“To conceive is to misconceive.” – Enarulen
Two little girls are quietly conversing and having a snack in the old part of Npydyuan, deep within the labyrinthine heart of an all but forgotten district, downstairs from the down stairs and around the corner from a corner, in what seems like it should be a sub-basement but, as this is the old part of Npydyuan, through narrow slits between blinds the hazy orange light of the street can still be seen, or felt.
Remember, anyone can be anyone here, as this is the in-between.
One of the girls is gonna be stringbean tall in a couple of years, dark hair long, nose small but angular, faintest dimples near the sides of her mouth making her look worldly and always slightly distracted and amused, as if she’s thinking about something else while deeply caring about the person she’s talking to in the moment, and that person is almost always the other little girl, her younger sister, who is smaller, cherubic, with hair just as dark but in an untamed bob framing a continually mischievous face.
They’re sharing a family-sized bag of potato chips. In the whisper of the velvet-dark chamber, the bag crinkles loudly as they pass it back and forth.
Giggles.
They know you’re not supposed to eat an entire bag of chips and yet they’re well on their way to having done so anyway.
“We will need lots of will power in order to stop eating these chips,” older sis admonishes, with her softly serious half grin frown.
“Well, we will just have to do without,” says younger sis and they both laugh because she means do without the will power not do without the chips.
The faded opulence of the polycameral interior around them sets the stage for their irreverence. Ornately framed, a mirror looks on elliptically. Thin carpet on the stairs worn more in the middle bears goodnatured traces of years of sockfooted clambering. Squat mahogany canterbury, chessboard tiles, plush thronelike chairs, threadbare. An archway over there, a narrow corridor, a doorway to another doorway to another life or dream.
Fathoms above, in the dark between this hidden place and empty space, it is raining.
Finally, the chip bag stops crinkling. Every endless time comes to an end. Every perfect present is in the past. Every anticipated moment, no matter how glacial the waiting, whether out of eagerness you strove to move time faster, or out of dread you tried to disbelieve it into nonexistence, arrives.
“Are you ready?” older sis asks, wishing she’d at least had time to brush her young companion’s hair.
Younger sis looks up, nods minimally. Her eyes, as always, wide, honest as a mirror.
There will be no tears from either of them, for they are brave, as up until this moment they have always had each other.
It is time.
Outside, it’s not outside; it’s yet another corridor. I walk down it casting a diffuse shadow on the window behind which the two girls sat just a moment ago. I’m not aware that they were there or that they exist or even of the idea of their existence. It is raining but the rain isn’t touching the ground. I’m on my way to get some groceries.
Self checkout works so I beep beep beep and bag. Then I walk out because I don’t have any money. No one accosts me, no rugby team of cops tackles me, not this time nor any of the times I’ve done this.
I find a table, maybe in the squirrel park, maybe in an empty conference room somewhere. Any table I come across is as good as anywhere else to make my sandwich. As usual, there are salt and pepper shakers here, as there are almost everywhere.
In the quiet hazy light, I talk to myself: It is time. You need to just say the words, do the thing, let the thing happen, or fold, crumple, or tear it up and throw it in the recycling bin and move on with your life. What do you think you’re doing here, in this frozen murky tableau? Dreams don’t mean anything. Keep it going, circulate, breathe like a shark, walk down the sidewalk, walk past each little scene like you always do, until something else happens, but nothing else is going to happen unless you unfreeze your terrified shark soul and get shit going. I answer myself: If only, if only I knew, some kind of sign from some of the others, some whispered voice, someone’s initials carved into an alley wall. Then I would no longer feel the need to wait. Then I would know what to do and how to do it.
Somewhere in the near distance, a confusion of coyotes sings out. The sound spills through me, as water through a bowl of rock in the bottom of a creek bed, and says, You fool. You want your freedom? Come and get it. And I will, I must, I will die if I don’t.