Swagazine #4

tim thought about reading nietzsche, and as he thought he thought that it would be a fine thing to do.

"It would be fine," tim said, "super fine!" he said again, looking out the window at the bay as he woke up in the morning.

now he did not do this, or say this, every day: he just said it one day.

it was a beautiful day.

tim knew that reading nietzsche would be like falling in love.

"only it wouldn't be with a girl," tim said, as he put on his slick black leather boots and bell helmet, "it would be with nietzsche."

and it would be with nietzsche, he heard, as though a distant echo from the sea, which glittered so in the morning light.

"it would glitter so," tim said, in the morning light which was so much like nietzsche.

tim started with a book about nietzsche.

he opened it up and admired the crisp, white vellum. "it is as beautiful as the ocean," he thought to himself. "I should be on a motorcycle," he said dreamily, adjusting his bell.

"and the ink is as dark as the crowded streets of malta"

"and the words are harmonious and euphonious and multi-faceted"

"and the ink seems to be darker, blacker, each time I look at it"

tim looked at the glittering sea

"so unlike the sea" he mused

"so unlike lakes and summer showers and puddles"

"it's more like malta"

"but inland malta"

"and malta filled with girls"

"I would like to be in malta, riding a motorcycle with a girl"

lost in thought, tim thought of nietzsche.

he smiled to himself and then laughed and then frowned and then wept and then smiled a little and then opened up the book ever so slightly and then opened it up completely and then slammed it shut and then wondered
and then smiled

"I wonder what wissenschaft means" he said quietly and to himself

just then a shadowy figure pressed its face against the window, obscuring the view of the sea.

as the shadow past tim's figure against the bed he became startled and dropped his book which was filled with wissenschaft and caput mortuum and untergang and terrible terrible things

the figure passed, but it was too late

tim knew that by dropping the book, all those words that he had stored so carefully therein were gone forever

tim knew that it was especially bad. not only could he ever have those words again, but right now they might be doing anything, anywhere, and he would never know it

tim was particularly concerned with
untergang

and tim knew for certain that the shadowy figure that had passed by his window that opened to the glittering sea was a woman, or a girl, and that he would never ride a motorcycle again

at least with that particular girl, now she was doing something else

"something terrible, I reckon," said tim, "something absolutely terrible and there is nothing that I can do..."

a thousand miles away, that very girl lay in bed, soft and warm but still evil, inspecting her blue nails and wondering if she had done the right thing, but she hadn't, and only fleetingly she wondered this, for the sky was filled with menacing clouds that she knew that she was at least partially responsible for, which added to the depth of this nietzsche

next to her lay untergang
he was asleep but he wasn't a very sound sleeper.

next to untergang a hand of blue nails were extended fully, reaching towards the window which opened up not to a sea but probably something less impressive and immortal like a warehouse

and then the hand extended reached towards itself

while a thousand miles away a window opened to a glittering sea but yoo hoo nobody was home

and twenty miles from that tim stood in line at the express check-in at the airport looking as though he was neither in a hurry nor not in a hurry

"your name is tim?" the flight attendant asked, "how do you spell that?"

there was a long silence

the silence reminded tim of reading which he loved to do

and people who sometimes filled him with fear but whom he loved usually

and airports which were too crowded which was exactly what bothered him

and himself for the things that bothered him and the other things that bothered him that he didn't think did but did anyway

and the crisp white vellum which was his heart

or at least he liked to think so

like he liked to think about riding a motorcycle although he didn't know why

and the glittering sea even though he didn't own it or understand it

just like a motorcycle which was mysterious in exactly both those two ways

and the shadowy figure which was somewhere else as far as he was concerned he hoped

although almost anything could be in your heart

and usually was, not always but once in a while and eventually if you lived long enough

he was afraid that he wouldn't, while at the same time he could feel a hand close

which was closing

which made him feel queer but fearless which is half good and half good in a different way, but beyond both somehow

and in doing so he couldn't help but wish him the best of luck

he wished him the best of luck

and she smiled

"t-i-m-e, I think," said tim, nervously adjusting his boots and his bag, "but you must never pronounce the silent letters -- I don't."

 

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Image by Dee Dreslough.