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 Slice life like bread gets stale faster -- music gets rid of voice -- guitar retires --  faster newer smaller stuff -- emotional plague hits west coast -- thousands lost -- Mayan caper inferred -- ancient city found -- new reality tunnel finished -- down the driveway -- next to the old rabbit hole -- heads on tails -- significantly more anxious -- needed every day -- sweeter than this -- 
 
-Jimmy is sweeping the porch as I stroll up, his thin frame lost in a dusty cloud. He stops and coughs a minute or two. The haze settles a bit. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on the inside of his shirt. He is covered in dust with eyes ringed lemur white. Jimmy is a carpenter. A post -- graduate carpenter because sawdust is more complex than the simple stuff of library shelves. Sawdust is soft tallow, a malleable tonic, and open to further disintegration, wood chips from rough planing, smaller particles expelled from whirling blades, the sugary whisper of dust expelled from sandpaper. Libraries have only one flavor of dust. Human debris. Tiny flecks of shedding skin accumulating around the glacial increase of perfect -- bound knowledge, the decay of people, slowly falling apart in alphabetic lives. Sawdust is the evolution of form. Termites eat sawdust. Destruction and digested rebirth. Jimmy builds things with his hands. Sometimes pocked, slapshod things, framing and roofing to restore dilapidated houses. Once he spent two weeks digging in the crawlspace of a cinderblock shotgun house, thinking the whole time it was going to fall and squash him with the cockroaches and rats that scurried over his legs. His more exciting projects are the highly skilled woodworking ones -- the gorgeous black walnut wine cellar he built last fall. He took me over to see it when it was done, sanded down to 220 grit, satin and specular, obsidian. It lives in the basement of a restaurant owner. It harbors vintage grapes from around the world behind its temperature -- controlled, walnut -- framed, glass doorway. There is a vacuum fan to suck out the dust and a once -- a -- week maid to free those particles too stubborn for wind.
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+From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net>
+To: sil@kali.org
+Subject:
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+I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze.
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+I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival.
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+I finished a novel the other day that you would like. A hungarian author Lazlo Tikos, the book is Midnight. He has another, Dawn. But it's difficult to come by. So is Midnight actually, a friend of mine in the city happens to be the translator so I read an early draft. It's a very strange convoluted story that I don't want to ruin, should you decided to read it (the packagge is one its way to your house), but there was 
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+It made me think, should I set Dean Jr free? I don't think he would last long in the ocean or the sewers, though he's not really worth eating. Perhaps he would survive in the sewers, like the aligator pets that go to large and flushed down the tiolets by enough distrate owners, fearful that the once cute beasts would now eat the children they were purchases for -- you can imagine, those reptile eyes, old, pre-Cambian thoughts lurking down there, a level we perhaps remember on some levvel, some dark spot of our own genentic makeup still carrying markers, the primordial fear that comes from staring at any nearly unblinking creatures, but especially one that's covered in scales and has a flickering tongue that tastes information in the air -- it's similtaneously so forgien and so familiar as to be distrubing, a familiar memory that won't die, like the smell of blood drying in the grass or 
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+And so down the toilet for poor pet aligator caught up in a fade it neither wanted nor understands, but then the revenge of the sewers where the pet becomes what it was always meant to be -- king. It could be the same for fish I believe. The scales are the same, the 
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 In the process of building things, Jimmy goes in and out of many people's houses, under them, on top of them, and once, accidentally, through one of them. He sees an endless variety of lives revealed in collectibles, faded magazines, dolls, signs of defunct companies, pictures of children, vacations, friends, works by artists known and unknown, technological gadgets galore, and once, accidentally, his own contribution to an otherwise ornate living room -- a ceiling, a fan, and a Jimmy deposited by gravity on a nice wooden coffee table covered with miniaturized food which had been set up for a dinner party. Jimmy invades people's lives. But they invite him in. And pay him for the invasion. Sometimes they pay him in things rather than money. Today he came home with a truck full of castoff furniture he has accumulated over the last several months. He has been storing it in his parents' garage, but now he is taking the plunge toward permanence, toward admitting residence. His truck is piled high with heavy objects, a sofa, a table, several chairs, a pinball machine recovered from his parents garage, and boxes of records that are too scratched to play.