Fossiloctopus Page 5

  BARBED WIRE – “The Devil’s Rope” wrapped crosswise over the biceps, rusted spikes digging into the veins and arteries flowing between heart and hands. They simultaneously protect and entrap, snagging the flotsam of his squalorous urban habitat: matted rat’s fur; smells of dog food cooked over a 50 gallon drum; unheeded screams of domestic beatings and marital rape; droplets of gin, cheap wine, smack, urine, and a twenty-nine-ingredient cocktail of industrial toxins, rheum from the bloodshot eyes of the unsleeping; knife-hole-riddled tatters of Mafioso dress suits and gangland bandanas; wisps of shredded dreams; evaporated aspirations.

  THE ALL SEEING EYE – Hidden away at the juncture of neck and skull, medula oblongota, impossible for him to see unless he shaves his long, greasy black locks and stands in the midst of a mirror-filled room. The ritual act of revelation would represent his thoughts, were he to carry it out:

  “I am the stage. The world is always watching. An eye is never not upon me, though I am powerless to know which one and when. And who. Or why? I am the center of the Panopticon turned inside out, the guard become the prisoner. There can be no escape for I am always watching me and always seen by myself. There can be no alone moment. The mask cannot fall, must not fall. And what if it does? What if Punch and Judy let slip the porcelain visage that hides my true self, and beneath the scaramouche is another, and another, and yet another? An infinite layering of facades that lead to a core of no substance? Who am I then? Again, I am the stage, to be acted upon. Unless I act first. Unless I act . . . decisively!”

  BELLI NOSTRO . . . – A fragment, incomplete. A long-decayed or never finished Venus statue for style and content. Sandal-clad, perfectly-manicured toes sprout into tight-muscled calves half-hidden in Greek robes. The dress climbs up sleek thighs, flat belly, and firm breasts like linen ivy, clinging to the frame, hinting at a ripened sexuality beneath; curved, dipped, and cupped with the mysteries of life in its hollows. She holds a thin white taper with her long, smooth fingers. Candle wax drips over the pale digits, bonding her to the phallic light-giver.

  Above the flame – nothing. A flesh-tone, ink-blanked void. The promise of Hellenic beauty disappears; the incomplete name above the un-head belies the mid-stream cessation of representation.

  The dye has set and faded too much for this to have been a merely temporary stopping point. This tattoo will not be completed. Ever. Never. Forever. The platonic face will remain inviolate, unlike Inisto Cantaglia’s own burn-scarred neck and face. And yet, the maiden’s spectral head and the fire-eater’s half-molten visage share the same fate of never being quite whole. One by a failure in addition, the other by the success of subtraction.

  One wonders – you wonder, do you not? – how this void must gnaw at the man. Has this headless maiden moved on since his face-altering accident? Does she live somewhere cool, wet, and gray – The Hebrides, perhaps – where she need never see the sun again, like the vampiric Lamiae of legend? Does she shroud herself completely in black, avoiding flame, lest it burn off her soft-featured cipher of a face as well?

  And how will Inisto Cantaglia find a sense of purpose leading to completion? How best to finish the mask of flesh? Or the gap in his heart? Air is too ephemeral. Water simply runs off or evaporates in the heat of his passion. Earth crumbles to dust. But fire! Fire engulfs, invades, cleanses, with burning, the impure vessel!

  SOL(OCAUST?) – Your first blinded impression is that of a massive sun, type G, burning yellow-green across the man’s back. On closer inspection, after your eyes have become accustomed to the glare careening off his skin, you see an almost-invisible dusting of magnetic lines forming the faint amoebic outline of a continent, pseudopodical arms like puddles of coronal plasma reaching into oceanic space. And at the center of the fiery landmass, a tiny figure or figures, features visible only with the aid of a microscope. This homoncular sunspot, on closer examination, is composed of a Trinity of SALAMANDER, THE JONGLEUR, and INISTO CANTAGLIA, the trio back to back with arms outstretched. From their fingertips fan a holocaust of flame, consuming the earth in its entirety. The heat buckles the very foundations of the planet, boiling its nickel core and ejecting its inhabitants in apocalyptic waves of carbonized dust, flames thrusting out into the void of space, there to finally be extinguished by cold eternity.

  Strange Fruit

  Blue Oranges

  A crate of oranges, otherwise. Blue as the sky they were, and skin thinned, still pitted, outside, as if removed, under-shaved, reattached. Pierce the skin and juice the navy veins, indigo bleeding and tasting of desert relief, undehydrated. "Where?" we asked the salty old sailor. "The spindle fell aleph up," he said, voice hoarse as sand, "and the golem died."

  "Excuse me?" I said, confused.

  "Oh, it's not your fault," he said with a horizon-sighting seaward look in his one good eye, voice trailing off into the deep, "not your fault at all".

  Apple Fly

  Janice giggled, holding tight, as the apple struggled to break free. "It tickles," she smiled, that perfect-teeth-all-in-a-porcelain-white-row-smile, as the dragonfly wings fluttered against her fingers and wrists. She squeezed tighter. She . . . desired. I had seen that look before, the flip of the hair, the cocked hip, languid eyes, the bitten lip.

  Now I desired.

  She looked beyond the apple, into my eyes, as she brought the fruit to her mouth and bit in, hard, fast, devouring the fruit so quickly that she was wiping her dripping face with the back of her arm before its convulsive death-throes had subsided, twitching wings tensing in a final paroxysm, then drooping down like a quickly-wilting flower.

  She smiled, picked the bits from her teeth, and offered me the remainders, but all that was left was pit and wings, lolling at the mercy of the autumn breeze.

  The Ogling Lime

  Something reptilian about the thing, I thought. Not just the dark green, coarse skin or the associative citrus scent of things tropical. The eye that looked out from behind the rind was lizard-like, crocodilian "Those customs agents really need to look harder," I muttered as it rolled onto the counter top. Being a bachelor, no one answered, though the green eyelid lowered in one corner, insulted, angry.

  I turned around, bent over to put some food in the fridge. I had to rearrange leftovers to fit it; China, India, New Orleans, Buffalo all juggling geography above the empty crisper. When I turned again to the lime, I caught it half-open, leering at me, lecherous.

  The hint-of-smirk left it as I reached back to retrieve a chef's knife from the cutlery magnet. The self-satisfied expression turned to a series of furtive glances left, right, up, down, as if seeking a means of escape, terrified.

  "Nothing personal," I said to no one, "just thirsty is all".

  It looked up at me with great pathos in its . . . eye and everything, pleading, pitiful. I couldn't be sure if it trembled or if the sensation was merely the rough texture of its skin as I rolled it over the countertop to position it for the final cut.

  It cried. Tears of citric acid. Crocodile tears.

  I was really, really thirsty. Best limeade I ever had. Nothing personal.

  Submissions Status

  “Scaramouche Unopposed” (papier-mâché masque; sheet music [Arvo Pärt, Pro et Contra, 1966]; gold leaf; lapis lazuli accents). Submitted to Shriner’s Hospital 21 January. Rejected 5 February with note claiming that the object, while entertaining, could not be considered either art or helpful to the terminally ill, much less a terminally ill child. Resubmitted 7 February with edits to the darker portions of Pärt’s piece, along with fluorescent hi-lighting of warmer, more comforting notes. Returned for insufficient postage.

  “Malformed Puppeteer” (Punch puppet; wood; cloth; acrylic paints; pig’s blood; swazzle; string; small sock monkey puppet). Submitted to Oakview Cemetery/Glory of the Sun Crematorium, with attachment, 19 April. Received response 27 April: “. . . The passing of your mother was difficult for all of us and your unresolved concerns regarding issues of control could be mitigated by a consultation with a profess
ional trained in such matters. Thus I am retuning [sic] your parcel immediately . . .” Rejected 29 April, returned with a business card advertising a “Doctor Susan Lemansky, MD”. Card, box, and Punch puppet smelled of cigarette smoke (likely menthol). “Oooh, what a pity”! Submitted to Shriners’ Hospital 30 April. Rejected 15 May.

  “Tiger, Tiger” (automata; porcelain; bonsai trees; Swiss gears; glass beads; genuine tiger hair). Submitted to movie director Hector Elman 20 April. Got a response 19 August! He says he likes it and can he, in fact use it in one of his movies?! Of course, the answer is “yes”! Queried 9 December. No response as of 16 January. Saw preview for movie Beast-Machine of Prey 5 March. Not bad. “Tiger, Tiger” is clearly visible in the opening credits as a back-lit silhouette, the Tiger’s leaping timed to coincide with the fade-in of the copyright date. Roman numerals, Bengal tigers, German directors. Submitted further query 13 April. No response by 30 June. Sent invoice 3 July. Received photocopy of cancelled check (#3014, dated 27 August, amount $750.00, signed by Hector Elman, written out to Jack Bingham). Sent a letter explaining that I had not yet seen this check and that it must have been lost in the mail somewhere. Finally received check (as above, but #3245 and amount $850.00) 11 October. Beast-Machine of Prey has grossed around $3.4M as of most recent figures, per Entertainment Industry Insider Magazine (May issue). Cover price of magazine is $7.95.

  “Reflections on a Lie” (decoupage and glass-etched hand mirror; silvered glass; bronze frame; black and white photographs; acid). Submitted to Jeffer’s City Creative Arts Open 24 May. Accepted 9 June: Notified that the piece will receive an Honorable Mention at the awards ceremony on 17 July. Received Honorable Mention 17 July. My first Honorable Mention! Submitted to Experimental Visionaries Forum 14 August. Received letter 28 September saying that the EVF has lost funding and will cease all action immediately. Submitted to Elsie Bingham-Jones (ex-wife) with certificate of Honorable Mention, 29 September. Rejected 7 October with a note claiming: “. . . furthermore, the man in those pictures was not a part of my life until after the divorce. Your super-imposition of his face on our wedding picture simply reinforces my argument (you have heard it many times, Jack) that you are insecure and bordering on paranoid.” The decoupage came back damaged and will need some retouching.

  “Bozo Knows” (clown facial accessory; foam and acrylic paints). Submitted to Circus World Museum, Baraboo, WI, 19 June. Rejected with note that they only accept pieces of historical value (such as the horn of Squeaky Bobo or Wavy Gravy’s Mescaline Wafers) though they appreciate and encourage my efforts. No date on rejection letter (Circus Museum – what do you expect from clowns?), but received sometime in early July. Submitted to Mister Whistles 1 October. Received form letter in reply beginning: “Mister Whistles loves you kiddos – keep on whistlin’!” along with fan club application ($12.00/YR), 27 October.

  “Missy I” (female Cairn Terrier modifications; hair-clips; pipe cleaners [warm palette]; clothespins; ponytail holders). Submitted to Elsie Bingham-Jones 28 October. Rejected 29 October by phone. Simultaneously rejected by County judge, but my lawyer will appeal on grounds of censorship of art. He is confident art will prevail.

  “Missy II” (female Cairn Terrier modifications; hair-gel; hair spray; spray paint [cool palette]; glitter). Submitted to Elsie Bingham-Jones 13 December. Rejected 14 December by phone. County judge tells me that he will see me incarcerated for cruelty to animals and for violating the terms of my restraining order. I asked him to recuse himself from the case, as he owns a dog of the same breed as my ex-wife. Rejected.

  “Fluff I” (First in a planned series of five - male Cairn Terrier modifications; rubber cement; soil; semi-precious stones [tiger’s eye, agate, rosy quartz]; dunce cap). Submitted to County judge 27 December. Rejected. Lawyer was no help in this matter.

  “Origami Prison” (Diorama; toothpicks; plastic straws; paper; blood). Submitted to Doctor Raymond Matthews 24 February. He says he is glad to see that I painted a smile on the “prisoner’s” face (his “quotes”), but that since the mouth and eyes and hair were painted with my blood, he would have to take away all potentially harmful objects for the time being, including this paper and pen.

  Subscription

  January:

  Another year is upon us and, with it, more quality submarine ephemera and memorabilia. We are excited to offer you the finest pieces we can find and have spent countless hours travelling, negotiating, researching, even diving ourselves to gather these museum-grade collectibles. We start this year's subscription with a very rare find, indeed. Aimee and I travelled to Rimini, in northern Italy, home of Roberto Valturio, who, in 1472, developed his prototype submarine based on drawings in his treatise De Re Militari. There we befriended Vito Vincenzo, a curator at the archaeological museum there. Vincenzo, a devilishly handsome fellow, invited us into a veritable labyrinth of connected rooms, each a treasure trove of historical relics. I became lost in the wonder of it all, time-travelling through storage room after storage room of forgotten objects. In the meantime, my wife, Aimee, negotiated with Vincenzo over the purchase of the shards of Valturio's 1/12 scale prototype, the miniature itself having been crushed in an earthquake in the late 1700s. Each piece of this tragically-splintered model is unique and comes framed in a shadow box with an inscribed plate and certificate of authenticity.

  February:

  Our trip to France this month yielded a veritable treasure, but before we get to business, let's talk pleasure. It was our pleasure to attend a gathering of maritime aficionados at the Mussée National de la Marine in Toulon. There we met with a who's-who of Naval officers, historians, and enthusiasts from across Europe, many of whom we established contact with in order to offer you, our faithful subscribers, the best in submarine memorabilia. Aimee negotiated hard and furious with several potential clients there, procuring items meant to hold down a certain famous submarine, rather than buoy it up. In 1692, Denis Papin, contemporary of Leibniz, built his second submarine, a metallic oval-bodied craft. Papin and a compatriot loaded the vessel with lead weights to sink it under the surface of the water of the Lahn River. This month, we present our subscribers with a genuine lead weight from that maiden voyage! Each spherical piece is contained in a high-density plastic cube, laser engraved with Papin's signature as found on the original plans for his submersible. A certificate of authenticity, signed by Marcelle Devouant, Deputy Curator of the Mussée National de la Marine is included with each artifact.

  March:

  We were home for the spring, since this month's selection and verification came to us. I, for one, was glad to be back from our European buying tour. As you know, while we love to travel, we are, at heart, red-blooded Yankees! We're wearing our patriotism on our sleeves with this month's issue, items associated with Intelligent Whale, a Union submarine that almost fought in the American Civil War. In all, 39 men perished in trials aboard the poorly-named craft, all of which were observed by one Lieutenant Charles Daisher of Maine. One of Daisher's descendants approached us with a most unusual collection: One button from each jacket of Intelligent Whale's 39 victims. Brian Benford, PhD, an Emeritus Professor of Civil War History at Case Western Reserve, spent three days with us verifying the authenticity of each of these buttons, each of which shows the shield and anchor motif so common in Union naval uniforms of that provenance. Curiously, I found several of Professor Benford's shirt buttons in my bedroom after his departure. The irony is not lost on me! Ha ha!

  April:

  Back to Europe, this time to Germany. But we were not hunting U-boats, which are so commonly found that every naval museum has a spare in its basement (U must stand for Ubiquitous)! Rather, we were there for a much rarer specimen, scouring Bavaria for our next offering. "Bavaria!" you say, "What submarine could possibly have come out of Bavaria?" Well, come out of Bavaria it did. In 1851, Wilhelm Bauer, an artilleryman in the Bavarian army, travelled down the mountains and north to Kiel harbor. There he tested his submarine Brandtaucher. The submarine san
k, but the crew effected an escape. Our host in the mountain community of Oberammergau was a dashing gentleman, Earl Karl Freithoff, whose great-great grandfather had provided much of the funding for Bauer's project. Before setting off for Kiel, in fact, Bauer visited the erstwhile Earl and shared his excitement with the benefactor just before going down the mountain, blueprints in hand. Freithoff showed us the exact location of Bauer's departure and shared with us a little-known family secret: Bauer's footprint was still intact in the soil! We asked for and obtained permission to make several plaster casts of Herr Bauer's bootprint, which should arrive at your home sat the same time as this letter. I am, at this moment, in Freithoff's study surrounded by a stunning collection of original prints by the renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer, as well as an early manuscript copy of Goethe's Die Leiden des jungen Werther, reading and writing to my scholarly heart's content while the Earl takes Aimee on a tour of the mansion and its grounds. Until next month: Diver down and periscope up!

  May:

  South and Central America are known more for drug-smuggling submarines than any underwater vessels of historical interest, so we had to do some extensive searching for this month's artifacts. After many fruitless leads, we finally made contact with one Arrilio Pene, a sub-deputy in the Chilean Ministry of History, whose interests and expertise lie primarily in the realm of South American naval history. We spent several days with Pene making contacts and arrangements to procure items of interest from of Chile's most famous submarines, Flach, which sank in 1866 near Valparaiso. All 11 crew members perished in the wreck, but intrepid divers have, in subsequent years, retrieved certain objects of interest from the wreck. Now, I'm not much of a smoker, neither is Aimee. We reserve smoking only for our most private, intimate moments, not wanting to share secondhand smoke with anyone but each other. But I am excited about this smoking find! Those original 11 crew members aboard the Flach had with them a crate of cigarettes, which they planned to enjoy after a successful foray under the waves. Unfortunately, Poseidon was contrary. But just because they couldn't enjoy them it doesn't mean that you shouldn't! So we're sending out a Flach cigarette, each in a protective brass tube inscribed with an image of the submarine. These must be nearly irresistible, as Aimee came back smelling like smoke after an evening out with Pene and his wife – Ha ha! Seriously, you'll be too smitten by these original and unique historical artifacts to see your investment go up in smoke. Instead of smoking, why not lift a toast to those intrepid adventurers, Flach's crew of 11.