Broken Sleep

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What do you know of me? Of your father, Alchemy?

Of your family?

auntie jay gave me a gift, the Book of J …

What? What is it?

the dreams of the savants.

“I am large, I consume multitudes.”

So sang my son. For so many of the multitudes, my son’s voice lingers and stirs a longing for a time that never was. He sang not only of himself but also of our family, because after him came my granddaughter, and before him there was me. In the beginning, there was my mother.

I spoke with my mother only once. She gave me a hat. A silly red hat. I’d seen her every year on my birthday. That stopped the day I recognized her, and long before we met. I will tell you more about that day later. I live outside the concept of linear time, but many desire a tangible guideline, so I will do my best and start from my newly bornday: September 21, 1966, when I was chronologically twenty-three, and the day of my first happening. I titled it Art Is Dead. The idea sprang from me while visiting Art Lemczek, whom I’d friended as a young girl growing up in Orient Point on the northeastern tip of Long Island. Art was a loner who used to do odd jobs on my father’s farm and sweep up in Boyle’s Diner in Greenport. His complications from diabetes had grown so debilitating after they amputated his left leg, he attempted suicide. Twice.

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