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Bound.

He ran his fingernail up the back of the binding.

Bent.

The book had been opened and bent back too many times, the binding was getting weak. From the outside, his nail slipped between the weakness, he made the hole longer just a little.

“It’s falling apart,” he thought. It won’t be long now.

He loved the book. The words made sense to him. He understood the intent. When nothing else did, this did. It doesn’t matter what you think; someone somewhere sometime has thought the same thing. You are a lucky person if that person wrote the thought down, made it official, so to speak. To write it is to commit to it, more so than saying it. No turning around. Even if you rip out the page and burn it, if you rip it to shreds. It’s too late. You’ve admitted it to
yourself, no escape. Oh, and luckier still if that thought, those words set in stone, if they should somehow make their way into your life.

If you find it, don’t let it go. He knew that and he didn’t.

But now even this was getting old, even this was falling apart. It was falling apart right in his hands, right after, right before his eyes. He could be gentle, extra-careful. Hold it lightly. Open it just enough to see the type, no bending, putting no stress. Lick his tips to catch hold of the corners, no rough thumbing. Or he could fight it. He could refuse to let it die. With masking tape he could buttress the binding, he could make it stronger, give it strength. Not the same. He’d know what it really was, he would know it was only patched, he would know it was just a matter of time until even that would fail.

Besides, that’s just the cover, nothing can be done with the insides. You can’t tape up each page; you can’t hold the insides together. Even if he lovingly taped each page back in as it came unbound, the next page would do the same. He would spend all his time repairing instead of enjoying his book, taking comfort.
Should he find another book to read? He might find one he liked ok, but no book could ever take the place of this one. He would try to find the same meaning; he would try to make the same order, the same sense, of the words he found inside. Books don’t change. People do. No turning back, the commitment of the written thought. He would have to change. Would it only be delusion? Could he find happiness in different thoughts, happiness without compromise?

Would he like the new book better? What if it made even more sense? What would that say about the first book? Maybe he just shouldn’t do any more reading. Maybe he should make his own sense of things. Maybe he should commit to his own thoughts.

In, keys, table, drink, sip, refill, couch. Remote. Helicopter crash, major upset, Buffy! Hey, it’s the African Queen, Mr. Allnut. And what do we have here? Whoa! Fucking BAM! Each successive click took a little less time. It went: poooooooo-ching, poooo-ching, poo-ching,
pching, ching ching ching ching. Bloggedy blue blah blah. One more click and it was off.

Pzap.

Beyond the window rain fell, keeping the promise of the day. This should not bother him, he should just button up and head on out for his walk/jog to the familiar tree and familiar sky and familiar thoughts. What was once eager was now less so. There was always a drier tomorrow.

The sound of the rain and the color of the clouds, the movement of the branches on the trees.

He lifted the window to feel the breeze and what drops may find their way through the screen onto his hands. Spring was arriving, the water its paparazzi. Spring was arriving, the rain just ahead to wake everything up and tell the secret. “Hey, wake up! Get ready! Spring is coming and change is near. Are you ready?”

He carefully selected a book to carry on his bosom betwixt his crossed arms from here to the bedroom, laying it down near the center of the bed. Turning the cover back and tossing a pillow on top of a pillow on top of a pillow, this was almost instinct for him now. Back to the living room to gather his big blue cup of iced tea. Walk slowly, don’t spill. He placed it on the nightstand, turned, and sat down. Left shoe, right lace, one long pull. Tug and a tug and it slipped off. Now the right shoe and the left lace, one long pull and a bigger tug and he was
shoeless, but he was not involved in a baseball scandal. What a relief. He unbuttoned his Levi’s, brought the zipper down, and pushed his pants off wanting for grace. He stood there in his bedroom wearing a t-shirt, underwear, and socks. The rain still came. He did not hear what the rain was trying to tell him.
In fact, he wasn’t even listening. But he was watching. Or looking.

He stood there by his bed, barely clothed, staring at the wall in front of him. The wall in front of him. And there were the closet doors, slightly ajar. The door into the bedroom was to his right, and he turned his head to look at it, too. It was open all the way. The door was open. Open. It was perpendicular to the wall that was itself perpendicular to the wall at which he was originally staring. To his left
was another wall, a wall that was parallel to the wall that was perpendicular to the wall at which he was originally staring - the wall with the slightly ajar closet doors. Through the small opening he could see part of a shirt that was hanging on a hanger inside. He had worn that shirt the last time he saw Dani.

Children do seem to be inquisitive, and he had not been different. Only, his inquisitiveness was a bit more intense than other children’s were, and it ran deeper. It was never about barnyards and marshmallows and rainbows for Gandy. He had to know, he must find out. What were dinosaurs? Who were the Incas, the Aztecs, the Greeks and Romans? What were the major wars and what caused them? What was Mozart’s life like? Where did Christianity and Islam and Hinduism and such come from and why did people believe those things? Books of poetry and books of stories and more stories to tell him where the world had been and how it worked. He was able to soak in so much knowledge that people used to say that he really didn’t study things, he only refreshed his memory about things which he had always known.

His room used to be so cluttered. Books scattered about, notebooks with scribblings and stories he made up. Long-playing records here and there. But even then, in the evenings, he would find himself staring at the wall in front of him. He stared because the wall perplexed him.

There was more to that wall. His brain tried to break the puzzle, but it never could. Later, after the foundation had been laid, it was time to paint in the details, spend some time focusing and absorbing minutiae. He was a teenager now, a young adult, and there was an incredible new tool for this very purpose. What would have taken him weeks to find out using traditional methods now was instantaneous via the internet. Turbo-charged remembering. When his eyes became tired and his brain full of nutrition, when it was time to stop and go to bed, he would notice a wall and the same old perplexion came on again. Now, he would notice the wall first, and then the bed, the window, the shelves, the floor. Objects.

The shirt he had worn when he last saw Dani. A troll inside his mind pushed a little troll hand down inside some gray matter, and after a moment, pulled out the thought of Dani and crushed it between his troll fingers. It squeaked and died. A necessary action, thank you troll.

“Just doin’ my duty, sir.”

Considering the wall. Considering the objects in his room. Not so much a thought process, but a thought process that always aborted itself before it could form and Gandy would retry. Suddenly he shouted to the objects and to himself, “Sweet mother of god, what is the hold up!”

Yep, still alone. Bloopers and practical jokes. Dick Clark and Ed McMahon played clips of Gandy's life and the audience cheered. Gandy hopped up and down in his living room making crazy-sounding noises like “Blurp” and “Fuhgeeble-deeble.” Boing boing boing boing. His arms swung around and his head flopped back and forth until he lost his balance and fell to the floor.

“Howdy doody, carpet? What’s going on?” After capping off his performance by making snow angel motions, he noticed the textured ceiling. Circular vein bursts. Flat, white fireworks. Topographical. Like a map. Or a road atlas.
Use it to find out where you are, or how to get to where you’re going. But you have to know where you’re going to figure out how to get there.

Simply take I-65 South to I-64 West, get off on Roy Wilkens and go straight to Broadway. A left on Broadway for a couple of miles and then right on Baxter. Veer left at the "Y" to access Bardstown Road and then he was there. It was too
wet to plow yet dry as a bone, so he might as well pick out a compact disk or two to pass the time away.

This public atmosphere was nice. The store was not empty, but not quite wall-to-wall people either. Cross-sectional with a bias toward the uniquely attired. Radiohead played on loudspeakers, no one spoke. Everyone busy at there own tasks, on their own quest for momentary upliftment. Don’t look at me and I won’t look at you. "Excuse me”’s passed by way of peer to peer mental file swapping.

By the independent cola vendor sat a chair shaped like a hand. It was made of something hard, like concrete or market diversification. He sat in the hand to look with his eyes. Singles.

Everyone was here alone in the late evening. Some had not taken the time to dress or groom, wearing whatever they happened to have on when something spurred them to come here. Punker girl wore pajamas and slippers. Nothing was thought or said. All conscious of self alone but not self-conscious. Goddamn bliss. And ideas were forming. As the closing moment drew near he made his way to the F’s to find the double Tusk set, slipped a debit card to the entity behind the counter and made his way out.

He walked in the door and tossed his keys down on the table. Standing there by the doorway, he paused to notice the silence. He loved it and he hated it. He looked forward to it and dreaded it. All in all, it was his silence, and it was alright.

It had been some time since it all went down and the shock was fading away. He had begun to settle into a bit of a groove now. He knew how the evening would go. First, he stopped by the refrigerator to get something to drink. He wasn’t eating much lately, but his thirst had increased to make it up to his growling belly. It was a tall, wide, blue cup. He filled it all the way up, took some off the top, and filled it back up again. No ice, it gets in the way.

He and the drink made it to the living room. The drink sat on the table, Gandy chose the couch. His thumb tapped on the television. The news. It was the same thing everyday. Somewhere, somebody famous died. Everywhere, thousands of non-famous people did the same. Governments grew. The weather happened. Teams played; some won, some lost. Anchors seemed concerned about the issue of the day. Was enough being done? Are you aware of the dangers?
On the music channel, none of the really good artists’ music was played. The history station showed footage of World War II. An incredible cleaning agent that would remove motor oil and wine stains from both carpeting and lace was offered. A tough, handsome cop battled bad guys in a way that didn’t please his superior officers. There were instructions on how to create beautiful wreaths from pinecones and a hot glue gun. A faster, smaller computer hit the market.
A man and his two daughters struggled to find peace after a bitter divorce had split the family.

It was noise. Words buzzed in his ear. It made him sleepy. He stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.

At eight he opened his eyes again. It was dark and cool, and the buzzing continued. He found the remote control between the cushions, dug it out, and clicked off the drone. His clothes were still quite on, so he hit the door.

So many stars. A million, billion, trillion? Even if there were ten billion trillion stars and life-bearing planets for each of them, the effect remained the same. Standing where he stood looking out at infinity he had no doubt that no greater being than himself existed anywhere.

Walk out to the road and then pick up the pace. Jogging, running, tapping into his thoughts, letting his brain open up on itself. A two-word cadence. As the left foot struck, “Fuck.” And the right foot, “Off.” Fuck. Off. Fuck. Off. Fuck. Off. Fuck. Off. And so on.

It happened that way until he was wherever he was now out of breath and sweaty. He bent over and grabbed his knees. He tried to catch his breath but it was too fast for him now. Turning around, he noticed a tree beckoning him to lean against it. He accepted the offer.

Calm once again, the cigarette brought comfort. What was it? Why did he know, know there was no one or no thing greater or better than himself? He hadn’t always known it. In fact, until recently he hadn’t even considered the possibility. It had never occurred to him. What was different?

Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold. Peas porridge in a pot nine days old. If he was so great why couldn’t he make a connection to another human being that wasn’t contrived? Why didn’t anyone else see him for what he was? He flicked away the cigarette, got up, and walked back home.

They arrived in the mornings during the first cigarette. Pieces of thoughts that broke off before. It wasn’t so much that he’d put wheels into motion, it was that he’d pulled the emergency brake. He’d been going so fast down that straightaway, straight for miles and miles.

He closed his eyes and lifted his hands from the wheel, it was running wide open. Flying. When he opened his eyes, he saw the curve ahead. His foot went down, no response. He stomped. Nothing. Pumped, nothing. The car was completely out of his control and the turn was coming up fast. If something didn’t happen quickly...he grabbed the emergency brake and pulled it up
fast and jerked the wheel left. The car skidded in a circle and came to rest. He turned the key back and sat there in silence, his heart in his throat. What the hell? Gandy was sitting in his car after pulling the emergency brake, knowing that he’d almost waited too long to notice what was going on around him, what was going on inside him. He knew he’d almost. At the same time, it was almost. He was ok, but the “what if” was still very present. It was all very confusing.

Now what should he do? Where do I go from here?

So they arrived in the mornings, but during the day he could push them away.

Occupied.

Make decisions and write things and plan and talk and execute. But when the workday was over, they came back again. It was in that time between work and going to bed when you’re not busy running errands or cleaning or washing or eating, in that small amount of time each day that you can spend doing whatever it is that you really want to be doing that he wondered what he
should be doing. For Gandy, this was crisis time.

For so long, Gandy had spent those hours with other people. There was a bit of a hole in his life now where the others had been. He tried to remember how he filled his time before those people, but that was no use, so long ago. And besides, things were different now. He was different now. Whoever he was now, he had to discover a new path. And the struggle went something like this.