2
In the course of history there have been many Ages: those well-documented, others less—for example, before Man's creation there were others, magic like wild silk which was eventually forgotten, abandoned to the broken ship of the past, the other creatures faded away. There was more history, some of unintelligible—but Man's birth has always been a mystery, Darwin tried to decode its livid hieroglyphs, the world tried its best to believe him.
But archeology states very solid facts, so let's not discuss with the birth of Man but what he decided to do with the life that comes after birth.
First came the Stone Age, then the Iron Age, and in a vague flurry of fads, trends, cultural revolutions and wiping out of certain other traditions—good thing too, say certain young people: all far too old and stuffy, unfashionable! Here came the Cut-glass Age, where everything is as cold, hard, transparent and beautiful as its namesake.
After the world war the rafters seemed to have been torn out of the burning wreck of the sky—all that was left was rubble and young men who returned from the war-front empty-eyed, young men who returned from their untouched barracks, impatient as they had waited for their imagined decorations, untethered from their posts of waiting, women of the east who glittered with a certain coolness, women of the west who were waiting for their dreams to return to them, waiting for the sun to come out of the bruised Montana dusk, and old men, who drifted, withered and wandering by the seashore. These are the ones who spent their lives in the Jazz Age, raveling and unraveling, reveling and un-reveling.
How strange it is.
I left the ragged edge of the world that was the mid-west; all the pretty horses in the falling light, all the dust and shimmering images that are mirages out of heat and alcohol, goodbye my darlings, for I must live again. Is there any such thing as One True Love?
Later I grew to worship Barbara LaMarr briefly, from behind the hedges of my dreams.
She was an understanding little dreamgirl.
I took a train, out of the red winding wind of the west and to the east. Perhaps I was hoping to find something, maybe I was running; I do know I went to parties to cover up the quiet of life.
Summertime was sprawling, summertime was everywhere. It swore to me never to die, but I realized it was futile after all, winter is everywhere too. Winter is in the alleyways of New York, there are vagrants with no faces but grimy knees, patchwork ladies who gather old newspapers, it is in the metro of 4 in the morning. It is when we remember what hurts us with our rejection. It is when what nourishes us destroys us.
I'm an honest man, call me Leopold then. This is plain language from honest Leopold; all this is true—why, it's history! And it hurts me all the time.
New York was full parties and life and light and noise, I played the piano in crummy little jazz bars and doubled up as security when the proprietor was busy getting himself drunk. That's why all my best friends were men of dubious background: bartenders and chain smokers. I suppose entertaining at a bar could never be called respectable work, but I was a psychologist too. Drunks are amazingly open, liquor dissolves their inhibitions, I have seen the short-winded elations of many men and their abortive sorrows—do I have any of my own? I have secrets, this is a long and winding story--perhaps you were an eye in the wall long long time ago.
I met him at a party, the host was a paunchy man and well liked for his liquor. His name was Biloxi and he made boxes, all kinds of boxes, the most beautiful ones, I purchased one on impulse once. It's still on the kitchen table which I hardly use. I admire its cleanness, its limitations. Its emptiness. I think I shall buy gift for someone and send it along, ribbon and all to the merry recipient.
But never mind, who is him?
The pitful of oboes, clarinets, saxophones and flutes and piccolos was heaving with life, and they played a celebrated recent piece—The World History of Jazz—how impossibly appropriate on hindsight. History repeated itself. As it always will until time winds itself down to nothing but a lone maddeningly creaking axel.
I was wandering about on the lawn, the wide open lawn, bobbing with Japanese paper lanterns; a lady in trembling lace, face painted like a jester stepped onto the immense wedding cake of a stage and began to sing.
Raucous shouting stops and the blue gardens thrum with conversation in hushed voices, the man on my left nursed a mysterious bottle hidden behind a paper bag, and half his face was muffled my his large red beard, the man on my left was very young and music came pouring out of ears, dark and eager.
He turned to me when at last the music stopped its uncatchable rhythm, applause came pleasantly dissonant, "Soooo, how'd you like that? It's Adam. Cub reporter."
"Call me Leopold. I thought it—well, no, wait. If this goes into whatever you're writing I should at least compose my thoughts, right?"
He laughed, brash and warm.
"Oh well, go on then," and rummaged around his coat pocket for a small notebook.
"It was a good melody, and yes, the last notes are exactly the same as the first—it's like being an insomniac waking up to a dream to listen to it."
"Any more?"
"No. Be as succinct as possible, and if you don't mind me saying this the same goes for your writing."
"Are you a musician then?—let's go elsewhere, it's quite noisy here."
"Yes indeed—the kind in grubby bars." I said getting up. We drifted off to the far side of lawn and talked there for the remainder of the night about nothing in particular.
So ends another Saturday night.