November 19 - late

The Moose Comes Out of the Trees

My thoughts swim, rainbows of flame filtered through antique glass. Floating on a raft of air. Images, observations ... my whole life is a sequence of observations, randomly ordered and clouded by sensation. A loose, fluid sound, cold and damp. I blink and discover the light, warm to the sound of a needle piercing my neck. It feels like water flowing uphill. Floating among bubbles. Voices through the end of a tube, recordings on wax cylinders. The moose comes out of the trees. I blink again, and swallow. My throat opens and emits a red, round sound. I taste hot pepper.

“Tell ...”

The voices, distant. I can’t feel them, can’t see them.

“Please.”

A face, sudden focus from out of the dark, out of the light. A shaft of forehead, an eye shaped like wind, the rattle of a drum. “Take it easy, Mister Kadash.” I understand the words. “We’re rolling now, okay?” They smell like apples. Words shaped like apples. A dash of salt with the cayenne.

“We’re rolling ...”

“Please.” I think it’s my voice. “Please tell Ruby Jane ... find her. Tell her ...”

I float away, raft of air, unable to remember what.