Posted by Chris Whitley on February 17, 2006 - 00:00 from the ABC set Chris stories

BLOOM'S DAY
Something turning, something being churned -- something clinging to itself, seeking centre forming; no, reforming. Reaching for a self, pushing away from that which is not. One -- being -- again -alive! -- awake -- light! -- sunlight -- daylight -- another day 'Which day....?' 'Saturday....?' The radio clock's red numbers burned into his eyes, into his brain, into his awareness. '11:30.... ' 'Saturday' '11: 30 ?' 'Abelardo!' 'Abelardo will be here at 12 'o clock!' He leapt from his bed, slipped from his shorts, and headed naked, with half open eyes, for the bathroom. He fumbled, and then finally managed to adjusted the hot and cold shower taps until the water ran warm. He got under it. It was both soothing and refreshing. It slowly eased his consciousness out of its reluctance to perform. He had to hurry, there wasn't much time and it was possible Abelardo could come earlier! Yes, earlier, but never late. Saturdays at twelve o'clock for the last three years had been his lesson with Abelardo -- not really a lesson, as far as he was concerned -- Abelardo's English was very good. Their two hours together -usually an hour of conversation, followed by if his pupil was in the mood his continuing reading of Joyce's 'Ulysses'. No, he couldn't quiet think of his Saturdays with Abelardo as work -- he didn't have much to do -- the occasional correction of pronunciation, or the odd definition. And Abelardo was such a good reader -- with his wonderful Argentine accent, it was a pleasure to hear Joyce's book read so well. And surely this book was written to be read aloud, with its sound pictures ' SssssssSSSea-ssSSSoundssss -- or something like that!' he laughed at his stupid joke. His thoughts swam through his head like fish. Abelardo was always saying how much he looked forward to his time with him -- how he enjoys his 'Saturdays Sessions'. 'He had once even said something like.... what was it? Coming here was like visiting a priest? Well, maybe not a priest -- but someone he could talk to, he had meant. No, what was it he had said....? Yes, confidante, that was it!' 'My dear, you are my confidant -- my English confidant', he had said. 'The only one I can talk with! To the others I could never tell a thing. They wouldn't understand my dear. How could they? Yes, that was it, then he had suddenly jumped to his feet, and took the centre of the room, as he often did when he felt he had something large to state. With his long black flowing hair and big black eyes made him look like the mad monk Rasputin, he had proclaimed it, as if not only to him, but to the whole world! As if from a balcony. 'How they chatter the masses', he had loudly affirmed. 'What nonsense!' And how they hate us! -- we who sail into the unknown, we who really live! we who live for them!' He had continued like this, while waving his arms about, pointing his fingers, and tiger pacing the floor. Something had happened; another argument of some kind -- someone in the bar last night.

'They really are the dog in the cradle, my dear!' He had stamped a foot! 'Yes, they don't want it themselves, but, they don't want anyone else to have it! No, freedom is not the cup of tea of fools! Even their no-account heroes conform to the limits of their egos! Conforming to tradition Their imagination is as dead as Lenin! And, o what wild things he would sometimes say -- what confessions he'd make, what debaucheries, what themes. And how his raves and rants could vary to the extremes. From the glory of shitting, to the unpleasantness of having to live in someone else's vision of life, to his insistence that, 'the holy ghost is obviously the symbol of the sperm of God!' The water had washed away the sleepiness, but the wine from the night before somehow remained swilling around his brain. He stepped from the shower feeling fresh and clean, if not renewed. He stood before the mirror, looked at his face, then lathered it to shave. 'Another day another castration!' he smiled at himself, then frowned when he caught a glimpse of his reflected eyes. The eyes had recently began to look old. But, he didn't want to dwell on that now. 'It happened to everyone' The trouble was there wasn't any preparing for it. You reach a point when you just can't ignore the fact any longer. The fact that the face in the glass looking out at you doesn't look at all like you feel inside. And he had always looked how he felt. 'Who the fuck are you?' he spat at the reflection. He finished shaving and brushed his teeth. Back in his room, hurrying, he dressed and tidied the bed, which started him thinking about the night before -- the girl! -- She'll ring, she'll ring, she'd said... Seeing the mess on the coffee table, where the lesson would take place, he put a finger deep into each of the two wine glasses to pick them up. They had stood there since the night before, and still had the dregs of red wine in them. His eye caught the smear of lipstick on the rim of one of them; the vivid image of the red slash of her mouth like an open sore vaulted into his head! With his other hand he scooped up some scraps of paper that were scattered on the table, crushed them in his palm, and took the overflowing ashtray up with his remaining free fingers, and carried them all through to the kitchen. There he washed the teacups, rinsed out the teapot, and filled and put the kettle on the hob, took the sugar bowl and two teacups through to the living room, and set them on the large messy oval pine coffee table. Suddenly he remembered Abelardo had said something about bringing someone; yes, a film maker -who would film the reading. 'Was it this week?' He went back to the living room, and flipped open his agenda that lay on the table. Yes, there it was: Saturday 16 June 12:00 Abelardo "Ulysses. Filming. He went back to the kitchen, and returned with another teacup. His mind swerved, and he sat for a moment on the sofa before the coffee table with his head in his hands to gather his thoughts. The guy was making a film about a day in the life of a bohemian; a portrait. The film maker had found Abelardo in a bar. 'Said I was a kind of anti-hero my dear...' The film was to be as close as possible to a normal day, and thus, also the lesson. Except, no day or lesson with Abelardo could be 'normal!' -- as in, predictable. He could suddenly, and easily, break in to an Puccini aria or a Judas Priest song at the blink of an eye. Drama was Abelardo forte. Ye Gods! he laughed as he thought about what could happen when someone pointed a camera at him. 'Action!' He didn't want to think about the lesson. But, 'what a day in what life it would be.' The remaining disarray on the table now pushed its way into his consciousness, and was transformed into a symbol of the chaos of his life. There were four or five piles of papers: bills, envelopes, books, and grammar exercises, which had begun to swim and spread into each other. Some of the bills were paid, but some were not, and would have to wait awhile longer. Trying to make a living from doing this and that wasn't easy! He flicked through the bills like playing cards. Teaching, and a few translations aren't consistent -- it barely kept the wolves at bay. But still it beat the hell out of doing some god awful nine to five teaching job. And it allowed him the luxury of time to think, and continue working on his long unfinished novel.... The real work, after all! He thought how he had much in common with Abelardo, both foreigners here in Berlin, both teachers of their own languages, and both writers of prose. Though, the likeness stopped there! His

own writing was somewhat philosophical, psychological, and character based, while Abelardo's stories were dark and fiery narratives full of erotic fantastic characters doing their black, dastardly deeds! He looked at the clock: 11:55 'five minutes!'. Reluctantly, he began to straighten the stacks of papers and tidy up the mess. But wishing he could tidy his life up just as effortlessly. After returning all the books to their places on the shelve, he took down Ulysses and placed it on the table. There would be the dope of course -- there always was. 'To put us in the right mood my dear!' So while he finished getting the tea ready, Abelardo would make a joint as big as an ice cream cone 'Mr skunk! 'Smells as evil as the devil's arsehole boy!' It would be so big it would go around like a carousel! Then, 'another just like the other!' By the time the lesson was over they would both be as high as kites and talking like philosophical parrots! He got up and opened the window to let some fresh air in. He stood by the open window breathing deeply. His mind a warren -- waiting -- expecting to hear the whistle of the boiling kettle or the ring of his doorbell.... It was the door bell that came first. Chris Whitley Berlin 2004