Lynn Lydon is standing outside. It is an aggressively bright day. She is wearing tight jeans and large sunglasses. Something is in her hand, something small and flat. Her fingers curl over it one at a time. They make a loose fist before unfurling in the same gradual manner. This process repeats several times before she is finally ready to offer the object up for inspection.
It is a piece of tile, possibly from a bathroom. No longer than an inch long in any direction, a few handpainted strokes cross one surface. Polished clean by her touch, it gleams cream and cerulean blue.
A charred abyss looms before her. It is a sight of such confounding destruction that without the spared buildings to place it into context, it could have been anything-- a galactic crater, a collapsed coal mine. Instead, it is the brownstone structure that once housed her brother, now reduced to dust by a well-planned explosion.
Men walk past her in various uniforms and filthy Italian suits. One of the suits calls out her name. She does not hear. She is trying to fit the tile's shape into a floral pattern that she thought already etched into her memory. She mentally rotates the dabs of paint in various angles, eternally stumped.
The scene feels unfairly placid. The only turmoil is invisible; three strokes of paint spinning wildly in a young woman's mind.
Teddy Lydon is breathing. His feet are bare, and he occasionally shifts his weight from one to the other. Breathing and standing on his own, he further proves his existence by biting into a sandwich. Even if dead men did eat they would not be eating anything with the needy gusto that Teddy is currently employing to devour his turkey and avocado sandwich. Once it disappears, he loudly drains the contents of a fountain beverage.
The narrow window lets in a determined ray of sunlight. A silent breeze lends life to a collection of notes piled haphazardly on the counter. The tiles set in an attractive border along the wall are painted with brilliant blue flowers.
Teddy Lydon, full of boyish charm and a delicious sandwich, is standing in the kitchen of his sunny apartment, troubled by nothing in particular.
The deposit had gone through. The paper proof was in his hand. His name was there, among those of others, and it occurred to him how long it had been since he had last read his full name in print. He squinted at the four compact portions of ink.
He read the statement through twice before folding it up and tucking it into his wallet. He had expected himself to be a difficult conversion, and was surprised to find the brief document to be enough. He believed.
His faith sealed, he rejoined the city. It had not changed. He tried to place new meaning into the obvious symbols (the waning sun, the crisp air) but failed miserably. Instead of being able to see things anew, he was only capable of fine tuning his usual, tepid manner of observation. He saw the smaller specks of dust that floated within rays of sunlight. The cooler pockets of air that one occasionally encounters on a breezy day were colder by a couple more degrees. Annoyed by these useless details he began to walk. He was homebound for a block or so. Then it became necessary to deviate, go searching for a new experience that would more properly align with the monumental event that had taken place.
He considered a bar, and passed it by without breaking his stride. He did not want to be seen by a familiar face, someone who might be able to detect a change in his demeanor before he himself could. He would consider it to be a handicap. He regarded the sun, the specks of dust, and decided to return when the sun began to set. He crossed the next street with vigor, feeling better now that he had been, once again, assigned a place to be and a moment to arrive at.
1. Keanu Reeves, you are seriously encroaching on my Super Fun Asian Girlhood Double Nostalgia Time by insisting on starring in a Hollywood adaptation of Cowboy Bebop. If you ruin it I will kill you. I will summon the teenage beast within me to do so.
For reference see: Super Fun Asian Girlhood Double Nostalgia Time Memory:
"To be immortal simply means that you will outlive everyone. Thus, the relevance of immortality will dissipate when fulfilled. There are two paths to infinity: you can either go on living forever or you can be dead forever. The former option is attractive only in its familiarity. Once there is nothing left to die and everyone has attained infinity, you will understand that you do not have the upper hand... you alone will never know what is on the other side. You alone will be left questioning."
I have been writing about Manhattan Corbacher since I was sixteen years old. I am now twenty three and nothing has been completed.
The futility of my effort is understandable: He is immortal. I am not.
I have begun to draft random informational pieces about his daily life in an attempt to achieve full comprehension of his identity. Basically, I am writing a biography about a fictional character in the hope of eventually figuring out his story.
As if this was not unnecessarily time-consuming in and of itself, I've taken to chronicling his infinite life span in intervals of two seconds.
I enjoy the concept of isolation. I like thinking about quiet places, being alone and infinite spaces.
In reality, I conjure up voices to fill my head when confronted with silence. I have agoraphobic fits. I fall in love.
I fear the conclusive and the epic. My pictures are sedate, my sentences short.