Domenica, 07 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 18:46

My name is Lionel Gerkin and I once loved a girl named Silvia Rose.

We first met on a rainy Monday morning. I was running for the train. there was confusion on the wet streets. A car backfired violently. The police horse, whose rider was trying to direct trafiic, reared in fright.

As it came down, its hooves struck me across the head. I was thrown against her and then fell flat on my face into a puddle that seemed deep enough to drown a horse. (Of course a horse would have been able to swin).

I have never been able to swim. And luckily Silvia saved me. She dived in after me. I was slowly dropping to the bottom of the puddle. The weight of my work bag slowly dragging me under. I couldn't let it go as I had an important presentation to make at work on that day.

I felt her hand grab the heavy corduroy jacket that I was wearing. I opened my eyes and a blurred figure in my watery world smiled back at me.

Just before I passed out, she pulled me out of that puddle and with the help of some bystanders was able to lift me to safety.

I never found out if she performed mouth to mouth resucitation. I never found out if our lips met on that day. All I know is that as everything faded to black, I saw her wings spread wide and she flew away, beyond the dark clouds, beyond the rain, beyond the reaches of mere mortals like me.

When I came to, I was surrounded by dancers. The music was blarring to a rhumba beat. The heat of the dance and the sweat of bodies flew wildly. The sun shone blindingly. Beautiful bodies swayed to the beat.

It was intoxicating. God, I thought, I must be in Rhumba Land.

Lunedì, 08 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 16:55

The rhumba is more than a form of musical expression, it's a form of physical expression. You can't do it sitting down. Your feet start to tap, your body swings. You say to yourself, "I can control this", but before you know it, your hand is swinging and fingers snapping.

Why even babies have been known to fly out of their cribs due to the physical excitement caused by a good rhumba.

The Rhumba, as we know it was spawned in Cuba about 100 yearsago. It wasn't one for the upper classes who found it hard to express themselves due to the lacivius nature of the dance and their anul upbringing.

Upper class folk barely go to the toilet as we all know, let alone dance the rhumba.

The rhumba folk dance is a sex pantomime with the man being the agressor and the woman on the defense. It is an instinctual dance, much like the male peacock displaying his magnificent array of feathers in an attempt to attract the female.

Like the dance of the peacock, the Rhumba is immersed in Latin passion. It is characterised by the movement of the hips, achieved by transferring from one foot to the other. This hip movement is combined with very smooth steps, giving the dance a sensual nature.

It is more than that, rhumba has the same unstructured feel as Jazz music. There is a freedom in its rythmic beat that allows you to soar, to express yourself, to unlock inhibitions.

Normally, this openess is a frightening possibility to face in our culture. Normally it is only achieved through strong drink or drugs.

There was nothing normal about Rhumba Land. Frightening? yes; Excited by the the discoveries you were about to make? yes; Looking forward to them with apprehension? yes.

Could it possibley be dangerous? definitely.

Martedì, 09 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:30

I had seen her every day for months. She caught the same train. The 8.10am Monday to Friday, direct to the city. She always sat next to the tap dancer that was dressed as a huge halapeno pepper.

That man was hot. The way he moved his feet was amazing. But it wouldn't have been all that hard as we occupied the same carriage as the rythym section of the local Cuban band. The drums beat, the trumpets rang out and the maracas shoosed their way through the morning ride.

The first time I saw Silvia the band was playing a beautiful rendition of "Stranger in Paradise". The first thing I saw were her eyes. They were black like night. Her skin as smooth as silk and tinged in the dark earthy hues of an olive grove. I remember approaching her as the train stopped and I had risen to get out.

She was the smell of freedom. At first I thought it may have been the halapeno tap dancer, but he had already departed.

This was something different. She smelled of emerald lakes, sheltered pathways and lush, open meadows. She looked up at me as I waited for her to pass on her way to the exit. She smiled with a reserved warmness.

There was a depth in her eyes where a man could happily drown.

Her gaze launched an arrow that pierced my chest with a violence I had never felt before. It took all my strength and presence to hide the blood that was dripping on to the new shoes I had recently purchased for a song at Kmart.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. I could hear it in my ears as I leaned over to her. I asked her to dance. She coyly declined and walked away.

Men like me never end up with women like Silvia.

Damn, they were playing one of my favourite songs, "Strangers in the Night". Who could blame her, it was too early in the morning.

I loved how the band had accentuated the rhythmic rhumba beat of the song Frank Sinatra had made famous. I sat and listened for a while.

There was a handful of men, looking solemn and far too sober. We sang along at the best words in the song: "Dooby-dooby-doo, Doo-doo-doo-dah-dah, Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-yah-yah-yah."

Mercoledì, 10 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 07:10

My name, as you know, is Lionel Gerkin. I am a little over the age of young. I live by myself. Both my parents died in an awful accident many years ago.

They were at a party of a "Well-to-do". They had been promised a big break. There were thousands of others also at the party who had been promised the same big break.

There was much wine and song and of course dance. What would RhumbaLand be without dance?

The large palatial building stood on the steep incline of a sheer cliff face. A large, expansive balcony jutted out from the building and swallowed up the view of a dark aubergine sea that lashed hungrily far below.

Bodies swayed to the latin beat, sweat rolled off the edges of the balcony which itself groaned under the weight. However, no one heard the groans and soon, it could hold itself intact no more and gave way.

It tumbled into the arms of the hungry aubergine sea far below who swallowed it whole along with all the people who had been dancing only a few seconds before. My parents were among them.

The sea gave a thankful burp and went out with the tide.

That's life, I suppose, I don't think about it too much.

I have a good job and it keeps me busy. I work at the Factory of Dance. We make all kinds of things. I am on the processing line for Toasters. I'm a quality inspector. My favourite job is timing the electrical elements and how long it takes to create a well toasted slice.

Over the last year we have sliced off (sorry about the pun but it does get a few laughs around here), some 10 seconds off this time. I am very proud of my achievement and I know it has not gone unnoticed in higher circles.

Even Silvia Rose noticed. Yes, she works here in management. I received an email from her a few months ago "acknowledging the wonderful quality of work" that was being performed by the team.

I saw her on my way to the toilet just after that. She was racing out of the women's, her hands slightly wet. A few drops of water dripped to the floor. She looked back at me and smiled.

The drips of water on the floor, arched up and danced to the strains of the music that was coming out of the loudspeakers.

Venerdì, 12 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 19:25

I find it very hard to complete this entry. I have just returned from a funeral. It was a beautiful, sunny day as is always the case in RhumbaLand. But it was different.

The normally, whispering wind excused itself and lay silent. Car horns that were pressed in anger refused to honk out of respect. Blades of grass bowed their silky heads.

Even the sun found a large tree to hide behind so that a kind, cooling shadow would fall over the funeral party.

Once the coffin had been lowered, and the first grains of dirt started to cover the memories, a bird in the nearby tree started singing. It was a Hummingbird. A Rufous hummingbird. It puffed out its silken, golden chest and you could see its pointy beak start to warble.

The Rufous hummingbird's natural habitat is the northwest coast of the USA, all the way up to Alaska. How it made its way here I will never know.

The hummingbird cleared its throat and sang an old Cole Porter classic:

Everytime we say goodbye I die a little
Everytime we say goodbye I wonder why a little
Why the gods above me who must be in the know
Think so little of me, they allow you to go

And when you're near there's such an air of Spring about it
I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it
There's no love song finer but how strange the change from major to minor
Everytime we say goodbye

Why the gods above me who must be in the know
Think so little of me, they allow you to go
And when you're near there's such an air of Spring about it
I can hear a lark somewhere begin to sing about it

There's no love song finer but how strange the change from major to minor
Everytime we say goodbye, everytime we say goodbye
Everytime we say goodbye, everytime we say goodbye.....

Sabato, 13 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 12:17

I sat listening to Chet Baker on the gramaphone. It was one of my favourite Chet Baker songs: Little Man You've Had a Busy Day.

It's just a beautiful laid back piece that's pure Chet. But that's Chet. He looked at me and said: "Jazz is like a banana, it has to be consumed on the spot."

"You idiot", I said, "that's a Jean Paul Satre saying. And anyway what are you doing in RhumabLand?"

"Jazz is like a banana ..."

"Shut up, Chet! Just shut up."

He kept playing. Behind him the walls fell away and a lushly covered meadow appeared. The sun shone down gently. Birds chirpped and the wind gently tip-toed across the fields trying not to ruffle anything or anyone.

And then there was Silvia. The sun had picked her out for special attention. She seemed to glow under its gaze. Her eyes smiled. She held out her hand to me.

I walked over Chet (I think I heard him squelch) and took her hand. Chet, bless his heart, kept playing. I placed my arm around her waist and drew her close. I could smell the minty air of her breath against my face. I could see my future in her eyes. I could feel my existence have meaning.

Silvia placed her cheek against mine. Her smooth, cool skin against mine. I could feel the very molecules that make up her being against mine. She reached up to my ear and gently bit it between her teeth. She spoke about the growing sadness in her heart. She spoke about her need for someone to bring joy and life into her world.

I said I could do that. I wanted to do that. I was ready to do just that and make it my life's devotion.

She kissed my earlobe again as we danced closer and closer. I could feel her groin groan against mine. She looked at me, my heart was racing. The pounding in my chest was quite noticeable. I could hear the beating over Chet's playing.

Our eyes met, her lips parted as they came closer to mine. I closed my eyes and heard her say: "Jazz is like a banana, it has to be consumed on the spot."

"What! What!!" I shook my head. I opened my eyes in fright. There was Chet. "Where's Silvia? What have you done with her?"

"Who's Silvia, man? Like I was saying, 'Jazz is like a ...'"

"Shut up! Just shut up, Chet. You're suppose to be dead. You died in 1988. That saying belongs to Jean Paul Satre. You were a great trumpet player. You and Gerry Mulligan were great together. But your big mistake was singing. You were a shit singer. I could have done a better job. In fact I do a better job singing than you ever did while you were alive.

"This is RhumbaLand, idiot. You should have kept that goddam trumpet in your mouth and never taken it out. You shine with the trumpet, you suck with your voice. So, just shut up, okay."

Well, that's what I told the surgeon I had said to Chet as he was about to surgically remove the flugelhorn wrapped around my head. Chet was also very competent with a flugelhorn. Did I forget to mention that?

Lunedì, 15 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 15:51

I lay here with a hole in my heart.

Blood is flowing out in torrents.

It falls over the keyboard.

I can hear the splash, splash, splash of red pools as I type. They lap at the edges of the desk. My coffee cup has become an island in a crimson sea.

The wound was administed by the letter she wrote. Silvia.

"I don't love you anymore", she wrote. "I love another", she wrote.

Splash, splash, splash.

These words were written with letters of such violence that they have torn a hole in my chest. I have not been able to hear her voice.

Splash, splash, splash.

May the poison in my heart flood my senses. May the desire in my heart find a route to revenge.

May the tear in my chest heal over with scar tissue of such ferocity that it can turn away and abandon any thoughts of compassion.

May this emotion avoid no one. No one except my daughter. Our daughter. The daughter you have now taken from me. The daughter you will turn against me.

Splash, splash, splash. Splash, splash, splash. Splash, splash, splash.

Giovedì, 18 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 06:56

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez slapped her face. Silvia's face. His boot thudded into the wooden boards. It caused my glass to shake as it rested on my table a number of meters away.

He slapped her again and he smiled. His pencil thin moustache pinched its way towards his nose which edged away in fear of any contact with the dagger sharp line of hair.

The music ripped through the room in all its physical grandeur. It was the tango, a strident beat that splashed up against the walls as if it was trying to break loose of the room.

Together they danced as lovers and the audience watched as voyeurs. We felt guilty by our stare but could not turn away. I tried.

A sharp glint of light pierced my eye. I looked up and noticed the gold tooth exposed to the lights that struck the dance floor. Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez now smiled hugely his teeth bared themselves as he pulled Silvia toward him, close.

I could smell his sweat as it dripped from his brow and raced down her breast, across the flat plains of her stomach that I had caressed earlier that morning. I could feel that bead racing beyond her belly button, and penetrating the area of her pubic hairs.

Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez threw back his head in triumph. He flung Silvia away like a rag doll and she sprawled across the floor spent and sated. I saw the look in her eye.

The music stopped, the atmosphere crashed to the floor in relief and the audience exploded with its applause. Both bowed.

He looked at me as he held Silvia tight. His gold tooth on display barred for me to see. The gun in his ankle holster hot, passionate and ready for its turn to dance.

Venerdì, 19 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 07:38

Uncle Jozef gave us that big smile of his. "Enjoy", he said with a happiness that sprayed over us. He closed the door and the room shut out the day, the dance factory, the dance, the word. Soft streams of light entered where holes in the old house had long ago not been seen fit to fix.

I sat next to Silvia, just the two of us alone and happy.

"Jozef, what are you doing there?" A voice passing by called out.

"Nothing, you old fool. I'm like you, just wasting my time waiting for someone to come and collect me from this world."

Our hands touched. I felt mine were slightly soiled from the dance factory. I had a toaster's electric circuits explode on me that morning and the signs of it were still there. Silvia placed her lips against the stain and it instantly cleared.

I could have had cancer and it would have been cured.

"Play something with that accordion of yours, Jozef."

"Oh, go away."

"Oh, go on".

As our lips met, the first notes of The Cure's "Pictures of you" sneaked in under the door.

Uncle Jozef sang with his thick accent:

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel

Silvia pressed close against me. I could feel her heart beating. I felt the curve of her back, strong.

"There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to feel you deep in my heart"

Her arms reached around my neck and drew me closer. She lifted herself and wrapped her legs around me.

There was nothing in the world
That I ever wanted more
Than to never feel the breaking apart

Our lips crushed together. Our bodies melted like cheap metal. Again the world exploded into a sea of lights. The atmosphere became heavy with a wonder that I cannot explain.

Remembering you, how you used to be
Slow drowned
You were angels
So much more than everything

I felt the warmth of her bare skin against mine. I followed the valley between her breasts as she sighed quietly. I reached out for her hand, to clasp it tightly. To hold it near. Never let it go. I couldn't find it.

Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you

Silence.

Pure silence.

"Thank you, Jozef", shouted a bystander. "That was so wonderful." said a woman. Jozef was quiet. I could feel his lips curl up at the edges in a smile of thanks. A dusky shadow fell over the room as the sun hid behind a cloud for a moment.

If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you

Lunedì, 29 Marzo, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 21:40

I wake on a Blue Train. I look outside and the sky is red. I wear dark blue shoes and green socks. I find it hard to lift my head off the seat. I feel detached from my body.

I float high in the ceiling. John Coltrane plays in the next carriage. A dwarf dances in the corner with silver boots on his feet and tassles in his hair.

I get up off the floor. I enter the bathroom to wash my face. I don't know how I got into a blue train.

I look into the gold rimmed mirror in front of me. A red blotched face looks back. Actually, it squints back through a deep, black eye that's partly closed over.

I'm hungry. When was the last time I ate? I have no idea.

I'm hungry and I'm in a Blue Train. My face looks like hamburger meat. Head feels like a ball of lead. And I'm on a Blue Train with John Coltrane.

Venerdì, 02 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 21:47

I saw her there. Lying there. Her skirt around her bottom as if it had scrunched up to allow some fresh air in. Lord knows she probably needed some. Her hair was so askew she looked like a before picture in a shampoo advertisement.

How did she get here? I looked around. There was the back door to the dancing ballroom where she often went at night. Obviously I recognised her immediately.

It was Silvia. My Manager at the Dance Factory. I doubt she would have any clue of who I was. She was asleep. Even in this state, she still looked absolutely beautiful to me. She was an angel. She coughed loudly and a large gobule of sputum spat out of her mouth and landed on my knee.

Oh well, never mind. It was Saturday and it was the day I did the washing.

I picked Silvia up in my arms and carried her the short distance to my apartment around the corner. I lay her on my bed and watched as she slept like a ...

I was going to say baby, but here was a womean who smelt like she had finished drinking a brewery. She farted loudly and long.

Her eyes slowly opened. The record player in the next apartemnt started playing "Underneath it all" by No Doubt.

Suddenly, the sun rushed in through the windows and lit up the place. Her eyes looked up at me with such a sharp innocence that I felt them slice away at my chest. I still carry the scars.

Her hand reached out as she started to sing:

There's times where I want something more
Someone more like me
There's times when this dress rehearsal
Seems incomplete
But, you see the colors in me like no one else
And behind your dark glasses you're...
You're something else

I wasn't even wearing dark glasses, but I knew exactly what she was saying. Her face lit up in the soft light of the morning. All her wrinkles from lack of sleep, all her smudged make up seemed to right itself. She glowed.

I added to the song:

You've used up all your coupons
And all you've got left is me
And somehow I'm full of forgiveness
I guess it's meant to be

She smiled at me and my heart melted. I knew then that we were meant to be, that I could see a part of Silvia that no one else had ever found.

My name is Lionel Gerkin and I once loved a girl called Silvia rose. this Silvia Rose, not the one you may hear about now and then.

You're really lovely
Underneath it all
You want to love me
Underneath it all
I'm really lucky
Underneath it all
You're really lovely

Domenica, 04 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 18:07

Silvia tried her best to change, to mellow. I felt I was a calming influence to her personality. I tried to provide a foundation, to be the rock she needed to help her feel grounded and safe.

We'd see each other in the hallway at the Dance factory. No one yet knew about our relationship. She would smile at me.

That smile seemed to light up the whole facotry. Suddenly it shed its drab appearance. It's corrugated walls shone like stainless steel. The concrete floor felt like carpet under foot. The swallows that often got inside via cracks turned into nightingales and sung a quiet harmony.

We would sometimes sneak into the broom closet and have sex. Her skin glowed white. It was smooth and it had a fragrance that was of grassy medows and warbling streams.

I would often be lost in the thought of that moment for the rest of the day.

"Hey, Lionel, come over here and give us a hand. You look like you've got your head stuck up your arse."

"Oh, no, that's silly," I would laugh coyly. "It may be a broom, but it's not my head." My co-workers never really understood what I meant. Did I really care?

Silvia seemed to enjoy this new life of hers. We stayed together at night. We held hands and watched television. We'd talk.

She bought some new cardigans. She talked of her ambition at work and about children. She wanted children.

As our first anniversary started to approach, I noticed some odd things.

At work, I knew when she was approaching as she started to wear her tap shoes around the office. That tap, tap, tap pounded in my ears everytime she walked past.

Underneath her long dresses, she took to wearing fishnet stockings. The ones she loved wearing when she would go dancing.

I could feel them in the dark of the broom closet. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. She began to come home later and later, claiming that work was getting busier and busier.

I bought her a couple more cardigans, I went out and puchased a wardrobe full of Laura Ashley in the hope that it would have the same effect as a nicotine patch for a smoker, the same as methodone for a drug addict.

I cooked, I cleaned, I bought her trinkets of devotion. Mountains of pearls, I lay diamonds at her feet. I was hoping that it would cure her of her desire.

But what I never accounted for was that it was all ingrained in her personality. Like an alcoholic that burns for a drink, she burned to dance.

She longed to hear the music. To be lost in it. To allow it to transport her to another world, far away. To carry every molecule in her tiny, frail frame to a land where freedom is not merely a word but an expression that's shouted in every note of the rhumba.

I tried to keep her with me. Maybe my aim was to hold her down. I never knew how long it would last.

I was the most excited man in the world when I heard that Silvia Rose was pregnant.

Mercoledì, 07 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 21:58

It didn't change overnight. These things rarely do.

But gradually I could see she was moving away. As I lay there in the dark I could smell the alcohol on her breath. It was that distinctive, acrid smell that cuts through your nostrils like a machete through jelly.

And then there was the faint smell of sweat over her body. A smell I sometimes didn't recognise.

What did she see in me? What had she ever seen in me?

It was a question I asked myself over and over again.

My answer? I was what she thought she wanted.

I was straight, normal, reliable, conformist, stable, as predictable as the Swiss watch on my wrist.

I was everything she couldn't be. Not in a million years. As unwanted as yesterday's underpants.

Venerdì, 23 Aprile, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:13

I saw her. It had been a long time. I had heard lots of stories about her from Marie. But you know, it's never the same. Your ears can never see what your eyes can't hear.

There was a radio playing in the background. The song seemed to dull the screech of the seagulls.

It was at the beach. The white sand made way for her and it seemed to swallow part of her every step so that each grain could keep a piece of her for a little while longer. I wish I was that sand.

She was with Jesus. They held hands tightly and walked along not talking. He looked all frentic energy bound together in a ball and ready to go off. Someone who demanded attention no matter how far from you he stood. You could feel his goddam energy.

I was standing in the middle of the footpath, in the middle of a sunny day. I was wearing shorts and sandles, a loud shirt. And even the sound of that shirt was diluted by my personality.Thousands of people milled past and not one would have noticed me. Not one would have been able to describe who I was. Even in a Police line up I would still have be invisible. The music played, people danced around me:

I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.

She, I can't say her name anymore, was wearing white. A long white dress that flowed in the breeze. How I wish I was that breeze. To be able to rush around her playfully. To gently hover over her breasts and cheekily rush up her dress. To flow in a manner that let out a harmony that made nature stan up and listen.

I wish I was an alien, at home behind the sun,
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on.
I wish I was the pedal break that you depended on.
I wish I was the verb "to trust", and never let you down.

Should I really think of those things after such a long time? Why do I still do it? I wish I could stop. I wish I could stop. I wish it was that easy.

Martedì, 11 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:11

Sex is not about having, it's about giving.

Sometimes it just doesn't work. You thrash away, but all you feel is the other person slipping away. At the end of it, I hold my lips tight and closed. I can't speak. I feel disappointed.

Alone.

I want to apologise. But I never do. I never say a thing.

Sabato, 15 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:39

I work at the Dance Factory. My role is to manage the Toaster production line. Ensure the quality is to the highest standard. I often get in early to make sure we are meeting production numbers and schedules. I also do it to get away from the usual morning greet. You know the kind:

"How are you doing, Manny? Cold today." I say.

"Good thanks Lionel." That's all I really want to hear. I don't really want to talk. It was just a courtesy. But no. "Cold, you reckon, Lionel. It's not that cold. Now last week it was cold, especially in the mornings."

"Yes, you're quite right, Manny. Last week was colder. Have a good ..."

"Brisk, whooo. I got out of bed to walk the dog and I have to tell you my balls just rushed straight back up and hid." He laughs. I don't. "My dick had shrunk so much I could hardly find it to take a leak..."

Now we're getting into the area of too much information.

I just nod and paste a smile on my face. These are my workers. I should spend some quality time with them.

"... I have to tell you, Lionel. If the Missus asked me to stand to attention, I would have had a problem ..."

I half listen. My head just nods. I look up at the office where the real management lives. They are rarely seen down here. Mr Pisaro is there. And I see Silvia. We have long parted, but I still think of her everyday.

They are talking and smiling, high above there in the clouds of steam that are generated from the kettles being tested. There is an intimacy in their eyes that I have never noticed before. She pushes back her hair from her face and binds it into a tight coil at the back of her head.

She buttons the top two buttons of her jacket. He looks at the necklace around her neck. It is the one I gave her. He reaches for it, their eyes meet and they laugh coyly. His hand slips down and slides over her breast. She makes no movement.

I am invisible. The factory around them is invisible. They are protected by steam clouds. They are in heaven. I am in hell. No one can see the way I feel. Not even Manny.

"You know, Lionel, I've had that dog for three years and do you think it would learn to sit? 'Sit!', I say. And it rolls over. 'Roll over, then, come on, good dog,' and it sits. It's a dumb dog, but you know what, Lionel, I still love it. I don't know what I would do without it..."

Martedì, 18 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:31

At the Dance Factory, my role is as head of the Toaster production line. Toasters have become a little passe these days, but they are still a marvel of modern engineering. People just see the colour of the bread that is popped out and its shade of brown.

They fail to see the magic that goes on within the chrome exterior.

I tried to explain this once to Silvia. It's just a simple story of finding a role for something that doesn't work as efficiently as it should.

Let me explain, the basic premise of a toaster it to expose extreme heat to a piece of bread so that it can be "toasted" to a golden brown colour.

Plug a toaster in and it'll run electricity through a special mixture of metals. One of these metals is Nichrome wire which is an alloy of nickel and chromium.

And here's the magic. Electricity finds it difficult to pass through nichrome. Not that it's dangerous or anything, it's just that it's not an efficient carrier. It slows down the flow holding up the current.

So, what happens? The electrons are running around like crazy trying to get through, the metal is slowing them down, friction is increasing and the wires are starting to really heat up.

And they glow with the heat required to toast your morning breakfast.

I looked over at Silvia and noticed she was attacking her fingernails with an emery board. "Can I have marmalade with that toast?" she said.

Venerdì, 04 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 20:21

I can't get it through my head. They have told me today that they have placed Marie into a mental institute. Why would they do that? I could look after her. I would know what to do. I have always taken care of her. Unlike her natural father I have always loved her.

I can't get it through my head.

Martedì, 08 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 16:50

It was the wings I always remember. She kept them well hidden, but I would sneak a peek early in the morning. She would always rise before me. She stood there in the early morning light, her eyes peeking through the heavy sleep and she would stretch.

Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.

I remember the distinct sound of her wings. It was like the snap of an umbrella opening. Not that she ever used them, even though she couldn't exist without them. I would peak through the sheets trying to make sure she couldn't see me.

She would open the blind slowly and the sun would rush in foolishly, trying to see what was going on. It would wrap itself around her until she glowed and you could feel a warmth spread through the room, even on the coldest mornings.

She looked quickly around on one such morning. She caught me looking. I quickly clutched my eyes closed.

I slit an opening to see where she was and if she was still watching. I found her face only centimeters from mine. The glow of her skin was magical. Her wings were outstretched and fluttered. I could see their shadow against the wall. Quickly I snapped shut my eyes again. I felt her warm breath on my cheek as her lips pressed against it with a kiss.

Yes you're lovely, never, ever change
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it?
'Cause I love you
Just the way you look tonight.

I didn't want to open my eyes again. I didn't want the scene to disappear. I wanted it to be there always.

Lunedì, 14 Giugno, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 14:17

I often catch the train to work. The Dance Factory is in a busy part of town where there is little or no car parking. I was walking to the station when I noticed it.

There was a small squeal that was coming from it as it fluttered madly. It was a bird. A sparrow that was badly wounded. It flapped its wings wildly. It was probably wondering why it couldn't get back up into the air. Up high where it belonged.

Imagine, being free one moment and totally helpless the next. Nothing ever prepares you for this kind of thing.

I stopped for a few seconds and then kept going. My train would almost be pulling into the station.

From behind I could hear the flapping, it was useless. There was a desperation that would continue until the poor bird was completely exhausted.

I have never done this, but I found myself walking back. I stood over the bird. I picked up a rock. I would kill it with one blow and that would be the end of it. I'd put the poor bugger out of its misery.

I looked around, I didn't know what anyone seeing me do this would actually think. I held the rock high, took special aim and let drop with all my might. I heard the thump of rock against body.

The bird flapped wildly.

It didn't want to let go of life.

I struck again. Again, there was the sound of a dead object striking life. I must have weighed a hundred times heavier than that bird, but the effect was the same.

Life is difficult to eradicate with one blow. It's doesn't die easily.

I took another deep breath. Again I lifted the rock and struck and struck and struck.

The flapping continued, and then subsided and then stopped. It stopped. Finally. Thank god.

I felt sick. I understood where the pit of my stomach was right then. I could feel it.

I had killed the bird. I had stopped its life. I hoped I had done the right thing. I hoped so from the pit of my stomach.

Venerdì, 02 Luglio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 07:08

Telephone calls in the middle of the night always scare me. I don't know why. They just do. I just know that the Lottery people don't work at that hour of the day, so it's rarely going to be good news. I suppose they could be calling from the other side of the world. Although I don't think I have ever entered a lottery on the other side of the world.

Any way a telephone ringing is one of those sounds that is impossible to ignore. I remember reading somewhere that people would interrupt anything to answer the phone, including sex.

I had never heard Marie like that. It was also the first time she had ever called me "Dad".

I threw on my clothes and made one phone call before rushing over. I called the police.

As I lock the door I noticed the lights on in thefront room. I'd turn them off soon. There was no one there to keep awake. The phone had not interrupted anything like sex for me. I wasn't even dreaming about it.

Sabato, 24 Luglio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 18:21

Every now and then it comes back to me. I have tried to forget without success.

I heard the explosion. My mouth was bleeding. My head was throbbing. It felt like a bowling ball, hard, heavy and it was just bobbing all over the place. I couldn't hold it up.

But I heard the explosion.

At first I thought it was in my head. I thought he had hit me again. And then I felt that stringent smell sneak into my nostrils like an intruder. It crawled in and I tried to cough. I tried to squeeze it back out. I had no idea who had been shot. I looked out my swollen lids and saw the gun. I saw a small hand holding it.

The hand was trembling uncontrollably. I followed the arm up its length and saw my daughter's face, Marie.

Jesus was on the floor. Blood was spilling out into the room. His eyes still glowed with shock. Shock at having been hit.

In the distance I heard the Police siren wailing to announce its arrival. It would be here soon. The sun had now come up. I had to act quickly. In that instance, my head seemed crystal clear.

I crawled over to Marie. I looked in her eyes and saw nothing. It was as if some thin film of reality had been shattered and she was gone with it.

I took the gun. I wiped it clean. I wiped off her sweat from the handle. I wiped drips of blood from the tip of the barrel. I wiped her face. At that moment, she had no idea who I was, no idea.

I held the gun in my hand. I grasped it's cold shape and raised myself to my feet. I walked over to Jesus's body now and forever lying still and already starting to decay back to dust. I could smell where his bowels had given way and opened for the last time.

I lifted the gun, pointed at the body on the floor and pulled the trigger.

Then, there was just silence. And that song was still playing:

Someday, I'll wish upon a star
and wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney tops,
that's where you'll find me.