Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton

through the drapes. He tilts his head to the ceiling and to the floor, blinks
and scratches, as we could see if we only looked through that keyhole. He
glances toward the drapes and wonders what kind of day it will be. This is
always the time when he reveals the windows, cranks the levers and opens
the large frames.
The air flushes inwards and the chair remains in the same position;
soon enough he will return to it. But as customary, he taps his toes to
tantalize the body as the winds come in. With alone privileges, the tenant
acquaints himself with his sensational form. Each day discovers a new
landing place, and the man whose back normally faces the door and looks
toward the window, occasionally lies across the floor to feel the coldness
and roughness. The ground mangles the spine. He hears from below the
scattering voices that drift up to his window: Deutsch, fran�aise, fran�aise, English.
Each and every voice scratches the surface to a certain degree and so the
man thinks of the numbers and meanings that language encompasses: one
two and three… Instantaneously he squares himself down to the tiled
floors below the ventilator to recount the lines that shape these forms.
Same as yesterday remains the same as the new day today. Symmetry
makes the man stand symmetrical in his nakedness and distinguish how
many times—by counting—his pulse pangs on his neck. The lamp stays on
for only a few minutes as he scribbles his fading recollection but when he
writes the fantastic figure in his head has fled. Hours pass before he forces
to cloth himself. Then the sun has risen high above the church across the
street and scans this figure’s eyes in all its fury. He closes them and lets the
sun burn, burn his face to waken him from the dream that has kept him
paralyzed since the morning began.
He opens his eyes to whiteness plowing clouds of purity.
Eventually as they hover they conspire to cover the sun and all becomes a
dim blackened lightness. Twilight emerges in mid-afternoon and the figure
is frightened at all the varying distorted lights: the curtains change hue,
some tiles glow and most hide, but the white wooden panels of his locked
door reflect an obscure brightness that bounces off his mirror which
remains on the wall.
Sitting or standing anywhere in between his figure recoils as he
wonders who he is and what makes the light and what makes the light’s
18