Charged Twice — A Dream

Buffeted by wind, the dirigible sails low over a serpentine river, banking left, then right, back and forth. It swings over the river’s ever-changing course, shouldering its way forward. Low stone bridges span the waterway at evenly-spaced intervals. When the craft approaches one, it must veer sharply upward to clear the structure. Engines churn, grind loudly as it strains to climb. Tail fins drag, sending up plumes of water. And we few inside are tossed about in half-light. Without seat belts, the ride is nerve-wrackingly bumpy. Pitched forward as the craft begins a steep ascent, I dig nails into the edges of my seat, hold on tight.

When at last, we dock, I rise from my bench to follow the others through the dirigible’s interior. Stepping over stiff, slim structural beams, we tread the craft’s taut and toughened skin. The line slowly inches forward, each person pausing to slip their ticket into a squat turnstile’s slot. Time after time, the turnstile’s polished arms clunk and rattle as a rider pushes through. The last in line, I realize my ticket is too large, does not fit into the slot. I fold my thick, fibrous ticket in half, in half again, then mash and force feed it into the too-narrow opening. It is slowly, grudgingly swallowed.

Bright daylight without. Squinting, I follow a neat gravel path that winds past a small peak-roofed kiosk. As I pass, a uniformed woman seated within this cramped structure waves me over. I approach, stand outside to peer into the small, smudged window.

“That will be $30,” the woman informs me. She doesn’t lift her head — all I can see is the flat top of her navy blue hat. The hat’s stiffened black brim flashes with reflected light. She  scribbles ceaselessly in a small pad.

I explain the misunderstanding — I had a ticket. Too large; didn’t fit.

“Thirty dollars, please,” she firmly repeats, interrupting me. Still, she does not lift her eyes to meet mine, continues writing in her pad, filling out her form.

Frustrated, I insist I would only have had a cup of tea and eaten one-and-a-half pancakes, had either been offered. The round tip of her nose protrudes from beneath her cap’s rim as, head down, she completes her form. She tears a yellow carbon-copy sheet from the little pad, hands it to me. I have been charged the full amount. Thirty dollars. Five pancakes worth.

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“Dirigible” — C.Birde, 3/16

See Through Me — A Dream

Vaporous, diaphanous, insubstantial — I linger outside the door to my darkened room. Light spills from across the hall where she hurries over breakfast, head bent to read the paper spread over kitchen table.

“Not now,” she says — quick swallow from white mug. “No time,” she says — quick bite of toast. Never raising her head, her eyes, to look.

She. The only one who does not see through me.

Turn away. Down the hall. Toward the stairs. No need to walk — I drift, I float, I whisper over carpeted steps. For each slow-measured stride, two steps fall away beneath me untrod, untouched; sometimes three. The material world moves at a different rate than I, aware it has much to accomplish in uncertain time.

Out the front door, into the evening. Glide over sidewalks. Drift through this quaint neighborhood of hedges and dooryard gardens, warmly lit by star- and lamplight. Ahead, the restaurant beckons, draws me, solitary moth to all those human flames. Lovely old building, reclining in exposed, worn bricks, scrubbed of white-wash. Paired banks of leaded-glass windows fill its street-side wall, each set crowned with half-arch of bevelled and bisected panes. Prismatic light splashed over smooth polished floors; orbits of wrought-iron chandeliers flicker above. Throng of people — life, warmth, laughter. Suits and cocktail dresses, glittering adornments. Flutes of champagne. All sparkles.

Here, yet not. Move through the crowd unimpeded, unobstructed. They do not walk through me, but each knot of people, each individual approached steps lightly aside, allows room to pass. A bubble of anti-gravitational force surrounds, nudges the human tide aside. Ghostly Moses, I part my way through the sea of revelers, reach the room’s far side, pause at French doors flung open to receive night’s air. Slow glance over one shoulder, linger upon a foursome. Two sleek-haired, pretty young women clad in silver and gold, man in sharp blue suit — each steps lightly aside. Fourth member of their group remains rooted, stares in my direction. More casually dressed, in plaid shirt and jeans, he wears sandy-brown hair vaguely uncombed, beard and mustache more neatly attended. Does he look through me? Beyond me? I drift closer, my hand streaming back and forth before his face in curiosity, in challenge. He flinches with surprise, returns my wave. Smiling, he says hello.

So slow before — now, I move as the wind. Flee out the doors, across the street. Pass through traffic, cars swallowing my misted form in an amalgam of steel, leather, vinyl. Pass through the grass-sloped berm, through its darkened reservoir of dammed water. Though he pursues, calling, he cannot keep up, cannot catch me; he must contend with the solid fact of those obstacles through which I easily slide…

Days later, perhaps weeks — what concern have I for fluid time? Drawn again to wander among others. Move through this office space, slip down wide corridors that open onto great, sprawling areas filled with desks, lined with cubicles. Glass-walled conference room filled with people standing, gesturing, discussing. Lured nearer, drift closer. Invisible, disembodied. But…he is here…sees…approaches.

“Why did you run?”

Absurd question! How could I not have? The shock. To be so startled. After so much time, having grown accustomed to anonymity. To be seen…when all else (but her) see… through. Arm thrown in slow-moving, mist-limbed gesture, to encompass all those here, now — she, he, they — oblivious to my presence.

“But I see you…”

Impossible! How? He has no answer, does not know. And I am afraid. Afraid to trust, afraid that this moment will fade, his unique ability will pass. Afraid this new and unexpected fact will not see me through…

 

 

 

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No Entry — A Dream

“We shouldn’t be here, Shawn.”

Our friendship is so strong, extending back over so many years to our schoolboy days, that I don’t need to hear it in his voice — I can feel Gus’ anxiety. Sense it. But, as no doubt he expects, I dismiss it. Gus is always nervous. Yet, he’s always right there beside me, disapproving, not wanting to be left behind. Crouched within shadow, I shrug his hand off my shoulder in exaggerated fashion, continue creeping down the hall.

The building is incomplete, still in the early stages of framing. A collection of vertical steel ribs and two-by-fours. Pale plywood floors, seams meeting in red and green edges. A descent of stairs ahead. Here and there, a few sheetrock walls define half-finished rooms. Plaster smears over nail heads. Saw dust everywhere — sifted over floors and wooden beams, swirling in half light. It’s enough to make one sneeze, and Gus obliges.

At the hallway’s end, at the top of the landing, a door has been framed out and fitted with a makeshift panel. Thrust to fill the doorway’s mouth, the panel is wrapped, top to bottom, in bright red plastic sheeting. A sign taped at its center reads “Danger — No Entry — Noxious Gases.” Ridiculous. There’s no real seal here, any gas within would easily leak past the panel’s edges. Highly suspicious. A crude, but obvious, attempt to keep people out. Worthy of investigation. Running my fingers over the panel’s rim, I begin to slowly work it open while Gus, predictably, attempts to hamper my efforts.

“The sign says no entry, Shawn.”

As I suspected, the room is clean — no fumes, no gas, noxious or otherwise. It is, however, a peculiar space. Measuring about ten-feet square, this room is sheet rocked from the outside, studs visible within. Packed between the studs is some sort of soft padding. A secret “padded room”? Strange.

Replacing the plastic-wrapped panel snug within its frame, I lead the way down the open staircase to the ground floor. Nervous Gus sticks close to my heels. The floor below is an open plan. A handful of men in hard hats work to erect support beams. The whir of drills biting wood, the concussive thud of hammers. We are mid-way down the stairs when the foreman looks up, fixes me with a glare.

“I thought I told you to get out of here!”

He’s a big guy, shaved head, full beard and mustache. Work clothes coated in plaster and sawdust, creased architectural plans in gloved hands. I smile and agree, hands raised, and begin a steady stream of fast-talking nonsense, excuses, rationalizations of our presence. Beside me, Gus nods emphatically, frantically. I know I’m not fooling this guy, I’m just buying us time. We back toward our exit — a glass door set in a wall of plate glass windows looking out onto the street.

The foreman picks up a long, wide, heavy cloth strap, fits a brick at its center, and begins swinging it over his head in a wide arc. Pushing Gus before me, I turn and run for the door as the foreman lets fly the brick, then another, and another. A volley of bricks hurtling at us, shattering door and windows. Crystals and shards of glass collect in my hair, on my clothes, as we spill out into the street otherwise unharmed.

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“No Entry” — C.Birde, 1/16

 

Mischa — A Dream

At some point in its past, this old, fieldstone structure may have been a fortress. But now, it is the site of a haunting, and we three have been called to investigate. We approach carefully, picking our way through night-drawn shadows over the grass-edged dirt road. The building’s open arch gapes just ahead. Wide, flagged slates sweep steadily down into the fortress, which is filled with dark, stagnant water. Just within the entry, a stone ledge dodges off to the left — water laps and splashes against it, but the ledge itself remains dry. One of our party follows this narrow path; I and our third member proceed down the slope of slates toward the murky interior.

The drip of water pierces muted dark; peculiar lights and reflections add a random pulse. Suddenly, a fist-sized bright light pops into existence and zips toward our solo party member, where it pauses, hovering before his face. Then, it zips over to hover similarly before my own — its light is so bright, I must squint against it, drawing my arm up to shield myself from its intensity. Finally, upon visiting the last of our party, it soars away, deep into the castle, down a watery corridor.

For a moment, all is dripping, lapping silence as we stand breathless, waiting for our vision to readjust. Another noise emerges now, off to the right. I see, beyond the window-pierced stone wall, a figure passing by outside, its movements furtive, suspicious. Dashing back up the sloped flags, I move to intercept. An arch-topped garden gate is affixed to the fortress’ side here, and I wait beside it, patiently. The click of the gate latch, the sawing hiss of wooden boards against untrimmed grass as the gate opens…

To my astonishment, a tiny man steps through. He’s no more than three feet tall and about sixty years old, with a wispy fringe of white hair. Though he is unusually small, he is perfectly proportioned, a perfect miniature; he carries in his arms a similarly scaled violin and bow. Upon seeing me, he starts in surprise, equal to my own. But I realize…I know this man! It is Mischa Elman, the violinist famous for his passionate style and tone and musicality! All thoughts of ghost hunting vanish in my excitement to meet this man. Graciously, he shakes my hand, pulls from the vest pocket of his dark suit an old creased and faded blue program. It lists all the songs her performed live in concert in 1957.

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“Fortress” — C.Birde, 12/15

 

 


Note: Mischa Elman truly was a gifted violinist. Born in the Ukraine in 1891, his family moved to New York and he became a U.S. citizen in 1923. He died in his home in Manhattan in 1967 and is buried in the Westchester Hills Cemetery, NY. So much was his playing admired, he sometimes performed as many as 107 concerts in a 29-week season. He was not peculiarly small.

 

 

Apple of Change — A Dream

I’ve lost the apple, can’t find it any where. I describe it to them — such a remarkable apple! How could I have lost it?  So unusual. Perfect in its imperfection. Though its one side was misshapen, the other held the profile of a man, of Abraham Lincoln.

“Is this it?”

He hands an apple to me. Can it be? the one I dropped and lost mere moments ago? Yes! The weight of it fills my palm. I hold the curve of crisp fruit in my left hand between thumb and forefinger, and turn it back and forth to behold again its remarkable shape.

But…it’s changing…losing its blush of red and green hues; softening beneath my fingers’ grip. Slowly, it reshapes itself into something fleshy, pallid, disturbing. No longer an apple, I now hold what looks like a shrunken, knobby  head. A mashed face that sprouts mismatched ears. The narrow spaces behind those ears are filthy with crud. Beneath my fingers, the head moves and shifts and wriggles. Features still uncertain, it stares back at me with dark, bead-bright eyes. No longer a thing of wonder, it is now utterly repulsive.

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“Apple Abe” — C.Birde, 12/15

Making Space — A Dream

Beyond the panoramic viewing window, a multitude of bright stars pricks the vast, dark expanse of deep space. I see no planets, nothing that resembles Earth — the space station faces outward, not home. It would be comforting, reassuring to see Earth in its expected place. Then again, it could prove nerve-wracking, making all too apparent the hollow, coiling tube that stretches, like an umbilical cord, from the station all the way back to Earth. The tube through which I’ll travel with the others on my return trip. My visit here is over. I’ve seen the old man — he does not look well; his death is a lingering and protracted affair that none of us has enjoyed. But I’ve paid my respects and am scheduled to leave.

So I pack my bags — a small suitcase, a backpack, my purse. Fitting everything in is impossible — my unbound novel in its orderly collection of inch-thick sheets of paper; dictionary; thesaurus; the two books I’m reading. Fortunately, my Mom happens by, sees me struggling to zip the suitcase shut. She offers to help, and I pull out a bottle of olive oil and a round loaf of bread and hand them to her; I keep the bag of pretzels — my son may want them. Now, the case closes, but it’s still so heavy. I’m immediately exhausted pulling, pushing, tugging it along.

For a moment, I pause in my toil to stand and stretch, and, thus, see my Dad. Tall, straight backed, trim — he looks great, like he did years ago when I was a kid. And he’s smiling. An honest-to-goodness, ear-to-ear grin. I tell him how good it is to see him smiling and happy.

But I have to go. Mom leads me to the departure point, where a group of fleet, slim, tall guides wait to lead me to the coiling exit tube. My guess is that the guides are from sub-Saharan Africa — they are well-prepared for an endurance trek. I have no idea how I’ll keep up with them, weighed down by my burdensome suitcase and backpack.

 

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“Making Space” — C.Birde, 12/15

Proposal — A Dream

The apartment is on the topmost floor of an old brownstone. If I stand on the landing and look over the railing’s edge, I can see the banister march its way down the stairs — at each landing, it curves sharply back on itself and creates a vertical, oblong tunnel all the way to ground level far below.

Having accepted his invitation to visit, I find myself in a large, open room that takes up the majority of this space — it must be fifty feet in length and twenty feet wide; the ceiling flies away into shadow overhead. Large drop cloths almost entirely cover the chipped but shiny black-planked floor. One long wall is painted a pale gray, and the room’s smaller, far wall is candy-apple red and inset with huge cobalt blue-framed windows that look out over the street below. There is no need for curtains so high up. Sunlight streams unobstructed through the great, wide panes of open glass. The dark wood banister defines the room’s other length, its railing all but obscured by random shelves thrust up against it. Shelf after shelf, filled with art supplies — single sheets of watercolor papers and great, thick pads in various weights and sizes; pencils, pens, paints, pastels; brushes; clay, plaster, canvasses.

I could be very happy here but am a little uneasy about becoming involved. He tells me he wouldn’t have invited me if he were in another relationship — he wants to commit. Silently, I study him — his face is mostly hidden by sleek, straight, dark hair fringing his cheeks and brow; but he is trim and lithe with smooth, tan skin, and a chin and sweep of jawline that suggest sensitivity. As I consider, my gaze moving over him, over this living space, he busily preps a canvass, stretching and securing it to a sturdy frame. There is utterly no tension in his body as he bends over his work, his movements graceful, assured. Without glancing from his task, he tells me the decision is entirely mine — to accept his proposal or decline. Completing the frame, he says he’ll give me a moment to consider, and rises, descends the staircase. I hear his feet pad softly down the steps.

Again, I look at this great, open, airy room, with its abundance of natural light and opportunity. Behind me, there is another closed room to the right of the wide landing. I open this smaller door to peer inside — it is an unfinished, small, and cozy space that would make a perfect bedroom. Stepping out again, my hand still resting on the door handle, I see another apartment opens directly off the top of the landing, occupied by a quiet, scholarly type who keeps mostly to himself. I catch a glimpse of him, his back turned toward me. He has short red hair and neatly trimmed beard and mustache; wears dark-rimmed glasses, blue plaid shirt and khakis.

When the artist returns, my little dog rushes happily to greet him. I realize I’ve made my decision. I will stay. I’ll accept his offer. Though he receives this news placidly, he is elated. Together, we sit on the floor in the large room. When he takes up a handful of brushes, chooses paints, collects his canvass, I lie down on my side to watch, my arm crooked beneath my head. I tell him I don’t like my picture taken — I don’t like my crooked tooth, my round-tipped nose. Quietly, he sets all his tools in his lap and says, gently but with challenge: “You don’t see what I see. You don’t know what I’ll paint.” I’m a little embarrassed. He’s right.

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“Artist’s Room” — C.Birde, 11/15