“And Dead, We Walk” – autobiography teaser (Gerald Thomas)

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Let’s just imagine…..No. Let’s just say it started like this: I’m sitting here in the middle of the night, nightmaring over badgoodluke dreams I’ve had when I wrote “Book” here a few years bygones and where Joyce lived and wrote and where Frisch wrote and almost nearly lived.

No sign of Yuceff in my life, unless he has changed his name to Joe and happens to be hiding in the wings. As for that “Book” he handed me….well, that was my own book which I had written about a boy falling in love. Now that I’ve kept it safely, I will read it out loud to you.

Please: only give me a little time. That pool of blood I lay in is still a vivid vision of some strange trance I was in while wearing a Testosterone patch on a swealtering day when Masha Froliak took me to the marshes of the Everglades and we traveled inside my mind and…with the shakes and all, cold patch on the back of my neck, I wonder how it is I’m going to tell you about all my friends, all my enemies, all those who endorsed me like….like Victor Garcia, like Ruth Escobar, like Peter Brook and Julian and Samuel Beckett.

Yet, my deep recession or depression is a spring awakening, and I felt the full syndrome, as if I was a character in “The Making Of Americans”, by Gertrude Stein.

Yes. Or as Beckett put it to me: “sitting, kneeling, crawling, walking, standing and looking at the walls. Imagination Dead. Imagine”.

I imagine.

I’m alive because I imagine!

I’ve had ENOUGH!!!! (Yes, I say this far too often)

Now, at this atom of a second, someone in New Orleans ain’t making it. Maybe there, she or he ain’t walking. Maybe dead and standing. Yes, standing but not making it.

Yet, in Rio, a daughter cries out loud to her distant father. Yes, her distant father, just as I cried out to my mother and father so many times as a young or older man having had answers or too many questions to remain quiet. It’s all become too quiet.

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. Crying does not heal. It opens further and wider the wide wounds of living and crawling. It offers no relief.

Have you ever put yourself in the shoes of a Kosovo survivor or a Syrian refugee? Or, say, a kindling minding holocaust numbered man or woman? Or a Lybian dehydrating after a horrible crossing towards Sicily?

Or a US Veteran?

Or an abused pet?

Or an abused child?

Have you ever been a Jew? Have you ever tried looking at Islam in the face of solitude for comfort, since no comfort is ever comforting enough?

ENOUGH!!!!

No, you don’t think that way.

I look at the lighting grid here believing it’s the sky over Zurich as the trams rail their trail and moan Stein’s words from the making: “Every one in family living Who does not come to be a dead one before coming to be almost an old one, comes to be almost an old..”

You stone yourself… I stone myself to death and blame all of me for not having achieved the goals of the Gargoyles of the months past.

What is it out there??? Please will someone tell me? What is it out there? I mean, where the inner eye can’t reach and the outer eye can’t see? For those who grow old enough, they’ll know that getting older isn’t all that much. For those who look at age as a bygone thing, life has never been all that much anyway.

Why go on living this crazy path inexplicable to scientists but jaw dripping enough for one to exclaim in such loud words:

– It has been a wonderful journey so far. Enough to put a smile on my face and leave dry tears in my eyes.

“Good morning”, a young man introduces himself. “I’m Youcef. Sorry to be late.”

XX runs away like a mad dog.

I have no idea of what’s going on.

“Youcef? And who may you be?”

Silence.

“I brought your book”

“Book?”

“The one you…”

“Book?”

“Gleiss Wroughter”

“WHAT”

The design on the cover …No, let me start again. The drawing…no, not a drawing: it was a photo…it was that of ..
The photo was similar in looks as that flower handed to me by the blind boy”

“Youcef, you told you to come here? Where do you know me from?”

“Sir, you do not remember? I was small then, probably nine or ten, and asked you for directions in New York City. I needed to meet a fellow of mine on Great Jones…”

“WHAT? YOU ARE WHAT?

“ I handed you a note and a flower and then I ran because I sensed…”

“BUT YOU WERE BLIND, YOU WERE FUCKING BLIND MAN”

“I still am, Sir”

Gerald Thomas

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