Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

Harry stood back.

Too abstract — he couldn’t make anything out. Except for in the center of each photo was fused a smaller, unadulterated, recognizable photo. Harry took a closer look…

How strange! The images grafted onto the very solar plexus of both blowups seemed to be — no, they were— those of the telltale panty-sliver of a traditional (blue chip) honeyshot! beaver. The clarity & tautness, the drama of silk hose, the moment of automobiliac egress suspended in Time, the delicate, classical composition drawing one’s eyes toward the single Great Eye of all creation — hallmarks of Jerzy’s craft & best work.

But as for the abstractions that surrounded the 2 honeyshots! — ––

“I don’t quite… understand. I can’t see…”

“Can’t you?” said Jerzy.

The unexpected voice, the presence of it, startled him. Jerzy held some glossy heaps ( more folded paper) in his hand. He reached out, offering them to Harry. Jerzy’s arm shook: it was scarlet, flecked, bruised by whole brown cities of needlemarks.

Harry took them from him, uncrumpling a printout from Wikipedia, plus two shiny pages torn from a magazine. Some of the wiki passages had been highlighted:

As a god of motion Janus looks after passages, causes the startings of actions, presides on all beginnings and since movement and change are bivalent, he has a double nature, symbolised in his two headed image.[23]

He has under his tutelage the stepping in and out of the door

of homes,[24] Because of his initial nature he was frequently used to symbolize change and transitions such as the progression of past to future, of one condition to another, of one vision to another

, the growing up of young people,

and of one universe to another. He was also known as the figure representing time because he could see into the past with one face and into the future with the other. while Janus is Iunonius Juno is Ianualis as she favours delivery,

women’s physiological cycle and opens doors.[11

3]

Now Harry saw , but still could not apprehend .

(Yet there was great skill&beauty in what Jerzy had done.)

But what could it all mean?

“I can’t—––—”

“Those pictures,” said Jerzy, helping out his friend, “are of G-d, taken as He stepped from his golden carriage. As you can see, there are 2 of Him: His name is Janus & He has 2 faces. We privileged few bore witness as He arrived for His merciful works.”

Jerzy closed his eyes in exhaustion.

Harry dialed 911.

& while the sirens grew louder, the maestro of THE HONEYSHOT! tried to fathom what kind of madness had led his star pupil to see the face of God in a mantis & a hummingbird.

The Art of Fiction, Part Three

Bud’s

hip surgery didn’t go well. An infection required another procedure. A few weeks later, he got pneumonia. He probably picked it up in the hospital. The doctor said, “It happens. We don’t like it when it does, but it does.”

The narcotics constipated him. He’d never been one to examine his own shit, but fitfully peered into the bowl after each eely expulsion. They were usually curled neatly at the very bottom, guilty dogs avoiding their master’s gaze.

Around the time he started to convalesce, Dolly shed her fear of falling. A week after his surgery, she did something she hadn’t been able to in a number of years — walked down the two short flights of stairs to Bud’s bedroom, unassisted.

Everyone remarked on her high spirits. She began taking outside walks. The caregivers noticed a lilt in her step, a sprightliness. Marta said it was almost as if he took the fall for her, & Dolly’s fears along with it.

. .

As Tolkin had suggested, Bud tried to find comedy in the story of the drowned girl. He played around with the idea of a mermaid but so far nothing gelled. He even netflixed Splash to see if it would give him any ideas. He only watched for a little while — it was more fun to chase Daryl Hannah all over the Internet instead. Bud’s habit had grown; he was up to three percocets an hour. He was supposed to use the nebulizer a half-dozen times a day, but never did. Twice at most.

. .

This year’s Guggenheim grant winners were listed in a full page of The New York Times . He always wondered how they were chosen. The Foundation’s website said there was a “Committee of Selection” that consulted with distinguished scholars and artists for guidance in awarding applicants. Among the committee were Toni Morrison, Patti Smith, Steve Martin, Fran Lebowitz, David Simon, Joyce Carol Oates, & James Franco.

. .

He watched some of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills . One of the wives had just moved, and someone asked her where. She said, “Bel-Air.” “Where were you living before?” asked the friend. “Bel-Air,” said the wife.

. .

Michael’s New Zealand movie, Misericord , had a Facebook page. It already had a release date. One of the producers was known as the old guy who liked to blog as a way of reaching out to fans; he loved live-streaming Twitter “orgies.” In the last one he participated in, someone asked about a rumor that the director and star were at each other’s throats during the shoot. The producer said the rumor was “Internet horseshit.”

Misericord…

Odd title. Intriguing word, though. Bud Googled.

1) an apartment in a monastery where certain relaxations of the monastic rule are allowed, especially those involving food and drink, to accommodate infirm monks; 2) a shelf, or “mercy seat,” on the underside of a hinged seat in a choir stall against which a standing chorister could lean, during lengthy services (often inscribed with scatological graffiti); 3) a dagger used to administer the mercy stroke to a seriously wounded knight.

Jesus. Infirm monks… secret apartments for DaVinci Code-type bacchanalias… hidden, porn-carved “mercy” seats… a medieval dirk for coup de grâces… the word was an entire book — say, by Eco or Borges — a novel in itself! In just four syllables and 10 measly letters, it managed to evoke more feeling, more subtlety, more narrative (three acts, ending with a killing!) than Bud would ever be able to conjure in five pages, or 50, or 500.

He lay flat on his back awash in depression, murdered by the word as surely as a knight by a dagger. Only trouble being, it didn’t put him out of his misery .

. .

Bud was bored and stoned.

Marta picked him up the Forbes Top-Earning Dead Celebrity issue. You had to earn at least $6 million for the year to qualify. Michael Jackson was still riding high.

Tolkin called to cheer him up. He said he went with Brando to the Westside Pavilion to watch a movie by a director whom the kid was interested in. It was in 3D. Michael said that when you walked out, you threw your glasses in a recycling bin that said KEEP 3D GREEN. Michael said it was the best, most insane slogan ever.

. .

He got an email from one of David Simon’s assistants, asking for an update on his contact information.

It gave him the idea to update his iPhone addressbook. He was surprised to find his father still in there. Bud kept his old cellphone number, forgetting that he edited the rest, in case he was ever back east and wanted to visit: