CANOVA'S TOMB IN VENICE

I have in my possession a curious, and rare, guide book to the art, architecture and monuments of Venice dated 1910. There is no name of a publisher, and the name of it’s author I believe to be a false one.

At about this period there was another author-and publisher-of guide books, the famed Karl Baedeker, forerunner of all guide books to follow, his perhaps being, if not the first, then certainly the most successful and widely read to that date.. (I had in my possession at one time over twenty of these precious little books, which I would find and buy, in local used books stores on 4th avenue, for an amount never exceeding one dollar. All but three, ‘Northern Italy’, ‘Central Italy’, and ‘Southern Italy with Sicily’, are gone now, having been given to friends about to visit my country for the first time.)

I have come to suspect that Mr. Karl Baedeker, unable to openly print the events surrounding some of his subject matter, took it upon himself to secretly publish this now rare treasure. Mr. Nomino Altra, the name used as the author’s, is, most certainly a pseudonym-it translates into ‘little other name’-and Mr. Baedeker was not only learned about Italian history, but in a position to publish as well. The edition, it is said by rare book dealers, was limited to fifty, I own #37.

Here is the entry:from the book ‘Venice:: Art, Architecture, and Monuments’

Santa Maria Dei Frari (Cont.) 

North wall just inside main entrance. The tomb of the sculptor Antonio Canova (.1775-1822 .)

Antonio Canova is said to be buried in this splendid monument, of a flawless white Cararra marble, that he designed to hold the remains of the Venetian painter Titian. (The body of Titian is entombed in the south aisle),
Canova was born in the near by village of Possagno, where, in his later years, he was having built an edifice to hold many of his works, both finished and in the planning stages. He ran out of funds before he could complete the building.
When Canova died, in Venice, the Doge and an entourage traveled to Possegno. Appearing, at first, to be a rare honor, it proved to be other than that.
After the group had been hosted with a dinner of the town’s famed soup-where the usual stale white pieces of bread, a tradition in Italian soups, had been replaced by the more valued dark bread in order to honor the Doge, the Doge requested a formal meeting with the town fathers, all of whom were present.
A self-appointed leader spoke up, saying, “Speak, oh Holy one, we are at your call.”
“I want the body of your treasured son that it may be honored in a proper manner in the great city of Venice that so loved him and in which he, in turn, love..”
The elders were stunned. This was something that they had failed to foresee. One by one they pleaded with the Doge to make any demand of them, but not that one. The Doge refused to cede.
Whereupon the oldest member of the elders, one Augusto Della Crocini*. spoke up, tears in his eyes, “Please good sir, have a heart.”
The Doge, in a rare moment of compassion-a quality never before seen by his associates, and the oldster perhaps reminding him of his very own father-replied.
“And so it shall be old man, we will take the heart where, as we all know, the soul dwells.”
So it was that the following day, after all had rested, the Doge, his group, and the elders, gather to witness to removal of Canova’s heart from his body. It was placed in an elaborate box especially made for it during the night by one of the many town craftsmen, one Benito Gambrinni and formally given over to the Doge.who, when he returned to Venice, placed it   into the tomb originally intended for Titian. (Canova’s body was later interned with honors in the museum that he had designed to hold his valued and treasured sculptures.)
The events that modify the above well-known recounting of the death of Canova and it’s aftermath now follow.
Several days before the arrival of the Holy procession a platoon of soldiers had camped out just outside of the town in the foothills of the Aldige mountains, The resident town prostitute, one Rosa Legna, was delighted. Here at last some young business, a welcome relief from the usual unhappy and elderly merchants, and from the very young and inexperienced sons of men of some means, brought to her by their fathers for their traditional eighteenth birthday present, the day they would become ‘men.’
After the busiest night of her career, and her dresser top piled with lire, the good women was found dead in her bed with a tender smile on her face, one never before seen by the locals.
When the Doge proposed the heart in place of the body, several of the most astute of the elders noticed that he did not say ‘his heart.’ They, naturally, assumed that any heart would do, and what better way to honor yet another local treasure?
And so it came to pass, that with a bit of slight of hand, the heart of Canova was exchanged for the heart of Rosa Legna where it sits to this day in the magnificent tomb, originally planned for Titian, of Antonio Canova, while Canova and his are in the  village of Possagno.
It must be added that several of the wiser of the elders had noted, with an appreciative humor, that the exquisite box made to hold the precious heart was of a rare-for that district-and beautifully patterned, legnarosa, Rosa Legna’s name in  reverse. Their sons having benefitted from her special talents and kind renderings, the two elders saw her heart as a suitable replacement.

* The events of this historic day were recorded in a letter from Augusto Della Crocini to his son, Lucca Della Crocini (Later to become the famed Venitian architect know to history as Il Crocilini) The letter is preserved in the archives of Possagno’s church of Santa Maria del Monte, where it safely locked, and where it may be viewed with the permission of the local bishop. 

xxx

"“PLEASE JACKSON, NO TROUBLE"

The Cedar Street Bar was almost full, as it often was since the article, in Esquire, about it being an artists hangout. Sam, a co-owner of the bar, stood at the entrance door to let customers out and to edit who would be let in.

I was sitting on my favorite stool, the first one at end of the bar, close to the entrance door and the large front window. From there I could nurse my beer-my budget limited me to two drinks a night-and enjoy the activities, the comings and goings, of The Cedar Street Bar customers, many, but not all, of whom I knew.

There was Frans Kline, master of the black on white gestural punch in the stomach, who looked to me like Brian Donlevy-a popular 30’s movie star-short, dapper, dandiest and hairline mustache. He was backed up under a Hogarth Print (Beer Street), one of many Hogarths that lined that one wall. Charles, a photographer in from Paris, had Kline cornered against the cigarette machine and the wall.

At the far end of the bar was DeKooning, eyes half shut with intoxication, speaking in whispers to a pretty young thing who sat fascinated, bathing him with her adoring stare. As usual, DeKooning’s famous golden lock of hair was drooped down, covering his right eye.

As I sat and enjoyed there was a knock on the door, gentle at first but then demanding. I heard Sam shout over to John, his co-owner, who was behind the bar.

“It’s Jackson,”said Sam,”should I let him in?

“Only if he promises not to make trouble,” John shouted back.

I looked over to the door. A wooden door with a small window, about four by six inches, at eye level. A pair of eyes were pressed up against the glass. They were pleading, they actually seemed to be saying,”Please,please.” Eyes that could talk.

Then hands, held as if in prayer, appeared, to reinforce the eyes.

“Jackson, we’ll let you in but you’ve got to promise. No trouble and no more than three drinks. OK?” said Sam.

The eyes nodded OK,OK, I’ll be good.    

Sam unlocked the door and in came Jackson Pollack. 

He sat next to me at the one vacant stool. He sat like a good school boy sits, upright with his hands in his lap. At attention. Waiting. Pollack was not large, but he LOOKED large and he looked powerful. I didn’t know him and so I didn’t speak to him. 

“Your usual Jackson?” said John

“My usual, please,” said Pollack.

John served Pollack a shot glass of something amber and Pollack just sat there, politely, his hands still in his lap.

John looked at Pollack.

“You gonna be good?” said John.

“Yes sir, I’m going to be good,” said Pollack, still holding that ridiculous posture.

‘You have a three drink limit, you know that?”
         
“Yes sir, three drinks, no more,” said Pollack.

John turned away and Pollack quickly downed his drink, placed the glass back on the bar, and resumed his posture.

Almost as if he knew what had happened while his back was turned John turned back towards Pollack and stared at the glass. Pollack just sat there as if nothing had happened.

“Please Jackson, no trouble. We’ve let you in. If you cause trouble we can’t let you in again. You understand that?” said John.

“I understand,” said Pollack, “can I have my second drink now please?”

John reluctantly poured out another shot.

Pollack, once again, sat there very politely leaving the glass untouched as long as John was looking his way. A man, playing a game.

“Hey, ain’t you Jackson Pollack?” said the man sitting next to Pollack, a man who had until then been talking to a pretty woman seated to his left.

Pollack looked at him, and then at the women , and said,”Yes, I am”

“I read about you in Life Magazine. That was pretty funny, calling you Jack the Dripper.”

“Oh yes?” said Pollack,” and what do you think was funny about it shithead?”

“What?” said the man,” Did you call me shithead?”

‘Yes shithead, I just called you shithead,” said Pollack, still sitting in that straight up position.

John ran over as did Sam.

“Jackson, you promised,” they pleaded.

“This shithead thinks that my being referred to as Jack the Dripper is funny,” said Pollack.

Sam turned to the man. “Sir,” he said, “can I seat you and your friend at a table in the rear please?”

‘No, no,” said Pollack,”they’re fine here.” He laughed,”give shithead and his friend a drink on me.”

‘Jackson please,” said John.

“No, really John, give them a drink. No more trouble, I promise. I apologize to him and to his pretty friend.” He smiled at the woman.

‘Why thank you,” she said, with a slight southern draw.

“My, my,” said Pollack, “a southern belle.”

“Why that’s right, Georgia,” she said.

“Jackson, please,” said John,”No trouble. Please. Leave the man and his friend alone.”

“OK, OK, OK,” said Pollack,”I’ll leave them alone.” He turned to me,”How ya doing kid?”

“Me?’ I said, “I’m fine. How you doing?”, pretending that I didn’t know or didn’t care who he was.

“I’m fine too, I’m fine too,” he said and quickly bored with me turned away to stared at his still untouched second drink. He sat there, still upright and all proper like, and just stared.

‘Shithead’ was in a conversation with his friend, his back to Pollack. As he talked he played with his pack of cigarettes and a small match box, arranging them in various positions.

Pollack noticed and watched as the man first did this and then did that with the two objects. 

Then he stopped and left the cigarette pack and matchbox alone, concentrated on talking to his friend.

The cigarette pack was now lined up parallel to the front and back of the bar. In the exact center on top of the pack was the match box, aligned with the edges of the cigarette pack.

Pollack slowly got up, staring and trembling a bit. His face was red. He stood and stared at the cigarettes and match box, shaking his head from side to side. John, at the other end of the bar began to sprinting over, sensing trouble. Pollack raised his clasped hands high into the air and screamed a loud,”NOOOOOOOOOO!”

The man and girl jumped back startled. 

Jackson screamed,”NOOOOO.......ORRRRRRRR.....DERRRRR!” and brought his fist clasped hands down to the bar top, smashing the matchbox and cigarette pack flat. 

Then he screamed, ”NO ORDER, NO ORDER, NO ORDER”  again and again pounding the pack and box.

John and Sam were pleading,”Jackson, Jackson, You’ve got to leave now Jackson.”

“Didn’t you see?” said Pollack,shaking his head,”Didn’t you see? All that order?” 

“You’ve got to leave. You promised,” said Sam,”It’s time to go. Come on Jack, don’t make trouble for us. Just leave OK. We’ll let you in next time.”

You see, one could not just throw Pollack out. He was too powerful, too dangerous. Sam and John’s only hope was to promise, to bribe. In actuality they loved Pollack. They loved all their artists and more often then not would spring for a drink after every two bought and if the artists were broke they could drink on the tab. Hell, if they were broke they’d give them a ten or so to help tide them over.

‘Ok,” said Pollack,”OK,. I’ll leave.”

“But you,” said Pollack,looking at the woman, ”you’re coming with me.”

She got up from her stool.

“Now wait a minute...,” started the guy.

“It’s OK Fred,” said the woman,”I’ll be Ok, Don’t worry. It’s better like this.”

“But...but...I...we..,” said Fred.

“I 'll call you. OK?’She put her hand on his upper arm and squeezed.

Fred was blushing, angry. He looked at Pollack. He looked sad, beaten, shamed, small. 

I felt sorry for the guy. I had heard about Pollack. This was his method in the bar. When he saw a woman that he wanted, he took her.

Sam unlocked the door. Pollack and the woman left. Several persons tried to squeeze in. Sam stopped them.

“Sorry,” he said, “Filled up right now.”

xxx

JESUS LOVES YOU.

I dropped a folded up dollar bill into the beggar’s upturned cap. He said, “Thank you. Jesus be with you.”

That upset me. I turned and said, “I don’t want Jesus to be with me, OK? You got your buck.”

“What are you some kind of communist?”

“Oh common man get with it.” I’m crazy that way, arguing with a begger yet.

He stood up straight, tall and proud, pointed to the ground and said, “You’re standing on American soil.”

I was on my way to my annual check up with my doctor. 

In the doctor’s waiting room I looked over the other patients, trying to guess what they did for a living, why they were here. 

A black woman, seated in front of me, stood up, then turned and smiled at me. I thought that she was being friendly. Perhaps she thought that she knew me, I responded with a nod of my head.

Encouraged she approached me. Then stood digging in her purse and pulling out pamphlets.

“I want you to have this to read.” she said.

“Is it something religious?” I replied, suspicious.

“It’s about Jesus and how he loves you.” she said.

“I’m sorry dear, but I don’t believe in god, and maybe Jesus lived, but he was just a good guy, probably.”

“Oh my goodness, you poor man”

“Ah . . . I’m not a poor man, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Jesus loves you, you know.”

“Ah . . . I don’t think so. I think he’s dead.”

“Oh no. He sees you and loves you. He died for your sins.”

“Well good,’ I leaned back in my seat, hands behind my head, smiling, “then I can commit as many of them as I like since they’re all paid for.”

“I’m going to pray for you.”

“No, no, please. Don’t pray for me. I’m just fine. No prayers. OK?”

“Oh no, I’ll be praying for you night and day, and maybe Jesus will forgive you.”

“I thought that he already died for me.”

“Oh dear. Goodby. I will be praying for you, and He’ll be there for you, when you need Him.””

She left me and walked across the room to a seated couple. I watched to see how they would re-act to her. As she talked they turned and looked, reproachfully, at me. I stared back, firm in my conviction.

In the doctor’s office things were going fine until he asked if I had any complaints. I casually mentioned that I had not moved my bowels for about three days. He asked about my food habits and stoically absorbed my brief list of pizza and pasta.

He wrote the name of an over-the-counter laxative on a prescription form, told me to buy it and to take the dosage recommended. If I had not moved my bowels by midnight I should check into the emergency ward. They would help me before it became serious.

At midnight I was in the emergency ward. There was only a nurse there behind a counter. I walked up and asked to see a doctor.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I, ah, have, ah, this, ah, movement problem.”

“Bowels, you mean?”

“I guess so.”

“How long?”

“Three, maybe four, days.”

She looked at me with a strange passive peaceful kind of look.

“You must open your heart to Jesus.”

I stared at her and she stared back, determined, like a librarian.

“This is a non-denominational hospital?”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s with this Jesus stuff?”

“I can see it in your eyes, you need him.”

“I need a doctor.”

“Well,  your going to see a nurse.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. No nurses. A doctor. A guy.”

“There are only two nurses on duty right now, you’ll be seeing them.”


“Them?”

“Take a seat please and read this while you’re waiting.”

She gave me a pamphlet on Jesus. There he was on the front, halo and all. I studied him. He looked a bit like Sean Penn with faint beard and mustache. Wasn’t that vanity, to have a beard and a mustache? A blue dress with an open white robe over it. Oh well, I thought, I guess guys all wore dresses in those days. Look at that hair. Just as pretty as it could be. Long shiny golden brown curls hair hanging down to the shoulder. More vanity? Nice sandals, just what I needed for the summer.

I wondered if he ever got constipated. I wondered if, while he was alive, he ever walked up to a stranger and said,”I love you.”?

I couldn’t help myself and blurted out a laugh. The image of a guy dressed like Jesus, doing that In New York City, got to me. The nurse looked over at me, saw me holding the open pamphlet and laughing. First she looked shocked, then insulted, then angry. She left her desk. In a few moments she returned and sat without looking at me.

A large black nurse came out.

“You come with me.” She said.

I followed her, saying,”Is there a doctor on duty?”

“You don’t need no doctor mister.”

“I’d appreciate it, I really would.”

“You shy or something? You want a male nurse?” 

“I dunno. Yeah, I guess so. A male nurse.”
       
“Gloria,” she called to another nurse, “get Jesus on the line and tell him to come down.”

Then she laughed.

“You gonna believe in him, that’s for sure

(c)pepe nero2007

xxx

He

He was crouched over; gnawing on a root. He always crouched while eating, resting, or remembering. Low in the grass he could see without being seen. He, motionless, watched a thing, moving slowly, nibbling at the grasses. It jerked slightly, looked up, saw him, and froze. He grabbed, it shook, it fainted. He sniffed its warm body, sensuously musty. Holding it by its ears he probed it, around and around. It was quivering now, coming to. He bit into its neck. The warm blood dripped in heavy drops down to his chest, bright wet red against the older layers of dried and flaking brown. Later he would smear it all over and walk proudly back to the tribe where he would dance and strut his conquest.

He thought about his place in the woods. He always remembered it as being his, and his alone. A place of rest and safety. A still place that gave him the energy and the courage that he needed to go back to the other place, the one of combat and survival.

He had no words for these things, did not think in words, only in images, experiences, memories. Because things had no names they were all part of his magical being. He felt a love and a kinship to all things. His most feared enemy was also loved. All things were extensions of him, and he was the center of all things.

Much later in his life, as he approached his final years of late twenties, he would arrange, in the meadow below his shelter on the hilltop, a series of upright rocks in a large circle. He would search for years to find the highest, the roundest, the ones most like the beloved trees that circled his special place. The tribe would watch, confused, and one of the stronger males would break into laughter, dancing, pointing, mocking. The others, encouraged, would join in. His lady, watching all this, would hold her children close, and cry. 

xxx

I Like My Job.


I’m free, most of the time, to do anything that I wish. So I paint, and I write, and enjoy those also.

I eat well, smoke well, drink well, and sleep well. It’s the job, and the money that comes from it, that make my lifestyle possible. 

Some day a guy, with a job like mine, is going to do his job on me. That’s Ok. It goes with the job.

I never carry a piece except for a hit. Then I get rid of it.

There’s only one person that can assign the hits; I only met him once.

That’s fine, he wants it that way; I like it that way.

I get what I need by mail, in a P.O. Box, no return address. An envelop, with a name, an address, and some photographs. That’s all I need. I have seven P.O. boxes around New York City. They are rotated in order. Each box gets used once a year, at most. In a good year I make seven hits.

After the hit a number of small deposits are made to bank accounts in my various names.

I never do a job in front of the victim’s family, and I won’t do a hit on women, or kids. That’s me, and the boss knows that. So far all of my hits have been guys thirty and above. They all had it coming. If and when I get hit, I will have had it coming. I accept that.

I try for clean. The only times that they are dirtied is when I do a miss. The guy moves suddenly, or is instinctively tipped off, and takes a dive, or does a quick turn with an elbow flying at me. That’s when it gets dirty.

You think that you know who I am. You don’t. I can, and have disappeared. I can create a new identity in a day or two. I have a suitcase packed. I can grab it and disappear.

How’d I get the job? An accident, almost. I was shilling (1) in an illegal casino outside of St.Louis. An uncle of mine, in the group but not made, was close to the Capo and had gotten the job for me. Shilling pay was just barely OK, and the job was easy. Actually, it was boring. But I could eat and drink all that I wanted to, and there were easy women around.

I knew that there were cameras monitoring the tables. That’s why I knew that the boss knew who I was. and what I looked like, while I didn’t know who he was. The only time I saw him was when I was brought to his office.

He said he liked the way I handled myself, that my uncle had good things to say about me, that he wanted to give me a chance to get ahead. He said that most of my time would be mine, that I would have to be willing to travel, and he told me what my end would be for each job. He asked me if I was willing to take out someone who deserved to die anyway.

That scared me. I didn’t know what to do or say. He said take your time. No rush. If I said no, fine, I could go back to the tables and no consequences. 

He gave me three minutes.

I said,”Does my uncle know?”

He said,”He asked me to do you a favor.”

“Oh.”

“I said to him that I’d do him a favor, not you. That I owed him, not you. You don’t do it, someone else will. You see?”

“Yes sir, I see. Were you born here or in Italy?

“You changing the God-damned subject? None of your fucking business.” I was scared, but he was laughing. That was nice of him.  That’s when I learned never ask questions of someone who is more powerful than you.

“Times up kid.”

“OK, I guess  I’ll do it.”

“No guesses.”

“I’ll do it.”

“That’s more like it.”

It was the smartest decision that I ever made.
          
He gave me an envelop and a gun. He said get rid of both when the job was over. He said to then send him a P.O. Box number and a bank account number. He said, “Nella bocca del lupo (2), and ciao,” and started reading a Wall Street Journal.

 Just another business man keeping busy.

“Sir”

“What?” Irritated.

“I gotta ask you, get your OK.”

“Ask”
 
“Ah...could I take Vickie with me?”

“You sure that she don’t belong to someone?” He was looking at me. A cold look.

I had made my second mistake in a few minutes. I was learning fast but in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Ah..I’m sorry I didn’t know...”

“I never heard of her. Take her. But watch your mouth from now on. You talk too fuckin’ much.”

I guess I was about three inches tall at that point.

In the envelop, besides a name, address and photograph, was some cash and a note:

‘This will get you started. A loan. No interest. I deduct later. You’re on your own except when you get a job. The job has priority.’

My first job: I’d have to go to New york. There was a name, an address, and photo..

I liked New York, so I decided to stay, make it my base. 

I’m still here.

New York is an easy city to kill someone in. I once did a hit on 5th avenue, while walking behind the victim, on a crowded sidewalk. Quickly up behind him, gun and silencer to back of neck, pointed upwards so as not to hurt anyone else, then the small crack of a shot. 

I keep walking, the job done.

I decided that my first job would take place in the hits' building elevator. Up near The Flatiron. A building full of small offices.. He was on the fourteenth floor and I pretended to be on twelve, where i got off if the elevator if it had someone else in it. I wanted to catch him alone. There was no elevator operator, doorman or reception desk. No witnesses. I had patience and on the numerous failed days preceding the hit I walked down to street level and left the building; went to the studio and painted. Or wrote.

It got to the point where the guy greeted me one morning. I ignored him. 

I stood against the back of the elevator. That’s where I wanted to be for the hit. Let me tell you something that may save your life. Never turn your back on anyone. Always know where you are, and what’s behind you. If you’re in any kind of shady business that is. On the sidewalks, should you walk-never a good idea-walk close to the buildings, and stop once in awhile to lean against a building, light a cigarette, and take a quick look for any change in stride by those behind you. Anyone pauses when you stop is probably doing a job, and you are the target. Now you know. You want to discourage him? Easy. Pull out a camera and pretend you’re taking pictures of the street and end up by  pointing  it in his direction. There! You scared him. Good. You owe me. Now leave town.

At last in the elevator we were alone. The idiot had his back turned to me. He didn’t know he was going to die. It went clean. 

I felt nothing.

I finally had a job that I liked, payed well, had minimal hours, and wasn’t too boring.

I’ve had a few dirty hits, but I only felt bad about one of them. Once I had done a clean job, but had not yet gotten rid of the piece. A cop stopped me.

From behind yet. 

He had his gun out and I was up against a wall. 

“You have any identification?” he said.

I was shaking all over, trembling beautifully. But I was scared, really scared. 

“Yes sir”, I said. My voice was also shaking, “May I take it from my pocket?”

“Take it out, but slowly.”

I was looking down at the sidewalk as I did what asked. Never look at them in the eye. That’s a threat. A dare.

“Please sir, could you not point the gun at me like that?”

I caught a quick little smile and shrug of the shoulder as he pointed the gun away.

“Thank you sir.”

That’s when I shot him. I hated doing that. He seemed decent enough. He probably did not deserve to die. But what could I do? I could have been caught on duty. He got shot on duty. We were both doing our jobs. Next time it may come out differently.

Some fucking mouth on me. But I’ve got stories, some of them pretty good. Maybe I’m a writer. Maybe it will get me killed. No problem. That makes writing dangerous. Might make for better writing. If there’s no risk, what can it be worth?

At first I did it for me and Vickie. She’s gone now, took off with a musician. A tuba player of all things. Black. Jazz tuba. Imagine that? Now I do what I do for myself. I wasn’t born rich and so, like most of us, sold out. We’re all prostitutes unless we are doing medical or social work. Even fucking architects are prostitutes. Most of them. They’re not working on the kinds of buildings they would like to work on.

I know the risks. They are the price I will eventually pay. Meanwhile I like my job,. Hell, I know some mudkickers(3) like their jobs also. Wouldn’t you rather be with a hooker that likes her work than be with one who doesn’t? You agree, you get my point. Maybe.

xxx

1. Ah, Google it

1. Italian equivalent to the New York ‘Break a leg’. translation “Good luck”, which is never literally said, rather the opposite, because wishing someone good luck is bad luck, if you follow me.

        3. A prostitute who works the streets.

xxx

Alone Now.

He was alone now, well, almost alone. He had, if not some friends, some acquaintances, most of his friends were dead.

Days, weeks, sometimes months, would go by with no contact with those that remained. At best an occasional phone call, if that.

But then, where they did not contact him, he, on his part, did not contact them. It seemed to him that everyone had ossified into whatever it was they were destined to be from birth on.And, to him, there was nothing interesting about ossification even though he well knew that he himself had most probably ossified also.

He recalled the last memorial service he had attended, several years back, for an acquaintance, a fellow artist, Serchio Segovia. Held at St.Mark’s On The Bowery the occasion was packed, as many as two or three hundred present. Those who took the stand to have their say praised Serchio, recalled incidents, cited particular works and exhibits, his great character, his willingness to help younger artists, his dedication to his craft, etc.

And yet, he recalled, Serchio had, for the most part, lived the fife of a hermit his last few years, rarely leaving his loft, eating and sleeping in random moments, spending the time between at his work.

-It’s too bad-he had thought at the time-that Serchio is not present to see and hear this-

He now recalled that thought. Yes, it had been too bad.

He though about the memorial service that was sure to take place after his own death. Who would come? Would many? Would he have had, personally, known them all? Who would come for him and who would come for the free food, drinks, and the social networking that would occur after the services?

It was, he thought, too bad that he, like Serchio, would not be here to see it. Yes, too bad, a shame. Everyone should, at the least and after a life lived, have the opportunity to attend one’s own services. To see and hear hypocrisy given form. Old enemies praise and lie everyone properly solemn with an occasional joker recalling a humorous event that would trigger the much needed break from the seriousness of the moment the crowd breaking into exaggerated laughter with perhaps a bit of applause afterwards.

He was, he knew, a failure, having had very few moments of success, glory, or reward in whatever it was that he thought he was doing. All that behind him he continued to work. But why? No high priest he thus no virgins to choose from. Perhaps it was preferable to fishing, or to rocking on a white painted porch occasionally falling into pleasant sleep the birds chirping yes he heard  yes he was still alive but why?

Would the life lived have been better lived had he had the opportunity to shape and direct the events of his life? Unfortunate that, that that gift had been denied him-or was it? 

He had, he thought, a few years left. He could, like some nuts before him, shape the last event into him firing from a tower all the while knowing that that day he would die a violent death. No, something gentler, something rewarding, was needed. Like attending his own memorial service.

It would be simple enough to arrange. He would disappear for a time, long enough for some to notice that he was not around.

Then his wife would send out the invitations to the memorial and place a notice in The Times.

He, in the meantime, would have grown a beard and gained-or loss- enough weight to alter his overall appearance. He would wear a suit yes that would do it he would wear a suit a thing that he had never before done. That should do it. Should any ask or remark on the similarity between he and the deceased he would say that yes he was his brother, cousin, something, just flown in from California.

After the ceremonies and partying, which should prove to be the most entertaining of his life, he would remain in New York as the guest of his ‘sister-in-law’, or cousin-in-law, whatever, who, after a proper period of time, he would realize he loved and he would ask for her hand in marriage. He would then discover, like his cousin, brother, whatever, that he had a passion for painting and he would shamelessly stake out for himself the studio where he would continue to pursue the ghost that he had all his life tried to find.



xxx