Page 159

The Blue Dress

And I walked. I am most me when I walk alone, thinking. Jim would, after all, find my body. It's ironic that this is true. I have often thought that murder must be the most intimate of acts. don't mean murder by poisoning or shooting. I mean murder by stabbing or strangulation. The murderer must get very close to the victim. The victim's breath puffs on his face. His breath puffs on the victim's. They grapple in a kind of embrace. Their blood may co-mingle. They look into each other's eyes. They are alone, very alone. People talk about the light going out in someone's eyes when they die. What a fascinating image, as if there is a candle burning inside. Is that the you? Actually, I have seen this phenomenon myself, when, sadly, I had to put my big dog to sleep. And yes, a dullness suffused the eyeball and his light no longer existed. And I didn't know what that meant. I had time to wonder-because time became elastic-as I grappled with "my" murderer (and even had time to think about the endearing possessiveness of that "my") if perhaps the facades and the candle light inside and the you-ness are somehow all co-mingled confusingly and if, Malcolm aside, that is not okay. Why isn't that okay? Do we have to be of one piece? Yes, yes, authenticity and all that (and what could be more authentic than this terror of knife and grunt?) But, really, wasn't life before the blue dress and the walking the streets and the dark films, wasn't life a kind of rolling cinemascope of remembered roles and confusion and laughing and touching someone else and letting them define you and you defined them a little bit and we stumbled together as we ran hand in hand together in the meadow and wasn't the sky bright blue, like a child's story book, you said, and yes, that memory of the child's story book and all those admonitions of how children should behave and the not behaving and the spaghetti sliding down the inside of the front of my death and something feels cool and wet like that now. And he will find me because I will write his name down next to me here on the sidewalk in my blood and he has an unusual name: James Urho Lakmandian. I don't know if those last three letters can be read, though. Jim, you were right to love the not-me. I was wrong to abandon her. I have sinned, sinned. Oh my lovely doggie. I remember how you lay on your side on the cold metal table at the vet's. Why are animals so much more self-possessed than humans? Oh, I love you, my sweet black-lipped dog. I love my Jim. They will find me in a blue dress. I love this blue dress. It is very "me." :r

Summer - Fall 2006

157

Profile for University of Idaho Library

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho

Fugue 31 - Summer/Fall 2006 (No. 31)  

The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho