Raymond Chandler Tries His Hand at Socratic Dialectic

Sleep

Waking, we indeed see death
but in sleep we see sleep ~ Heraclitus 

If death has an opposite this must be it—
how often in bed have I laid beside you

thinking there will in every
life remain secrets and receding lines 

where we lose ourselves in those unspeakable
spaces as memory blurs into forgetfulness  

then reach to touch your shoulder, your arm
cup your breast warm in my hand and  

trace the line of your slumbering leg—
if death has an opposite let this be it

Raymond Chandler Tries His Hand at Socratic Dialectic

Socrates sat with Phaedra in LA, at the edge of the shore. The sunshine was as empty as a headwaiters smile. She has a lot of leg art, Socrates thought. He looked away. She was a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window. An object washed up to shore. Phaedra got up to retrieve it. She shared her discovery with Socrates. Is it ivory, or marble? the girl asked. She had a smooth silvery voice to match her hair. It had a tiny tinkle in it, like bells in a doll’s house.  Or is it animal bone? she asked. She held the object aloft in her lovely arms. Bubbles rose in it like false hopes. Or perhaps it is a head with the features of Apollo? she said. Socrates’ gaze reached her at last. We must ask is it the work of an artist or the waves? he said. He spoke around a cigarette. I see, said Phaedra. If the latter, Socrates continued, how long would it take the ocean to create this shape rather than millions of others? Phaedra nodded her head at this. And if the former? she asked. Socrates gazed at a group of pelicans flying in bomber formation just under the crushing lip of the waves. Darkness fell. His trial was on the horizon. Soon he would sleep the big sleep. There was loneliness and the smell of kelp and the scent of wild sage from the hills. Above them, on the road, cars sprayed the pavement with cold white light, then growled off into the darkness again. Wisps of fog chased the stars down the sky. In that case, Socrates said, an artist is worth a thousand centuries.

The Best Seller

I was at the Super Bowl. It was one week before the big game. I took myself out to the parking lot, to have a smoke. The TV guys were there, row after row of trucks with satellite antennas high on the roof as far as eye could see. A matte black armored car driving at a high rate of speed crashed through the gate. I understood that this was a terrorist attack--within minutes, the gate would be repaired by a crew that would later emerge, and the terrorists would embed with journalists, waiting for just the right moment to blow up the Super Bowl and have it televised, live. I thought about telling Resea, but what would I say? I was now a material witness to an act of terror. The FBI was out of the question. The thing to do was to write a novel, quickly, Tom Clancy style, before the big game, then get it instantly published and cash in. I composed the novel in my head, each line magically appearing in a long procession of sentences. It was thrilling. But I started to get hung up on the technical stuff, the electronics of it all, how the terrorists would trigger this and that and rewire and jigger things--who knows how that works? Likewise, the cops who were in on it, the inner FBI workings, who has time to keep up on all the conspiracies? Plus, I'd have to pay consultants to learn all this stuff, to get it word perfect, and some asshole would still criticize the work, a whole industry of people spotting plot holes and worse, I'd have to share the money with them and with all the lawyers. My book was a royal pain in the ass. I was sick and tired of it. I started to curse and get into a nasty mood. It was all over for me. Done. Baked. I was a loser, had it tattooed on my forehead. Sloppily. Looked like some dime-store rub on. Just a stink on me. Then I realized: I do not have to write this book. No one knows. I am alone with my secrets. They are so lovely.

Dr. Gallop

I fired my doctor and set out for home. Years ago, my mother had fired him, too. He’d told her she had a weak heart. An “enlarged heart,” Dr. Gallop had called it, flat as a pancake.

“You’re as dumb as your name,” my mother told him. “Everyone knows I have a big heart.” Mom kicked me in the shins. “She does,” I blurted out. That was a year ago.

Mother died shortly afterwards from a heart attack. It gave me pleasure to fire Gallop again. He’d said I didn’t have long to live. But I felt great. At the park I admired the sailboats in the marina. One was bobbing lazily out to sea. I walked to the residential part of town, admiring the homes. Who knew roofs came in so many styles and shapes? A woman struggled with her groceries. I helped carry them to her door. Just then, a firetruck and two police cars went screaming down the street. I followed. There’d been an explosion downtown. Everything was pretty much destroyed. I stopped to talk to a firefighter. It was a shame, we both agreed. When I got home, I was tired. I thought about calling my mother, but she was in heaven. I made a cup of tea instead. It was getting late. Holding the teacup to my ear, I decided to call my mother after all.

“Mom, how’s it going up there?”

“I’m bored,” my mother said. “Don’t come here. There’s nothing for us to do.”

“But aren’t there angels?”

“Don’t get me started on the fecking angels, they’re the most boring of all,” she said. “All that bowing and scraping, who are they kidding? Boring, boring, boring.” 

“But I talked to Gallop, Mom. I’m coming to see you soon,” I said.

“Oh, him. You should know better than to believe anything that quack says. What’s the matter with you, anyway?” I considered this. “But I was looking forward to seeing you,” I said. “Go to hell, Bob,” my mother said, “it’s more exciting.”

It’s December 17, Again

You swallowed everything, even time.
Like the Niagara that courses to its death. 

Everything fell into you. You waited--
For me to fall. 

My desire was swift and terrible.
Because of you I left a city I never knew.

You were six months of stars.
One swift kick to the galaxy. 

You’re a knife I plunged deeper.
Every day I planned my escape. 

Poured into you like wine.
Your thirst was terrifying. 

You licked an empty glass.
Then took another pour.

We wrestled each night till dawn.
Stolen hours from a future we couldn’t afford. 

What we think now doesn’t matter.
Our bodies formed no lies. 

They say the heart wants what it wants.
I never wanted this.

We hugged like statuary.
Afraid to move.  

Fear of losing you cost me a half year.
From a half-life. 

Your kisses the rent I forfeited.
Your Sicilian skin the republic of dreams.

You were my prime minister, my president.
I was your analyst and priest. 

Each day a fresh sore.
Only you knew how to tongue. 

I never want to see you again.
Naked or clothed or in your right mind. 

No dream could contain you.
Thought shatters near you like waves on rocks. 

You slashed your road.
Right through me, then drove on. 

I liked to watch you go.
My goodbye wave was small. 

I cursed you every day.
Swam to your grave in every open bottle. 

Spit on every sidewalk where you walked.
Emptied my refrigerator of your leftovers. 

You were an endless spin cycle.
That winter I never warmed up. 

You may think we were the greatest show.
But darling it was only Buffalo.