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.
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.