Plum Perfect, and: The Map of the Forest, and: Altered States

Plum Perfect

Émile is treated to plum pudding by a stranger named Monsieur de Fontgibu. Ten years later, he orders plum pudding at a restaurant in Paris. “Malheureusement,” replies the waiter, “the last dish was just served to another customer, de Fontgibu.” Twenty years later, once again he orders the pudding, recalling the incident, telling his friends that only de Fontgibu is missing to make the scene complete. Just then, de Fontgibu enters the room.

Carl Jung and the ancient Chinese philosophers embrace yuan: certain people are meant to find each other. It’s why it’s impossible for two people to take their eyes off each other. It takes hundreds of rebirths to bring two people to cross a river in the same ferry, a hundred years of good deeds to bring two people to rest their heads on the same pillow.

The Map of the Forest

Grief is made of yellow pine, hickory, ash. Stand in the forest of sorrow. The bereaved must be urged to sit in a sunny room with an open fire. The fire burns with maple burl; desire is made of pine and cedar, poplar, Sitka spruce. Part of it is red, charting the heart, the other part green with trees. Red means she’s leaving; white means she’ll return. Green marks the spot. The farthest distance lies between touching and not touching. The palate rejects the thought of food; digestion is not in the best order. Her coffin is made of incense cedar and cypress. Your wail is made of birch trees, paperbark unwinding white in the wind. Unwilling to wander, watch the geese fly overhead. They become disoriented with death. There is grief in altitude. How do the angels stand it? Look up; they’re gone. Offer food (but very little): tea, coffee, bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg. Empty sky above the black locust.

Altered States

Once I adored a psychic, a long-legged one. Psychic means, I see you.

Night was her familiar parlor. “I have a problem,” she told me, “I dream other people’s dreams.” Her pale eyelashes fluttered. “I see a trip over water, a mysterious, dark-haired man, a paddle-ball tournament, and an incident with Baked Alaska.” I liked her. But when I cracked her wide open, she was dark inside.

“Have you ever heard of ghost lovers?” she asked.

People who love ghosts? I wondered between kisses.

“Ghosts who love people. Beautiful women who seduce for a single night. When they leave, centuries have passed.”

“I’ve heard that story,” I said, “only it wasn’t beautiful women; it was dwarves. And it wasn’t centuries, but it was a very long time. And he wasn’t seduced, he fell asleep. Except for that, it’s the same story.”

“The newly dead are allowed to control the weather,” she went on. “It’s consolation for never again feeling it on their faces.”

“That explains why it’s raining cats and dogs,” I said. Garden of Earthly Faucets.

“The living carry us inside them like pearls,” she whispered in my ear. “To close your eyes is to travel. We all keep one another under surveillance.” She began to snow.