cut- Ulric and chlorinated circus But arenÕt those some cute little vermin? The door is pounding again. Wires scratching and clawing. A rhythmic knocking 010101. Or itÕs Ulric and his dog and his qubit rhythm. Ulric is a refugee, though he doesnÕt know it; he is on the lam, a criminal vagabond with a marching beat behind him. He will beat the crap out of this crazy meaninglessness until it has meaning again or at least rhythm. ItÕs that wild head of hair he got from grandfather DNA, curling locks that sprout like alfalfa and right now sport the same green tint. Ulric always has a clean step when he moves as if he really is plugged into some universal rhythm. Just the way he walks across the room and sits down is enough to put me at ease. He flops down and digs through his pockets fishing out a pack of cigarettes. The dog noses suspiciously at a chunk of bagel that has undergone the tremendous geological force of humidity. He nudges it to the floor and licks at the salt. I love talking to Ulric about drums, rhythm, or dance; anything with a beat and he can wax poetic for hoursÑuniversal vibration, life energy, that sort of thingÑbut never with that quasi-spiritual reverence that hippies give it, just as a fact, a living thing. He takes for granted that it exists for everyone. His eyes glow when he gets to talking, eventually his voice will get very quiet, softly whispering like brushes on a piccolo snare. ItÕs as if he has stepped into some sacred space of worship. Ulric plays hymns every night on the winged chariots of some Greek god the rest of us never knew existed. His forgotten cigarette burns down in the ashtray. I try to talk him out of voting in the election to take a bit of burden off his shoulders. ÒPolitics will go away,Ó I tell him. ÒPolitics are going away, just like the Catholic Church went away. Everything will fall away and rot if only it is given time.Ó Ulric has an unconvinced look on his face. ÒLook, negentropy is the way the world works, itÕs the process through which the new eats the old, the self-organizing direction in which everything movesÉ it just needs time.Ó I stop to let him absorb it and to decide for myself what the hell I mean. I just read about negentropy a few weeks ago, itÕs still fresh and the meaning isnÕt fully absorbed in my mind. I have no idea what IÕm talking about, but it sounds good. ÒBut time is an illusion,Ó I go on, scrambling to find a coherent thought, Òso really, things are not as bad as they seem. In fact everything is just perfect.Ó I feel better ending on a positive note. ÒWait what?Ó The dog looks at me too. ÒWhat?Ó ÒThe last bit one more time.Ó ÒEverything is just perfect?Ó ÒYouÕre kidding right?Ó ÒNo.Ó ÒOh come on Sil.Ó Ulric laughs and snuffs out the joint. ÒI may smoke pot and have green hair, but IÕm not that naive.Ó Just perfect and the sky claps and laughs and a warm summer rain starts to fall. Ulric smiles at me and says he has to go. He shakes my hand as he leaves, even though IÕll see him soon; he always shakes my hand. His hand is warm and his grip strong, my own feels cold and limp. Almont is a chlorinated circus, neatly segregated according to the arbitrary laws of belief that trickle down the slope of fashion and pretension to pool in the lake of hypocrisy. One thing is just like another; the holographic universe differs only in style, never in function. Everyone knows this, but it never dampens the ardor of the young. It makes me think of Bonobos, small African chimpanzees isolated for millions of years by the Congo River. In their isolation, Bonobos evolved a social structure that uses sex as a tension release. When the tribe is eating, for instance, there is tension over who gets the food, so they break into orgies and somehow use this to determine who gets what. It sounds great at first, fuck before every meal, but then you get to thinking about Mrs. Fendelstein. In a universe nearly parallel to ours, but several doors down the hall (just follow the cat, you canÕt miss it), they tried it out. Why shake hands when you can fuck? Old friends who hadn't met in years would run down the street toward each other and instead of just hugging, they would fuck. At first it had been a bit odd, but as more of the herd joined in it became more acceptable. It did lead to many people who sort of slunk around in the shadows desperately trying to avoid running into a third grade teacher named Mrs. Fendelstein, who chased them nightly in their dreams. She was archetypally three hundred pounds overweight and yet somehow able to keep up with them, chasing after them screaming you were such a bright boy! Think of all I did for you, come give Mrs. Fendelstein a little fuck! Invariably, people woke up drenched in sweat and nervously double-checking their underwear for dried cum. ThatÕs why they gave up the directive and sent the senders home, back to our universeÑwatch yourselves nowÉ. Bonobos and Wilhelm Reich are swimming around my thoughts, serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere in the realm of things to doÉ this was once just a thought in an architectÕs head. Suspension bridge wires, wink and smileÉ. It is after midnight when I finish eating at DePalmaÕs. An empty bottle of Chianti rides a serving tray back to the trashcan. I am rereading Knut HamsunÕs Mysteries. Wilhelm Reich is still in my head because IÕm trying to compose a piece of literary criticism about James Joyce as seen through the psychological theories of Wilhelm Reich. ItÕs amazing to me how you can take two things that you love, Joyce and Reich, and the minute you put them together and have the idea to write about them, they become absolutely annoying pains in the ass. So IÕm re-reading Mysteries to cheer myself up. But the waiters want to go home, they are eyeing me angrily. Reluctantly I pack up my things and head outside. It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Everything feels right. Everything is just as it should be. Walking home I dream ÒHello?Ó My voice is groggy and squeaks like a teenagerÕs. ÒSil? ItÕs Jimmy. Sorry to call you so early,Ó he sounds frantic. ÒIÕm at work. I keep thinking about how you said that place by you is gonna be for rentÉÓ his voice trails off and I can hear him talking to a customer in the background. ÒSorry, itÕs a little busy. But I really want that place.Ó ÒJesus, what time is it?Ó I prop myself up with a pillow and lean over. I can see the clock, but I want Jimmy to say it. ÒUh, itÕs about nine,Ó he says guiltily. ÒGood Christ,Ó I feign shock. ÒAll right why donÕt you come over and take a look at it? Do me a favor, bring me some coffee and some sort of little bread-like substance, a croissant or bagel or something.Ó Penitence IÕm thinking. ÒSure,Ó he says. ÒHey, IÕm sorry to wake you.Ó I hear more voices clamoring in the background. ÒNo worries, just bring me food.Ó I hang up and lie in bed finishing my cigarette. I had mentioned the place to Jimmy a few weeks back, why he chooses nine oÕclock in the morning to think of it again, I canÕt imagine. ItÕs not exactly urgent. Most people donÕt even know these cottages exist let alone want to live in such dilapidated conditions. I crush out the cigarette. I am wide-awake now; I get up and start the shower. My main complaint about mornings is that they hurt; the bones hurt, the muscles hurt, the head usually hurts, everything just hurts. So I avoid them, but every now and then it isnÕt that bad, I suppose. I hear some people get up every morning at five AM and go to work, so on the whole, life could be worse. When Jimmy arrives I am still shaving and he paces about the living room talking about needing to have his own place, wanting to live alone. ÒNothing against my roommate, its just one of those things I need to do, to have my own space, to figure shit out. Try andÉ I donÕt know,Ó his voice trails off in the other room. IÕm thinking that he might have gone outside, but then he says, ÒItÕs cheap, right? Really cheap?Ó I can hear him flicking absently at my lighter. He sets it back on the coffee table with a clattering noise. He mutters something to himself. ÒYa, itÕs cheap,Ó I tell him. I donÕt mention that nothing is really cheap, some things just donÕt cost a lot of money. He brings the coffee in the bedroom and sets it on my nightstand. He seems to be mulling something over. He takes off his glasses and wipes them down with tissue. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom and watches me shave. ÒYou ever think about getting an electric razor?Ó He asks. ÒI mean I know there is something about a blade, but sometimes itÕs nice man, saves time, you know?Ó I glance at him, he smiles. ÒIÕll let you use mine some time, and you tell me what you think, because I was a diehard razor man myself, but my parents gave me this thing last Christmas so I figured what the hell, ya know? IÕve used it everyday since. I think its some kind of coming of age thing, like once you buy an electric razor thereÕs no going back, its one of those invisible lines that you cross, a maturity thing maybe, a sign that you have shit to do and you canÕt spend all morning trimming stubble you know? If you want to give it a try you let me knowÉ hey that reminds me, can you lend me those clippers you use, I been wanting to shave my head again.Ó He scratches roughly at the inch or so of wavy hair that has sprouted back from the last time he borrowed my clippers. ÒSo exactly how much is this place?Ó He looks down at his feet, shifting them from side to side. I say $220, although IÕm exactly sure about the figure, but still, even for a dumpy joint in a small town, itÕs absurdly cheap. IÕve had bigger phone bills. Of course I have to share the place with rats and nothing really worksÉ. I tell Jimmy I will take care of everything and shoo him off to pack up his things. I dry my face and put on a shirt. The coffee is still steaming. I carry it in the living room and flop down on the orange couch propping my feet up on my makeshift Styrofoam and glass coffee table. On top of it I find a bag containing two croissants and some butter. I munch them down between sips of caffeine. I should have asked for the paper, see if anything has happened. I suppose I could be bitter and cranky about being woken up for no real reason; two years ago, I would have opened the door and hurled a large heavy object at someone waking me up for no reason. I donÕt know what happened to all the anger inside me, one day I just woke up and life was fragrant and spiced to tasty perfection. Always merry and bright, someone said. All the crazy god myths were supposed to inspire just thatÑmore creationÑthe sound of distant singingÉ But there is also the self-conscious voice, that little bastardÉ who invited you? Having Jimmy around could turn out to be a great thing. This could be the beginning of the cult compound of lost, drug-addled souls that Dean and I used to joke about starting. That would be fitting; I was lost when I arrived here. I found this cottage purely by chance. I was lucky enough to arrive in town with a sum of money so I had nothing to do most of the time. I took to going for long walks and sometimes aimless drives. One bright spring day, back when Dean and his sister and I lived on the other side of town, I got it into my head to go for a drive. It was an aimless one although in the back of my mind I knew that the end was near for them; they were itching to leave and I couldnÕt afford to keep the house. I went for a drive to think things out. I drove for a couple hours, going in and out of town, looping around Almont like a Blue Angels corkscrew flight, half looking for a place of my own and half trying to get lost. I saw the sign for Almont Road, but didnÕt immediately see the road, which was enough to intrigue me into looking. I found it and drove on, shabby houses set back in the trees, sagging porches, rusty machine guts lying in yards, and then I saw the for rent sign posted at the end of a drivewayÑI saw the price and thought it was a joke. Two weeks later I moved in and Dean and his sister left town for good. I used to live farther up the hill near the entrance, next door to a real southerner named Sandra. She moved out a while ago. Chloe moved in. She got the cottage with a porch. Facing the road. Perhaps I should get everyone I know to move in. All three of them. Why not stock your neighborhood full of the kinds of people you want to be around? A true planned community. Handpicked. Welcome to the compound. Enjoy your stay. Of course, prior to mentioning the place to Jimmy, I had removed a nice cedar chest from it. I test my powers, calling the landlords myself and causally mentioning that I have rented the place to a friend; they are delighted and say theyÕll bring by a key. I hang up and stand there, freshly shaven, staring out the front window at a jungle thatÕs still steaming from last nightÕs thundershowers. This is the other thing I donÕt like about mornings; thereÕs nothing for me to do, no work to go to, no errands to run, no meetings to attend, no phone calls, no listÑno purpose at all. I figure a little exercise is in order so I go for another walk down by the creek, mulling over the significance an electric shaver might imply in my life.