The paper on my screen is like a hole torn

into reality where I have been

looking at a picture I took from a CD case

along with some music

because the music had turned to talking head on the radio,

as opposed to Talking Heads

(something I might have continued listening to.)

 

The CD was Brian Eno’s Thursday Afternoon. 

The picture was the cover for the video from the CD. 

A video from the CD,

as opposed to the normal CD from THE video

(I suppose.)

 

The picture was of a woman,

and I thought she was sitting in the back seat of a car. 

(I touch my jaw where it still aches

wondering if the ache will go away,

or whether I will have to call a doctor after all.)

 

The woman in the back seat of the car:

her legs are raised,

no, they are crossed,

and are bare until they disappear

under the shadows

of her skirt. 

(Does this arouse my prurient interest?  It arouses my interest, but it does not yet feel prurient.  It feels aesthetic.  It feels as though it might like to be prurient.)

 

The woman’s breast is also bare,

or should I have said breasts? 

It is a different thing when they are things,

but in this case, both are true. 

Yet she is covered, covered with light,

light that washes out the photograph leaving a hint of nipples.

None of this is obvious the first time you look at the picture. 

You have to look at it a couple of times first.

That is why I like this picture.

The more you look:

The more you see.

(I actually did call my doctor,

last week,

twice,

but was unable to penetrate

his defense perimeter of answering machines and receptionists.)

 

Tommy, my older son, called tonight. 

He has moved, moved in with his girl friend’s mother. 

He called to leave me his phone number and new address. 

There is a distance between Tom and I that I cannot define. 

It is like the space across a river

where the bridge has been washed out

and there is no where to cross

for two hundred miles in either direction. 

It is like the picture I am viewing:

There is so much more to see than it looks like.

 

According to the liner notes on the CD,

the woman’s name is Christine Alicino.

the picture was taken in San Francisco. 

She may not be sitting in a car, after all. 

It looks more like a wooden bench behind her. 

She may be in a library, a bus depot, or a park. 

It is the shadows behind her that suggested a car to me. 

In fact, her skirt may be a jacket thrown over her lap. 

I know now. 

She is in a sauna, and the blue fabric is a towel. 

It explains the position of her head, the look on her face. 

She is wrapping her hair in a towel.

 

(I will try to call my doctor again next week,

starting tomorrow,

(if the ache does not go away.)

Some sort of sinus infection has invaded my ears,

and now the glands between my jaw and neck.)

 

I have been reading Asimov again tonight. 

Asimov has encouraged me to write. 

He looks at me over those outrageous glasses,

over those muskrat-pelt side burns. 

He smiles. 

“Write Cheeseman,” he says. 

That’s all he ever says. 

You’d think that if you ever got a chance to talk with Asimov,

You’d hear something intelligent from him. 

That’s all I ever get,

and then he’s gone,

like Harri Seldon’s hologram. 

 

Actually, I may not even be looking at a photo of Christine. 

I have made another assumption. 

I have made another error in perception;

allowing my vision,

my view of reality to be formed

before I have adequately taken in the information. 

The liner notes say the video is of Christine Alicino. 

It doesn’t exactly say the picture on the cover of the box is her,

but what am I to assume? 

 

It also says the video is on vertical format: 

“The TV set has to be turned onto its right side.” 

It is not until I turn the photo onto its right side

that it occurs to me that Christine is in a sauna. 

 

My wife comes in with her PC, to hook to the printer.

I duck my writing behind a document. 

“What are you doing?” she asks.

 

       “Writing.”

 

       “Anything good?”

 

       “It was going pretty good.” 

 

I am aware I have used the word “was.” 

So is she.

 

       “You don’t have to stop just because I’m here,” she says.  

We look at each other. 

I am thinking that this is something we need to talk about.

Something I need to talk about.

There is a lot we need to talk about and

It is already too late.

 

       “Yes I do,” I reply, still looking at her. 

I am looking for a way to soften it. 

I don't find it.

“I can’t do it when someone else is here.”

 

       She looks back to her laptop. 

“I don’t have anyplace else to print.” 

She plugs it in.  

 

I toy with an idea

Of showing her the picture on the video box. 

I would like to talk with her about it. 

I am pretty sure, however

My wife does not want to talk with me

about pictures of naked women.

 

Or maybe it is me who is uncomfortable…

In any case,

I am considering buying the video. 

I am intrigued by the music,

by the picture. 

 

Terry prints one page and leaves. 

I don’t know whether this is a concession to my writing or not. 

She does not say. 

Her page is a good page. 

I am in frequent envy of the quality of work she does. 

She is in frequent envy of …something

Of my understanding of the work I do. 

This is something else we do not talk about.

 

I squint my eyes together

 and reach for the CD liner again. 

The wood on the bench, or wall,

appears to be teak,

with two horizontal dark bands in it. 

It is the same pattern that is on my desk trays.