from Blind Spot

Harold Abramowitz

--from Part One - Hotel

7.

The deceptions of ghosts, or not of ghosts, or not of anything at all.  It was peace that sustained the war.  A matter of oppositions.  And in that discontinuity, that continuity, because it was reversible, he stood and watched as the other guests entered the hotel.  They, the other guests, entered the hotel through the lobby.  A never-ending stream.  And there was home to think about as well.  A thought as definite as any other.  The moment he left his room.  And this trouble.  Really troubling thoughts.  When there was something at stake, some matter of honor, or another, something specific to the war, or to war, in general, at least.  It was in the room that these thoughts occurred to him, provoked him, tiny thoughts, not even the thoughts he'd intended to consider.  And there was a kind of absolute silence spawned by, perhaps, a deepening sense of victory, or rather, of entitlement, and yet, there was no stage, no stage specifically, nor even a place for the guests to go and be entertained, still, they, the other guests, seemed to eat a lot. 

~

In the garden.  There was a seat in the garden.   There were several seats beside him in the garden.  It was a beautiful day.  The sun was out and the birds were singing in the air.  A home in the forest, so to speak.  And all men require a home in the forest.  At one time, and those were, seemingly, days of greater purity, men lived in the forest.  There was no violation.  There was no particular code of honor that had to be followed.  It was simple, really, the men, the other guests, lived in the forest for a time and then they left and continued with their lives, their businesses, their personal development, and so on.

~

It is in this way that the days continue.  He is alone in a hotel.  This is neither a break nor a vacation, not exactly.  He is on assignment.  He is at the hotel for a specific reason.  Or he is on leave for a specific reason.  In either case, he is not living his usual schedule, not performing his usual tasks and duties in their usual ways nor at their usual times.  In fact, he has had to call home.  His vacation has lasted longer than expected, and this, this situation, his condition, the condition he finds himself in, has already caused unimaginable problems for the world, for the world at-large.  It has already caused a great deal of consternation and pain and suffering.  And luck or ill luck or bad omens have had nothing to do with it.  It is pain.  There once was pain.  He is lying in bed in his hotel room.  It is a perfect night.  He is high in the mountains.  The air is sweet and the atmosphere is ideal.  All his pain will be absorbed by the mountain air.  The aroma, the simple smell, of trees, and of flowers, living flowers, and of air, clean air, will help heal him of all that ails him.  It is this benefit, one among many, that the hotel offers, that the hotel is, in fact, famous for.  He remembers this fact.  The memory of this fact comes to him suddenly.  It is something that pulls at him while he drives the car, or, rather, while he is driven in a car.  The hotel he is to visit will be beneficial for him.  Then the car breaks down.  There is a problem with the car and he has to pull over to the side of the road, that is, the driver has had to pull the car over to the side of the road.  The car is large, but it appears to be in good condition, if a little old and not quite in the current style, or fashion.  There is a pen is in his hand and he is about to write a letter.  He has just finished writing a postcard.  

~

There is a certain anticipation as the car winds its way up the mountain road, a certain sense of curiosity as the car approaches the hotel.  The hotel is large and laid out in a very complex way.  There is a real, almost indescribable complexity to the way the hotel is laid out.  And, in fact, he is not sure, at first, that he belongs in such a fashionable place, or among such exclusive company.  The hotel is very elegant and very famous for its proximity to certain curative regions, specific areas that seem to cure people of what ails them.  The hotel is beautiful and expensive, and the guests, generally, stay there for a very long time, often for multiple seasons.  As he stands and watches the other guests enter the hotel, he is aware of how easily they are accommodated.  How easily the hotel, in its massive size and complexity, is able to absorb them, other guests who arrive in a never-ending stream, and then no sooner seem to disappear.  This is the miracle of the hotel.  Of all hotels?  Of this hotel in particular.  It is part of its mystery and fascination and charm.  This information, of course, pertains to the old hotel, to the one that burned to the ground.  Still, there is a question of trouble.  Specifically, the trouble of blocking out certain stimuli.  And the question becomes the hotel itself, or, rather, it becomes a game he plays in the hotel.  He is standing in the hall.  He is standing next to a small table in the hall.  There is a vase filled with flowers on the table.  He is at his seat in the bar, the seat from which he is able to observe the lobby and the grand staircase.  He is outside the lounge.  He is in the lounge.  He is in his room.  He is eavesdropping on the guests in the room next to his.  There is, of course, a form for all this, an unspoken language, and an unguessed at consequence.  And this consequence, of course, depends on his actions, on how, and in what manner, he will choose to carry himself.  And this line of thinking inevitably leads to his next decision.  The spontaneous decision that will propel events to their conclusion.  It is already a conclusion of sorts that has just occurred.  This meandering of his.  This standing around on the periphery of the hotel.  He is standing in the hall, and this, too, has its consequences.  A change that takes place unexpectedly.  A rapid deployment of his qualities of service.  There is, of course, much more to be said.  And it, also inevitably, will be said at some point.  But here it suffices to become the picture, the display, so to speak, of a kind and gentle turn of events.  Of a barely spoken of purpose, of points of fact, and then of their contraries.  What occurs is occasional. 

~

There is a peculiar resistance on his part to contact, to unexpected social contact, especially.  And despite the weather, the weather had been nice, and despite the unseasonable and difficult weather, it is really the season that he finds himself responding to.  That and particular voices.  Not so much their content but the quality, timbre, of the speech itself.  And this causes something to change within him.  A change of perspective that can only be characterized by its utter lack of perspective, or of joy, or of any other quality, positive or negative, that he can imagine.  It just is what it is and there is no telling what form it will take from one moment to the next.  Essentially, it is in his power to make mistakes, it is his right to have come to his place in spite of his intention, of his clear intention.


--from Part Two - Funeral

3.

There were icons in the backyard.  Not really icons, but things, objects, a collection of some sort, things, icons, really.  And the sight of it, that collection of objects, those things, objects, icons, really, reminded him of death.  It was late one night, really, it was night and he was tired, but he didn't go to sleep.  The idea of food bothered him, attracted him, and bothered him.  He'd eaten in a restaurant, had, earlier that night, eaten alone in a restaurant.  And the things, the collection of objects, the icons, the plants and trees and flowers, in the backyard, and on the streets, everywhere, all of it, those things, reminded him of death. 

~

There was a dog on the street.  The dog was running down the street.  The dog did not appear to be in distress in any way, yet, still, there was something about the sight of the dog that bothered him. 

~

It was a large event, an occasion, a funeral.  And there were many friends, associates, and relatives, and others, other people, who stood in the open air that day.  There was the sound of the eulogy and the sound of the prayers.  The sound of crying.  A body was being buried, interned.  It was a solemn occasion, a funeral, an event that had required planning.

~

There had been the threat of death for years, even the threat of death, specifically, on certain occasions.  And there was something in his eye, something small, an object, something foreign, some foreign matter in his eye that, from time to time, bothered him. 

~

The sad part was that it was not a significant event.  The funeral, in fact, was not a significant event at all. 

~

And still there was a question of waiting.  There was waiting to be done, always plenty of waiting to be done.  He'd waited for her by the door of the café.  On another occasion he'd waited for her on the street.  On still another occasion he'd sat and waited for her at a table in the restaurant.  And, then, in those days, he was usually on time, or, often, early, when he'd had an arrangement to meet with someone.

~

The icons, the things, the collection of objects, the things, icons, really, in the backyard reminded him of death.  It had been months, or years, it had been long, had been a long time, since he'd been in that neighborhood, in that part of the city, in the backyard, at night.  And there was more, there was, of course, much more to say about the situation, about all the situations he found himself in, but there was something in the way.  A truck or car, or bus, something, a vehicle of some sort, was blocking his way.  He was standing in the middle of the street, waving, gesturing, wildly, somewhat wildly, humiliatingly, in a way, doing a kind of dance, almost a dance, trying to catch their attention, but there was something in the way.
 

~

 They, his friends, associates, enter the café through the front door.  The door that faces the street. 

~

The day he'd waited for her had turned out badly.  It was bad, a bad day.  Yet it was a day, a period of time, that he knew, somehow, just knew, understood, to be significant.  In fact, he'd been aware that it, the day, the days, those days, in general, meant something, still he couldn't see anyway of going back, of returning, to where he'd been before.  Things seemed to get worse after that, though he'd expected, had, of course, expected things to get better.

~

He was waiting for her in the café, or restaurant.  It was late one night, and he was tired.  And, at that point, anyone would have been tired.  Still, there was no way of avoiding it.  This fact.  The signs.  There was an open door, a green, or red, door.  He walked through the open door and into a great room.  The room was filled with light.  It was filled with the most beautiful light he had ever seen.  And there had to be something to fill the days.  There had to be some miracle in the works, something.  Something good was about to happen.  He just knew it.  Or, the way he looked as he stood, standing.

~

And there are strict rules, laws, directives, strict prohibitions, governing the handling of human remains.  There were complications, however.  Things happened unexpectedly.  And the complications appeared, or things changed, literally, over night. 

~

He could see his friends, associates, turn the corner and approach the front door of the café.  He waved, gestured, wildly, somewhat wildly, humiliatingly, in a way, did a kind of dance, almost a dance, trying to get their attention.

~

There were icons, things, objects, a collection of some sort, things, icons, really, all around the backyard.  It was night, and dark, and there was very little wind.  He was visiting a neighborhood, a part of the city.  It was dark, very dark, much darker than he was accustomed to.  He was standing in the backyard and there were various objects, icons, things, a collection of some sort, things, icons, really, hanging from beams, and from walls, and on the ground: wind chimes and small statues, a stone turtle, and other things, objects, icons, really.

~

His friends, associates, sat at a table in the cafe.  And the café was very beautiful, at that point.  Still, there was something wrong, or there was something missing.  There was the feeling, generally, generally speaking, that there was something wrong, that something was, in fact, missing, or even stolen, perhaps.

~

He sat and looked out the café window.  He sat for a long time and stared out the front window of the café, the one that faced the sidewalk and the street. 

~

And it was not long after that.  The funeral. 

~

 It was early, or late, and it was time for him to go.  He had to leave his place.  He left his place early, or late, or it could have been at night, or in the evening.  He went to work.  He was on his way to do his job.  And, on that day, things were indeed bound to change.  Yet, still, at that point, there was time.  There was still time.  He had time, then, at that point.  Time to spare.  He bought stamps, and stamped a letter, and put the letter in a mailbox.  And then he'd gone to work, had gone to do his job.  It was later that day.  It was after work.  And there were stamps in his wallet.  He'd intended to take the stamps out of his wallet and put them away in a drawer.  Yet each time he'd opened the drawer, opened his wallet.  And that day had been a surprise.  It was so unpredictable.  The ways the day, any day, could possibly go.  There was a collision, of sorts, a violent collision, on the street outside the café.  And earlier that day, he'd waited for her on the street. 

~

 He sat in the café, or restaurant, and waited.

~

And there were others at the funeral, others, observers, recorders, if you will.  And then there was the sound of glass breaking.  The sound, somewhere, off in the distance, perhaps, of glass breaking. 

~

The icons, the things, the collection of objects, the things, icons, really, in the backyard were made of wood and metal, mostly, or mostly made of wood and stone, or mostly made of plastic, or made of plastic and wood and metal and stone, and even ceramic and some glass.  And there was no denying that something significant had happened, that, indeed, something had changed.  He bought stamps in the morning on his way to work. 

~

In the meantime, there were arrangements, preparations, to be made.  It was a solemn occasion, a funeral, an event that had required planning. 

~

There was a dog on the street.  There was a dog running down the street, and the dog was not in distress, or did not appear to be in distress, in any way.  The dog ran up the street, seemingly carefree, in, seemingly, a carefree manner, yet, still, there was something sad in the way the dog ran.  To him, there was a sadness, a real and profound sadness, in the way the dog ran up street.  Yet, he was not, typically, one to feel sentimental over animals.  He had no particular appreciation for animals, had never really paid that much attention to animals.  There was a room, and he tried to see what the room looked like.  There was a bed in the room, and a chair, and bookcases.  Most likely, the room he slept in.  The room where he spent his time.  He feels that the most likely answer is that he had happened upon the room where he slept.  The room where he spent his time.  It was difficult to see in the dark, however.  But after staring at the room for a while, he was sure that it was the place.  Still, at one time, he feels, the room might have been slightly different, maybe painted a different color.  Or there might have been different furniture.


Harold Abramowitz is from Los Angeles. His books and chapbooks include (!x==[33]) Book 1, Volume 1 by .UNFO (collaboration with Dan Richert, Blanc Press, 2011), A House on a Hill (A House on a Hill Part One) (Insert Press, 2010), Not Blessed (Les Figues Press, 2010), and Dear Dearly Departed (Palm Press, 2008). Harold co-edits the short-form literary press eohippus labs, and writes and edits as part of the collaborative projects, SAM OR SAMANTHA YAMS and UNFO.