On the day the veil was lifted I sat with him in the yellow room. There were eight of us in the yellow room where he held the turbine in his lap. It had been planned a long time ago. We sat in a loose kind of circle and we waited. I remember a few times while we waited I picked my head up and looked around. There he was, and across from him, me, and around us six more, you know their names. Their heads were bowed. It was a room in his old school on Pearl Street up on the hill. There was a rainbow painted on the wall above the chalkboard and the chalkboard was smudged and there were the ghosts of letters on it, and I tried to read them. I tried to read what had been there and I could make no coherent sentences from it. It was like a scroll had been placed before me and I could pick out the words. I picked out the words one by one and when I combined them they made no sense.
Outside there were ten people, seven men and three women, you know their names, with semiautomatic weapons.
In the gymnasium down the hall there were seventy-one men, women, and children.
That blurred and quiet nation.
There were eight of us in the yellow room. At 11:54 AM we heard the first gunshots, and I counted them. There were twenty-four. At 12:02 PM Eastern Standard Time on March 23 2011 Kenneth Price, ten years old, a sandy-haired and freckled and comfortable kid raised by middle-class parents I had helped to kill three days before, the prophet, Ken Price, the seer, the worker of miracles, slowly looked up at me, pale-faced me with the sun through the window on my face, twenty-one, having done a thousand things for it all, having torn any familiar vestiges of myself asunder, a stranger to everyone I had ever loved, and he smiled, because the veil had not been lifted, because the world as we knew it had remained the same, and because I, who had purchased the ten guns, and not he, who had told me to, was responsible in one way or another for the deaths of twelve people.
all my noodling in this vein (there’s a lot more) is based on a dream i had in early september… i woke up at 6AM and wrote this down on a piece of paper: “spool gray thread child prophet red ink on his face gray clothes “turbine” everybody in a circle bowed shoulders something supposed to happen not happening WAITING waiting for something to happen maine winter red jeeps guns graffiti.” i think i can’t write this because it’s extremely disturbing to me and it kind of scares me when i even try. so it is unlikely this will ever be finished. it takes place in portland maine which has always been kind of a weird place for me.
most importantly, a story i wrote about sexual frustration and the delphic oracle called “colloquial eras” will be published here within the next few weeks; i would love if you would check it out. it is the first piece in a puzzle i am working on called “dust rules everything around me”