julia good bye

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A journey to say farewell

Submitted: September 28, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 28, 2012



This journey begins with a telegram.

Blood relations, through Western Union, want me to know that clear across the country all is not well with a loved one.

So, I set out on a starry night when the speed of light is moving a little slower, making the stars and planets shine less brightly upon me with my conviction, that the worst of things are always unimaginable. All along the way a superstitious inclination haunts me with the notion that those worst of things always occur is sets of three, no matter-I remain certain that unimaginable things happen continuously.

My constant companions are the ever present obstacles of time and space. The farther we travel together the more familiar I become with the contempt these inseparable comrades have for one another, as their animosities make every detour and early arrival a short-lived joy or unforgettable disappointment.


The charm of flowers makes her smile. She uses this unusually delicate parting of her lips, to draw breath in and speak aloud of that momentary understanding between muscle, mind and nerve, that allows the realization of that look upon her face.

Flowers capture sunlight, which in turn accelerates the evolution of scale and purpose,thus producing the light and sparkle in her eyes, to which I move like a shadow with absolute devotion.


Absolute, complete devotion extinguishes doubt. Luckily and always within the proximity of such narrow passion is the voluptuous monkey wrench of hypocrisy, whose sole purpose is to induce a violent hemorrhage at the very heart of all such colossal adorations. This wrench also extends a magnitude of balance to any of our clever abracadabra inflammations of reality, by introducing , THE GRAND ANESTHETIZER, who will make us immune to all such ludicrous associations, or top-heavy for life with philosophical transgressional guilt.


Guilt is the strangest call of all, reflecting back the image of the unexplainable consequences of breaking away from noble ideas and honest intentions, as an oozing bullet hole right between the eyes.

Guilt is a chaotic collection of monsters choking the sanity out of life and resurrecting in its place a ghost that follows everywhere, because it has nowhere else to go.

Guilt is the gloating phantom, that hands you the heavyweight you will carry to your grave.

Guilt is the show must go on magician, pulling a dead rabbit out of his hat and why the sharpshooter refuses to shoot another apple off another head.

Guilt is an intolerable moral uneasiness that goes with any territory, makes the ground quake and sends one down a hole as deep as hell.

Guilt is fucking pain and the pain of fucking.

Guilt is that inescapable mistake forever looping in your mind.


Conviently located in the middle of nowhere, this small motel room,with its inner-landscape of four hastily constructed stucco walls, has just become the temporary epicenter of the curse of chaos and the blessing of coincidence.


You're still here...try again...

Time moves the experience of life with the power of fascination, so that every sudden sparkle of imagination may take awkward steps,trip over pride and stumble over flesh, all to make reality, benumbed by memories, just the place to convalesce.


Truth is the pressure caressing every imagined construction with the fantasy of divine mechanical genius and the reoccurring miracles of imponderable enigmas born in the minds of imbecile children.


One small painting on the wall. One small clever device, that paralyzed time by readily handing over its two dimensional passport to a brief moment of the past.

This small painting on the wall is the history of another journey, a journey played out in pigments cloaked in coats of varnish, rolling on highways of color and shapes colliding beneath the drama of clouds that hang like lead.

I did not paint this small painting on the wall, I am just a traveler receding into its depth.


Deep within this motel's mechanism of practicality is a single honeymoon suite, where madness is taking ferocious pleasure in consummating lucidity. And, just across the hall, another broken heart paces the floor. Flat-footed, she is making vows: to win back all she has lost, to move from place to place and never fall in love again. She is keeping track now, of all the borrowed money she spent on his new clothes, his car's fix and just how much went up his nose.

She's not sure where he is or if he is coming back and right in the middle of all her uncertainties hangs my sincerely selfish hope, that she passes out drunk before crying herself to sleep.

I shout aloud: "Go to sleep ,it's all your fault"!

"Who can sleep", she shouts back!


The one true eternal desire is the approach of spring with all its exquisite tendernesses..


Whether a purposeful requisite of mystification or a sorcerer's weakness for shenanigans, whoever performed the trick that made you disappear has carelessly left all my memories of you at the back of my mind.

After all the smoke and mirrors, after all the fogs and reflection, these mercilessly vivid recollections of you persist like the phantom spirits of foundlings that all joined hands to run in endless circles through my mind. Round and round these memories of you romp like pirates of the past here now to plunder my sanity.

What toys are we that do not play at love! What disenchanted ,scarecrows, steadfastly disintegrating in so much sunshine! What hopeless beggars of life are we ,whom at best are the earthworm's dream come true!

If there is any magic to love, it must be in the perpetual motion love uses to move us from one person to the next. This person to person, transient energy gives us the resilience to recuperate ,by conveying the fact that broken hearts are as common and contagious as laughter.

So, now that any reason will do, I approach her to forget about you.


After all ,we are the here and now descendants of brilliance and folly, eternally trapped in the spaces and times we've cooked up to further complicate this mystery of life.

We are pies in a cosmos of warm,weightless desserts, destined to devourer one another in a feast that celebrates the extent of intellect, while neatly brushing every crumb of truth away

Seated atop the food chain,we wide-eyed ,insatiable patrons salivate in unison to the come and get it call of our species only to settle for the blue plate special.


A modest offering of peace: three hundred dollars in the plastic cup on the bedside table assures us that the spirit of Benjamin Franklin is watching over us.

I haven't spoken to anyone in over a week. I can't recall with whom I last spoke or the topic of that conversation.

Now I'm listening to Nora. Nora knows so much useless information: the gestation period of dragons, the lifespan of unicorns and every fact about imaginary things-Nora knows.

Nora has a most pleasant sounding voice, the prelude to a sweet dream,that before lulling me to sleep makes me forget she is still lying naked beside me.

My educated guess is that Nora gets her divine inspirations and knowledge from marijuana, as she carries a small corn cob pipe in her purse.

Anxious to leave, Nora paces the floor and speaks her mind , talking as fast as she is walking, changing her train of thought as she changes direction. Nora convinced she is in tune with the mindset of a superior , supernatural intellect, reveals the answer to the eternal question of why our dreams are trimmed down to the leanest of desires.

"It's the lack of female angels", she says and insists I say something!

I speak up:

"Talking toys and plastic robots are getting bigger and stronger every year.

I have a steamer truck full of LEGOS.

I left my dreams on the moon decades ago".


I grew up in this house and here I am again.

Julia is upstairs in her bed. She spent all last night talking about mansions in the clouds , their streets paved in gold and get together in which all are young again

Late this afternoon , Julia started seeing family and friends all of whom have passed away long ago. Now she is talking to the ghost of our mother, a ghost Julia swears is as real as you or I.

I take to the kitchen, this room I remember best of all. I'm once again standing before a white porcelain stove with its red-handed clock and it's gas jet knobs all sleek and streamlined ,ready for outer space. And we have liftoff.


Her rocking chair sits still, throwing shadows on bricks and floor boards where patterns repeat and lines are drawn by structures, so that function and purpose criss-cross to create an unexpected design in a designated living space that offers one more place in which to lose my thoughts.

Suspicion outweighs regret and ricochets off every wall as broken promises tumble out a window that is wide-open laughing and frames in its allotted distance a small fortress of trees where I am sure Julia took some comfort.

Fresh air in an unexpected breeze sets the rocking chair in motion, so now all that is left is the trick of making time stand still.

Julia is dead.

People talking in dreams seem to make sense in what they are saying, but you can never really know whether they are waving farewell or hello. Dream people are always a surprise:as they come and go without warning and there sole intention is to keep the dreamer asleep. Julia looks like she is sleeping.

Julia is dead.


I sneak out to the balcony and light a joint, escaping and at the same time closing in, to savor the moonlight cooked up on a charcoal black sky and make a wish upon a star,that just might be Julia.

© Copyright 2020 Billy East. All rights reserved.

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