Thursday, July 16, 2009
"I wonder what's going on! I'd really love to know." "Some political scandal," Debbie replied cryptically. "It's definitely more than what we think." (from "Fool's Gold," by Denise Hickey, NYC, 1987-90.) It seemed there was an "underground control system" at work in the building where I lived for the past eight years. Not readily apparent, but gradually, a pattern began to emerge. "Who's watching you?" The post: filled. Little old lady, sitting in the lobby, all alone, afternoons. "What are you doing?" when I would come home from divers duties. "Which grocery store?" The post: filled. (Long abandoned by me!) Right side entrance, by the carport I wisely chose to abandon on a rainy, eerie night last December. By the stately, scary security guard whose gates I dared to pass. Long after he made me uncomfortable. Months, years. Invading my space. In more ways than one. ("Don't Stand So Close to Me!" -- The Police) Sudden door slammed over my head one afternoon at the time I usually come home. As if saying, "Get out! Now!" But I couldn't. Due to circumstances beyond my control. Something wicked this way came. "They can't harm you." "I don't know anything." The right side entrance -- leads to the stairwell -- up to the long corridor. (Tunnel of darkness.) Long, dark hair. Straight. Olive skin. Petite. Long and lean body. Eyes flickering. Collapsed in the stairwell. "Something wicked this way came." I could feel it. Watering the front gardens, second summer in a row. The look of compassion, mixed with dread on the wispy, 60-something chain smoker's face. Never seen that look before. Not on her face. Dread. Compassion. As if she were about to become sick. One year ago. Like ping pong balls, sudden vibes bounced off of me, ricocheting, mornings at The Residence. Afternoons on my way home, from divers duties, dread. Groceries. Rising prices. Rising appetite. Rising gas prices. Invading my space. Escalating panic. Family disputes. Stopped calling me. I felt small. As if my life wasn't worth anything. Buried alive. RENASCENCE. (Why don't YOU step out from that lens, my friend? And capsize, with all the lies, that YOU'VE been living in?)...Denise...Denise Dances...2009..."Denise. Denise, you can come out now. We got 'em."