Kevin Kilroy Childish beyond my desire to admit, but eventually it worked, and he would stop,
though there were moments of crossover, far worse than what preceded or what was to follow, when we were both narrating, and in my desire to be accurate and thorough I had to say things such as “Stan is watching me tie my shoes as I tie my shoes.” Or, in reference to as simple an event as eating a banana, I would find myself saying, “Stan states of me that ʻhe is peeling a banana from the reverse end like an apeʼ while I am peeling a banana from the reverse end and at the same time stating that he says this and that I do this which now Stan says ʻHe is telling me what I was saying while I am saying it like a parrot or parakeetʼ and along with him I am saying ʻStan says I am saying what he is saying about what I am saying about what he is narrating concerning my peeling of a bananaʼ and before I finish saying these words, Stan says ʻHe is losing himself in his narration which pushes him further away from the action of peeling a banana, which at this rate he will never eat, almost as if he is disappearing from this house that he exists in, or descending further away from the moment he is living.ʼ”
Which I did not enjoy saying, but did so because it eventually caused Stan to nod
his head as if he had told me so and walk into the other room, content for the time being.
However, I continued to narrate his actions. And this grew tiring. So, I began to
write what he was doing, which seemed to satisfy Stan even moreso, and he would keep quiet, even smile criminally every so often. At night when we were sleeping, or when I was sleeping, he would crawl over my body next to him in bed—Stan preferred to sleep next to the wall, whereas I had no preference—gently peel away the notebook from my grasp—at that time, I most often fell asleep with pen in hand and my notebook on my chest—and read over what I had written, striking through areas where I had gone too far astray, or too deep into my reflections, correcting errors from the dayʼs occurrences, and adding embellishments of his own, which I did nothing about, trusting his penchant for accuracy, and carried on.
Eventually, Stan ceased doing much of anything at all. But before that, there
were the exciting days when he would walk out his door and onto the streets, encountering others and exchanging pleasantries, which later grew to be less pleasant until eventually they lost all emotion and meaning whatsoever and seemed to be nothing more than words, dead utterances which would lie like carcasses between he and his addressee. It is difficult to speak of this period of Stanʼs life, though I did learn to find humor in his social awkwardness.
Most of all I enjoyed when my presence seemed to be too much for him or when
he would grow cranky or despondent and upon looking up from the page, he would be gone. This was wonderful because I began to roam around, make acquaintances, do things like eat and talk, which was all so nice. Then later on, it was no longer so nice, and I ceased doing any of this, but instead stuck to the pen and the page and began writing about what I would be eating or what I would be talking about or doing if I were doing something, or if I couldnʼt imagine doing anything, what I had done in the past. Eventually, of course, whether doing or writing, I would run into Stan again, or he would find me, of this I am uncertain, and I would continue my narration.
PoetsArtists Chicago Issue 2012
www.poetsandartists.com
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