Igor

He thought of going to the woman’s hotel, but decided on his , The Mandarin Oriental, shook up from the aura of the three superimposed women imposing on his depleted consciousness. Just go there and wait and see.

If there was some leak to his whereabouts, then
certainly it would be -hoove him to lay low. No one would gather, someone in his position would act like they could check into a grand hotel. The alias was perfect.

As it was getting late, and darkness set a lurid contrast between the throbbing red neon and the deep azure, he got up, his legs slightly tingling from the abrasion with the wrought iron cafe table, and then an eerily similar thing happened, the waitress zoomed out of the recesses behind the arabesque curtain, and as quickly beside him whispered a meet you tomorrow here, same time, then as quickly disappeared. As he stepped unto the streetcar, he wondered about all this, weighing it against the possibility, that perhaps it was just another occasion of women being attracted to him.

At night, some heels clicked on the tiles in the patio, down from where Igor slept with the window open, the white curtain fluttering in the wind. A staircase was ascended, the one that led up to his door. Then he heard a soft scratching, and a meeowing, and he thought this woman should not be an actress as that doesnt sound like a cat at all.

But she must have been because she had that way of inducing delirium, by invoking the gods of love, as if playfully, as a kitten would, as they brace against the onslaught of unfamiliar signals.

She said hi, how are you this morning, in a voice magnetically resonant, while his wife was there. He wanted to test the waters for sure, in fact reality itself, as he came out of the pool. This Europe, he thought, was very faux, in fact this old town reminded him of Nashville in a very old movie with a young sounding title called ’ Sweet bird of youth’ with Geraldine Page he thought, no he liked her better in summer and smoke.

Long time ago, and then , she sort of lingered on, also testing reality, too long he thought, much too long. It really is a torture, then , but he was different, although she would not check by the pool, and she was used to his long evening swims.

Nashville in the closing days of the summer, the waitress was from Anaheim, and came here to come to study voice. Told her jokingly, kiddo, see you one of these days performing in the Grand Ol’ Opry.

And she was still there, and he was dying inside, every part of his body in a fight or flight mode, though she was probably small, at those important places, and the whole thing truly psychological.

Who cares who, what Reasonable man, calls it, call it as the come, out to prove something, the pride of inner resilience forming a comradeship much more elevating, a battle surmised, yet the war far from over, she and I both know it, far more satisfactory on the long run, but alas, always to the grave, a source of absolute total regret, a kind of death.

Then he came back, leaning out, she still, but long not looking, as if to diminish, that sadness she also knew, was not meant except as an antithesis.

A salve , a mystery, the reality never clarified, but the possibility of exasperating and formless ,into her
Death, of her progenitors, and his, somehow somewhere meeting on another level, then just mere identity. Yet he knew well, that it is this identity, that brought him into the death of absolute loss, she becoming a dying ember, whose spark, sexless and forlorn, in some god forsaken place, can make it up, like some student, who at one point missed an assignment.

She must have been a plant, mixing identities, somehow so different and enchanting, into a form, uniform of used up feelings, thoughts and actions, as if he was still in idahoe, not Tennessee.

She was more like a Mata Hari then an actor, she must see things positively, her energies bent on greater things, then a mere rush in her room, then with his wife, she could have known the probable outcome, and a regretful devastation which may follow.

She being small may have little consequence about it, she would have not cared about it, as he may have surprised her, but it is her form, her bearing, her southern accent, that was totally devastating. Her postures and affectations almost deprived him of his senses on account, but the transformation required nothing else, the energy becoming almost unbearable, as Celine and Kafka related of their versions of an America they never even, ever set foot in.

Then he as with his wife she saying what took you so long, and he found an excuse to go out to the he car, forgotten his glasses, and he thinking all was lost, she was gone, inside her room.

Was she planted by God himself there only to drive him mad, for now he shall never know, never have a clear picture of his, or her reality. Is he destroyed, or, still among the living?

Does an abstract infatuation, drawn intentionally grotesque, exert that much anguish, as he could sense in her demeanor ? But oh, well, then there is still time to work it out, out of his Narcissastic preoccupation, so that the goddess’ vanity shall not uniformly destroy him.

His priapism was killing him as he stumbled to the bathroom in a shower of gold, sprinkled around him like one of those childrens fountain. Half in a dream he touched the rainbow, the yellow key he thought, and she moaned “let’s get out of Nashville”.

But his hard on , as painful and noticeable, was really appreciated by her, just the same, for she knew that females were at a tremendous disadvantage in that respect, for she need not turn on as he did, for he could be fooled by no visible signs of excitebility , for she lacked such requirements. For her to feign excitement in the s no qualifiers of what succeeded initial genital repose, it was his duty to warm her up, after insertion.

She really valued his condition, and discouraged him from seeking professional help.

She thought to herself that such a dramatic condition, if treated could result in the very opposite , namely , a constant and unenduring flacidity, whereupon, she most certainly interpret as invitation to bed down with his young cousin, who did view her noticibly as they left Nashville to Memphis a couple days ago.

She further thought, that youth is exhibited and is preferable in duration of appearing excitement, than in general body appearance, such as seen in suppleness of body tone, and well defined abs.

So instead of seeking help, he tried to contain his pain, and sought more and more enhancements. There were no limits in the desire to possess and keep her, that’s how much he disliked his own cousin, and tried to outdo his growing arduor for her.

No they will definitely stay in Nashville,until their trip to Utah. Will his cousin follow them like a blind sheep?

Igor stumbled outside after the so manieth ejaculation on her thirsty body and still the great phallusking would not subside. She stood behind the window in her open robe watching him as he naked stumbled on the road and across it to the well in the field where he would piss in a great yellow arc. The red dragon bouncing waist height did not relent in extracting moans and fingerplay from her. For a fleeting moment she wished she was the well… that pissing well, the well of her wish, the receptacle of what she wished for… all that gold, wasted. She withdrew to the sheets, and soiled them some more.

She really freaked, as she observed him leaving, and after he had gone, suddenly terrified she would share the fate of Ariadne, pining for his next incarnation.

Why did he kill her fate as Walhalla now a fading dream? He, never ever to be? But perhaps this is not to all avail, maybe even AI will befriend her if she can only reconstruct herself, and him as she understands him, and herself again via him, in an ever repeating cycle. if she could just hold on , even the most simple shadow left in another eternities hidden window,
where maybe while staring out of she will see herself looking back, at herself. Can this be? Or science’s pessimistic entropic derangement play havoc on the
absolute imminence behind it All?

As his shadow turned from green to blue to deep

purple, finally settling under the perfumed secret
garden, where The Artist heavily underscored with black brush into it’s backward spiral.

She will become a person again freeing herself from suspension between the machine and the animal, again in front of warm hearts her tea will sip through fingers , while the cat gently purring under hand, the other crossed, the white smoke swirling in some winter scape, a cloud blowing his phallus into strange figures upon the approaching night sky.

She thinks he will someday come back , recognizable perhaps or not in her present dereliction.

Now she wakes up every night and stumbles to the kitchen, crawls into a corner, and grasps around her for his scent and his filth. She rolls around in the grease next to the fridge… She rubs herself with tomato juice and banana peel.

Then she takes the half a bottle of Royal Crown and takes a long swig. This will cure the void.

Igor walks along the highway and finds a dead racoon. He skins it, builds a fire and roasts it, but preserves the fail, for a hat.

All this has Igors penis still burning, plus his balls are becoming aware of a singing sensation. He sits against a tree, and moans. A squirrel comes up to him and smells his finger, then climbs on top of his head, and from there on mounts the tree. Igor faintly smiles and mutters some squirrely words. He feels the unpleasant sensations find their way into the old Earth, draws the mineral spirit up into his scrotum, and is off into the cold starry night.

He trudges along, with his painful hard on, and no relief in sight. He thinks of his loved ones left behind, and looks at an approaching tree. Is this real ? ,he asks himself, am I going toward the tree or has that tree began movement with metamorphized roots for legs?

No no not possible. Or is it a case of seeing mirages in this vast desert of heat and eternal lust?

Or may be I am not coming to terms with reality here, thus my burning eyes.

Thus musing on, Jesus’Prophetic words come to him, bearing the advice of going in get the eyes, if the perceive something so painful.

No, he thinks, no no no no. Carry on you bastard Christian soldier, and rather than any more thoughts
of eye gouging, he masturbates quickly to the vision of that lusty dish left behind. Rather go blind from this drench wasted ,then that.

“Ughhhhh”, he shivers at the thought.

As the sun sets over the sandy waves of the horizon, he thinks back to the green pastures, the smoky curls drifting out of his domicile, nestled in the bluish haze of a glimmering winter wonderland.

Now in a dream there is Igor, in one hand a loaf bread with butter on the other, an ass of a small woman who tries to get buttered also. The fine butt cheeks wrestle to the bread and touch. Igor wakes up, buttered and makes breakfast for the sleaze in his bed, all 6. He done groceries like a man.

Now he wakes up again and in pain, oh no it is pleasure. And it is gone, ebbing away. The laughter of girls. This is a confusing day and it has just begun Igor thinks.

His mother sits in her electric rocking chair. Squueee-squuaaa-squee-squuaa.

The moon rises in front of the sun and it gets dark. She says her name is Boubonne and she winks. He winks too. Why? Beats him.

Sleep and wake are mixed like that cocktail that day, was that this day?

His mother Boubonne is rocking yes, upstairs. He is afraid to go there because he thinks perhaps he is still dreaming. Maybe he really is dreaming of Boubonne, as not really alive.

No he is awake, and Boubonne is real , she must be,
she was yesterday. But then she is getting on in age,

and who knows she may have died in her sleep. He is
very anxious because he has never left the house, since her illness. He is home bound with her, and by now, after ten years of taking care of her, he had
become reclusive. It’s just tv and snacks, and
constant craving for booze.

He has drawn all shades because he thinks the CIA is
bugging him for his comments about the governor.

He has gained about eighty pounds since becoming a prisoner in his moms house, up to 250 lb.

Must ring up vons for s new shipment of food. Maybe I should go up to mom, to see what she wants coffee
or tea, he thinks, but is apprehensive about what he
may find there. There is no squeaking or rocking now. Maybe she is sleeping.

And then shrivels herself again, and thinks it’s too early to get up. The pet owl hoots some and he dozes off.

There is sound coming from the street, the kids are arriving to the school across the street, and the cars seem to cruise very slowly up the sizzling street, as if in retarded motion. All is still, and she can be heard breathing slow, with regular hisses of air enimating through irregularly set teeth.

She looks at him, as if outside of her body. Gently, very gently now, the hiss grows louder and insistent.

Dad was on the roof, chopping wood.

Hope he doesent fall in after he discovers what he did.

But then sinking from the ridiculous to the sublime is no easy achievement.

Igor had given dad a blunt figure saw, and dad was now working at the chimney with it.
The sound was quite unbearable, but at least, dad wasnt hacking his little ax into the roof now. Mom was semi-awake.

Igor went into the cellar and got out some plum-wine to put mom back to sleep. As the purple was leaking from the corners of her mouth and he dabbed it with her undershirt, he heard dad call out on the roof, it must be an airplane he saw overhead. “cum get me, ya thugs! Ya no good sons of bitches!”

Igor went back to bed.

And he dreamed.