Off to work one morning and the swirling void sat next to me. Absolute lovecraftian horror creature of a man. He took my headphones out and shook me out of the catatonic state I was in — lord knows how long I’d been like that. He didn’t pay his bus fare, young revolutionary. Neither did I from that day on. No questions asked, besides Hello how are you.
Nice enough guy. Works at the office next to mine. I tried to look busy all day while he built a supercomputer next door with his research team. I thought the world of him then. Thin and lanky, with eight eyes like a spider, green eyes like an algal bloom, keen eyes like a bird, keen and inquisitive, peeking and prodding, pushing me around gently, looking for the edges of where I end and the rest starts. Every part of me he shone a light on felt like it was shining, so much so that, for a while, he tricked me that it was.
Stuck to me like glue and I couldn’t be more glad. Every city is a puzzle and I always loved mysteries (who doesn’t?). Creamy antique shops with elaborate glass and wood displays, spring sun jutting through the glass storefront. Monopoly play-money exchanged hands, bright blue and brilliant redbills (see what I did there?), sage grouse, square coins of ten different sizes. Artists cooed for our attention, buskers showed off at every street corner their melodies and tapestries like peacock plumage. In those days there was a song in the air that ran through everyone like a current, blues and greens are fresher and vinyl is glossier. Warm love runs like blood through the veins of the city, every street and alley and sidewalk. I wanted to capture whatever lived under the surface and take its essence and bottle it. The psychic looked at me like I was crazy. Cowardly bunch they are now, all smoke and tea leaves. There’s a romance to that too, I guess, but I wanted the whole thing. My own infinite wellspring.
Telephone bird call in the lobby, quivering warbles and hums, wind passing through pipes, soft words over brunch and dinner. Inaudible music animated the quiet spaces, percussion drums with polyrhythmic icing set me at ease. That’s a lie. I was scared, for the most part. It was a treat to coax a laugh or a smile out of him, and it became all I tried to do. Anything for the birthday boy. New Years, new friends. A peek, a little glimpse, into a life that hadn’t been for me. Sparkling wine and elaborate parties, jewels on ballgowns and satin suits. Back alleys and shopping malls and overpriced photo booths. Where you go I follow, and share in everything — bite of your bagel, sip of my coffee for a Mr. Swirling Void. The quiet hum of the city. A humble silence that doesn’t need anyone to acknowledge it.
But the glue came off eventually. When the spring ended I buried myself underground, made myself as small as possible, erected a wall between my body and heart. Fried my circuit board in every way you can think of.
It has been years, and now I see that he was made of granite. Beautiful, polished, and complete. Hard and involved. Present in every way that mattered, but not the answer. Now I think that I am made out of granite too, but I was not back then. I was bleeding in pain from the stab of, not his, but other knives, crowned one of the lucky ones luck decides to wound from the beginning, someone who gets to the starting line after the whistle had rung, limping. In some psychic realm he gave me everything I needed to put the pieces together, and for that I’m grateful. Thank you Mr. Void (he lets me just call him Swirling). The most necessary lessons are the ones that hurt the worst. The answer lies somewhere before the granite and somewhere past where the tips of my fingers end.
I am somewhere soft and warm now. I have built a nursery like a castle on a beautiful lagoon in the Bermuda Triangle. When it is over I may move elsewhere. I may see him again one day or I might not. My story is complete whether I do or not. Now in this harsh winter all I can think about is the nursery. My soul swells up when I think of that place. I am so excited to go back home.