Somewhere a magician is getting booed off stage

It occasioned one night in early spring, he (who is not the aforementioned magician) decided not to go the theater, but to stay home instead. The weather was chilly and the film could wait until tomorrow. It hadn't occurred to him yet just how exactly he would occupy his evening, but his chores were numerous, among them: run speaker cable, finish reading magazine, remove pile of clothes from couch, unpack another box of books. Any one or two of these would form a productive, if not particularly story-worthy evening for our young man.

His girlfriend was admiring all the details of the night stroll, relishing, it seemed, being out of the apartment and away from the computer screen. A computer screen glowing incomplete homework into the darkness of her empty kitchen. The urgency of her homework made her abandon her plans to visit the theater, but it wouldn't interfere with her walk and all the inconsequential observances that beckoned. There was a warning taped to a bicycle rack, newspaper faces cutout and pasted on a window, a dolls head in a shrine, printed dinner ware in the style of entomology, a pencil portrait of a wrestler who may or may not be famous though nobody present knew, and numerous other things it would be a shame not to notice.

* * *

"Let's walk to Dolores," she said.

"Ok," he replied, realizing that she probably wasn't all that interested in the dream he was recounting for her, though she politely pretended to be at least. This convenient extension to the walk would give him time to finish the retelling without skimping on the elaborations. Dreams, after all, aren't about what happened but what seemed to be happening. This, of course, requires quite a lot more explanation.

"...because the camera was automatic, you see? This made it clear beyond a shadow of a doubt, this doesn't make any sense now, but, at the time, that I was the murderer, I don't know why, but I knew it and the investigator knew it, but he didn't show like he knew it, he kept being casual, smiling, not letting on, but I knew that he knew and I knew I was fucked because all of a sudden everything that didn't make any sense, like that guitar plug in my room, and a whole lot of other random things, pointed invariably to my guilt. And I had no alibi I realized. I didn't even know anyone in the house. You know? Then when I realized how complete the evidence was against me that when I started to doubt my own innocence and my memory, maybe this was actually my camera, and that was the really scary part. So I asked the people who owned the house where the party was if they knew everyone at the party and they said no way, there was tons of people here..."

"Let's go back."

"We just got to the park."

"It's cold. Let's go back."

"Of course, it was a huge party, they didn't know everyone, so I asked if they knew anyone there that was acting strange. I just needed anything. Well there is Harry and Sex. Harry and Sex? Harry and Sex. Harry and Sex? Yes, Harry and Sex. They told me that they were a dark couple that constantly dared each other to do more and..."

"I want to look at that chicken."

"Chicken?"

"Back there."

He turned and behind them about thirty yards, centered on the path they had just been walking along, sat what in the dark appeared to be a very white hen. She walked back towards it. He followed. She walked right up to it and squatted less than a foot away. It didn't move at all. She reached out to touch it as if that was the most natural thing to do, to reach out and pet a chicken, which was actually not a chicken at all, but a pure white dove, that was sitting in a park at night in the center of the city. It took a step away from her. She took a step forward and reached towards it again. It took a step away. This simple dance continued for ten minutes. She followed (or chased) the dove off the path and down the grassy slope. He watched, amused. An encampment of homeless men with shopping carts sat under a grove of trees and also watched, presumably amused as well.

Eventually she desisted. And, smiling, returned up the slope to where he stood. Whether she had hoped to capture the bird, simply touch it, or engage in this simple gameplay, was unclear to him.

"Did you touch it?"

"Yeah."

Now, immediately after this, the narrative gravity of this encounter struck each of them as overwhelming. They could not bring ourselves to leave the bird. It was evidently incapable of flight, though not clearly wounded. It seemed, undoubtably, to be a gift or an omen or a symbol or something they could not name handed to them and to them alone. And where could such a creature come from but from heaven? They settled to please the gods they must catch the bird and nurse it back to health. Besides, the homeless men might kill and eat it.

Without much difficulty he subdued the bird. It didn't struggle much, and soon acquiesced to the cage of his grasp. No one paid any mind to the boy carrying a dove down the sidewalk.

"Maybe it was a magicians and it escaped."

"Probably."

She emptied out a couple of crates, which they used for a cage. They made a cup out of paper in which they placed some bread crumbs and sunflower seeds. They gave it some water in the cut off seat of a plastic bottle. It never struggled, but moved to the far corner of the crate and watched them.

They named it Harry Houdini.

To honor the memory of one Maxwell P. Moondragon

I awoke this morning at a perfectly decent hour for a Saturday morning. Having no plans whatsoever and being in no hurry to be anywhere I decided to spend a few hours in a cafe and await what may come. Scarcely had a stepped inside the doorway, having waited outside for five minutes already, than I was affronted with some most intriguing information.

I could not resist eavesdropping on the conversation taking place just ahead of me between a tall lanky bearded fellow and an attractive young woman of apparent Hispanic descent. This particular establishment, though modestly adorned, serves extremely popular and highly acclaimed siphon filter coffee. So popular, in fact, that it is unusual to order without first waiting in line for a good twenty minutes. This particular morning I was thankful for the wait, for it made my eavesdropping much more discreet and convenient.

The young man explained that he was visiting his grandmother’s grave, I did not recognize the name of the cemetery and have since, unfortunately, forgotten it. He had not visited the site for some years and soon realized, abashed, that he was not at all certain where it was. As he wandered flustered and aimless, trying to pick up on some unlikely clue, he noticed a modest gravestone with a humble poem inscribed upon it. He pulled out a small notebook, and I did the same and read from it, while I transcribed.

If deep has no meaning without shallow and small
has no meaning without large
and wet has no meaning without dry
then perfection has no meaning at all.

He said the name of the deceased was one Maxwell P. Moondragon, b. May 16 1923, d. May 1963. Likely Moondragon was the author of the little poem as well, but it is not certain. He did not find his grandmother’s grave and after some moral deliberation decided to rest the flowers on Mr. Moondragon’s. Then he laughed. After this the conversation turned towards more mundane things and I did not care to continue spying.

Having little else to do, I decided to walk with my coffee over to the public library and see if there was any record of this Maxwell Moondragon. I was delighted to find several entries, including a short editorial for the San Francisco Chronicle which I was free to read in full and which I have taken the liberty to transcribe here.

* * *

It is right to pursue your own end with your own means and to fail. It is right to sail your boat out to the farthest sea and to capsize; for no one knows the limits of your vessel, though they may proclaim otherwise, until it sinks. Yet, even then it has not reached its limit. Only the captain may ever know. Should he persist even to his very end to seek the edge of the horizon on a vessel built for much tamer waters, we may call him fool, but secretly will we not all envy and admire his foolishness? For we all harbor in our souls those shameful moments when we turned our rudder back towards land, though we knew our treasure lay beyond. And we satisfied ourselves with the bittersweet victuals of rational remorse that sustain our bodies, while devouring our souls.

Everyone’s treasure does not lie at the horizon’s end. It is not unwise for a captain to remain in shallow water if his vessel is unworthy. It is right for him to find beauty there. It is right for him to love his vessel even if it will never take him to the lands beyond. This course is right for him, if it is in his heart. But may he never surrender his vessel to another, or sign on to the crew of another sturdier ship for shame of his own. Though he may reach paradise aboard it, paradise will not satisfy him, for it is not his.

Paradise is not a land that we can travel to, but a land that we must find within.

* * *

I also found his obituary. I did not copy it down, but shall try to paraphrase as best as I can.

* * *

Maxwell Moondragon, a decorated World War II veteran and experienced sailor from the Bay Area, disappeared on Thursday. He had made it his goal to sail alone across the Pacific before he turned forty and on the eve of his fortieth birthday, he set sail. He was never heard from again. A search party failed to find any sign of either him or his boat. It is presumed that his boat sank in a gale and he was drowned some three or four hundred miles from shore. He is survived by his wife, Gina; daughter, Saline; and brother Murray.

Something Forgotten, Something Lost

I'm waiting.

For what? Tell me what emerges from within? What is that look on your face?

Forgive this.. this.. exposition. What of the adventures?

I suppose what I mean to say is that adventures die. Always die when we let them. I mean, I mean to say that when I find myself from A to B and forget what I am what I'm doing. Well the pavement all looks the same. I suppose I'm looking for my imagination. It's sad. I think. It's like this:

There was a little animal. It was an animal not quite like one that you've seen. A little monster, I suppose. But not a terrifying monster. Not one to fear.

I found it at the airport. It looked hungry, so I gave it a piece of my granola bar. It looked lonely so I petted its head. It looked friendly, so gave it a name. I called it 'Inspiration'.

The metal detectors didn't sense it. The pat down man didn't feel it. The border guard didn't see it. But it was there. Right there in my jacket pocket, curled up like a pair of fuzzy socks. I'm surprised they didn't suspect my smile. Sly and childlike. A secret kind of smile that reveals what it hides.

But they're not trained to notice such things are they?

In Korea I worked hard. I didn't get home until late at night. But it was ok. I'd spend all my time with my little friend. He made me laugh. And everyday I didn't care how hard I had to work. Because I knew I had my little monster waiting for me at home. He waited at the door for me, he stayed up late with me, he slept beside me while I read, and posed for me while I drew. He left little invisible footprints all over the walls and the ceiling. It didn't matter if the wallpaper was cracked, or if my apartment was empty. He was always there. He was always digging through trash, dragging things home. Scraps of paper, discarded toys.

We used to play all the time. But then I made some other friends. Their names are Vice and Sloth. I began to hang out with them more. Some nights I'd call to say I'd be home late. Some nights I didn't call at all. I'd just stumble in at 3 or 4 a.m. and trip over something at the door step. Something fuzzy. I'd mumble a curse and crawl into bed. Followed a moment later by my faithful little friend.

Then one night I came home, and there was no one waiting at the door. I sat down at my computer and began to write an email. Was something missing? I couldn't remember. Did someone else use to live with me? I wanted to go looking, I wanted to ask someone, but I couldn't even remember his name. I began surfing the websites I usually surf. Unaware that I was secretly hoping he'd turn up. That he'd send my a message. Was I writing an email? I can't even think, my apartment is so messy. How did it get so messy?

I need to clean up, then I'll write this email. I took out a big black trash bag and began throwing things in it. Some old receipts, a brochure, a ball of hair, a child's drawing, the arm of a discarded toy, a toilet paper tube, an old pair of socks.

I threw the brimming bag over my shoulder and hauled it down to the corner. Now I can think, now I'll write that email. I sat down at me computer and began to type.

from: nathan sharp
to: everyone
date: Feb 26, 2007 12:34 AM
subject: Something Forgotten, Something Lost
mailed-by: gmail.com

I'm waiting.

For what? Tell me what emerges from within? What is that look on your face?

Forgive this.. this.. exposition. What of the adventures?

I suppose what I mean to say is that adventures die. Always die when we let them. I mean, I mean to say that when I find myself from A to B and forget what I am, what I'm doing. Well the pavement all looks the same. I suppose I'm looking for my imagination. It's sad. I think.