now and just listen, Disengage and leave.
He is sniffing around me. It is a spirit. He has a black beard, more of an Inuit type of
attire and he is smiling at me. He is actually offering me some tea so that we can watch
the other four people in the room play cards and laugh at their jokes. We cannot
understand their language but there is one fine looking man who seems to be the jester.
I lost it for a moment and he has his hands at my throat. I came back and he got off very
quickly. I am not angry, as that would be a complete waste of energy. Silence is
profoundly needed, especially with a spirit. This is his home and you don't elaborate
with a spirit in his home, especially when it has been invaded by grand philistines in
big green over coats. He can feel that I am neither sympathetic nor antagonistic. He
attacked me because he hasn't the energy to manifest and devastate the army here. If
spirits reads this, you must calm down and leave the pain behind, it is a true waste of
energy. You can get nothing done. I am going to bid him a farewell and return to my
special place to clean down as I have something to tell you but if I tell you with this
bloke by my side I may get strangled again. I am silent, I am bowing and I thank him
for my tea. I am back at the snow valley and the strawberry blond is there again. I
mustn't have seen what I was supposed to see. Time has tripled and here he is again.
The huge lorry. No weapons. I don't save the world on visits. He is looking through me.
I stand behind him. He certainly is a strong looking fellow. Big shoulders. I peer
through him now. What are we looking at, except for a blizzard? He is cold. I look up
and a helicopter is descending on us. The lights through the snow are like streams of
amber and ruby, jewels float to the ground like incandescent jelly babies. The snow is
unleashed back to the sky in minor tornadoes and the jelly babies perform many
esoteric dances. They turn into a castor sugar and make an icing that lands on the
ground so gently that not even I can hear it. The terrain looks like a giant cherry cake,
iced by God himself. A dome is illuminated around us and for me there is a religious

quality. The helicopter lands and for the first time in the journey I can smell. The air is
very cold, sweet like vanilla. I am solidifying in this country. I should be careful or I
may wake up there, which wouldn't do in a military base. The strawberry blond flickers
a glance in my direction and points his gun. I silence my indulgencies and lose my
sense of smell. In the helicopter is, oh my God in the helicopter is Carmine. What the
hell is this? That sceptical energy rises. He gets off the helicopter and I see another ten
officials. Two step up to greet him. Okay.... He looks directly into my eyes and smiles.
I feel a kick in my guts and I wake up in the yellow room. Journey closed. I get up
slowly and walk slowly through the yellow room into the living room and I notice
Vernon playing a computer game. I am seeing vague images. Vagueness more blurred
than my first journeys. He looks up and he is walking towards me. Concerned, he sits
me down and we both are startled by the sound the leather couch makes. It is like a
double fart.
I giggle and my giggling sounds like I've been submerged in soapy water.

Fuck darling, are you all right? Says Vernon.
I am nodding.

Vernon and Marigold hold each other and Vernon proceeds to tell her that she has been
asleep recovering for about twenty hours. After a few moments Marigold's senses
return to their normal mode and she tells Vernon what she has seen.

"Do you think he was testing you?" Vernon said.
"I think he must have been."
"But he's never..."
"He had such a wicked look in his eye, he knew exactly what he was doing."
"I didn't know it was possible to actually summon. Shit if he can summon this.
What if he has all our Visits? What if someone else is..."

"Vernon..." she said tired.
"He might not be numero uno and some other fucker might be controlling..."
"Vernon..." Deadpan.
"Well they might be..."
"Vernon, he said that he would..."
"Not like this, Jesus... What a fucker..."
"What are you so excited for? It's me who's been out for twenty hours. So shut
the hell up. Now he said that he would. I trust him completely."
She looked Vernon right in his terrified eyes and repeated 'completely' a few
times until his eyes lost that mad boy look and returned to lovely Vernon who would
make her a cup of tea and relax her down, bring her a hot water bottle and give her
solace as she, as she had notified him, was the one who was and should be thoroughly
exhausted. She reminded him of the accuracy training involved, and that he should
probably be proud of her. She said that he being the less than secure in his actions
should be pleased that at least one of them could find a needle in a big fuck off
universal haystack. And that was why Carmine smiled.
"If he was upset with us he would probably have taken out my spleen and hidden
it somewhere and asked you to find it before I died." Marigold laughed and so did
Vernon. But Vernon wondered if he really was the mad one.

Chico

We have a dog. I need a dog. He is called Chico. He has a hard time living at the top of
a tall building but he gets 2 or 3 walks a day. The park is close and we sit often on a
bench watching the world go by, Chico likes Belgian Shepherds. He himself is a
Chihuahua with the mind of a Spanish bull. A Belgian Shepherd bitch comes around
the corner with that sleek tan body, that elusive black face and he goes all Pepe la
Pioux. Chico is from a litter of ten. He was the fifth. Which means, I don't know what.
He is tall for a little dog. Thin like myself, and wears a colour lighter than I would
wear. But for a Chihuahua it goes pretty well. His eyes are black as the Mexican beauty
that had him and he makes a chilli you wouldn't believe. We call his kennel, which is a
converted closet, the High Chaparral. We put luminous stars on the ceiling to the
configurations of a Mexican sky of 1998 summer solstice. This was from a photo that
Marigold took when she was on holiday. It was her birthday and she took the night sky
in the Yucatan. Very nice. She wasn't travelling very much. It was more a cocktails and
swimming pool thing with her rich boyfriend of old. Also, in Chico's closet we built a
mini Hacienda where he can sleep and a tiled floor the colour of dust. He loves it.
In the park, which is where we are right now, we sometimes buy an ice cream;
we sometimes eat hot dogs. Generally we walk the same route every time. I, as he, have
a very low priority memory and so enjoy the similarities as novelties. My memory only
lasts when I need it, which is seldom and things just wander through my brain like

sugar through a fine sieve. Castor-cane sugar through a sieve. Only retain the gooy bits,
or the dried up crystals, or if I'm sieving sand the stones or the mud, or the wet bits.
On the way home from the park we stop in at the café bar and I visit or read a
newspaper or talk some half baked conversation with a stranger, or with Caro the
waitress come cook. I think Marigold is a little jealous but she'd kill me if she found
out I'd told you. So please don't tell her. Don't even think it or she'll know. Today at the
café I have my usual and Chico does too. My usual (I can't compromise) is espresso
and will be for always, Bo has milk, even though I tell him he has a low tolerance for it
and it expands his joints.
"Where are you going today?" Caro says as she puts down our drinks.
"I don't rightly know," I reply. "I never know."
"Well if you see anything sordid let me know. There's a lot of it going on."
I tell her I will. She smiles incredibly and I return to the solitude of my beverage
and a sweet hard on. Yes I do tell some people what I do, because nobody believes me.
In fact the wilder my stories, even though they are true, the less people believe. If you
tell them the weather is fine they wouldn't believe you. Try it. Tell them the wildest
thing you've done. They either humour you, don't believe you, which can be seen in the
smirking half arsed, 'is that so' they repeat over and over again or they just don't listen
or give a damn. Of the options, not listening or giving a damn is the most frequent
reason for telling somebody something. You can tell some people that you are God
himself and even if you were, they would want to know what to wear that evening. It is
an incredible safety device of the human spirit. You tell Chico that you are the Son of
God then at least he'll hump your leg. Caro however she tries to listen or believe as true
listening is belief and is dangerous as such never can get her mind off of sex. Which in
my thinking is none too bad. But a little tedious at times.
My espresso is exceptional, hard-on has gone, just enough to walk sensibly and
Chico has trouble stretching after his lay-down. I tell him that he should drink warm
water but he simply looks up as if to say, 'Give me some dignity, Jees!'

As you test your accuracy and perception, and awareness, not to what is possible but to
quite a decent extent, you see all sorts of things. Many of these things turn out to be
different to what one first encountered or envisaged. When you visit words as whole
universes in themselves, words that have as much a physics, laws in physics, as gravity,
themes can become solid, notions can become organs with diseases and what might be
considered bizarre; what you once thought were dichotomies in ones own self-awareness
classes, are actually stories told by very clever people. Literally. And the words going on
in your head they're not yours. I heard every cell in our body has an intruder:
mitochondria has its own DNA, well I can't tell you about that because I don't know, but
when you step outside the dialogue in your mind, just for a moment you sense deeply
that that is just the best fucking mimmeck you ever did hear. I mean they got it down to
a tee. They even agree with you when you say aloud, you're an imposture. They say
"Yes we are," or "Yes I am." Then you know they are devious because they agree. They
have patience and can wait for your realisation to subside and off you go back to all this
verbal cabbage going on. After a while, as I said before, you learn to still the mind and
listen a little deeper. I haven't caught that one out yet. Although I don't trust him
completely; that him being I, I trust that him is as close as damn it though so we try and
get on, but as little as possible. I generally speak or gesture to communicate to others or
myself. Which is one of the reasons that I see Henry. When you have to talk to yourself
aloud, it can get a little weird for those around. Sometimes I allow Josephine and
Geraldine time to talk in my head and everyone is happy, especially the people in the
street. They see you talking to yourself aloud, they either look at you funny, or they
completely ignore you to the point they have acknowledged you beautifully. If I had the
slightest care about this, I'm sure I would turn to drink. If I was doing it on purpose I'm
sure I would think myself mad. And I'm sure that I would disappear in the streets as
fewer and fewer people gave me a glance or the time of day, like the vagabond with
three in his ice cold eyes, his tight black pupils, and the brew on his breath.

The reason I don't think myself mad, is the very reason that I would be considered so by
almost everyone after a sanity reading. It's like I was saying before. Notions become
organs in my streams of thought. The ego, a structure so devised and ridiculed is an
organ in serious demise. It is either over used or chopped up into little pieces. The ego is
your weakest cousin. But this cousin still has to crop the fields and talk to the world.
Even when you clever people make it disappear. Without your spleen you will die. Your
ego is just another organ that is killing you. I don't mean to speak in Zen riddles. But this
ego thing is a huge masquerade, as are many religious and philosophical issues
expanded upon by very weak dying egos. Be those who dismiss the need to pursue it or
not. Weak, diseased ego. It is a filthy word. Ego, ego, ego. How many times can I say it
before one stops feeling the connotations? Ego. It has so many. One hates being it. One
hates having it. While it bloats like drowned lungs.
You must caress it as you would anything else. You must hear the word ego and
just treat it like you were giving Buddha himself a cup of tea. As you should treat
yourself as if you were the Buddha or Jesus or Joe. As you should anything. It is the
only way you will see it for what it is. A fucked up diseased liver after a life of drinking
the devils brew. Ego is your awareness, as is any word I could show you. Any other
words that make you jar in any way. Any way of saying that will make you jar. These
show up your diseased, dies-eased organs. Ego is nothing but an idea. You don't half to
lose or cut off a thing. Forgetting is a plan. Forget the fight.
Why can do the thing I was going to tell you earlier?
Love gets me to visit. I sit on the golden sugared planet and listen to its point of view. I
know I am a visitor, and that in this way I will be my heart. Love is an organ too, and it

is my heart. You live in a world that moves but as you drive in your metal car, or
whatever material the Goddamn things are these days, you can put your feet straight
through the floor of the car and there you feel the golden sugared ground of the planet.
It is still, and you sit and you stand, and you listen, and as you believe you feel strong
and as you take every bit of energy from this planet, this golden planet, your heart, you
bleed it and you bleed it, but it fills up and it refills, and it grows and it strengthens.
This you can do in a car at 100m/p/h or on a plane or sweeping the streets. But, I am
still not sure about computers.
Because I visit this place, I have been allowed to visit another special place. A
place you might not go. It is not like a remote viewing of Iceland, or a trip to the
bottom of the ocean, it is a step into another world. Slightly different to ours but not
completely. It is where the story begins.

The Gymnasts

This place Marigold and I visited, was performed under the supervision of Carmine. It
was under his authority and recommendation that we were allowed to see what I will
now tell you. How to put this in words will be an apparent enigma. We had known
Carmine for only two months and then he showed us this.

Carmine supplied us for the first time with single ear-pierces that saturated our ears
with only what I can describe as viscous sound. It felt like our brains were being
covered with thick cream. Our eyes went numb and we felt very frightened. Our vision
was impaired and we could not hear any of Carmine instructions. He then held our
hands and we followed his gentle gait. We walked in lots of light, tinged pink. The
glare too was altered by the viscous sound. The pink felt as though it was filtered, that
the light was being filtered by the sound and that our whole world awareness was being
converted into something other. Carmine laughs when we try to describe our feelings
towards this first major visit. He just says that we remember very well.
He held our hands firmly and securely. His hands are dry and his fingers are
strong. They are rough as though he has worked in construction, but they feel kind.
You can feel kindness in hands. Especially when you are being led into hell. If hell
were pink.
Suddenly, he let go and we could see. Our astonishment was overwhelming. I
fell over three times while Marigold threw up. Over my shoes. It was mainly orange
and it stopped me falling over. I didn't want to fall in that shit no matter how weird the
situation.

Why was this place so overwhelming? It was a completely different world. And
although our communication circuits tried to assemble some logical reason for being
here, it could not. And for a story telling organism such as ours that is a major failure.
Our boundaries were thoroughly fucked on. This was a new place. Truly new. Carmine
just smiled and said listen to the gymnasts. As his hand gestured to look in front of us

we saw for the first time a majestic room. Walls that were visible yet translucent. We
could see the world outside through frosted walls. Outside was a red mountain and blue
sky. Himalayas meet Mars. But in the huge cubesque room were hundreds of gymnasts
dressed in 1920s vests and shorts, quadriceps all over the place. Performing magic.
Routines that defied gravity. They span around the air making formations that weaved
formidably through the multitudes of whirling bodies. Spinning, tumbling using every
space of the room. They flew, bouncing off of the ceiling, off of each other, around
each other, around themselves: with no sound. They were like fireflies, or starlings at
dusk dancing with perfect radar and instinctual rhythm.
"Listen," Carmine said.
We looked at him, bemused.
"Listen," he repeated.
Marigold was the first to hear anything, but fucked if we could understand. I
gathered as she did that a language was coming through our strange ear-pierces, but the
words spoken were a syntax of three hundred gymnasts. Words that described feelings,
motion, emotion, history and progression. Communication gathered through hundreds
of infinite possibilities. Tides of discussions thriving in our minds like bees swarming
to a field of pollen drenched grass. This was so advanced a dictation, with an eternal
vocabulary, that we thought it physically implausible, illegal to even contemplate
translating such a language.
We were taken from the room to the red mountain, which when we saw it from
outside the room was normal. It was not red but green at the base and when the
vegetation ran out it turned ochre yellow. Which was a relief after such a terrible shock
to the system. For this is what it was exactly. Our diseased organ cried out and said I no
longer can tell stories. For how can I when they speak like magicians?

"Here is where you can learn the language," Carmine said. "This mountain is
where you will learn, and the gymnasts will dance again when you are ready." At this
the red frosted room, still with a writhing mass of white insects, skipping and jumping
and turning through each other: vanished.

"That is an impossibility," I said.
"How can we ever understand that?" Marigold said.
"You will understand because you speak the same language or rather you know
the vocabulary. You just need to know how to..." He looked for the word, " you just
need to know some of the grammar." And there he laughed again.

Well, my mental health took a turn for the worse after this episode. Even I could tell
you that. Carmine introduced me or us to Henry Weldon, probably the best
psychotherapist in New York.
What were we to think of Carmine? And what should I think after his next trick.
We literally knew nothing about him, he was so vague about his history, his work, his
family etc., but he instilled such confidence in us; he had such depth, an attribute we
cried out for living in such a big city where you walk through crowds of sou11ess little
tigres. The cities change but soulless tigres are everywhere. Every time you open a door
for someone their fangs show and their hearts transpire. It is ultimately the most
frustrating thing of humanity and also the saddest. Una cosa triste: proprio. When you
can feel energy, it is heart wrenching to see our communities full of rage and egotism
over clothes and food and goods. I delve sometimes and find the black planet they live
on. I shall tell you when I shall tell you, the time I found their hearts.
This was a major test of our trust in Carmine. An exercise that I still can't come
to terms with sometimes.
On our return from the Gymnasts; our first visit, Carmine introduced me/us to
Henry, as I told you before. My trust was sorely tested when he suggested that I be
admitted to 'an institute for the insane'. That is exactly how he put it. 'An Institute for
the Insane.' Marigold and I protested automatically and thought Carmine to be the evil
sonofabitch that we had secretly suspected, even hoped for. After examination I fit the
bill and off I went. I was on anti-psychotics and anti-depressants as soon as you could
say- shaking jaw, which, I gained presently. My lips bleed, I was thoroughly
constipated and had no energy to do anything but cry. Then after three weeks with only
my mother visiting me, bless her,

although this was the final act she had been waiting for since I was twelve, Carmine
and Marigold came. Both wearing DARK BLUE AND HOLDING LILIES. Shit this
was not what I wanted to see. I was in a ward of murmuring binary, my muscles ached
with memories of green pastures, and my brain felt metallic and crusted in dreams that
I couldn't remember, then these two fuckers, the two people I cared about abandoned
me: then showed me my death.
"You look like shit," Carmine said with a sad smile on his face. I took
consolation.
"Thank you," I mumbled. "Lilies, great."
Marigold said something but I could not hear what she said at first. Then I heard
it again, and then again, and then again, yet not from her mouth.
"What's going on?" I said.
Marigold whispered again.
The only thing I could sense from her words, if that is what you could call them,
was that it moved. A lot.
"She is learning very quickly," Carmine said. "Are you?"
I began to sob. I mean seriously sob.
"Are you learning anything?" Carmine reiterated without any compassion.
"What the fuck can I learn, drugged up, fucked up, like this," I squeezed out with
mucous. I cried out that that nurse drugged me and buggered me, loud enough for the
whole wing to hear, but the nurse had not buggered me at all.
"You have a very serious lesion to learn if you are going to realise your worth
Vernon."
Marigold added her sharpened whispers to the end of Carmine's words of torture.
Then they left putting the lilies on my stomach. I heard them talking as they left but I
could not understand what they said.

Marigold and Carmine would now visit every three weeks. Same routine. Marigold
would whisper inanities and Carmine would ask me if I heard learned anything, and I
would sob.

After six months of incarceration I had a dream, one that no suppressant could
lose. That dream was a walk through a city. It was a simple walk, that was so vivid and
sinister that I felt dread with every glance, every person I stumbled around. Through it
all, music played to the whole populous. The music of, I suppose to be corny, it was
actually dolphins, and the mesmeric whispers of Marigold. I suddenly got the impulse
to look up, and there were the gymnasts, flying around each other like those same
starlings, ebbing and flowing like amoebas in the deeply blue sky. The whisper became
coherent. I was what the gymnasts were trying to communicate. I felt a jolt wave
through my sleeping body at the realisation of what these amazing people could do. I
call them amazing people because I found out later that these are not people from a
different realm, but visitors, or communicators from our own. Very disciplined and
talented and sublime creatures. What sent the jolt through me was the realisation that
they could communicate and respond to my entire consciousness. Every single iota of
my being from the electrical maze going on in my nervous system, through to my DNA
memory, to my spirit, to all those energetics, they listen and responded to the whole
malouka. I began to shake with beauty and endorphins; ecstasy came from my every
pore until I heard so clearly what Marigold was saying. It was very simple. She said:
"Walk. Listen. Love." And I understood what the starlings spoke of. They spoke of the
little tigres in front of me dying of thirst, blinded by all that the world offers, and that
there is a war being waged in every plane of existence and that is the battle for
awareness. Humanity was a self-defacing super-nova. I gazed at the poor souls in my
dream, wandering the city streets, with their petty worries, and their major worries, and
their defiled energies that were caught up in so many webs that they had no energy left
for freedom. They incubated a plague. And when I awoke.
I breathed for probably the first time in my life, a relevant breath. I knew that the
people in this institution were closer to the truth in their demoralised, paranoid states,
in the veiled existence from the soulless tigres. Hiding, some by their own choice from
the rigours that had been instilled from birth, souls that had rejected how humans told
stories and left the fold of this strange fucked up fable.

I was released.

Carmine had known my realisation and was extremely proud of me. He had visited the
hospital without even seeing me, spoken to the governor, who melted in his hands, and
released me that morning. I was back at the flat with Marigold, wiser, stronger and
more paranoid than ever. Yet I knew that my paranoia was necessary and from the right
side of love. That is our treatise, our link to awareness and our only saviour. Carmine
was proud that under such duress I had been able to see through such a state of reality. I
use that term very widely. Even under such a distorted point of view, being abandoned
and drugged so heavily, as I was not the most helpful patient, had I come through so
emphatically. He said, if he had not known that my revelation was particularly
profound and everlasting he would not have had me released. That I had reached an
even lower ebb than he himself had and returned most formidably. Then he hit me with
another, and this on my first day of release, when I was still trying to surface. He would
not let me even lower my dosage, it was cold tigre. He told me that I too was a
diplomat like himself, and that I may one day have to take over his job in the four
different worlds, (I had a flash of the recent stabbing,) and that I would have to visit the
sixty-seven different perspectives of those worlds, other than our earthly dwelling. The
one of the lost souls. He said there were places where souls were apparent and
awareness was saturated. That I could gain energy: as well as expend it here. This is
really a disease ridden existence for awareness, he told me. That I had to learn
languages that I had to learn to dance and sing, and that he would teach me the
wherewithal of human credibility, diplomacy and troubleshooting. He told me that
humans were like plastacine, and once I had gotten used to some of the more difficult
realms, dealing with the president of the United States or the Queen of England would
be like having a cup of tea. The cold tigre ate away at my heart with every gesture he
put to me, and my sweat increased at every terrible smile he put my way, and every

loving smile Marigold put my way. I was convulsing and sobbing, going from the
purest sadness to the purest happiness, to the most painful sobbing, to the most terrible
physical pain. My heart was being torn out; I was being buried and re-born. I could feel
it, it was being spelled out by a master that defied logic or rationality, or the rationality
of an imbecile like me, so God help you. And Marigold was his star. My blessing. God
help my old mother. I was being born into a world of endless visions and intrigue,
adventure and mystery. Freedom was a perspective alive and reckless. My choice was
valid, my eyes were open. Fate was growing. Fate was expanding

My Poor Mother

The mother of Vernon Young is also the first cousin to Marigold, which might explain
one or two things. It was in fact Mrs Young that introduced Vernon to the highly
esteemed and thought of Carmine Duccello, Emissary to the United Nations, Diplomat
to the World Wide Federation of Commerce and consultant to the FBI. He was totally
free to go and do what he wanted, to inform leaders of what he saw fit, to dine with
regency who he felt worthy… and Mrs Young could not believe her society fortune
when he introduced himself to her at the Charity Ball in aid of Nigerian Natives that
had befallen such barbarity after major oil frauds and bullying techniques that had
caused many hundreds of peoples to have lost their limbs, lively hoods and in depth;
lives. The Charity Ball was very grandiose, tickets being bidded for at prices in five
figures, except for Carmine who came to these functions as a guest. Always a guest.
Just his presence gave the function credibility at this level. If the President came then
that was a bonus. It was common knowledge that in such society, Carmine Duccello
was probably the most influential person this side of the Milky Way.
Imagine the eyes of Vernon's mother, when he introduced himself to her.
Charlotte Young the wife of millionaire publisher John Young. A lowly publishing
family now being infiltrated by the Master: Carmine Duccello. Flattered and listened to
by Maestro Duccello.
As they talked all that could go through her mind was his distinguished good
looks and that he had talked to most of the leaders of each and every country, world
wide.
He was particularly interested in her family. He actually told her not to worry
about Vernon and that he himself would give him direction. Carmine Duccello left the
conversation by kissing Mrs Young's hand, saying, "I will come and see you. Don't
worry about your poor son."

That was it; Charlotte was taken in by the charms of Carmine, and Vernon began
his learning process.

Vernon's poor mother believed totally in Carmine's claims that with his help Vernon
would be soon a useful member of society. In a way he was correct in his prediction.
What she did not expect and never entertained the idea of, was that Vernon's new
interest might be more absurd than anything she could have imagined previously. And
it all began at her introduction of Carmine to her son. Later still, to Marigold. Carmine
became a regular visitor to the household and the standing of the Young family was
lofted to great heights. Charlotte was veritably content and her husband, although a
little jealous by the handsome and brilliant Mr Duccello was well sufficed by the bonus
of simply being associated with the man. The shares in the publishing business tripled
and the integrity of the firm grew stronger and stronger. Mr John Young was also
veritably content.
Why the poor mother then? As you can imagine, when any mother finds out her
son is going to be a priest, or a monk, a saviour or shaman, then a mother knows that
her son is lost to her. As Our Lady had to concede; as the Dalai Lama's Mother has to
concede over and over again, "My Son is Lost!"
Mrs Young had lost her child at a very young age. At the age of four Vernon
performed ghostly sightings and was speaking in languages foreign to his native tongue
by the age of six. At the age of nine he healed a dying child without really trying and
was then given hundreds of people to heal. By the age of eleven he had broken his
nervous system twice. And by the age of twelve he was admitted into a Mental Health
Clinic on a permanent basis. His bones were infected by some energy to which his
force had to contend with, much more violent than physical disease. To the good or bad
luck of the family, Vernon improved unexpectedly, and at the age of fifteen was
allowed his freedom. When he was seventeen he had some terrible accidents with love.
From man to women he would tread a sordid flavour to the family name. And for three
years Vernon dove into a therapy of the most ungrateful sexual experiences. At the

age of twenty Mrs Young met Mr Duccello who told her not to worry about her son
anymore. That had not been said to her for many years.
The poor mother did love her child and worried so much for his well-being. She
worried about AIDS and rape and drugs, but the only sanity Vernon could relieve
himself with was his depths of carnality. What of the future?
When he linked with Carmine and Marigold, for the first time in what seemed
centuries, there was stability in Vernon's life and thus stability in Charlotte's life.
Losing her son to the life of whatever this was, was for her a relief.

As is customary with humans and their fickle ability that allows any situation to
become normal or mundane, Mrs Young took Vernon's recovery for granted and before
long she was delegating and rendering a future for her son. Blindly grasping to what
she knew could not be. Asking her child to follow in the footstep of the publishing
firm, while trying to bribe his love by paying for his penthouse flat in New York and
giving him an endless expense account. He need never worry about money. She always
said, you need never worry about money.
You may or may not understand about Vernon as yet, but he did worry about
money. He worried about the indecent bundles of cash he owned and he invested very
wisely by the advice of Carmine. Nobody new however that Vernon gave all profits to
the less fortunate. He was a regular sweet man. Although he may profess his oblique
tendencies to humanity, he is addicted to their misfortune. An energy Carmine wants
and has always wanted to rid him of. Marigold is closer to Carmine in her thoughts on
others. She really has no feelings for them and is a far more instinctual silent being
living more in the intestinal tract than the twilight of human spirit.
A procedure that would always instil good humour in Carmine and Marigold
while at the same time grabbing Vernon's liver, were the times Charlotte would come
over and set things right in the apartment. She would actually come in and clean the
place from top to bottom. As you can imagine Vernon had no more surprises for Mrs
Young so the suspending equipment in the red room and the bloodied water baths in
the green room made no sway in the conversations. She would sweep up the insect

acupuncture needles and leave them on the coffee table that sat in front of the brown
leather sofa and she would wash blood of the tiled yellow floor that was in the yellow
room, but she would ask no pertinent questions except maybe 'Have you thought of
working for your father' or 'How is Chico?' 'Shall I take him for a walk?' All this was
done while the wicked Marigold lay on her bed curled up cackling at Vernon's
discomfort and Charlotte's veiled existence. After the storm or whirl wind or tornado
had passed, depending on how much energy the poor mother had on any of these
visiting days, Vernon would, taking the cushion from his stomach, breathe a huge sigh
of relief. Marigold would ask over and over how it was possible for him to practice any
of his own visiting with such baggage. He would reply: "I don't know, really."

Mrs Young had lost Vernon.

Coffee in Florence

I am back at my chair in Florence. My seeing is there, my hearing is getting stronger,
there's my smell, there's my touch, well I guess I'm there or rather here. I am here in my
favourite city once again. They never see me arrive. I don't think it is luck. It is because
maybe they don't want to believe that I have just appeared and thus can account for my
sudden manifestation as a trick of the light, or that the spirit that allows me to travel as
freely as I do only moves me at the appropriate time.

I am here to visit Carmine in the country he has most of his roots. He works mostly
from here as he married an Italian: Camellia. Camellia Duccello. Marigold was told to
meet here too on the radio-waves but she's usually late. I can see Carmine walking
towards me with a shiny smile and glowing eyes. He certainly is a pretty old man. He is
wearing a black suite with a deep blue lining and a blue tie. I am in my brown suite as
usual. Marigold appears from inside the café and we all assemble at my table.
"How are you?" Carmine says.
"Fine."
"I have just been to buy a birthday present."
"Who for?" Marigold replies.
"My daughter. She is twenty-seven today. Pretty and being followed by every
young Florentine boy."
" You haven't anything to worry about, have you?" I speak.
"I have nothing to worry about but the bastard young Florentine boys.... So what
shall we have?"
Marigold asks for a cappuccino, I have my usual and Carmine has an ice tea with
lemon.
"Carmine," I begin, "what are we supposed to do?"
"I don't understand."
"What are we to do next?"
"I still don't understand."

"We can go many places and we can do many things, and we will get better and
we will be able to do more things and go more places and do things better, but what for
and what should we do next?"
"That is a very important question my young man."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"He has a point," Marigold interjected.
"It is probably the main point. It is this point that is on every pair of lips in the
world. It is just that some people do not know how to say the words. Especially with
the eloquence of Vernon. You are a true diplomat. As I told you, you are a true
diplomat, you just have none of the skills."
"Are we just to learn the skills and then perform them. And what of these things
you do, to others and to us?"
He looked at me as though I was a naughty boy and that in due course of time we
would be enlightened to the plan: he then answered only what was pertinent to him.
"The learning of a skill," Carmine begins, "is nothing. And the using of that skill
is nothing. That is your answer. You can do anything you want next. But what does it
matter? When you can do everything, what does it matter?"

The waiter arrives and we order what we want and we don't say a word until he comes
back with our drinks, which are in white porcelain cups. The tea comes in a long tall
glass with pink plastic rims and handle. Carmine takes a sip and begins to talk: "My
two very special people. We have an infinite choice of journeys. We can visit nearly
anywhere in this infinite universe, and we can actually go there physically, but, and
correct me if I'm wrong, you are questioning the point of all this. We do nothing simply
for fun." He looked to me, "We do nothing for fun, or I hope we do not. Is this
correct?"
We nod.
"Well my flowers, we can either die, which is a valid thing to do. We can go
insane, which is also a valid thing to do, and it takes many choices out of our hands,

we can live as blue bummed buffoons, or we can evolve in the shadows of awareness.
Excuse the use of admiration in my last phrase but it is undeniably the most poetic
choice. It may or may not be the most exciting choice, madness can certainly be
entertaining but I think it is our duty to evolve and taste what we were born for."
He wasn't giving us any of his troubleshooting flamboyance, he was speaking
from the heart and he gave us hope.

We sat there drinking our drinks for an hour or so until I plucked up the courage to say
something. As I breathed in a particular way the conversation hushed.
"What?" I said.
"What exactly?" Marigold replied. "This sounds interesting."
"I was going to say. I think I was going to say, that I have found some one I like."
They were silent but for Carmine's smile. I couldn't tell what Marigold was doing
under her huge yellow sunglasses.
"Who is she?" she said.
"Oh no, I'm not telling this time."
"Is it serious?"
"God, I don't know."
"Well, tell me who it is," Marigold scoffed.
"I'm actually going to ask her to come for a walk." I said.
"Very subtle, sophisticated," Carmine responded.
"Very..."
Carmine looked at Marigold and she stayed quiet.
"It's the girl from the café isn't it?"
"Marigold!"
"It is I can tell by the look in your eye, oh yes very subtle," Marigold blurted.
"As a matter of fact Caro is a fine young woman. However it is not Caro."
"Yes it is."
"No it is not. Seriously." I was lying through my teeth, trying to get through those
sunglasses that seemed to read my mind.

"Well who else could it be?"
"It could be any one. Think about it. I can be on the Internet chatting to a beauty,
then I can go visit."
"Are yes," Marigold conceded. "It could. Rich kid like you..." She looked away
disgruntled and threw her cup to the floor in defeat. Then she walked away and
vanished in one of the small streets that spiral out from the square.
"Whow!"
"She has deep feeling for you Vernon."
"We're family. But... I suppose a year ago, when you think about it, I would have
done anything to her."
"She is, I think, let me say accustomed to you." Carmine said. "So tell me what
she is like."
"Is Marigold able to hear us?"
"No," Carmine assured me.
"It is Caro. The girl from the café in New York."
"Clever story about the internet."
"Thank you."
"You know I found a phrase Ou-yang Chian might have said if he lived in our
time of elaboration."
"Did you?"
"But first: Caro."
"She is American-French. She makes the most sublime Danish pastries and she
likes Chico. Which is going to be a killer for Marigold."
"That she like Chico?"
"Yes."
"Who gets custody?"
"Yes."
"And what does she look like?"
"She has the deepest eyes and a way that is so sensitive. She is sexually dynamic
and wears summer dresses, so she adheres to my little house on the prairie thing.

She has long brown hair, light and long legs. Red cherry lips and cheekbones that are
quite.... I don't know." Vernon made a shape with his mouth that mimmicked Caro
perfectly.
"She sounds splendid. I would love to meet her."
"You shall, I hope."

Our coffee ended before Carmine could commit his post-eternal phrase which had so
inspired his ancient brother: Ou-yang.

As Carmine left the Piazza, I put my headphones on so that I can go deep and visit
well. The conversation had remitted any possibility of going solo. And as I began to
hover, with my eyes closing heavily and my body becoming lighter and lighter, I saw a
girl pass in front of me. Deja Vu. She is jogging by and a terrific energy is following
her. Her mind does not know fully that she is being chased by this nasty sonofabitch.
The guy inside the guy is striding behind her; although this time he sees that I am
watching. He looks back to the girl and gains on her, this time faster than before. He
gains and gains. People are actually taking notice. They are doing nothing to help
because in this world he is shouting, 'Dear stop running away.... Wait till your Mother
hears this.' Or words to that effect. They do not see the poor father being pressed
deeper and deeper into the bones and they certainly don't see his questioning nervous
systems, meridians, blood bending, trying to understand and cope with this sudden
invasion or possession. He is walking very fast. Not running. The girl stops running
and waits for the creature. As the creature gets to her and grabs her arm she feels that
this is not her father. Although he looks like her father, she can feel that this is not he.
How can this be? As my training dictates, I leave this monster to take the child. But
wait, I feel a pang. Just for a moment I feel a pang of pity for the child. Damn. I am not
supposed to do that. I see the little girl being pulled by this monster and I actually am
worrying about her safekeeping. I feel love and I know where it is. I walk on it every

day. But I see that girl being pulled away by some poor fuck and I, well I'm not usually
affected. I'm not supposed to be affected. I am not supposed to effect outwardly or
inwardly. I am just the wind between your toes and the flees in the breeze. To effect,
no. That might make things bad. I visit and listen and report. I don't do anything. What
is happening happens and I just report the good bits. So off you go little girl to be eaten
by your Father. I am actually sorry. The beast, as I want to call him, looks at me every
other step. He is saying 'What is your mother going to think, she bought you ice cream
and a new dress, you ungrateful....', and every other step he looks around and smiles his
all too familiar algae smile. He drips tobacco browns and he sways. That's what he
does.

Dead Skin of the Insane.

This is not good. I can feel Carmine breathing down my neck, telling me the order of
things. The dimensions to respect, the danger in affectation. That I must follow my path
to the letter, that I am not a bad man for listening only, that in the long run this is what I
am and what I have to do. I can feel him in my NASA fucked up headphones. And here
we go; I'm visiting without will. Fuck, activate alarm, central nervous system is a bit
wary, yes it is crying out for medication, olanzapine please. I need some olanzapine
please. Oh my dear God. I knew it I'm visiting the old mental institute, where I learnt
the hard way the laws of affectation. And that affection was not my destiny. Here we
go, and I'm visiting, myself, several years ago. There I am, noticing myself, yet again.
They've got me dusting and sweeping up, with a dustpan and brush and a duster that is
green and purple and light blue. Imagine giving this job to a totally paranoid drugged
up freak like myself, the job of dusting, floors and walls and bowls and radios and
television and beds and computers and daedos; the dust, dead skin from the most
insane people you will ever meet. When Carmine sent me away he really tested me,
which is probably how you've noticed I don't 101% trust him, especially where
Marigold is concerned. But anyway, there I am breathing in the dead skin of the insane
twice, years apart, ethereally through my liver and corporeally through my lungs.
Whoah, Trippy. Then again I suppose the average person might begin to trip breathing
in this very special dust that would keep any irritated voodoo king in projectile herbs
for a life-time. This angel dust glistened with our poverty and the sweat of cruel nurses.
Those that were the most comforting were the cruellest. That is why Carmine and
Marigold were so fresh and also why I do not judge any more. And yes I can
understand this visit now, thank you very much liver, you have breathed in enough. No
I obviously have not, I am supposed to witness the next gesture. The episode of my
mother's coming in and telling me how well I am doing, cleaning up after dead men.
Or the dead skin. Read what you like. Who ever thought that this place would be like a
travelling mystery, odyssey, to be presumptuous on our hubrism? Tell yourself you are
Homer long enough or She-ra, or Scooby, and

you start believing it. Believe in Hong Kong Fui, for God sake pray to him and let your
life mean something and you may find out it does. The American dream as my friend
put it once; I didn't believe him. So Hong Kong Fui get out of this one, Mum sweeping
up dead skin, now although this becomes absurdly funny. I have to feel sorry for her. I
pity again, from liver to lung. She cares for me, as a mother should, and I just blow the
dust in her face. Oh Jesus! My lungs are laughing and my Liver is crying, God knows
what my heart is doing. My poor mother. She does not see the significance. She wipes
the dust from her exfoliated face and begins again to sweep up the dust of a dying man.

My God I'm tired. This, I think has been one of the most trying visits I've had.

Sitting with Chico in the little café/bistro, Marigold tasted one of Caro's Danish
pastries that had been so highly recommended. Caro very politely served the very
intimidating young woman and after a slight giggle, a nervous one, she scurried back to
the counter where she was preparing salads for the evening rush. Seven or eight would
suffice. Any more than that would possibly be a waste, but sometimes she could get
through seventy or eighty or ninety, it just depended on the dampness in the air and the
specials on the board. Marigold was watching everything she did beneath her glasses
that were steamed up from the inside. If Caro could see her eyes, I'm sure she would
not like it. Marigold's eyes were jet jet black and tinged with green in the pupil and
when she got angry they shined and the green was more visible.
Marigold finished her pastry and walked to the counter. Caro picked up her herb
tea and sipped it as this woman began invading her space. As if she were smelling the
air, geometrically, and as Marigold reached the counter she said, I've heard your Danish
pastries are really something.
"Thank you," Caro replied.
"I said I was recommended the Danish pastries, I didn't say I liked them." She
paused, "but I would say they are very good." She turned around and left the
establishment.

Caro put the tea down and slumped over the salads, letting out a humph. It was
as if she had been kicked in the gut.

If she thinks she is good enough for Vernon I think I will have to show her our world. I
shall show her every detail of Vernon. Every second of his life in every second of her
dreams, and then I would like to see her stay with him. That would be true love. Watch
that fucked up young man fucking up everything he could fuck up, then see if you can
have a sweet relationship with him, with your perfect pastries and your perfect hips and
your summer dresses. Where shall I take you? Your first sense of Vernon should truly
be Vernon. Vernon at his best.

Marigold stopped herself in the middle of crossing a busy street with honking taxis and
business cars and all the grid lock drivers, driving around for whatever reason they do.
Marigold stopped amidst the full tide and pictured Vernon smiling. And she became
very sad. She continued walking through the afternoon traffic, narrowly being missed
by angry vans, cars and delivery vehicles who all downloaded their frustrations on
Marla, I mean Marigold. She looked at them through her sunglasses, and carried on,
slowly until she got to the other side. She sat low by a barrier and watched the traffic
and felt the change that was about to occur via Vernon's happiness. Or possible
happiness.

He's been through almost everything and I want to continue the pattern. I'm used to his
ways. They are comforting. I can't imagine him happy with a woman, other than
myself. And he won't have me. He still has ethics you see. He thinks our family status
is something that binds us in crime, but not in love. Or not the kind I want. I'd marry
the bitch but he does not feel the same way. I love his shiny shoes and his creased
shirts, his coffee tainted breath. I love his pain and I thrive on his talents. What can she
give him? Caro... Caro... "CARO!" Do I show her? What would you do? I mean this is
really going to change all our lives. Imagine and hubby, visiting serving his kind, like

he tries not to, working alongside his partners, partners in all that shit, and there he is
thinking of Caro with her perfectly formed lips.

Oh dear this is not how I see myself.

As Marigold stood up she just had a momentary feeling of being a giant. The cars felt
very small, the people most insignificant. She was master just for a second. And I
think, speaking as your narrator, she liked it.

The Most Interesting Shift at Work

I have always wanted my own place. I started working in this Bistro two years ago,
wanting to learn the ropes and here I stayed. The boss is gentle, he lets me work as
many hours as I need, he lets me make my own recipes, he listens to my ideas in the
restaurants, you know plants, table shapes, chairs, what kind of crockery we should
have. He listens and listens, he doesn't always act on my suggestions but he certainly
listens. I suppose I can talk quite a lot too, which allows him to listen. He's quite good
looking for a seventy year old. And do you know he's called Luigi. He once asked me
to give him a blowjob. I told him to sit down; he ran a mile. Ever since then we had an
understanding. Don't ask, because you might get. I might wear light clothes, but you
know I would say I'm quite a strong woman, no I would say I'm a lady, but I very rarely
find a gentleman. Partly my fault, because I try to find gentlemen and those who try to
be them aren't. They are usually the smarm-balls, or the deeply insecure. Those who try
everyone else's girlfriend because they hate full rejection. You know the type, the kind
you really want in your life. So then I meet Vernon. And he is a true gentleman. He is
gentle and I figure he is a man. He likes me. I can tell by his blushes. His body
scrunches into his brown suite every time I serve him. He has asked me out you know?
He wants to go for a walk with his horny little Chihuahua. I made something for him:
Chico. Vernon told me about the Hacienda thing, kennel, closet thing, so I watched
some spaghetti westerns, and this was before he asked me to walk with them, them is
good too, because he trusts me with his dog, which I find a good omen, well what I
made were a couple of bundles of tumble weed, and I bought a whistle that doesn't
work anymore. Or it did but I took out the pea and put in one wheat grain. The whistle
is soft like a wandering wind. Vernon can hang it in the Mexican closet and throw the
tumbleweed across the chaparral and blow the wind whistle. I hope he likes it. I think if
he does we will get married one day. Just a hunch.

Now, I'm supposed to be telling you about the most interesting shift ever, and it
happened today with the girl I used to think was Vernon's lady. Vernon told me she was
called Marigold and that she was his second cousin and that they were very close, and
that she might be jealous of us, even just going for a walk. I think okay, I can handle
that, I've had jealousy all my life. It's my great breasts. They are great. I don't see the
interest value myself, I'm more for the acts, if you know what I mean, just looking at
breasts or butts, or thighs I like them but they don't do it for me. However, men love
my breasts, and I have had some comments on my ankles and my mouth. I suppose I'm
okay to look at. You get me in bed baby though and you better be insured. That's why I
like Vernon. You see I consider myself a bit psychic, and I think he, behind it all is a
tigre. He is thin and wiry and all, but his eyes are so deep and I just know chemically or
whatever, he has a good time. It may be shallow but if he can't do anything in bed then
I would have to look elsewhere. It is my life. I can't help it. If he... well I'll know as
soon as we hold hands. I'm French-American, so I suppose it's a bit of a cliché that I
am a sex-y person, but my mum and dad were always indulging and I could have
become a bit frigid or I could have become the opposite. At school I began frigid, then I
was lucky enough to experience what I should, and courageously I got this little pip-
squeak to do exactly what I wanted, and he seemed to enjoy himself. There was no
turning back. I've heard it in Vernon's voice that he's tried stuff. He wouldn't say though
and I like that. It's just a kind of shy confidence, that comes from trying stuff normal
people think is wrong. I don't know what it is but I bet your bottom dollar, he's taken it
up tha ass. I know that isn't the height of experimentation, but if you can take it up the
ass, like I figure Vernon does, you got places you can go from there. If you know what I
mean? Oh yeah, the strange shift. I just had Marigold, Vernon's second cousin in here
staring at me through her yellow sunglasses. I think by now she will have found the
note I slipped in her pocket, which told her that if she looked at me behind those slick
sunglasses and hundred dollars hair-do one more time, I'd slit her throat. I mean it, I
don't let anyone mess around with me. Especially with jealousy. I found out the hard
way that you mess around with jealousy and you get hurt, so I go for the kill, and sure
sometimes it back-fires, but generally speaking, I would say that

getting to the heart of the matter saves a lot of worry and, well, lacks integrity. I've a
feeling we, Marigold and I will get on well one day. Why was this shift strange, other
than me getting evil looks from a crazed incestuous bitch? Well, I told you I'm a bit
psychic. That Marigold was trying to do something to me behind those sunglasses. I
could feel it. I felt pins and needles in my stomach, just where she was staring. Right
where she was staring, it felt numb, and then it felt like she was boring a hole in my
belly. Well, like my mama used to say, protect your belly. So I thought of some stuff to
protect myself; well I thought of my Mama actually and I got protection. That's when
she, Marigold came over to me and started smelling all around my neck, she stared at
me, looked behind me, like you see cats doing, and then she turned around and left. I
felt nauseous. But I could feel my dead Mama around. She was a witch, and quite a
good one so I was told. I am glad I have her; sometimes I need her. She was apparently
from a long line of French witches. She always said I was gifted and should carry it on,
but I never got the chance to learn anything from her. Anyway, I suppose that's not true
because after Marigold threatened, because I felt it was a threat, I slumped over my
chamomile tea, closing my eyes, and there I saw my Mama smiling at me. She always
said look after yourself with a smile, as those who try to attack you don't understand
what it means. Those who try, think they know what it means but they don't. Anyway,
it was the clearest thing I have, well not the clearest, but I swear on my Mamas soul
that that was my Mamas soul looking after me. She smiled so angelic. That's why I
knew it was real, because she certainly wasn't an angel and smiled only like that on
occasion of mistrust or danger. She'd whistle a happy tune then that was you. That's
where I get it. God bless my mama.

Meanwhile back at the Hacienda; Marigold was laying on the dusky ochre tiles with
Chico, having a conversation about Caro. Marigold read out the note that she had found
in her pocket: "Come near me and I'll cut you throat!!!" "Come near me and I'll cut
your throat!!!"
"Can you believe the audacity Chico?"

Chico shook involuntarily. He seriously needed to go for a walk; while Marigold
just kept repeating herself. Over and over.

"Chico, what am I going to do?" Marigold clenched her cheeks and her buttocks and
her feet arched like a fucked up gazelle.
Chico shook some more then walked over to his litter tray and took a huge shit.
Probably half to two thirds his own body wait and then walked passed Marigold's face.
Marigold closed her eyes.

Mint Ice Cream

by
Marco Zaffino

Copyright
1st May 1996

Chapter 1

Lorenzo left his wheel-barrow to join his two friends, who had already sat down and rolled a cigarette. They sat at the summit of the volcano and faced the bay, the sun steadily sinking, and the breeze still sweeping inland. From such a distance, the water showed few signs that it moved. It glowed yellow and pink, and gave all impressions that it was glass. Only the very slight taste of salt in the air told of the sea.
"Have you ever seen the sky so clear?" Lorenzo said as he was passed a cigarette. Looking up he took a deep drag, held it for a moment then let it go towards the sea. The breeze pushed it back in his face.
"The city at our feet. Ruins and sea, cliff-faces and gardens,.. a true Garden of Eden," Marcello replied. "Eh Pasquale, the cigarette." Pasquale smiled and passed it on.
"Its so clear that you can't recognise any star. Each star so bright, that the constellations have been lost,... A shooting star!" Lorenzo pointed.
"Where?" Pasquale cried.
"No I have never seen it so clear. I remember when you couldn't see the horizon never mind the stars." Lorenzo blew out more smoke. "When the air was more smoke than anything else." He shook his head, "I can remember..."
"There is no need to worry anymore Lorenzo," Marcello interrupted.
"I hope so."
"We won't allow it to be."
"I hope you are right Pasquale. I'm sure you are both right. There is nothing to fear anymore."
"Ah my friends, the wind is turning around, time to go." They put the two cigarettes out. Lorenzo collected his wheel barrow, and started the descent along the rubbley path. Marcello and Pasquale walked a few paces behind quietly talking.
The old builder's wheel-barrow peacefully rumbled on. It had sliding joints where the rivets had fallen free and the wheel was slightly flat. Lorenzo had used a blue tape on the handle bars, which along with its other idiosyncrasies, made it Lorenzo's Wheel-barrow.

He loved this descent especially, because he could look at the sea, and the sky, smell the trees and reminisce about his grandfather who used to sing songs about the scene he was now sensing. Often he would hum the melody. A tear would sometimes swell in his eye, and every now and then, he would, belt out a troubadours serenade.
Generally, with the sentiment in tact, he would remain quiet, and listen. The sound of the wheel-barrow, and the disjointed conversation behind, melting in with the panoramic scene. If he were lucky they might be visited by a seagull.
"Not singing tonight, Lorenzo?"
"No, I don't feel like it."
"Are you okay?" asked Marcello.
"Yes,.. Yes, thank you."
"It sure is clear." Pasquale said, trying to help.
Lorenzo nodded with a smile on his face. Then, suddenly, he began to sing.
They reached the first village and Lorenzo stopped mid-verse. He mindfully acknowledged that the wheel-barrow was playing a different tune, along the volcanic tiles, black tiles of lava.
In the thin streets, where no light was lit, animals roamed around, using the empty houses as stables. Cats, dogs, and horses were the main inhabitants of the city now, friendly and unassuming, they would hear the wheel-barrow, or the chatting of a human and come out to see what was happening.
In the darkness of this night, the animals could hardly be seen. The sounds of hooves clomping on the tiles, or the sliding of paws on marble steps, would sometimes conjure up, with the aid of a little moonlight the image of a horse in a doorway, or a cat darting across the street.
Marcello and Pasquale continued to talk. Their conversation was becoming more boisterous, and it was evident that Lorenzo was annoyed with them. He enjoyed listening to these subtle sounds. He tried to enjoy the echo of their voices but he didn't want to. The conversation continued, steadily growing louder and louder. While in true Lorenzo fashion, he said nothing, he just walked and let their frivolities frustrate him. Marcello stopped to tie his shoe lace, and Lorenzo thought that this might be the end of their noise. He continued to push his wheel-barrow.

Now that their eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, they could clearly see the animals in the houses. The doors were open and the cats lay on the steps, sleeping or prowling elegantly along window-ledges, while the dogs played together, sometimes coming up to one of the men for some affection, while the horses inhabited the lower floors, and if a group of them ran along a street, any human in the way would have to find a doorway to momentarily wait in as they went by.
Lorenzo enjoyed this very much, the sight of the animals in the quiet darkness, only the sound of the bouncing wheel-barrow, and sometimes a breeze roaming round a street corner.
"Hey Lorenzo, sing a song," Marcello cried, looking at Pasquale in a playful manner.
"No, I would prefer not to."
So Marcello began in a loud voice to sing. He saw Lorenzo speed up, and sang the next word with a laugh. He tapped Pasquale on the arm to beckon him to sing along. Pasquale gestured not to, for he knew very well what Marcello was doing. Marcello pulled a very innocent face, which said, `I know.. I know but I mean no harm,' and he patted his arm once again. Pasquale saw the funny side, and began to sing too.
Lorenzo increased his speed, and so did they, while continuing to sing, finding it hard to keep in their laughter. Lorenzo turned around with a serious look on his face, but with equally serious faces they continued to sing. When Lorenzo looked ahead, Pasquale could not restrain himself any longer and he burst out with an almighty laugh.
"Pasquale what are you laughing at?" Marcello asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. Pasquale laughed still more. "Pasquale, are you laughing at my singing. That is very rude. Don't you think that is rude Enzo?" He shouted even louder.
"Get lost the both of you!" Lorenzo cried. And they both burst into laughter. Lorenzo faced the front.
"Well I think it's rude," Marcello continued.
They walked on for a while in quietness. To Marcello's dismay, he could not think of anything witty to say, and Pasquale felt that he should respect Lorenzo's wishes. The wheel-barrow rumbled on.
"Do you fancy a cigarette Enzo?" Marcello asked.

"Do you? We're nearly there now."
"We are?" Pasquale said with great enthusiasm.
"We can have one there if you like Marcello," Lorenzo replied. Marcello nodded.
They increased their speed, even though they had nothing to rush for, just the thought of a near destination caused a change in pace.
"Is that it?" Pasquale asked pointing to a mini-market.
"No Pasquale we finished the pasta there after a week. We will be turning onto the main road soon, there you will see our market," answered Marcello.
Eventually they arrived at a larger road, where pavements were laid, sometimes on only one side, but on the whole, both sides. At times the over-hanging buildings sheltered the walkways allowing you to be encapsulated by the environment of a shop; you weren't actually inside but you felt as though you were.
Pasquale hadn't seen anything like this for along time, buildings with so many large windows, where the lamp posts were regularly spaced, bending over you like tall watchmen, policing your every movement, and flickers of colour every now and then reaching him through the night darkness.
"Do you remember it by day my boy?" Lorenzo asked, seeing how bemused he was. "Its big; even the horses look tiny, but in the day the colours are amazing. Then, of course, there's the city proper."
"One day."
Lorenzo stopped, gave an incredulous look, then shook his head at the young man. He started pushing the wheel-barrow once again along the road, which was now smooth, and with the lack of conversation, the only sound to be heard, was the odd bat, and the whirring of the spinning wheel.
"First, the hotel," Lorenzo said.
"Hotel?"
"We can't very well shop now," Marcello said. "You are going to enjoy the morning Pasquale".
"I think so,.. it's been so long. It's all so different."
"And it's all going," Lorenzo said.

"It's a shame. Maybe we will leave some."
"For the sanity of us all, the whole lot will go."
"Enzo?" Marcello snapped, "the first time Pasquale comes to town, and you're in a mood. For his sake,, make our walk a pleasure, the stars are out, the moon is clear, we're in good company, what are you worrying about."
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it," Pasquale said.
"I shouldn't."
"It is a lovely night," Pasquale added.
Lorenzo smiled.
They stood outside a three story building, with a sign 'Hotel' on the wall.
"We stay here?"
"Yes Pasquale."
Lorenzo left his wheel-barrow on the pavement, and walked in. Pasquale and Marcello climbed the steps together, entering the building. It was very dark inside, and Lorenzo had already gone upstairs to find a bedroom.
"Come with me," Marcello whispered, linking arms and guiding his friend up the stairs, "Enzo is a little embarrassed, but he'll be fine tomorrow."
Marcello took Pasquale to a large bedroom. "Are you warm?"
"A little."
"Look here," Marcello walked over to the large windows, and opened them. "The balcony."
Pasquale stepped out onto the balcony and with a gasp he saw the now moonlit street.
"How beautiful?"
"It certainly is. When you stand like we are now, watching the animals passing below, and the sky so clear above, what more can you want?" He waited for a response, but didn't get one. "An addition would be coffee. You fancy a coffee Pasquale?"
"I'd love a coffee."
"Wait a moment. Sit down." Marcello gestured towards two easy chairs and a table which were already on the balcony, walked into the hotel room, in the dark, and, familiar to the

surroundings, he found the kitchen area straight away, opened a cupboard and picked up a small percolator, some coffee, a bottle of water, and a mini camping stove; then he returned to the balcony.
"Eh voila. What more do you need." He opened the percolator and poured some water in the base, then he put the coffee in the filter and tightened the top. He set the camping stove up and lit the gas, placed the percolator on the flame, and walked back to the kitchen. He opened another cupboard and found the sugar, on the counter were two small white cups and saucers which he held in one hand, he opened a drawer and took two teaspoons out, placed them on the saucers. The cup handles faced right. He walked slowly back to the balcony. He put one cup down, turning it around so that, the handle was to Pasquale's right, and the other likewise for himself.
"Sugar?"
"Two."
"Good." He put two sugars in Pasquale's cup and three in his own. As the last spoonful entered his cup, the percolator startled to growl.
"Perfect. Finally the coffee." Marcello picked up the percolator, poured the dark liquid firstly into Pasquale cup, then into his own. "Smell. Is there a better smell?" The gas was turned out.
Pasquale began to stir in circles while looking out onto the street.
"Eh," Marcello said. "You can't drink coffee properly, unless you have first stirred your coffee properly. Watch. `The penultimate step to an Italian ritual'." Marcello with large sweeping strokes, slowly pulled the spoon from the furthest part of the cup to the nearest, and then with an upward scoop, he would examine the sugar to see if it had properly dissolved. "Even in the moonlight you can see the golden sugar."
Pasquale imitated him and for the first time ever, stirred and drank a coffee well.
There is hardly a more perfect place to drink coffee, than a balcony, in good company.
"How do you like our hotel?" Marcello asked.
"Beautiful."
"Sure is."
The wind brought the horses to the balcony, their noise, their smell, and their power. Their eyes would capture the moon, in a passing glance at the balcony.

"I feel like I'm on holiday."
Marcello smiled, and began to role a couple of cigarettes. He passed one on to the young man. The smoke drifted horizontally from the balcony, venturing into the blackness like a young bird, first leaving its nest. It dispersed and could only be seen when it came across the moon. Both faces looked up to the heavens, and they would fleet a thought of being the heavens themselves. Or they would fleet a thought of flight, of riding the Pegasus, of sailing the Milky river. The Nile of the sky.
Pasquale seemed to fall in love with Marcello right there and then. He had never been in the company of such a person, and he wanted their coffee to last forever. He would repress his yawns to try and keep him there longer, but finally, Marcello yawned, gestured that he was tired and bid him good-night.
Pasquale stayed on the balcony for a while, trying to understand the feelings that he had. Slightly confused, but enjoying a slight melancholia, he poured himself the coffee dregs.

Chapter 2

The young seventeen year old, woke up, but could hardly bring himself to get out of bed, (although rising should have been easy, because he had slept fully clothed in the anticipation of this day,) because of the apathy that had fallen on him as Marcello had left the balcony. The sudden urge needed to bring him into action, was the sound of a pack of horses strolling by outside. He sat up, rolled away the covers, and walked over to the balcony. There he stood, with a brisk breeze in his face, crumpled baggy trousers, a white vest and shirt hanging out, un-tucked, feeling cold; but, with an excitement that realigned his sensations into pure joy. The cold cast iron railing that he lent on penetrated through his shirt sleeves; he had to keep his elbows moving. The thousand horses wandered on by beneath him.
There was a knock at the door: "Are you ready?"
"One moment Enzo," he replied tucking himself in quickly. He ran to the kitchen and washed his face. To dry his hands he wet his hair, while slicking it back. When wet his hair would stay where he combed it.
Pasquale went to the door: "Are we going now?"
"Of course," Lorenzo replied.
"Can we not have a coffee? There's a pack of horses walking by."
"Son,.. We will return here every three days; the horses won't go anywhere. Besides what you will see soon will interest you more."
At this point Marcello strolled out of a room, two doors down: "Are we going?" he said rather impatiently.
"Yes, yes,.. Neither of you have shaven?"
"What?" Marcello grunted while wiping a little sleep from his eye.
"Did you see the horses Marcello?"
"Pasquale," Marcello said, "until I wake up, I can't see you."

They walked out of the hotel into the bright sunshine. The horses had gone by.
"Well,.. They were beautiful."

"I'm sure they were," Lorenzo said sincerely. Picking up the wheel-barrow he turned around and walked in the opposite direction to where the supermarket and the main shopping area was.
"Where are we going?" Pasquale asked.
"To wake up properly," Lorenzo replied.
"You'll see something quite lovely," Marcello said.
They walked for a while and then came to a small square where a church was situated. Lorenzo walked up to the steps at the entrance and put the wheel-barrow down. The large door was open and a dog lay a little way in. Further inside cats could be seen lazily lounging around or sleeping. Marcello sat on the steps and began to role a cigarette. Lorenzo sat next to him and Pasquale remained standing.
"Pasquale," Marcello began, "in the morning I'm a proper Bastard, while Enzo is a proper gent. At night, I'm more the gentle one and he becomes tired. So for me to stop being a Bastard, we sit here a while and let me have a cigarette. We can enjoy the sun, talk, and relax," he lit his cigarette and pointed to the church, "in good company. After an hour or two like this who can be angry at anyone. Now sit down and enjoy the sun."
"Excuse me."
"It is a special street, but a slightly dangerous one," Lorenzo said. "It feeds our house, yet once it boggled the mind and purged the soul."
Marcello waved his hand around in circles, "Lorenzo, please, its too early for propaganda."
"I'm sorry."
"You shut up when you should shout, and talk when you should shut up... Just enjoy the sun."
"These things shouldn't be forgotten."
"Yes I know but we are changing things now." Marcello said trying to sound light but feeling his sleepy anger.
"You don't know what it was like Marcello."
"I know."
"This place could be a proper hell."
"I know."
"A proper hell."

"A proper hell," Marcello replied.
"It should be remembered."
"So it should, but we have new dreams, a new love."
"A proper hell," Lorenzo said with vivid memories in his eyes.
Marcello breathed heavily.
"You know I dreamt something about it last night."
"What was that Enzo?" Pasquale replied to a downward look from Marcello.
"I dreamt of a desert, and in that desert were faces of my family."
"Our family?" Pasquale asked.
"No my old family."
"Oh."
"And what were they doing?" Marcello asked.
"They had heads the size of trees. They were angels. But they were buried to their necks. Only the tops of their wings showed above the great sand dunes. Their eyes had been plucked out but they still shed streams of tears. And those streams of tears gathered into lakes and the lakes became seas, and some of the seas became oceans."
"Bloody hell," Pasquale said.
"Our past can still cause fear. It can kill the mind."
"And it can kill our dreams for the future," Marcello interrupted.
"I know."
"You're not the only one you know Enzo."
Lorenzo grunted.
"You're not!" Marcello said.
Lorenzo grunted again.
Marcello stood up feeling slightly frustrated and shouted with his arms in the air: "What is there to worry about. Over there is our food, over there is our home and family, up there is the sun, behind us we have God, now please, tell me what is there to worry about?"
"You're right Marcello, I just want you to remember how it was."

"Its good to remember," Pasquale intervened, "but, now that we are in such a position, we can live well."
They all smiled at Pasquale's ability to sit on a fence, and calmed down.
"What I used to enjoy was, after the mass, on a Sunday, meeting my friends and talking in a square just like this one. We'd talk, or go for a ride on our mopeds, or take a drive to the coast in Gian Luca's car. But on a Sunday the atmosphere was always different. Wherever you were, there was a special feeling. To just sit and watch the crowds of people was such fun. To buzz around them on our bikes was a joy. And because it was the rest day, there was a special feeling of freedom, and it was felt by almost everybody. In the day you stayed lazy, and at night it would get crazy." Pasquale stopped with a sad smile on his face.
"Sunday was a good day," Marcello replied and passed him a cigarette.
"It was good when you only think of the good.. But the bad was bad.. And there was more bad than good," Lorenzo added.
The young man beckoned a memory of the past.
Marcello looked at Pasquale with angry eyes, that said, `now you've said it, there was a chance of peace, but,..'
"I mean that people were people, and when they needed food they would do anything to get it. And who can blame them? If you're poor and have a starving family, or you are sick of your life as it is, then you are obviously going to break away, steal, kill to survive. You're going to start selling drugs, or something like that,.. So many lives ruined because of greed. It can't happen again, it can't. When you're poor and the rich don't give a damn, you have to do something."
Pasquale looked at Marcello with a little fear in his eyes.
"It won't happen again Enzo," Marcello said while putting his arm around him. "Come on cheer up," he looked up, again a little frustrated: "Enjoy the sun."
Marcello concerned but still slightly vexed at the unneeded turmoil, took back the cigarette and breathed in a deep drag. What was annoying him more than anything, was the fact that his friend was in pain, and he was more bothered about his own peace of mind. He just wanted to sit and relax, passing the morning in the way he enjoyed the most. But it was being spoilt by someone-else's sadness. This he was annoyed at. How selfish he felt. But what could he do, if he

felt frustrated, he felt a feeling for a reason, and the atmosphere had been made. He knew that Lorenzo had deep scars from past experiences, and so his guilt ran equally deep. He knew that there was nothing to worry about, and that the problems of Lorenzo's past had gone, so why did they keep returning?
The three men sat there very quietly.
Marcello repeated himself but in mellow tones: "Over there is our food, over there is our home and family, up there is the sun, behind us we have God, tell me what is there to worry about?"
They stood up and began to walk towards the supermarket. They walked down a street and turned the first corner without saying a word, they went round the second corner, then the third, still the silence tainted only by the whirring of the wheel-barrow. Marcello looked at Pasquale sadly, and held his hands in the air.
As Lorenzo turned the final corner, they heard him scream, turn the wheel-barrow around at great speed, and jumping, he pushed Marcello and Pasquale to the ground. Then looking back, they saw the pack of horses racing out from behind the building, as if they were being chased by a dragon.
Lorenzo remained on the ground for a while breathing heavily, while Marcello rolled another cigarette.
"I said they were beautiful," Pasquale said as he watched them navigate the streets of the city.
Lorenzo looked up at him in a kind of disbelief.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, Marcello."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Marcello."
"You're not hurt are you?"
"No."
"Check yourself,.. your arms?"
"They're fine."
"Shall I push the wheel-barrow for you?"

"No!"
"Would you like..."
"No!"
"...A drag?"
"Yes!"
"You would, or you wouldn't?
"Ah, Go away!" Lorenzo shouted as he picked up his wheel-barrow and started to walk towards the supermarket, mumbling to himself, about saving two youngsters, and all they could do was tease, tease: "If that's what you want then go on tease me, just cause I'm old."
Marcello with a deep sigh of relief walked after the old man, linking arms with Pasquale: "In a couple of minutes he'll be fine again, and all will be well."
"He seems awfully angry, Marcello."
"Trust me, it was what he needed. Gets rid of the frustration."
"If you're sure."
"Anyway, stop worrying,.. you enjoy your day," he took a drag from the cigarette and offered it to his friend.
"No thank you."
After a moments quiet, Pasquale spoke of his morning, recalling the chance missed of a time at the hotel: "This morning on the balcony,.. I think I can still feel it. The cold railing on my elbows. The horses below moving so slowly; and, you know when you've been resting on the railing too long, and you try to get comfortable,.."
Marcello nodded.
"Well, it wasn't quite painful enough to move, but the wind was cold, and I could feel the iron in my bones,..." Pasquale then became distracted by the surroundings of the main street.
"A good story should never be told well."
"What, Marcello?"
"Oh, nothing."
"How beautiful, Marcello, such colours... I haven't seen anything like this in so long."
"You like?"

"Very much," he paused in awe. "These shops were so expensive, I could only dream of buying such things. They wouldn't even let me in to some of them."
"Well now you can go in, take all you want, and not pay for anything."
Pasquale looked at Marcello with glazed eyes.
"Heh, are you coming shopping or not?" Lorenzo shouted from ahead.
"One moment," Marcello replied. "What do you want to do?"
"What can I do?"
"Anything you want."
"So the family would not mind me shopping here aswell?"
"I can not speak for the family."
"You wouldn't mind me shopping here?"
"I don't mind."
"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong in shopping here now."
"No there isn't, Pasquale." He took the youngster by the arm, "But what's the point?.. Just enjoy the colours."

Lorenzo was standing outside the super-market. The doors were open and without waiting for them to fully reach him, he turned and walked in, with the wheel-barrow. The other two eventually arrived and entered. Pasquale was not ready for the stench that welcomed him. The first section to the super-market had been the fruit and vegetable section, however that which had been left by the horses, had gone terribly off and was being devoured by flies and moulds, and together with the collective animal shit, an honourable smell had been created.
"Still the colours are interesting, don't you think?"
Pasquale was almost sick at this comment, and rushed on ahead to catch Lorenzo.
"It smells a little doesn't it?"
Pasquale nodded.
"Well you should see the meat section," Lorenzo saw how faint the youngster looked and said: "The food we need is central, and tinned or in packets, they can keep for years."

Pasquale followed behind Lorenzo who took the more central routes to arrive at the tinned tomato section. He took 24 tins of plum tomatoes, and 20 small tins of puree, 3 tins of canned mushrooms, 4 tins of peas, 3 tins of corn, four tins of Kidney beans, three packets of red lentils, a packet of chick peas and ten cans a beans. He then took Pasquale to the Pasta and rice section and told him to fill the wheel-barrow with as many packets as would fit. He then wandered off to get some flour, dried basil and ground nutmeg.
"There we are, three days shopping."
"Three days?.. It seems strange to see where these things come from again."
"And now a long walk home,.. after we return for a coffee at the bar."
"At the Bar?"
"You'll see, Pasquale."
Marcello had been to the tobacconist section to get some more papers and tobacco, and was waiting outside for them.
"Finished?"
"I think so."
"Then, lets go."
They walked on down the main road, and turned right. As they walked around the corner, you could see Marcello's eyes light up, when he saw the sign for `BAR'.
In the doorway there was an old mongrel dog laying in a tight ball. When it saw the three men, it stood up slowly and greeted them with a slightly excited waggle of the tail, and a smile.
"Ah, `Luigi," Marcello said, as he began to affectionately stroke the dog.
They entered the bar and let the dog in. Lorenzo lit two camping stoves which already sat on a table. On one he placed a pan of water with some salt, and on the other he placed a coffee percolator, which had been prepared earlier. He gave everyone a small cup, saucer, and spoon, putting the three sugars in Marcello's cup, the two in Pasquale's and he gave his own half a spoon. All was done in silence. After a couple of moments the percolator began to speak. Lorenzo fetched it over and carefully poured, first to Marcello, then to Pasquale, and then his own. Pasquale stirred the coffee in the manner that he had been taught the night before. This brought a proud look into the examining eye of Marcello. Lorenzo went for a dual stirring technique,

sometimes wading the spoon backwards and forwards, and sometimes in a circular motion, using his sense of touch rather to see if the sugar had dissolved, as opposed to the more empirical observation that the crystals were put under in Marcello's cup. The sensual delights however were had by all concerned, without actual words. Some grunts of satisfaction could be heard, but nothing else.
As Lorenzo finished his coffee, he went to check the water. It was just beginning to boil. Behind the counter he delved below and found the ingredients that he wanted. He opened one of the packets of spaghetti and emptied them into the pan. He held the pasta in one hand trying to coax them in to the pan. He relit the other stove, and in a smaller pan he started to cook some garlic in olive oil, throwing in a couple of chilli peppers. This was done on quite a low heat. He then returned to the pasta and gave them a good stir.
Within a few minutes there were three plates of pasta, ready. He placed forks and spoons on the table, whereupon they ate slowly and quietly. Again the only noises were signs of appreciation to the subtleties of such a perfect dish.
"As my grandma used to say: `How can anything so simple, taste so good,'" Marcello said with his mouth full.
Lorenzo took the compliment well: "My grandma used to say the same thing, however, she used to make her own pasta."
"I used to enjoy making pasta," Pasquale said.
"When did you ever make pasta?"
"The same as anyone, you help in the kitchen when your younger: ravioli, tagliatelli, farfalle, etc. gnocchi."
"Gnocchi. Gnocchi with potato, I haven't had that
for so long."
"I prefer gnocchi purer," said Pasquale.
"How do you mean?" asked Marcello.
"Flour, water, and that's it."
"No, Pasquale!" Lorenzo intervened. "Good pasta needs, eggs, and a good gnocchi needs potato."

"I'm sorry, but, apart from flour and water being very cheap, they make the best gnocchi."
"Then, you haven't tasted proper gnocchi."
"Lorenzo, with all due respect, I've tasted and made every kind of gnocchi; and the tastiest, chewiest, gnocchi has only flour and water. You have to knead it for ages, and then you have to role it out nine or ten times," Lorenzo nodded, without properly listening, "but when you have finished," Pasquale continued, "you have the perfect pasta for gnocchi. Firm, and with deep grooves in the shape to capture the Napoli sauce. The best blend of pasta and sauce that has ever been.
Marcello nodded in agreement.
Lorenzo finished the conversation by saying Gnocchi with potato was still better, and easier on the bowels.

Spoken By Crowds
By
Marco Zaffino

Copyright 2003
Work still in progress

 

Jenny wandered slowly through her flat with the slight melancholy feeling of a day coming to an end. The day, a rather tedious day at that had come to an end and she had to conclude when she would call it a day. When and what would define the close of day. What feeling inside her would allow sleep and dreams to take over and the hope for something magical to happen that might give consciousness an appropriate opportunity to leave.

While sitting up Jenny imagined her next excursion. She lay the note book on her knees that were perfectly rounded by the patchwork quilt. Hexagonal patchwork. Her notebook sat open on the front page with no writing, no inscription and no list of what was to come, on it. But to Jenny there was an excitment and she would let her knees rise and fall, from plateaux to mountains and the notebook rose and fell like a tiny boat trying to cope with the danger put before it. Three more days and she would be in Paris.
She knew that the day in Paris was the same as a day in the shop. She knew that her time with her parents was as important as the time she spent trying to speak french to the real tobacconist, she knew the illusion of travel and the green grass la la, but she also understood the excitment of the new, and if it were not exactly new as she frequented the journey to Paris quite often, she felt excitment of the city, the foreign, the architecture, the history, the energy of capital arrogance. She knew that sitting in a piazza in Paris felt real and necessary, and sitting in the shop eating beef and onion sandwiches with her mum felt un-real, and unnecessary. The normal and the loved ones feel unreal and unnessecary. How cruel is that? ‘What a jip!’ as Mr Travolta might say. But sitting in the beautiful City, with Gene Kelly singing April in Paris and the whole cultural exchange, even though lonely, and if not lonely, anonimous, and if not anonimous, as Jenny made friends by just sitting in the same place being noticed by the natives, if not completely anonymous and if not completely free from expectation, this felt part of Jenny’s path. What ‘this’ is exactly is rather tricky to explain. Her path is even harder to describe, as it is a path riddled with intrecacies and strange definitions, shadows that should not be cast by a 23 year old girl and those echoes that live in shells in those eternal spirals that golden sections and golden theorists have tried to uncover since the begining of thought. Maybe when silence was the spark of ingenuity, the echoes could have been understoood by more than the sufi down the road but in this infernal dinn such speed was incarnate in very rare specimens, very rare indeed but for tigers and snakes. Eternal spectres that revel in the poor fuck-up who ingested the biblical odyssey.

The Blue Note Book

The book was to sit patiently in the back pocket of Jenny’s denim skirt for the duration of her waiting. The waiting for her journey, maybe trip. The notebook was losing its soft edges. It was being cast to the shape of Jenny’s small ass. It was slowly grafting itself to Jenny’s path. The first few pages were rubbing and the graph was losing its definition. All this was part of Jenny’s notebook fetish. The deeper the book too, the better and so by the end of her edition she would have more energy inset, so that in the future if she ever dicided to read it she would feel some of her notations as opposed to simply understanding rationally. Just looking at the notebook on the shelf would have some effect on her. Picking the notebook up and feeling its depth would have an effect on her moment, then reading it and the dots and lines she might draw in Paris and wherever after, inscribe, describe, invite into her world, then picking the bones of her strange dedication would mean something, for she found it very difficult to have meaning these days, as she had known the meaning of meaning ever since she could now remember. Even though it had only been a couple of years, if that. She really could not remember when it happened but it did and now she had to deal with it. As might be the case for more than one might imagine. The mistress Zarathustra, like Father Christmas is a mysterious figure who too comes down the chimney of those unworthy of gifts, or rather randomly chooses who the gift is whispered to. On this Christmas day it was Jenny and she slithered into the bed as Jenny slept that year or so ago and whispered the most dangerous secret for a single brain to handle. Melinder had edited it for her secret partner years before and she always could tell that he had not truly understood and she also knew by his nature that he would take it on far too seriously and that he would describe it to his future patrons as deadly and heavy as he possibley could do with as many histrionics as could be conveyed in a work of any kind. She was proud of his brain but was always fearful of his weak body. If only he had done some proper exercise instead of sitting by his desk day and night, giving his sciatic nerve so much to deal with and for that poor brain of his. If only he’d done some press ups or sit ups or had a chin up bar to give his body a say. He talked so much of the quality of food and the quality of the air and climate and how one should value the truly essential, but he was not Brad Pitt and he could never have entered the arena, even though he so wished he could. Every study needs a chin up bar, or you get fat, dense and powerless. Or skinny, dreary and deleted. Jenny was rather skinny but she was far from being deleted. She would have made Melinder Zarathustra so proud, and maybe she had followed Mr Zarathustra so long that when she found an energy so light and delightful as Jenny in the Tobacconist newsagent, or when she saw her sat on the step in Bali watching the crowds, or when on the Spanish Steps again she found Jenny just watching she gave her the knowledge that like a pagan deciding to try Christainity, she left behind her history and vanished into the new. She transfered over to Jenny all she knew. And in that dream Jenny was given what she had never even worried about. The perfect person to be delivered into the truly new. She who did never wish it. Imagine those who had been life times and life times wanting what she new so wholey, just wanting a glimpse or a momentary dip into the golden stream would never see what was so near in front of them at every point of every life they had ever striven for this most wondrous ghost. A Ghost that howled at every song, that whistled at every silence, and every madness imbued, it laughed and laughed at the irony of the blind. You can hear the odd singer who describes it and had to live through it, you read the odd writer who describes it and wants rid so that the ghost can then once more be hunted, you see in perfect paintstrokes the odd painter who has felt it but once given it is there like a most fatal desease. Possibley the most fatal desease that any person could ever have. Because you may not have chance to relive the eternal recurrence once this is realised baby. Once this is beneathe your skin like the most beautiful cancer, you may not have the luxury of return. That is ironic don’t you think? That the one ambition that is supposed to be, the bees knees, is the one that ceases you; like an assassin who cut off your life line from God. Like the coolest, calmest assassin who actually hates you. This comes to mind as the ambition does not tell you a thing worth knowing. Like the worries that go through this assassination so sharp, but what it could also do is give you the feet of golden Christ, it may make your nails shine like a guru and yet more, you may find God in your eyes and never have a worry ever ever ever again and live happily ever after, till the cancer kicks in and the assassin surgical removes you from this beautiful planet for ever.
The blue note book, more dangerous than the red shoes, or at least possibley more heart rendering as this most special girl might only ever be this fucking book. Wheere as the rest of us might or might not have the chance of return. So what might she put in this blue notebook that could be of any significance, or relavence to such a powerful girl, with a knowledge that so few really have?
Jenny had not thought long and hard about what she wanted to put in to this note book or any of the other note books that had been already finished, but like the true renaissance girl she was, she simply observed and noted down what came to her world. She, as you know, enjoyed the piazza, the bench, carrot cake, ferns, Crowds. And what the Crowds Spoke of was what she note down so neatly in her blue notebook. She would go to these public places and observe the rituals and rites of every day, in many varied places, and she would note down her observations. She would note down the weather, the customs that her naive eye would notice, she would try to remember word for word her conversations with those who came up to speak to her. Sometimes the thought might come into her mind and she would note down how many people would wave good bye with there left jands at the train station, or on one occasion she watched a legion of ants making there way from here to there, and she watched them so intently that when the roller blade guy went past she was so startled that she struck him and he fell cursing in French. Jenny appologised and laughed. The guy on roller blades did not laugh back as he was far to serious for some reason. But the ants got to the crack in the steps safely, and that was the important thing for Jenny. Jenny noted this down, with no pseudo scientific exploration. She simply described what she saw, the order of the ants, from size to personality of the various characters. She noted the speed change, she noticed how heavily one of the ants walked on a particular leg and she noted the thoughts that went through her mind as she viewed this. And she obviously noted the lack of humour in the Roller Blade man, who she had already noticed earlier as he rode on the roads behind and through traffic, arrogantly passing cars as they were stood crammed in traffic jams.... This was the previous time she visited Paris and she was so looking forward to the next trip.

Just as she was about to settle her little head down on the downy cushion she heard the door to the flat open quietly and then shut quietly and then she heard tip toe steps and then she heard Sean go into the bathroom and begin to clean his teeth, whereupon he knocked over the very olcd shell that sat on the bath’s side. the bath being an enamelled cast iron bath, this shell made a Notre Dame clatter and made Jenny giggle quietly as she heard him exclaiming sweetly about how fucking strupid he was and how he’d done so well but obviously Sean can’t go from door to bed without making some aweful racket.
As Sean finished cleaning his teeth and placed the shell back in its rightful place, he shut the door to the bathroom quietly, although he new that his cautious tiptoeing now seemed a little eroneous, he heard Jenny still giggling. He walked upto her door and knocked gently.
Hello, Jenny said.
Hey Jenny.
You can come in if you like, seeing you were so quiet and all.
Okay Jenny.
So Sean, how are you chicken?
Sorry about the racket.
Jenny grunted some dismissive don’t worry gesture... So what was your day like?
Well it was busy Jenny, I can tell you, but we did okay. And I had a bit of trouble with the new lad. He seems to say he can do something and then when you ask him to do it, he vanishes. I think he can’t do anything and has a mouth that can.
I know the type.
Hm! It’s a little annoying as we’re getting busy at thie moment and I hate firing you kjnow?
I know.
How was your day Jenny?
Well the fern has grown about two millimetres since yesterday.
Which one?
The bathroom.
Cool... Is that a surprise.
Well no but it means that it’s healthy and I might just have the watering down.
Cool.
Hmhum. Very exciting.
Sean nodded his head but refrained from saying cool again, although it felt llike he did. Well I’m bushed.
Have you been to the gymn?
What?
I can smell the gymn on you... you said you hated gymns.
Well what if I did?
Nothing Gymns are fine. I just thought you got all the exercise on the site.
Management.
Yeah... you work like a donkey.
I’m working alot less now on the construction. It’s more meetings and all that sort of thing. And..
What?
I don’t miss it. My uncles and well all my family were strong men and now they have hips that have been squashed and’re arthritic and their hands are rough and you know? Although my dad used to clean his hands over and over again. A very proud man. Jenny. He was a lovely man. you should have met him. He was lovely. Lovely and when you got him talking about the old town.. the old home, it was smashing.
What would he say she said just wanting him to get that sad look in his eye and the reminiscent glint in his eye and half grin that remembered the hill that was named after his patron saint. The hill was always spoken with reveverence, and was possibly a reason Sean chose his middle name as the one he wanted to be known as. Having to compete with a hill full of history, and miracles, and enticing pilgrims from far, far away turned him from Patrick Sean in to (Patrick) Sean
When are you going again?
Where?
To the Hill. Home.
Well I’ve been saying the spring.
That’s not long.
But I’ve been saying the Spring for about three years.
Oh.
I know. My family think I’m dead. But for the money I send home.
What does it go on?
The land. Obviously.
I suppose.
Are you?
What?
Going to go this spring?
Probably not.
Why don’t you?
I don’t know. I mean they treat you like a king when you go. Especially being the young business man in charge of the family business, or nearly... They feed you up, get you pissed and then slag you off when you’ve gone.
Jenny giggled and said right Im off to sleep
right ho,
Night night
Night night.

*

When in the square, with rain swathing across the perfectly laid paving stones, that covered old cobbles, the wind visible in patches moving in the the layer of glass that covered the land, and the people runniing for shelter, with umbrellas that were straining with the grand sscale of weather they were having to deal with, Jenny sat and watched dry in here un sheltered spot, unsheltered but dry because the wind simply pushed the rain away from her keeping her dry to safeguard the emotions of the public with empathy that St Sebastian’s syndrome crushed arrows of perspective killng her view. Her only defense her blue note book. Her only defense that was not to be written in until she arrived in Paris three days from now. But it sat on her knee, and she held it in her right hand hoping that it would just calm her poor heart from these lines of angelic tones, that may be even too much for them that roam with wings endowed by God to hold the links of humanity together, keep those subtle minds from destruction, and those abrasive voices from grating away whole brains and panick striven souls that have no idea what the hell they were supposed to do, as a child might wonder what to do in the midst of fire and rain and thunderstorms with lightning so sharp. What would a child do in the midst of Volcanic dialogues.
Jenny felt virtually every notion that passed her way, every cadence that walked along in front of her, every posture that glanced a seductive look towards her, and to her this was safer and calmer than the idea she had to look after like a babysitter of the most evil little kid you fucking ever saw. The purest idea can be so evil in the youngest mind no matter the age of the soul. What love had she learnt to ground such an idea. What could this blue note book do for her? The pythagorian Jenny with angles so confused, intricate that eventually the idea blurred for moments and the crowds would save this light little magician with a smile that you would hope for in your life, from her bleeding white blood from her whispered wound.
The wind was actually warm although strong, and she knew a colder wind would be along soon and when it came that would be the moment to walk home. She had her rimmed hat with her that allowed her to walk with out fear from the drops of rain, and she had her blue cagool that made her look a shapless bag and from the bag her legs were in jeans and waterproof trousers so that even if the wind did not talk the wet two yards away from her she could easily be drowned in the weather yet her skin would only feel alittle colder. And the cold was something she was not frightened of. In fact it was something else to rid her mind of the majestic idea that race around the holes in her nerves.
A man came up to her. He had a tired look around him. He was not form her town.
“Can I sit here?” he said very politely.
“Sure.”
“I’m Ned.”
“Pleased to meet you Ned... Robin...!” she replied.
“It’s nice isn’t it this?”
“I like it,” Jenny said.
“I me too.”
Jenny nodded.
“So what you doing. You a student or something?”
“No,” Jenny smiled.
“Me neither.... What do you think I do?” Ned said.
“I think you are a little distressed.”
“No but what do you think I do for a living?”
“You are a wharehouse packer.”
“No....”
“You are an accountant.”
“One more guess!” he said excitedly.
“You are a drug addict and you are distressed.”
“Robin I have a problem.”
“I know.” Jenny had had many conversations like this in squares and piazzas around the world with those who had nobody to listen to them and she knew that the coversation would ebb and go where the mind really need not go but for the darkest recesses but as she knew what was going on emotionally in all these characters anyway she felt it healthier to actually converse and bring into this forsaken language what these poor souls were experiencing. If they snapped from the darkness that was darker than any speck of shadows hiding behind the blackest focus of an eye. And she waited for his dramatic closure.
“This wind is warm,” he said.
“I know,” Jenny replied.
“Is it right Robin....? I don’t think its right what I know.”
“No it’s not right Ned?”
“See I don’t know you Robin but you are kinder than I’ve met.”
“Well that’s good.”
“Robin its not right what I know.... I know this woman,” and he began to well and burn behind the eyes, “and she made her baby take morpine so the sample was right. It’s not right Jesus.” He started to cry.
“Was that what you knew?”
“One of them.”
“You know worse don’t you Ned?”
“It’s not right.”
“I know Ned.”
“It’s not right,” he said angrily. maybe violently.
“I know Ned. It’s not right.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“This wind though, is heavenly, eh Robin?”
“It is heaven.”
“We are dry too. Those fuckers are wet and hiding and we’re dry.”
“Its funny isn’t it?”
“I like that. the poncey bastards with their fucking umbrellas and fancy pant suites and mobile phones, although I’ve got one two, hasn’t everybody, but they’ve got the wanky styles that flick open like bastards. You know Robin. You know Robin what I mean?. I don’t have a mobile like that And the last time I was under an umbrella I must have been six years old. .... I remember being six years old Robin.”
“I don’t remember that...” Jenny smiled. “Your lucky.” And before the conversation could continue as it was about to go back into a much more detailed description of the morphined up baby and the fucked up mother that found it necessary to delve her child into deep thick waters and the talking would grow strong and violent and powerful and frightening and happy and light and then drunken and wet as the rain had changed its focus as the wind had turned cold and changed direction, and on that sign, not form the glints of violnec, or memory in the eye of her new junky friend, Jenny stood up and said good bye Ned. The wind is heaven. Don’t forget that.

As she stood up, Ned looked up into the gust of rain that hit him as suprisingly as a spear might. The sheltered area was suddenly drenched at the change of wind. As if the town breeze had become a sea breeze. He could only see a blurred figure walking away from him and he could have sworn he’d been in the presence of some one holy. Jenny walked towards the road at the end of the square and didn’t look round no matter how many times Ned shouted
As she walked her waterproof trousers made scratching noises and sometimes her legs squeaked as they rubbed and when the wind was stringer she flapped like a sail and the hood of her cagool, that hung off of were head was full as a balloon with the mischievious breath that swirled around her town that early evening. It blew bag into the air so that they could dance and fly higer than buildings of any description, or they could get together in the dirtier corners of alleys and ginnels and they would whorl around and around resembling dust devils or mini-tornedoes but instead of cows being swept up or cars or trees or even houses it was tesco bags and sandwhich bags and sainsburys bags or simple white or blue bags, and the swired around in a waltz of dirt and grim. Heaven! Jenny’s hat was saving her face from getting wet but the part that touched her head was sodden and she was getting a band of cold around her head, and if she had a fever she thought, this hat would be the perfect thing to use, or if the toughts in her head were ever too much or if she felt them leaking from the back of her head she thought this is the hat that could keep my head together.
The walk home was about 20 minutes at a slow pace which was not always Jenny’s pace but tonight it was. She enjoyed the early signs of April showers. It was March and the drops of rain were or seemed bigger and the twilight light that shone through them made it seem as though to be soaked by these raindrops was more a priveledge than an annoyance as one would think in a November rainfall that told of darker nights to come and heavier and colder rainsfalls and sleeping trees and rotting leaves. Although if you asked our Jenny about November rain. i’m sure she’d give you some goof about the splendor of early evenings, and sitting around a fire and sipping hot tea with a good book, how stews taste better in the deepest winter and on and on she’d go.
Jenny felt the strength of the wind pull her back by her hood, as a bully might capture a smaller child from behind just as he thought he’d got past safely. But Jenny knew the wind not as a meteorologist would but in her experience, all two years of sitting in squares and piazzas she had made wind one of her studies, like the ants that journeyed from crak to hole and from hole to crack, she felt winds of all natures that had come from exotic lands and had been hidden in the holes of the earth never seen by human eyes, yet she felt the wind speak to her of places never yet believed in. The wind was like a scout that wondered into her life and conversed with this genius girl who could have opened a school of languages. The wind told her what the next flu epidemic was going to be, and it told her about strange weather formations, it spoke of headaches that would only be put down to stress, she knew when the town would be frightful and she knew when the town would be happy because the wind conversed. Conversation: she spoke back. But what would the wind have to do with a 23 year old tobaconist girl. Well The wind is spoken to rarely and amongst the fishermen and the weather forecasters few of them relate anything back of interest as rare as a priest tells God anything interesting after listening to what God has to say. No thank yous or help me or help them or I respect you like a brother from Jenny as you might get from the priest or sailor. Jenny spoke of her hidden corners, and her exotic fantasies, she told the wind of her equations derived from those crowds that put points and angles into her blue note books, that made the graph paper wet with sighs and farewells. Like a perfumed collar, Jenny could smell where the wind had come from and she could sway her head to the music the wind danced to. If she was quick in her conversation she could dance with the wind and find the gaps the wind left free for those who could find them, as though Jenny was safe in quilt soft caresses from a father so powerful it could take her at any moment and tear her to pieces as it can anyone of us at any one time. The wind is kind. Generally speaking.
As Jenny wandered home listening to the wind, a gentleman walking towards town, who had often seen this young lady wandering home watched her swaying her head as if she were listening to a walkman, safe in the fact it was raining too much for anyone to notice her. But this gentleman had noticed her over and over again and for the fleeting moment he viewed her and he galnced after her and saw the skip in her step and wondered what it must be llike to be so light. As most people do arrive at the wrong side of lightness on appearence. The lightest people are the heaviest and need the lightness to give roundness to there possibilities. The gentleman had a good idea though of Jenny and once or twice had got a nod out of her on past crossovers. He did not want to seem a fiend and never pushed the issue, but he oh so wanted to say, “Excuse me, I’ve seen you wandering home at this time over and over again, and I think you look a very nice person. Would you like a drink or some carrot cake and coffee?”
Which I’m sure Jenny would respond favourably to. But obviously he did not, He just walked on and missed his chanced day in day out.
The rain was subsiding but the wind was not and Jenny just rattled along like a moving wind sculpture as the sun set; as the sky lightened its heavy load of dark clouds, allowing the pale yellow of spring nights to rear its magnificent optomistic head. She was feeling very happy now, fresh, cool as a flu symptom.

Before She arrived home Jenny sat on a bench to watch the sub finally settle behind a moor and a grand old industrial factory building that let the streams of dusk hit anyone who care to watch. A film set or a pagan circle, whichever Jenny watched with delight, which as always gave the bench an allure and attracted another pedestrian. This lady was called Elizabeth. She saw Jenny sit with mouth wide smiling at the pivotal light and she thought to herself ‘I used to watch sunset when I was younger, I used to watch sunsets when I lived on the west coast of Portugal, I used to watch sunsets maybe even up till last year, I should sit down and watch this one.’ And as she sat, knowing that this was not quite the same as those other sunsets she used to watch regularly as a rite or rhythm or ritual, rather this was a memory, an ambition but for the moment she was grateful t this little lady on her left for making her remember.
It is so beautiful, Elizabeth said.
It is isn’t it?
You know I never saw that building look so beautful... And I particularly like that building.
It’s a God damn beautiful building.
They stopped talking for a moment as the last arc of the sun popped into the glow it slept beneathe.
Do you do this alot, Elizabeth said.
Most nights.
Even when its cloudy.
Usually.
Why when it’s cloudy?
Because its a special time of day, don’t you think?
Elizabeth stayed sat as Jenny stood and continued her walk home. Although we might not understand the effects of others on ourselves, through fleeting gestures or movements, Elizabeth had dreamt with Jenny before. This I’m sure is the reason she felt safe in her action of joining her for the beautiful display the industrial building gave them, with it’s wondowless wondows that hindered not the sun and its straight lines. What was the dream?
This is what Elizabeth slept with and what she was now thinking about.

Elizabeth at her drawing board asleep... the deadline on her sleepy mind. She had to get the drawing clomplete within the week. Drawings of a shopping centre that was given some lee-way with its textures and spacial advancements, andso if she succeeded in her productivity and if she put forward feasable tangents to our shopping experience, she was on her way to a museum. An extra-ordinary piece of architecture that her persistence and dedication had striven for. A dream of a commision that would give her a reputation and bigger and more elaborate possibilities. Her partner, Justine, another fine architect, proud of his calloquial team, Northern and dealing very nicely with the capital and the weird perspective given to major cities as though the bigger the city the more oxygen feeding the talent. One might imagine the fear of the big city gives this competitive edge, but the oxygen is cleaner eslewhere and it should be recognised as so. The concentration of critics... that is the key, and once this was recognised by Elizabeth she was architect Pr queen, and she had her way and ambition realised. She was on her way and very little might divert her way to bigger and bigger commisions. Her presentations were immaculate, both technically and orally. Her oral tradition was formed via politcal debates and literary clubs which were joined specifically to help her speak. At any opportunity she spoke in public. She found discrete corners to speak on behalf of various charities, any charity just to gain more experience. She even began to write poetry for the delivery. And her poetry was aweful, it really was but the delivery just got better and better... and all for the specific reason of future architectural presentations. She new that this was necessary and stumbling and fumbling around with words would and could be the failure of a bid. She began learning her skills as a speaker at the age of sixteen... about the same time as she began her Graphical perfection, as though enraged by some whirl wind that said you will be a success Elizabeth, begin, begin... to perfect her line she took up a very illustrative art style, she also decided to take up charcoal and pursue a more spontaneous look, and the teachers all fell for her scheme. Her charcoal was expressive, to the expression wanted for A results, the illustrations were in a slightly different style to the teacher but would be appreciated by her sensibilities, the graphics were exceptional, firstly by the machiavellian drawing style, but Elizabeth did actually have a natural sway towards graphics, as it is one of the most cynical and clinical disciplines at its best going hand in glove with advertising, PR and Marketing. She was a natural. She worked two jobs so that her clothes were crisp and clean and expressive when they needed to be, black when they needed to be classical, but all tailored or a known known name. How could she lose?
She had begun to travel and work, as she also knew that international success sounded better on her resume than simply working in the North of England. After working throughout Europe, being office girl, or assistant to the head Architect, and when her skills were seen , many of her superiors let her finish up their drawings, like the apprentice Da Vinci might have been allowed for his master_____________, to architect in her own right. Her resume did not say office girl, but it certainly said Lisbon, Petersburgh, Prague, Turin, Milan, Madrid, and all this by the age of 30. Her scheme, that rhymes so nicely with dream, was methodical and lateral, but as direct as a bulls charging after some drunken ego.
As her sleepy head lay on her desk and the first cleaner began to prepare for her couple of hours work dusting down the office, Elizabeth decided to sleep on and see where her dreams took her. And there she was at her desk finishing a drawing, rubbing out one of the last lines of pencil to let the ink lines look crisp and clean. Horizons on glacial landscapes. And in her dream her shopping centre was sublime. It actually glowed with commerce, and happiness and little people walked around it laughing and smiling and pockets full of money they had only possibilities of purchases in their eyes. The pianist play on the elevator platform rising and descending as he plays Chopin, and the public stand over railings and applaud at his genius, the seating is perfectly balanced for minimal sitting time but the view are not simply of shops doorways but are directed more towards sound sculptures and modern line grids that hold this place together, it is actually a beautiful space fit for an airport.
Elizabeth is waiting for a call from the head councillor in charge of development. He is excited and frightened by these revolutionary shopping centre ideas but he too knows that if it is successful there will be many feathers in his cap. She is waiting for his call for a meeting between architects, head engineer, and council, and public representatives. This meeting is her beginning to architectural fame. She can feel it in ever tangent of her plan. This is the one. After this there is the museum and after that another museum, and maybe a bank. She’d been offered a carrot of designing a house for a film that would be a cult in itself, after that she wanted an airport. She just wanted an airport. After airports you deserve a palace.
To get an airport, Elizabeth had even thought about taking up a pilot’s licence. There was no research or learning, or preparation she would not do to emboss her place in the history of architecture.

Andso in her dream her head rises from the table. She picks up the phone and tells the head of development to go fuck himself. And as the words ring in her night impaired ears, she wakes sluggishly as though a demon was chasing her through an icy forest, that grabbed and tripped poor Elizabeth, sucking her life source dry with every graze and scratch, and as the demon screamed its evil intent, Elizabeth’s eyes broke open from the dream after it was plain and simple that her career was finished. The dream was profound enough to dictate the future, and describe the break up of the partnership with Justine and herself, to delineate the crash of the Shopping centre, the museum, the museum, the airport and finally the palace, where the demon lived and learnt how to scream.... The eyes snapped open, but straight into another dream, and there she was slowly shaking hands with this little lady, with the hat and the jeans and the blue bag of a coat, and as she shook hands the young lady began to dance like a rock n roll dancer of the fifties, and under the jeans she could see bobby socks, and the gymnastic feats of dance were performed around the static Elizabeth who smiled teeth that were smudged with purple lipstic. And then Elizabeth noticed that her own clothes were silk. Purple and looking down to her legs she saw ice skates, white tights with opal shean and a green tutu. And behind Jenny was a dark sky, with rain clouds, and stopping a metre behind Jenny was a line where the rain stopped. Then the rain advanced towards them and Elizabeth turned away from Jenny with a false show smile, to the road that was suddenly behind her, and the road was made from ice, and Elizabeth began to skate on it as fast as she could and although this was not a skill she had endured, in this dream she was skating to a high standard and was just out of the rain’s reach.
Days past in this dream where Elizabeth skated away from the rain; the terrain changed from her old lives to new lives, from eastern europe, to Australia, to Portugal, to California, to shanty roads I Brazil, but the way ahead was always full of sunshine and behind her was always dark and wet and thundrous, sounding with the heavy rain that beat the iced roads with patters as loud and dangerous as a warring brigade.
By the road side as if a character in an arcade game, or a painted plastic pedestrian in a precinct model, Elizabeth saw Jenny applauding her from the most lateral part of her vision, as though the young lady was a spectre even in her dreams. Even here Elizabeth had no idea of the soul beneath the laxly dressed, casual nobody. She was un-understandable. beyond Elisabeth’s comprehension. But Jenny would always applaud, and even in this dream she had integrity. Which really annoyed Elizabeth.
Needless to say this was a nightmare, a cold sweet inducing nightmare that tainted every call she made concerning her work from then on. A recurring nightmare that applied itself to everything she did at work. Elizabeth even felt the deja vous moment where she had to call the Council officer in charge of development, after waking from a cat anp on her desk and like standing at the top of a cliff she had to consciously stop herself from jumping and seeing if she could fly without the life of her burr edged plans, that cut competition down to bloody amateurs. If she could say “fuck you!” to the councillor she would be free from the pressure, and she could fly like that there crow sitting in the mountain ashh that grew from over the edge. It grew in a place a human always wants ot see. From a place just impossible for an eye to see. Even if one lay down and look over the cliff one cannot see far enough into the cracks of the limestone to see the depths roots have to go to to actually sustain and anchor a tree that twists its dynamic to cope with all kinds of extreme elementals. But Elizabeth was able to keep the “fuck you” grounded even with the sorry vertigo that pushed her to vommit on that clever flying crow. No the airport, the palace was still in view.

	Novels: By Marco Zaffino	Mint Ice Cream
		Pure Bred Chuihuahua
Sample Chapters displayed Copyright Laws still Apply		Spoken By Crowds (Work in Progress)