the places of invisiblity jonathan bitz I. COMING ATTRACTIONS I am the voice of the movies. I am the voice of Hollywood. Of the movie trailer. Of previews and coming attractions. I am what you hear sitting in your theater seat. After the lights go down. Before the feature presentation. I am that sonorous voice that says everything is larger than you. Yes, that is me. Surely you knew it was somebody, that voice from above. I know, we've all heard it so many times. Everywhere. That voice. I have heard it said that if God had a voice - it would be mine. Strangely enough, God and I share something else in common: neither of us have ever been seen. Well, not for many years, anyway. Is this where you should laugh and turn the page, now? No, I assure you. I live alone. And work over the phone. Even to my Hollywood colleagues in this stiff industry, I am just a voice. Money comes in the mail. We correspond in letters. I'm sure you could have even guessed it: Words are our only real currency. For several years it has been this way. After The Deception. II. NOW AVAILABLE The philosopher Rene Descartes said jab a stick into a clear body of water. Standing over it, the stick looks crooked, doesn't it? Well, your stick was straight before you put it in the water, wasn't it? Go ahead, pull it out now. See? It's not crooked anymore. It never was. Your senses can deceive you. III. BEHIND THE SCENES People use this word, found. Found objects. Found things. Found art. Found books. I have always liked the sound of this word, found. I find things. In the present tense. Sometimes it's present progressive. Finding… Some people find their materials and inspiration along roadsides, in scrap yards - or in other people's yards. In open dumpsters, spilling over landfills. I tend to find my bundles of materials printed on paper. My matter is in books. In words. In tiny, sometimes inaudible bundles of data. You can't always hold my kind of findings in your hand. Because, sometimes, my found objects are not really even objects at all - yet. Sometimes I find them even before they have made it onto paper. Sometimes they're still just thoughts - electric charges in that silly conglomerate we call a mind. Other times, they're much too premature to even call thoughts. IV. DELETED SCENES One thing I have found is that your senses can deceive you. I taught my self this. How to deceive. My self. When I was finding it, it wasn't as simple as words can lead one to believe. But now, miles and marathons of time beyond that first moment - when I found it - it is simple. This collection of found oddities all began with yet another simple fact that I will state here: That a large bulk of my nightmares has always consisted of falling and heights and skyscrapers way up there. In my safe bed, I clenched tight. Teeth ground down… This notion of the terrible heights was coupled with one morning where my sleep was heavy and would not dissolve - even with a cup of coffee. I struggled with my eyes as I drove down the hot, white freeway to the Miramax office on the east side. But I made it. I tucked in my shirt and slicked back the last waning strands of meaningless hair on my crown just before I remembered which floor I was supposed to go to. I looked up at the elevators. IV. BONUS MATERIAL As soon as I stepped from the elevator, there she was. She. Just three letters. S-H-E. One short of four. More. She was soft, small and sweet. Like a chocolate confection that was so ornate, nobody dared to eat it. Immediately, I forgot about sleep and the distance between the building and my bed. "Hello…" I cooed. As if she were on the pillow next to me: slow and soft. A hum. Threading a leaf of hair over her dark, distilling eye, she looked slowly up at me, "Hi…" she said - just as could be expected from talking chocolate: cloyingly sweet. Sweet, as if we really knew each other. As if we could really love… I looked down at my belly and reached a little further over, to find my belt buckle. As if that was the key to her heart. I didn't know what to do, so I licked my lips and looked sideways, down at her. Like that one fantastic word, "hello" was enough to parch me. This bantamweight had a name, spelled in four letters. K-A-T-E. Kate. Sometimes I gave the women I passed on the street this name. If it even appeared as though they smiled in my direction. But this flattery all began with the first one. Kate. The real one. Kate picked up the phone and spoke a few words into the receiver as I waited for direction. For my special treatment. For her love. I listened, over the desk - to her phone conversation. But I didn't hear words. Instead, I heard a melody. A couple more lines and it would have blossomed into a ballad… She dipped her manicured brows at me. A curtsey. I nodded languidly, as if my eyes were heavy because they were filled with iron. Polarized, as if I was drawn only to her. She tilted her head like she knew this much. And the world was like a vacuum; sound suctioned away and in the middle of a busy Downtown Los Angeles morning, it was only her and I in a glass box, 16 floors up. Kate and I. And four letters. Live. Love. Lust. Want. Need. Have. Hold. Sing. Song. Kiss. Tell. Well. Kate and I. Four letters, with one too many. I. IV. FEATURE PRESENTATION This is where it began. The sensory deception. After I turned and walked away from Kate and all those four letter words. The sun shuffled in through the hot pots of scented coffee and lilies in the foyer. I sat, facing away from Kate, my legs crossed like fingers. I closed my eyes, hoping she would tap me on the shoulder when she was ready. Or when she knew I was ready. Now. Now. Now. My toes warmed in the morning light and I grew dreary with the blanket, pillow warmth. Before I knew it, I was shuffling through the deck of my mind's latest sensory impressions and drifting rapidly back to sleep. Having risen only an hour before, the sensation of my last dream was still heavy on my chest. In it I remembered that I was falling. Terrified… Into the padded chair I sunk and closed my eyes - trying to remember the sequence of the fall: were there buildings, or cliffs; and where was it that I landed last. And before I had made any conclusions, I was reeling back, behind my eyes. And before I even got to the ledge, I was - falling. I could feel my gut and my heart coalescing up around my throat. The numbness in my temples and hips. I was paralyzed. With fear. My eyes flipped open and slowly clarified through my bloodshot focus. Immediately, I jumped out of my seat and raced past Kate's desk. Like the elevators were waiting for me, I slipped right in. I spun home with a dreamy filter hanging over every turn and acceleration. Once out of my car, I made it only to the doorway. And even before I had shed my shoes, I pushed my self back there. And to my human surprise, it was not one second later and I was again there - with my eyes clenched shut: I was falling. For a few seconds I fell, with fear. Then with my gorilla grip, I somehow harnessed it. And looked around. Now, I was falling... with my feet on the ground. And safety found. Several minutes later and as if I were returning from some ether binge, I came-to. I was standing there, with all the pressure in my toes. Light-headed, and thick. I was heavy and porous like lumber. IV. BONUS MATERIAL So there I was, coaching my self. Teaching my self. Learning this little sensation… falling. Then the phone rang. I held the receiver up to my ear. "Donald was wondering what happened to you…" It was Kate. It was a song. "You left so fast… Are you all right?" I could hear her lean further into the phone. Her breath was like a climax, and I waited for it to swell, then fall. "Yes, I had to leave…" "You have such a wonderful voice…" I sat upright. Made sure my collar was straight. "Yes, and most people think that's about all that is wonderful with me." She stopped herself, two - then three times, before she could seem to start a word. Then, "Should we reschedule… another time with Donald? Here…" I could hear pages flip. An appointment book. "Today's Monday… He's out of the office most of the week…" Details. Details. Then she came back to me, "Thursday morning." "All right. Thursday morning." "9 a.m.?" "Yes." V. THE NEXT EPISODE Encased in the comforter from my bed, I sat upright. On the couch. In the dark. Sunlight was spraying in from under the window's shade. Like the curtain was rising on the coming attractions. I dipped my chin onto my chest and stared down at my shrouded feet. When I closed my eyes the story of Cassiopeia entertained me. I think that if somebody were watching me, they would have caught me grinning a little, with my head tipped to the side. As if I were readying to drool a little… Then, just Poseidon did, I set her neatly in the sky and tied to her back into her chair, for the rest of eternity. I felt kind providing her a recess. And as Iwas receiving my gratitude from her a queasiness picked me up by the sternum. Suddenly, all the stars were at my feet. And in the liquid medium - I was floating. Observing. Looking light years away at Orion. Perseus. The entire night's sky was at my feet. I jerked back controllably - by opening my eyes. And then I was back, just as a mortal human. With my feet tucked into a grubby comforter, on the ground. I closed my eyes again and looked down at my feet. Aha. I found something else from that same book of words. Finding. Flying. Now, floating. Again, my senses had deceived me. And I liked it. I wrapped my comforter over the top and thought of Descartes and his crooked stick. Then I closed my eyes again and floated off to weightlessness. I wasn't as afraid anymore. VI. THE TRAILER The hackneyed oddities that we all experience and then talk about when cocktail hour gets dull are all the same. However, just because I am the trillionth person to generate a particular sensation that everybody has felt, doesn't make my experiences any less. Or dull. Sometimes the wondrous is commonplace because it is universal. I believe that my friend Descartes would agree. So, get at it you say. Okay: It is strange how things come in batches. Moreover, isn't it strange that things happen when they do? In another sequence, the meaning of an event could lead you anywhere but here. So there I am. Sitting on the couch, mummified in my comforter. I haven't left it for anything other than the bathroom, twenty feet away - for three days. Then my phone rings. It's within my wingspan so I reach over and grab it as I'm curling through downtown Chicago. Look, there's the Sears Tower. "89th floor…" I answered. "Um, yes, hello. John?" It was my four letters. My Kate. "Yes, Kate?" I replied, like we were drawing closer together and I was surprised. "You were supposed to be here, an hour ago." "Yes, Kate, I'm having some difficulties. And I won't be able to make the appointment, unfortunately." There was a heavy sigh. As though she was going to ask me the obvious - with the sound on my end of the reception and all, "Is it really windy there? I mean they do call it the Windy City…" But when she said nothing, I offered, "Donald could just send you over with the copy…" "Or a courier, I suppose…" "Yeah… No. He could send you… We could do dinner or something. Make it an event…" I was now batting around words like eyelashes. This is me, as flirtatious as I can be. Charming too. And that deep, throaty obbligato… I had little else to offer. And knew this much. "I'll talk with Donald and get back to you. One way or… the other…" "Great Kate. I look forward to hearing from you…" "Yes, and…" I hung in the air. Just as I was dipping down over the Lower East Side. "And… goodbye…" "Goodbye, Kate…" I laid back. It was getting easier now. On command, I could deceive every sad soluble molecule in my body into flying. Or floating. If only I could deceive Kate. Trick her into wanting me. Or something like me. VII. THE PLOT I was thinking about things. About where a good barber was. A clothing retailer. Maybe even a dentist. It had been years since I'd been under their critique. But I also thought that I could take a few steps in that direction without even leaving the house. So, I unwrapped my self from my holy cloth of comfort and went for the bathroom. Took my electric razor out of the drawer and pushed the button. I waited. Then I pushed it again. Then again. I flipped it over and saw that it took batteries. There was also a jack to plug it into the wall. But I didn't know where the cord was. I tried opening the back of the razor, to see if there were any batteries inside. But I couldn't get it open. So I went to the kitchen, got a knife and dug it into the lid; and tried to pop it off. I worked on it for a minute or so, trying not to stab my self with the pointed blade. Then, something started to happen. "Knife." I said aloud. "Ka-nife". "Kan-nifffe." What a strange word, I thought. I looked at my pudgy lips in the mirror. "Kann-nnife," I said right into it. "Kn-ife," I said quicker. Then again, quicker, "Knife." I held up the implement to my nose. I leaned closer into the mirror. I mouthed it slowly, one syllable at a time - this strange word, "Ka-nife. Ka-nife." I could feel something welling-up behind my eyes. In my intestines. The word was becoming even stranger. Moreover, it was detaching itself from me; and from it. Even more than that, the detachment was hardening. The strangest thing was, that II could feel all of this with my whole body. Not my mind. After a sustained bout in this direction, where I was shuffling these phonemes out of my mouth and at once, moving closer and closer to the mirror - with my round lips opening and closing - I was conscious. Here I was deliberate. I was feeling the syllables all the way from my gut. Then I took one step further back. I started spelling it. "K-N-I-F-E. K-N-I-F-E. K-N-I-F-E." Strange word. Five minutes later and not one sad soluble molecule in my body could make sense of that word. Knife. Instead of shaving, showering and preparing any further, I simply went back to my damp, darkened den and began. "K-N-I-F-E." Soon, I moved onto other things. Like a television. Couch. Table. Chair. Movie. It was working. Really. Working… And as the sun began to rise, marking a new day - I could not make meaning of any of the objects I was curling up against - as if they were the mirror and I were once again leaning closer and closer into it - repeating the object's name over and over. My fat, cracked lips undulated and rolled out all kinds of strange sounds. By the time it was noon or so (I'd saved time and clocks for later breakdown), I found my self repeating only a series of unfamiliar and strange and meaningless sounds noises that signified nothing. I was driving - quickly and without caution. But when I paused and became ultimately conscious again, I realized that I had found something else: I found that moment where meaning had completely dissolved. How raw reality now was. I looked around my dark room. I saw only a conglomerate of meaningless nouns. VIII. THE CLIMAX It could have been days, or even a week or so. At this point I was possessed. At first, I was just walking around the house and haphazardly emptying every object of its meaning. But then, I thought about the repercussions. And so I backed-up and thought this through - if I were to continue. I knew that I would have to save some objects and keep their meaning. If I were to continue. Food. Water. Home. Toilet. Money. My recording studio - that was my work and money, all rolled into one. Now, people had often joked that I probably didn't even know what a comb was. That was then. This is now. Because little did they know that when that thought came to me - of their back room sarcasms and facetious flips of the wrist - I marched straight into the bathroom and found a comb under the sink and emptied it of all its meaning. Then I slowly worked my way around the bathroom - and all the items that people said I never used… I made sure I would never use them again. Shampoo. Toothbrush. De-o-dor-ant. Four-syllable nouns were the toughest, I was finding. One-syllable objects took only a couple of minutes. Soap is one-syllable, if you say it fast enough. Around sunrise, one day, I found my self sitting in a cartoon mass of silly shapes and colors and textures. I knew not how to use them. Or judge them. But I was running low on items to empty. The necessary ones - the ones I had to have, to survive, still held their meaning. And I was forcing my self to not indulge. How sweet it would have been: "Money. Mon-ey. M-O-N-E-Y…" But I couldn't. Then, my trainwrecked thought patterns came to an idea, wherein I settled upon it like a landing pad of refuge: Kate. My four letters. Where was she? And why wasn't I dressed, and dieted and ready for her arrival? I stood up and dropped my comforter to the floor. I glared over my disgusting physique. And then it came to me: forget money. I rather liked money. Instead, what about my self? My engorged belly. My hairy back. My bald head. While I, nor most anybody else could stand the sight of these items, I didn't want to lose their meaning, particularly. But I was interested in shifting the focus slightly… Like the Buddha. Like a hero. I started with the only four-letter word that I would ever empty of meaning. All the others were too precious. "Self. S-elf. S-E-L-F." "I. I. I. Aaa-yyy-eee. I." "Me. Ma-ee. M-e. M-E." I did this, sitting down. Wrapped and warped in my comforter. Then I got up and went to the mirror. Slowly, it started dissipating. These words: me, my, self, mine, I… I anticipated the rawness of reality to kick me in the head. Because I still had meaning in that: my head. But it didn't. These last identifiers were slippery. Tough. Raw. Uncooked. So I kept working. Pushing. Persisting. Repeating… Then, I heard something. I looked around the room. I heard it again. I identified it as a knock at my door. I rattled-off the letters of four. K-A-T-E. I peeled my lid back and stuck my eyeball into the peephole. It wasn't Kate. But it was somebody from the office. With a folder of papers. They knocked again. IX. THE DENOUEMENT For me, in my life, nothing ends like they do in all the movies I preview. My life is not a neatly packaged bundle of impressions, events and parties. No, I no longer am invited to the big industry parties. I don't even go into the Miramax offices. I haven't seen Kate, or talked with her over the phone, since the last time we spoke about my missed appointment. Instead, little men leave manila folders on my doorstep, unknowing to the fact that I am right behind that door, bundled-up on the couch. Waiting to speak into the microphone and record my voice so I can mail the segments off for the producer's approval. Still, to this day, I have not succeeded in emptying meaning out of my self. I have, however, set into motion plans that will empty my belly of all its meaning and size. But it will be difficult, for I only find my image in fits and bursts, standing at the mirror. On days when I have not been faithful to my diet. And no, my diet does not consist of a physical regimen, and carrots. No, it only consists of slimming those pronouns that constitute my finicky little round self. With enough practice, maybe I can become invisible to the rest of the world.