“Here where I stand at the turning of the years,” Les Misérables wails from bedside Echo Dot. New Years morning. 2020. I stare at the brightening ceiling for hours. Mind boggled by the enormity of time. Past. Passing. Faster. Why am I still alive? How many deathbed arias can I take? Before I rise. Face this future.
February. Uncle Jim drops by with frozen bacon time forgot. My name scrawled on tin foil. Late gift from cousin Lauren. From her Vashon restaurant, The Ruby Brink.
Too brief that Christmas cameo. 2019. Snow Queen tiara pinned on before dawn. Weight of costume jewelry forgotten in the excitement. Combing the Internet for any mention of Conestellatti. Nothing. Not even the word. Some drunk in Sicily must have spilt their kitchen whiskey in the batter. Poured shots. Baked pastry stars. Made up the name. Dressed up their slip up with enough powdered sugar to serve fancy free.
1945. World War II is over. Noni holds tight to this family recipe. Chain immigrates through Ellis Island to Nevada. Joins her soldier son in Reno. Teaches his bride to make Conestellatti. The recipe is passed down for generations.
Warm light of my aunt and uncle’s open door. I am ready to mask for Christmas. Out of love. Hunger. For both bonhomie and Ravioli Bolognese. I come to dinner prepared to hallucinate. Through small talk. Raised wineglass. As is usual. Not mentioning or questioning stray polka dots drifting over plated Prime Rib. I see transparent circles that aren’t there. In orange. Chartreuse. Bright blue.
Are these visions blood cells? Enlarged by an ethereal microscope? Am I seeing the bloodline we share? Absurd. Devising explanations for what my Schizoaffective does or reveals leads only to trouble.
I pull off the rhinestone and fake pearl tiara. Slip it in my purse. Too late. A headache blooms. Throbs. Unbearable. I’ve been at dinner scarcely ten minutes. Haven’t even cracked my usual nonalcoholic drink. I make tearful goodbyes.
Sharon Tate descends a staircase in Valley of the Dolls. Silver showgirl headdress lifts blue feathers high. My VHS and DVD of the same film obsolete too soon. Or does time pass faster now? Author Jacquelyn Susann poses in silver jumpsuit on the book’s pink spine. Black bouffant almost touches the sky.
2006. CalArts. Big gulp of red wine in hand. Twink pal Robin bedazzles his face. Drags me into the green room. In gold hot pants. Holly Woodlawn autographs my paperback of Valley of the Dolls.
“Sparkle, Neely, Sparkle,” signs James St. James on the title page.
2020. Night after night. In bed beside my wife. I play fashion video game Covet on a rose gold iPad. Chipped red nails dress virtual dolls for impossibly fabulous events. What does one wear for rare gem buying in Dubai? A billionaire’s birthday party in Monaco? Hell if I know. I rarely leave the house.
I style a black and gold sequin tube top. Black skinny jeans. Red python clutch. For that 2009 Jet Set Desolate book party. That didn’t happen in London. I dreamt Future Fiction London would fly me out. Unaware of how the industry works at my level. No small press. Or reading series I know of. Would ever. Could ever. Pay for author travel. I know that now. Add stilettos to the outfit that could have been.
Jasper assembles a salsa ranch bag salad. Brings it bedside in a trick or treat Tupperware. Delicious greenery. I haven’t had kale since Los Angeles. I crunch ravenously. Thankfully. Smile up at her. My angel. Drape a black feather edged robe over my nakedness. Lost in time.
Next up, morbid erotomania. Too much for even us. I can’t stop masturbating for a few days. Compulsively hyper focus on Internet porn. Legs tense. Straining toward the orgasm that never comes. My dear wife is angry. Worried. Understandably.
AHS: Asylum has a patient with this same affliction detained at Briarcliff. 1964 is not that long ago when it comes to inpatient psychiatry. Before I end up downtown in West Hills Behavioral Health, I run out of AA batteries. Lady bits chafed raw. Nymphomania over.
West Hills is Reno’s dual diagnosis rehab/mental health facility. Strict no Satanist policy. “Ave Satanas” roll off my tongue without thinking. When provoked? I pray “Invocaba Satanas. Custos manes protegas me. Neco.” I’d be lucky to just be thrown out with that mouth. Exorcism? Forced ECT? Throw away the key? I’ll try not to find out.
In the days that follow, I’m bed bound. Depressed. Walking painful post overexertion. Bipolar rapid cycles. To cheer me up, Jasper defrosts the Christmas bacon. Fries sizzling slices in a pan. Makes herself mayonnaise and bacon sandwiches on white bread. Brings me three thick fat whorled slices. Succulent. It tastes almost alive.
February’s delayed column drops the morning of March 2, 2020. A joyous surprise. Depression revs up to hypomania. My column is back. I feared it was over. With it my last grasp on relevance. Single crone claw hanging off the cliff of obscurity.
March’s deadline looms. I type frantically. Chug Monster Espresso and Cream from dainty brown and gold cans. Two Klonopin remain. One More Day to hit it and submit it. Before I die.
Perhaps.
“Just because you’re paranoid. Don’t mean they’re not after you,” sang Kurt Cobain. Privacy? What’s that like? By now only an illusion. Essay or no essay. Tweet or no tweet. Whether or not I still care to overshare. A Toshiba Fire TV watches my wife and I snuggle. Echo Dots record our dialogue for Big Data’s unseen profit. Unknown motives. The internet of things is now connected and synched for surveillance by convenience. A field of electromagnetic radiation swathes our home. I feel the energy there. In attenuated hair. An invisible force, whose supernatural potential intrigues me.
The most annoying morning person ever, I bound into the bedroom to share good news with my partner. Hands moonstone and marcasite. Jasper sprawls on a bed more haunted than us both. Her eyes flutter open.
“The Plan!” I caw. “When I was snowed in grandma’s basement? I actually wrote up a Master Plan for living in Reno. Ridiculous, I know. Cleaning out cloud space I mass deleted it.”
What I don’t say? She already knows. PTSD blocks out trauma in time. 2016’s ordeal is buried deep. Strategies entombed. Set it and forget it. What have I done?
“Your plan worked.” Jasper says. Inhales. Exhales. Readies herself for the day.
Her pussy tastes like tangerines. The biggest little butch. Eats Clementines by the crate. In the man cave recliner. Berry Blend Skol Dip in her lip. Her acrylic paintings all around. Taped off color blocks. Canvas board stained glass. I tell her they’re Modernist. Outsider Art. Stay inside this home I am blood bound to. Living and breathing our love. Consuming and creating media of dubious quality.
I go into the bathroom. Freddie Mercury the cat presides on the Ouija Board bathmat. He jumps up on pink tile. Nuzzles and claws at my blue white hair. I coat my lips in “Feeling Vibrations: Crystal Ball Roller gloss,” from a Birchbox. Chunks of rose quartz infuse a vial of clear liquid. This witch chic lit shit has gone too far.
Staying inside might keep me alive. If this Coronavirus pandemic accelerates to martial law. Infrastructure collapses. We’ll eat backyard crabapples. Yellow cherries. Can after can of chopped white meat chicken breast in water. No more lamps alight if I ask Alexa right. I’ll read tsundoku books by candlelight. Warm winter’s chill with Bonfire of the Vanities. All this heirloom furniture. Broken for kindling.
2020 terrorizes. I take the last Klonopin. Try to sleep.
Distantly hear, “Jean Valjean is nothing now. Another story must begin.”
