The Persistence of Vision

Someone was reviewing Stanley Gold's reviews of films and it was a cheap gimmick if anyone asked him. These were reviews of his reviews. Unwarranted. Unmerited. For Stanley Gold was a famous, veteran film critic, and if anyone could get under his skin, it was another younger critic.

At first, it began benignly, as posted comments on the online edition — simplistic remarks that contradicted his viewpoints. "Gold's a coot!... Wrong again!... The Tin Man reviews a romcom!..." Then came the blog on wordpress, in which his language was critiqued for its persuasiveness. Then came the reviews that included pointless personal assessments as when Stanley panned a movie about a talking cat, the other reviewer ousted Stanley as a "dog lover". All of this was fair enough — everyone had a right to post their opinions. It was the link on the Star Advertiser site, right below his column, that upset him.

It was a Wednesday afternoon

when he first came upon it

. The dry vog hung heavily over Honolulu and he was sitting on his apartment lanai, eating a red lentil soup and toasted sliver of french bread. He had been reading his own article on online edition of TGIF on his antiquated Sony laptop — as it was a quiet pleasure to see his own work disseminated to the masses, be it in print or pixel form — and had noticed a link to another review just below his.

In his review of the film concerning characters pondering the afterlife, he stated that the film's"meandering tone, and trite yet earnest dialogue, made for an extended exercise in navel gazing. Death and the afterlife were everywhere, but where was life? I would have rather watched my dog ponder the skyline for two hours," he wrote.

The review of his review began

"Stanley Gold does not believe in the afterlife. He does not believe in God. He doesn't have the imagination for it."

An inset photo revealed the writer to be a younger, twenty year old with a mohawk and a weak jaw. He was tilting his head and squinting one eye as if his views were skewed and he had the edge on any matter. Who in the hell did this kid think he was? How would he know what Stanley believed in? Granted, the kid was right, but it was a fluke speculation from a disrespectful young brat. Perhaps he was a relative of the publisher. At least he was confined to the internet, where the column widths were free and he could drown with the rest of the nattering bloggers. To hell with him!

From beside him, Herzog, a white Jack Russell with brown spots around his eyes and ears stepped out onto the lanai and whimpered.

Quietly, Stanley closed his laptop and set it down. "Herzog," he said. "You ready for that walk?" He struggled out of his chair. "Let's off with us. The old man needs to get some air. The place wreaks of bullshit suddenly."

* * *

There was once a film maker who proclaimed that the world was filled with two types of people – creators and destroyers – and within that continuum, critics were indeed the destroyers. They felt entitled to excellence yet they lacked the talent to achieve it. They attached themselves to art forms and acted parasitically, inhibiting the joy derived in creation, killing it from within. In the online world,

the neo-noosphere of information, most critics were just hacks. Many of them wrote without a system of rules and principles. Some lavished praise too easily, touting a film as among the best of the year on a weekly basis. Others derided films

arbitrarily, without systematic criteria, as if being

impossible to please were the qualities of a superior intellect and therefore good criticism. Mostly, the passionate yet unfocused masses were merely fans selectively reviewing films based on versions they had already imagined in their heads. These were peddlers of opinions, nothing more.

Stanley Gold was not one of the those peddlers. Although he himself received a degree in journalism and not in film theory, his knowledge of film over the decades had grown encyclopedic. He had sat on the panels of thirty eight film festivals across the country, had curated the HIFF, had written numerous essays and published collections of them. He attended Cannes and Sundance yearly, sat and conversed with Scorcese, Lumet, Altman and Leigh among others,

and was not among the cacophony of voices in the anonymous online democracy.

His reviews were in print, and he was paid as one of the few genuine authorities in film. He was neither the "destroyer" nor the "creator" of that scornful and reductive philosophy, but a guardian. It was a priviledge he had worked twice as hard for as an outsider working his way in for over 30 years. A true critic could only be someone who cared deeply about films, about the state of films, about the state of the world that is reflected in films.

So who the hell was this kid? He was a hack! Why bother being bothered?

"Darwin Shaw," the kid introduced himself one Thursday afternoon at the editors meeting at the Star Advertiser office. They were standing in the hallway, in front of a labyrinth of cubicle walls and hairlines when the kid, bigger than expected, turned to him and held his hand out.

"Stan Gold. Nice to meet you," said Stanley, clearing his throat. He straightened his back but the kid towered over him by half a foot. "Are you in one of my classes?"

"No no. I'm actually new on staff. I write for the weekend section. I do a critic's column. Like you."

"So, you're a critic."

"Thatʻs right."

"Food critic."

"No. Actually. I comment on your work."

"That critic?"

Stanley nodded and appraised him. The mohawk was gone and his head was clean shaven.

Stanley stiffened and took a single side step away from him. "The tapeworm," he concluded.

The kid fidgeted, "I wouldn't put it that... But I just want to say, I admire—"

"You work here?" asked Stanley, pointing to the floor on which he stood, his lip curled, barely concealing his disgust.

"Yup. Right here," said Darwin.

The elevator door opened and Stanley angrily brushed past the extended hand.

As more people poured in, Stanley stood aside and held the door open. "It's one thing to have your head up your own ass. It's quite another, to have it firmly rooted up someone else's. Good luck, Shaw," he said mockingly and let the doors close.

* * *

More critics, just what the world needed! More people entitled to the best of everything. People hated critics. Industries hated critics. Film producers, writers, directors, painters, musicians, comedians, actors and actresses, they all hated them.

Once at a screening at Mann's Chinese Theatre, Ellen Burstyn herself had approached Stanley. The woman, taller and more beautiful and imposing in person shook his hand and said, "I just want to thank you, Mr. Gold. For everything you do."

Stanley was not one to be star struck. He rarely sought the company of the rich and the famous who's performances he scrutinized so closely while on the silver screen, but he was star struck then. "Thank you," he muttered.

Ms. Burstyn smiled, flashing her brilliant white teeth and tilted her head. "You know, it takes a lot of people and a lot of time to make a film. No one ever sets out to make a bad film. There are no film meetings where producers say, 'let's ruin this one'. Everyone involved, from the cast to the crew, from the star to the caterer, they invest everything they have into a film. You've watched the credits roll, you know how many are involved. For years, they work on this one thing, and they hope that it works. They may disagree, argue, make bad choices, but no one wants to make a bad movie. No one sets out to offend your sensibilities, Mr. Gold. But from it's premiere, it takes a column of about 500 words to condemn a film and send it quietly on its way to obscurity. It's as bad as actually standing in front of a theatre, waving a sign that says 'DON'T SEE THIS MOVIE'. It's actually worse. Because people read the reviews. It affects sales. And all of those hard workers, well, some may not find it as easy to find a job afterward."

Stanley held Ms. Burstyn's palm in his clammy hand and adjusted his tie. "I, well. I am..." he stammered. "A big fan..." he said, "of your other works," he added, then excused himself.

People hated critics. Creatives hated critics. Stanley hated critics. But it was his duty, and his passion, to review each film objectively, championing his standards for a better tomorrow.

A good film could reduce him to tears. It could show him something new about the world. He expected no less because it hurt to see such a powerful medium abused and so he railed against it. And, what was wrong with that?

Shaw. What an asshole. What did he think he was, the people's critic? The revenge critic? Was turning the tables on another critic by critiquing his critiques supposed to be clever? He was an asshole indeed.

* * *

On Friday, Stanley had 2 film reviews printed in the TGIF insert. He had driven home from the dog park in Kapiolani, unleashed Herzog in the apartment and sat back in his recliner.

Before settling in and starting on the new book about the Dogme Collective, he decided to look over his reviews. The first was a film about an odd couple who were randomly paired together on a road trip. He called the film's comic sensibilities "Misguided... There were moments when these characters stopped trying to be funny, and began trying to be offensive. The fatal flaw therein, that they tried at all."

In his second review about a group of middle aged men taking a vacation to the Bahamas to regain their wild bohemian youths, Stanley wrote "The film works. I laughed. I laughed hard. This is a very, very funny film."

Stanley chuckled to himself as he conjured a scene where 4 men were stuck in a hot tub together, and the sole woman had somehow disappeared within the entanglement. He was about to fold the newsprint and set it onto the back end table when he saw a name in print.

It was written in Times Roman, and was thus consecrated. Darwin Shaw had made the pilgrimmage from the blogosphere to newsprint!

"Mother Fucker," said Stanley, firming up the paper.

The review was titled The Gold Standard, and began "If you feel that Stanley Gold's reviews of this week's films seem contradictory, you are not alone. In one, he decries the slapstick mentality of the plot. In the second, he praises the very same mechanics. He laughs. He takes joy in it. Note the sudden flurry of visual details in relaying the hot tub scene. It's a standard scene. I've seen it. It is not funny. Yet he laughs fondly. Why? He is not laughing at the actors, or at the director's staging of the sequence, or at the beats in the script. He is laughing at himself. And once again, he reveals a bit of who he is for us readers and fans. Let me tell you how. It happened in a jacuzzi not quite like the one on screen. It was 1972. It was summer...."

The review went on in detail, describing that long lost summer day on his 22nd birthday in which he and a girl and three other friends tried to get into a jacuzzi. The girl's name was Haven. She was 25. Stanley was in love with her. She was an aspiring poet, as he was. They had all just seen the premiere of The Godfather and he was awestruck and aglow with inspiration. He had told everyone he suddenly wanted to become a film maker, and if he could produce a film half as good as Coppola's, he would have been happy. His enthusiasm was infectious.

They drank beer and joked and laughed, not minding the small, cramped quarters.

She kissed him in that awkward and crowded space, it was something that he would not forget.

"You see, for him the scene evokes nostalgia," wrote Shaw. "You can see it in the way he caresses the scenery and catalogues every detail. It's a lapse in professional conduct — a film review should never have anything to do with yourself — but it's a minor trespass. We're all human. In taking such pleasure and creating such a reverie linked to such a cliched scene, you may have wondered, what's come over Stanley Gold? Well, now you know."

"Jesus," growled Stanley. He crumbled the newspaper and threw it across the room. Herzog ran after it and returned with the crumpled tabloid hanging wet from his maw. "Herzog!" cried Stanley. "Trash!" The dog walked over to the white trash can in the corner and clumsily lowered the paper into it. "Good dog! God dammit," he stammered.

Shaw was precisely right. But how had he known this? Stanley got up out of his chair and fetched the leash.

"Shaw. I'm gonna have you fired... By god. Easy as you please, you'll be shit-canned.

Herzog. How's about another walk?

"

* * *

The editor of the TGIF section didn't back down. Shaw was now a full time member of the staff, and among his many contributions, "The Gold Standard" as the column had become to be known, was among the more popular articles. "It was the blog format," explained Mitch Dostevsky, the editor. "He had about 4,000,000 followers. Can you believe that? I mean, that's a hefty number. I don't think the entire cast of Glee has that many followers on twitter. Not that I follow them."

Stanley scowled, "Glee?" He shrugged. What the hell was that? They were sitting outside the Starbucks on Bishop Street late in the afternoon. "Where does he get off? What's with the fixation? Did I pan some distant cousin's buddy cop movie?"

"No, nothing like that," said Mitch. "It's just some new media thing. He pitched it, it was an interesting hook, and he had the readers. It's good for our numbers. That's it."

"This is insipid. You know this," said Stanley, tearing a napkin in half. "The state of film criticism has reached an all time low. Brainwashed by Hollywood. All of 'em fanboys of the highest degree. Do they even know what real criticism is?"

"It's a puff piece. The kid's a fan. This isn't hard news, it's entertainment."

"It's supposed to be critiqued. It's supposed to show and reveal what most wouldn't see. All we have now are consumer reports of commodities. And don't even mention the thumbs up system!"

"It's in the interest of the people."

"It seems the entire paper is one big human interest story..."

"That's why you're still here, buddy. Hawaii's own beloved, venerable, craggy, crusty, grizzly film critic."

Stanley glared at Mitch, took a sip of his coffee and crumpled up his napkin. He looked more and more like a Sylvain Chomet illustration. All fine lines and exaggerated angles. "Go see a Pauly Shore movie," he growled. "You're not bothered by this? You went from News A to the entertainment section. Our National news is laid out like some Top Ten List as if it makes it more palatable. This is basically tabloid fare."

Mitch waved his hand in dismissal. "Just another new animal shored up by these strange, new tides. Come on. Lighten up. At least they kept us on board after the buy out. We could have been on skid row. I mean, you would have been fine, what with your book deals and lectures. No kids. Healthy. But I would have been sunk! Don't rock the boat on this, I won't be able to back you."

Stanley thought about this. He was alone, then. A young woman walked by wearing a pair of gym shorts and Stanley's eyes obediently trailed her down the sidewalk. He fetched his memories of lost loves. Old friends long gone and wondered aloud, "Shaw — how's he know so much about me?"

"Come on, Stan. It's not supernatural. Nor serendipitous. He's a gifted reporter. He's done the research. There's a wealth of autobiographical material sitting at the library. Native Books. Borders. All by you."

"Maybe he came from the Rupert Murdoch School of Journalism," said Stanley, air-quoting journalism.

"Could be."

"I wonder," said Stanley. "If he's somehow attached to my past?"

"What past? You haven't even dated a girl after Havanah left you. That was what, thirty years ago?"

"Ah, Haven. Maybe she's had a kid after all."

"You keep harping on about her. Why don't you move on? You need someone."

"Aw. I was never good at dating. She was the last. Explain this, how do you suppose Shaw knew about the incident with the hot tub?"

Mitch sighed as he normally did when the topic moved to Havanah. "Research. You can't keep your pen cap on. It's in one of your two collections. I read it myself."

"Maybe he interviewed her."

"Stan," said Mitch crumpling his paper cup. "He didn't need to. You dwell, and divulge. Don't get sentimental on me. Nostalgia is a killer. It'll stop you dead in your tracks."

* * *

The reviews continued. Shawʻs reviews of Gold's reviews had shifted over the months. At first, they deconstructed his writing techniques, his sentence structures as if he were combing through stanzas of poetry. Then they began to cross reference his previous writings on cinema, comparing and contrasting minor points from one of his earlier collections of essays. Then slowly, they became more caustic, and revealed personal aspects about his life. They drew on his associations and critiqued his social circles in an attempt to explain his viewpoints. Through it all, Gold refused to comment on any of those reviews. He had nothing more to prove. This was no pieta, no usurping of authority, nor a critical coup. This was simply another form of critic, and now he knew how the auteur's felt.

When Stanley published his review of an animated tale featuring inanimate objects speaking to each other whenever humans weren't around, he asked "Will kids like this? Is there any mystery here? A light switch speaks through a lightbulb. An oven heats up when angry. Will kids get the domestic satire? Where has all the wild, unfettered play gone? The open spaces? Asylums from adults? What we have is child's play curated and controlled by corporations and their commodities. This is a sad state of affairs for children." When it was published, he read it at his desk while eating a spread of sky flakes with homemade guava jelly, and black tea.

With resignation, he read his review and then turned the page to The Gold Standard, by

Darwin

Shaw. The review was titled Farewell to Childhood, and it began "Stanley, oh Stanley. You've never had kids. Havanah and yourself, nor you and anyone else, for that matter. Havanah left you because you were lacking in empathy. You show a curious lack of empathy for any case of anthropomorphics. Curiously immune. You showed a lack of empathy for Pinocchio

when it was remastered and rereleased because, well, if a thing isn't real, it isn't human. Bambi was a deer, how could he feel human emotions? And therefore, how could we? you asked. Robots and toys suffer the same fate under your scrutiny. You were once a child, don't you know that to draw eyes on an object is to make it real? You would have understood, had you a few children on your own."

Quietly, gently, Stanley folded the newspaper and set it aside. This was not how he had envisioned the twilight of his career. If he had spent a lifetime antagonizing the work of others, well here it was coming back to him on his own turf, in his own home, is his own life. They say you should separate the work from the artist. They say artists should never take criticism personally. But what of this new animal? Did Shaw expect a rebuttle? A comeback? Some sparring? Well, he wasn't bolstered for it – not at this stage in the game. If this were the state of criticism, he wanted no part of it. He bent over, scratched Herzog behind his ears, rose out of his leather chair, then walked to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed in Mitch's number.

In a resolute voice, he grumbled into the phone. "Hey. It's me. Just wanted to jump on to let you know that this week's review will be my last," then he hung up.

* * *

The year passed by quietly. Stanley continued his lectures at Hawaii Pacific University. He taught classes at the University of Hawaii School of Digital Media. He encouraged students to take risks – to create from the gut. He critiqued their works fairly, and refrained from making any of the harsher judgements he had employed in his published articles. He tried again at writing screenplays but failed to complete any of them. He wrote essays on the Pacific Rim movement. He published his fourth and final compilation of reviews. He started a food blog, and ate out alone regularly.

Meanwhile,

Darwin

Shaw had grown irrelevant. With no reviews to review, his articles focused on other topics, like the Sun Noodle factory, or the different types of poke. It became clear that

Darwin

Shaw was a talentless sensationalist, perhaps with some connections in high places, and in Goldʻs absence was struggling to find new and meaningful subjects. Stanley was afraid that

Darwin

would find another avenue through which to antagonize him but he never did. This was a relief, as Stanley hadn't the energy for it. Out on his lanai at nights, stroking Herzog's back, he would gaze out at the city. The little pecker was out there somewhere. He would see the red wing tips of a plane and hope that Shaw was on it.

Oahu remained as beautiful, and frail as ever. Despite the flawed planning in infrastructure, and the eclectic architecture and design of the city, it grew more and more luminous each day. Walking Herzog around Kapiolani Park on a Sunday afternoon right after a matinee, soaking in the heat of the sun after freezing in the air conditioning on the theatres, exiting the dark and entering the light – a bustling sidewalk, a park filled with families, a beach worked over by young runners and surfers — he could then turn a corner and come upon a dilapidated structure, a forgotten pocket of refuse, filth and grime. On the weekends, he took Herzog to the beaches and parks along the south shores. They walked along crowded parks near Diamond Head and Waikiki. They sat at the pavilions along Kakaako. Herzog, growing old and tiring easily, gave it his best, but as time passed, they found more contentment in sitting along the more quieter fringes of town.

Then, one Saturday, a letter arrived in the mail. He didn't recognize the handwriting and it appeared to be an invitation, perhaps to a wedding.

When he got back to his study, he took a closer look and realized it was from

Darwin

Shaw. His heart began beating arrythmically and he quickly took to his seat. "Son of a bitch," he said. "What do you want?" Slowly, he opened the envelope and extracted the letter. It read:

Dear Mr. Gold,

As you know, I have been a big fan of yours and have been following your work since I was a child. It's been a year since your last film review and I must say that the absence of your voice is felt deeply throughout the industry.

I'd just like to clarify my position. Although it may seem that I had been unfairly attacking you, that couldn't be further from the truth. Would you say that you hated film? No. Your criticism comes out of respect and love for the craft. Likewise, my reviews of your reviews.

Film criticism is an artform. Anyone can criticize. It takes a true master to critique. And in your critiques, you have shown all of us that you have a deep understanding of film, life, and of people. Sometimes, your review of a film and its characters is so perceptive that it makes me wonder whether or not you were simply projecting – that the film wasn't as good as you had written. Frequently, I would have rather read a review than see the film. In that way you've become an artist. And for any artist of any new craft, there will be critics. I took up that watch. It's been a pleasure.

As you have retired from film criticism, I too have been forced to find another career path. I am now a writer and director. I have just completed my first film. It wouldn't be a surprise to say that it is a film about you and your life story.

You may be wondering how I got the film green lit in the first place. Well it was easy, you are well regarded in the industry, and I wrote a great script. The film debuts at Dole Cannery Theatres on Thursday at 7. I know that it would be a breach of conduct for you to review it, but I hope that you will attend.

Sincerely,

Darwin Shaw.

* * *

Stanley showed up to the screening with the sole intent of berating the flick. He would come out of retirement, break the rules of conduct and review the film under extreme bias.

The lobby bustled with old colleagues he hadn't seen in years, old friends and a roll call of his students. He felt underdressed, wearing a pair of khaki's and a blue Lahaina Sailor Spooner shirt. Above the concession stand, a plasma screen looped a trailer and the title "The Gold Standard" flashed every 2 minutes.

When Darwin saw that Stanley had arrived, he ran over and thanked him profusely for attending. "An honor, seriously," he said. "This is a tribute to you." He checked his watch every ten seconds, and repeatedly glanced at the theatre's doors. "I really hope you enjoy this," he said, lingering. "This is nerve racking."

Stanley looked around. The promotional materials were elaborate, 3 dimensional cardboard diaramas of movie theatres, complete with rows of red chairs, a red curtain and a movie screen made of lenticular paper with images that danced as you moved by. "How did you secure the budget for all of this?" he asked. "You weren't in the pictures before this were you?"

Shaw smiled and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "No, well. My father invested in the film..."

"Ah. Nuff said," said Stanley, checking his own watch. A crowd of old acquaintances gathered around and shook his hand. They began speculating on which scenes they were going to see.

"Maybe a fight scene, maybe at that bar back in those days when you were a hard drinking son of a bitch."

"Maybe so," said Stanley. He was beginning to enjoy himself and the attention. "Who would have ever thought a film be made of a critic."

"Are you going to review the film?" asked one of his students, a younger redheaded girl in her early twenties.

"That wouldn't be appropriate, but I'll give you my personal opinion in class on Monday," he smiled and winked. Her reaction was timid and it made everyone feel awkward. He wasn't sure why he had winked at all, as it was incongruous to his answer. Perhaps it was all of the attention. He winked and winced a few more times, feigning a nervous tic. "Well," he turned to Darwin and patted him on the shoulder. "

See you in the movies," he said and made his way to the concession stand.

* * *

When the film began with a single spermatozoid being shot into pink amniotic fluid then swimming toward an egg, Stanley's face lit up with delight. The movie was about to be one of the worst in recent history! The egg developed into a fetus, and over a short montage of fetal development, the first shot of Stanley flashed across the screen. He was a screaming newborn, and a close up of his eyes revealed the superimposed image of film reels rolling along his irises. The wagnerian music swelled and the title flashed across the screen. The Gold Standard!

"Hmmckkh!" Stanley could not contain himself. He let out a snort and caught a few curious glances. He caught his old editor glaring at him and shrugged. Mitch shrugged in return and turned back to the screen.

On screen, his childhood unfolded episodically, almost like clips of Leave it to Beaver episodes. The dialogue was stiff and wooden. "Aww Ma! Can I go outside to play?"

"Now now, dear, finish your soup," said the actress playing his mother. She was astonishingly close in resemblance to his real mother, but her delivery was horrible.

By the time his father had made his first appearance, accidentally hitting his shoulder against the threshold of a doorway, shaking the entire fake set, causing the microphone boom to dip into the scene over his head, Stanley was in stitches. He was snickering so hard his popcorn had fallen all over his lap.

A nervous wave of laughter bubbled from the front row to the back and Stanley made an attempt to compose himself. This was a tribute after all.

In terms of a biopic, the film was spot on in measuring equal amounts of drama with actual events. To it's credit, it didn't play for obvious collegiate comedy when he was at Berkeley, stoned most of the time and homesick, trying to make his way back to Hawaii for spring break by selling more weed. It didn't ramp up the quirkiness with it's portrayal of his parents as two bohemians living on Maui. It avoided the usual pitfalls of condescending to eccentric characters and instead portrayed them fairly as people struggling to get by, proud of their only son, prideful of the fact that they could send him there. The film avoided sentimentalizing Hawaii and shirked from showing the usual postcard-perfect landscapes, and showed poverty for what it was. The recreation of his childhood home was just right. There was the constantly broken water heater that emitted smoke from a chimney so black it swallowed the neighboring houses. There was the garage his father had driven through in the Datsun, that remained on a tilted axis like a parallelogram until he left home. There was the failing roof, the plywood walls, the rusted bicycle he had received as a hand down for a birthday.

But the acting and the pacing was horrendous. His mother read her lines as if by teleprompter. His father struggled to avoid eye contact with the camera and made strange deliveries such as "I love you son?"

And that child actor! The boy that played him resembled him so acutely it was a shock to hear him attempting to conceal a southern drawl.

And Haven, or Havanah. The actress that portrayed her was so remarkably her yet so bad an actress, she was a jarring distraction. Her diction desecrated every memory of her.

Yet there were those quiet scenes in the later years, in which Stanley — a failed screenwriter, and poet — tells her that he wants to become a film critic. The lighting in their shabby Los Angeles apartment was so pitch perfect it was almost the actual memory.

The terrible acting gave way to a moment of serenity, as when Stanley explained his reasoning. "There's so much to admire when it comes to cinema," he said to Havanah as they lay on the floor mattress. He picked up a Henry James novel, and began scribbling in its lower corners. He then turned the pages toward her and began flipping through them. The soft pulse of air roused her fine auburn hair as she watched. In the corner, a ball bounced back and forth, back and forth. Haven laughed. "Is that a bouncing ball?" she asked. "Well, I'm no artist," said Stan. "I accept that. But just look at this," he flipped the pages again, and again her hair danced. "In the film books they call this the persistence of vision. The way our minds work, we can only process images so fast. Even though they're just pages flipping, it looks like real movement. Now add to that layers. Dialogue. Music. Have it all come together just so, and we get something like Citizen Kane. I'm no auteur, but I know art. I wanna know everything about it."

An hourglass twirled within a spiral, signifying the passage of time, and Stanley was covering his mouth with his napkin again. A map of the Pacific filled the screen and red dotted line began in California and made its way toward Hawaii, signifying the period in which Haven and Stanley moved to Honolulu. Stanley's shoulders were visibly trembling as he doubled over in attempt to conceal his laughter. Was the travel montage necessary? More nervous laugher bubbled up in the front rows. A few people glanced back. He could see Darwin Shaw sliding down in his seat.

Hula dancers graced the scene out of what may have been straight out of a Jack London story. Strangely, the Waikiki of the 1970's resembled the Waikiki of the 40's. Thatched huts and hula dancers. A priest strolled the beach as group of locals brought in an outrigger canoe. When the boat reached shore, dragging a dead shark just as an added detail, Stanley realized that he was in b-movie bliss. This was heaven. He began eating his popcorn. He was ready to truly enjoy the debacle, for it's failure surely had nothing to do with him.

But then there was Haven, through it all, she was there. The early years. The optimistic couple. Her many manuscripts sent out to publishers who then rejected her. Her growing passion for watercolor. Her first sold painting. Her first gallery showing. Then there was the miscarriage. The dissolution of his marriage. The messy divorce. All of it was handled mutedly. He would even go as far as to say, sensitively. This was not something he wanted to relive, but it was all there — strangely, almost telepathically researched by Shaw. By the time Haven had packed up her bags, leaving Stanley with a puppy named Herzog, he was in tears.

"Damn it, how do you comment on such a thing?" he whispered to himself as the credits rolled. The woman sitting next to him handed him a napkin. He took it, and shakily pressed it into his eyes. What a life – a quiet life, sitting in the dark, eyes wide open, taking in the dreams of others and reveling in them. When Haven was at her lowest point, sleeping away most of the days, he had often walked out to see a matinee for a bucket of popcorn and a window into another life. Often, he wondered if things would have turned out better if he had been more attentive. But he was wounded and angry, for she had shut him out as well.

Outside, members of the audience lingered. His students walked, bleary-eyed, to the doorway and to their cars. A few stragglers patted him on the back as they headed toward the restrooms, "Good stuff, Stan. Really moving. But, kinda weird." they said.

Darwin was nowhere to be found. He had slipped out of the theatre ten minutes before the credits rolled and was gone. The film was profoundly bad, the worst he had ever seen, yet it was sincere. Stanley would write a balanced, gracious article for the Advertiser and would send Darwin a letter of thanks.

What had become of Haven? Last he heard, she had remarried a doctor. Or a musician. The truth was his string of contacts had all fallen out of place over the years and whatever he heard had trickled through a fragmented game of chinese whispers. Wherever she was he hoped that she was happy.

He walked out of the lobby and toward the escalators. As he rose above above the incoming groups waiting in line to purchase their tickets, he thought of that one scene. What a strange time — a formative time — Haven and himself, laying in the bed in that bare apartment, young and broke, watching a flipbook for entertainment. It all stemmed from that theory on the persistence of vision — the pages flipping, the eyes and mind too slow to see the gaps, the ball bouncing back and forth, back and forth, page by page, until before they knew it, the pages were closed, and they had to bend them back, reversing time, to play it all again.

Fathers and Fish

My father may have cursed me when it came to fish. Let me explain.

It was a late Sunday afternoon and I was reading the Star Advertiser when my friend, Irma called and asked me to take care of her prized Goldfish for a week. I agreed and she came over with a 1 gallon bowl and a large, bulbous goldfish that hung in the center of the bowl like a sun to it’s own solar system. He was radiant and still, like a god. “Call him Kapu,” She said. “Feed him twice a day, and in five days do a partial water change. Here, he’s got his own special mixture so use water from this jug,” she said and handed me an additional gallon of water. “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “Piece of cake. I’ll even sing to him,” I jested. She laughed and told me that the goldfish was a gift from someone very important who was no longer with her. The goldfish seemed aware of this information. It hung in that space with gravitas. I nodded sagely, and carefully set the fish down on top of my microwave and reassured her. “Twice a day, no more, no less. And one partial water change,” I repeated. “A 25 percent water change,” she interjected. She made a pistol finger and pulled the trigger. Caught you slippin. She picked the bowl off my microwave and set it down on a space on my bookshelf. “25 percent,” I repeated. “Do it on Wednesday,” she said, smiling apologetically as she mentally checked off every possible error and lapse of judgment that could occur under my stewardship. “Don’t put him in the sun,” she said. “And don’t put him close to any AC units.” I nodded and let a smidgen of annoyance slip out, “How many people have you asked before you came to me?” Irma took a count and said “Two.” “Well,” I said. “Kapu will be just fine. I’m taking this seriously, Okay? I’ll even text message you a picture every day.” This seemed to satisfy her and so she hugged me and kissed me and we messed around for a while, as we occasionally did. Why not? Although we were just friends, we were in our forties, and we were still single. Back in the day we got liquored up together and fooled around. We never had relationships that lasted more than a few years. Were were both like fish, in a way. We were pets that needed zero affection, and gave zero affection. She thanked me again and left.

Me fish-sitting. What a joke. My father was an award winning aquascaper, and he knew how to take care of fish. He knew every tropical fish's name on sight along with all of the nuances that went with caring for each and every one of them. He had three tanks in the garage and one Dodge Van full of tanks and filters baking in the sun. He grew up on Kauai and fostered a healthy obsession of fish. He caught papio and set crab traps off of the Waimea pier and in the Hanapepe river a single generation before those areas were fished dry. He caught little angel fish along Poipu way before the hotels sprang up, and he kept them in salt water aquariums in his father's garage. Then he joined the military and was shipped off to Korea and Germany, and when he came back, he opened a pet store, met my mother who died a year after I was born, and raised me alone. It was another two decades before he rediscovered his passion for aquarium keeping. After I had gone off to college, he became an award winning Iwagumi aquascaper. He was written about in magazines. He became a legend.

Meanwhile, I dropped out of college and became a bartender, and I had no hobbies to float on that separated me from any other hard working civilian in this modern world, at least not in my father's eyes. I worked, drank, messed around with the uke, hit the clubs in Waikiki and Chinatown, and embarked on a number of get rich quick schemes. None of which took hold. Old friends whom I had always thought would be around throughout my life got married, had kids, sang a swan song of old memories at their keiki's first birthday parties, and disappeared. I jogged Diamondhead, learned to surf, made a few trips back to Kauai as a single man, tried my hand at starting an elaborate aquarium just to bridge the gap between me and my father and failed. I concluded that when he raised me, he regarded me as another resident of one of his elaborate, bloated, ecosystems. I was just another fish, darting across a field of moss gently swaying under the water filter. Having taken care of me, he was always off on another aquarium set up. He had raised me, help paid my way through college, and that was that. Aquarium keeping requires diligence, but hardly any emotional investment. That is the way he raised me, I suppose. I would have liked to have been closer, but my father, a reticent man, looked at me with a mild curiosity. Who is this kid, embarrassingly loud, who I can barely relate to?

And so here comes Irma and her portentous goldfish, reawakening these memories. Petulant arguments. Like that night on Thanksgiving. I was on the patio with a Primo in hand, and I remember standing there, absorbing my father's harsh final assessment of me. "Boy, what do you do besides get drunk? You do any good?"

"Pops, it's not like I'm selling crack. What, you're still harboring a grudge about me not taking over the pet shop?"

"Screw the pet shop. You don't got the gills for it."

"No soul for keeping fish, huh?"

"I curse you with fish, boy."

He was a blunt man.

* * *

The fish began fizzing an hour after she had gone. I called Irma on her phone and left a message. I said “Hi Irma. It’s me. I’m kind of wondering about the fizzing. The fish has thousands of bubbles coming out its sides as if it's carbonated.” I hung up and looked at the fish. Millions of micro bubbles percolated from its scales as if the fish itself was porous and filled with gas. Other than the fizzing, however, it seemed fine. It swam around in circles, rising and falling like a carnival ride, streaming a comet's tail of bubbles. I fed it some flakes and it inhaled them with it’s large mouth.

Another hour later, the fish was like a giant, floating alka seltzer tablet. The entire bowl was like a jacuzzi. I could see the source of all of those bubbles moving around in circles, rising and falling, allowing intermittent glances at the fish’s eyes and mouth as it flitted about. The fizzing was profuse, and the bubbles hissed as they popped along the surface of the bowl. It was as if the fish was boiling the water around it. I took a picture with my blackberry and sent it to Irma. The message read “Yo Irma. Fish is fizzing :/” and waited for a reply. She must have gone to the airport right after she left my apartment and was now en route to California.

What would my father have done in this situation? I imagined him watching me, shaking his head in disgust, wanting to hit me over the head with a scoop net.

At around 8pm, I decided to do a partial water change thinking that it would calm the fish a bit. Maybe it was some form of separation anxiety. Maybe it was the water quality. So as it went on fizzing like an Alka Selzter tablet out of Willie Wonka’s Pharmacy, I inadvertently emptied the bowl more than half way, and refilled the bowl with the water that Irma had given me. This amounted to an 80 percent water change. The fish resumed its fizzing, and the bowl hissed in my hands as if I had just filled it with a gallon of Sprite. I was sure my friendship with Irma was nearing its terminus.

I could hear my father saying, "You never learned to take care of anything. Why start now?"

By 10pm, the water was roiling with bubbles as if it were a pot on a stovetop. The fish was no longer visible. As the fish percolated, larger bubbles slid up from the bottom and burst at the surface. At that point, I was sitting down in front of the bowl and eating a bowl of ravioli, watching it like a television set, wondering if the fizzing would ever stop. Will the fish look different when the fizzing is complete? Will he simply dissolve? Will the airborne water vapor make me sick? Is the water hot? Caustic? Will the fish bite? Where was it? I set down my bowl and reached in and felt for it. The water was cold and slimy and I could feel the goldfish’s slippery body moving among my fingers. Not knowing what else to do, and with my curiosity at it’s insatiable peak, I gently closed my fingers around its body and pulled him out of the water.

I held it’s shimmering body in my palm, and with my thumb, gently pinned him down. It’s bulbous eyes seemed vacuous as it gulped for air. It flapped it’s tail weakly once then remained still enough for me to get a better look. Although I was no expert on the average carassius auratus, it looked like any other carassius auratus. It was an inch and a half long, with flowing fins and a nice orange and yellow luster. It was of textbook appearance; a completely boring animal – that is — until it shriveled up like a deflated balloon. Within seconds, it emitted a faint whistle, shrank and dried out to a tenth of it’s original size. It looked like a cross between beef jerky and candy corn, and when I dropped it back into its bowl in horror, it sunk to the bottom and quietly exploded into a cloud of yellow and orange dye.

"Say what?..." I said, not knowing what else to say.

What else could I do? I mourned it for a few minutes, then flushed the poor thing down the toilet. The next morning I went out an bought a duplicate.

When I was paying for it, I told the pet shop owner my story and asked about the fizzing. The man blinked twice and then laughed. He said he recognized me, and that he knew my father from a long time ago. I asked him again about the fizzing, and he just laughed and laughed. He slapped the counter top. He wiped tears from his eyes. He folded over, shook his head, and called out my last name in vain.

* * *

When Irma returned from her trip she apologized for not returning my calls and asked me what I had meant about the fizzing. I told her that her goldfish was just blowing bubbles from it’s gills and she laughed and said that it was nothing to worry about. “Of course not,” I said and went back into my apartment to fetch her doppelganger gold fish.

When Irma held the bowl in her hand, I could see her smile magnified though the glass. That smile vanished after a few seconds of inspecting her fish. She raised her eyes to mine, and I could see that she was about to cry.

"This isn't him. What happened?"

"Of course it's him. Okay, I forgot to feed him once. Maybe he lost a few grams..."

"Sure."

“So. Anyway,” I said. “What are you doing now? Wanna get some food?” My heart began racing. At that moment, I thought that maybe I could love Irma, or that I was in love with her suddenly, and this realization slid along a razor's edge. I was about to lose her.

Irma set the bowl down on my microwave and walked out without a word.

* * *

That one time I had a ten gallon Aquarium set up in my living room, I called home and asked my father why the fish were bloated. They looked like pine cones. My father told me they were as good as dead, and hung up. The next week, I had another school of tetras and the same thing happened. I called him and asked him about the bloating. "Dropsy," he said, "Good as gone," he coughed and hung up. A few weeks after that, I called him and asked him the same question. "What are the pets stores selling you? Why don't you figure it out with them?" he growled. I argued back, "You're a pet store owner. You're famous for this shit, Dad. Why not give me a hand here?" He grew angry "Over the phone? How can I do anything over the phone? What's wrong with you, boy? You think I got one of those high tech phones with video?" I took a breath. "Why do they keep dying on me, then? That's all I'm asking."

"Because you're a piece of shit son, and you coulda learned but you didn't, so now you're a shit aquarium keeper. So stop bugging me, be a man and learn on your own. Now you're really cursed with fish." he said and hung up.

I didn't understand my dad back then. Why wouldn't he recognize the effort? Then it came to me. I realized that it was beyond his capacity. All he could give, he had given me. I went to my aquarium, emptied out my tank and threw it in the dumpster. You see, everything hinged on the aquariums. This hobby, or passion, was the fulcrum on which our relationship revolved. His assessment of me was equal to his final judgement on me as an aquascaper. I was neither. It was the last time I was able to speak to my father.

* * *

The fish incident reopened some old wounds, and I sent an email to Irma about it. I apologized profusely and told her that the death of her goldfish was not something I took lightly. Irma did eventually forgive me and we resumed our friendship. Months later, she moved in. Another six months later, she miraculously got pregnant. We found a good doctor at Kapiolani Women's Center, who was keeping a close eye on her. I had a steady job at the Sheraton. She maintained a steady job working with computers and setting up networks. And I had finally come around to the art of aquarium keeping. It was while I was setting up a new fish tank that I figured out how to propose. While she was away, I set the ring in a treasure chest aerator that opened and closed as it released air bubbles. Weeks later, as we were watching a Koi Angel explore its surroundings, she finally spotted the band percolating in the chest. Then I got down on one knee, and proposed.

She said "Yes! Yes! Yes! Now can you fetch it for me before Oscar tries to swallow it?"

* * *

Aquascaping requires a lot of patience and diligence. It requires artistry and vision. When an ecosystem blooms as the result of a craft with its own set of rituals – something your own father mastered but never imparted to you, that you learned on your own long afterward – and the green grass sways gently under an arch of moss covered driftwood that looks like a bonsai tree, and a school of tetras shimmer against what looks like an underwater sky, by then it's very hard not to be invested emotionally. When your son points his finger to a luminous neon tetra, and says for the first time – "Fish!" – tell me you won't hope that he turns out to be exactly like you.

A Dream of Death Valley

Being in the desert reminded Iris of the beach. Somehow through it's desolate haze of mirages stampeding at the horizon like a ghost herd — under an unblemished sky so blue it may as well have transubstantiated into an ocean and dropped solidly to the earth — it conjured the ringmaster antics of her mother and the sea. An improbably connection, like the desert stretched out before her; like the distance between one star and the next in the desert night containing in that vast emptiness the thrumming answers to her mother's long absence. Here in the desert, barren and desolate, cracked and striated, a fossilized remnant of a lake some faded age ago, was the memory of the sea. And somewhere in there was her mother – the ringmaster of the water.

Iris stood in the harsh sun and accepted its rays. She remembers one day along the coast – too young to remember which (California? Hawaii?) – when her mother collected cat's eyes shells along the gentle break. One by one, she plucked them out of the water and placed them into Iris's palm. The white shells, like fish eyes, flat on one side and convexed on the other, sat lifelessly along the lifelines in her palm. Her mother held out the small plastic tray that had once housed a bacon and lettuce sandwich, and placed the shells on their flat bottoms in a circle. "Now," she said. "I brought this especially for this. It's plain old vinegar, but here it performs wonders." She pulled out her flask — a flask that Iris had seen her drinking out of before, at gatherings, at lunches, in buses and bus stops, in trains and train stations — and unscrewed the cap. Slowly she poured the vinegar into the tray, forming a clear, shallow and pungent pond. "Now watch," she whispered. They set the tray down between them and both let their knees sink into the cool wet sand and watched. The cat's eyes began moving, one by one. Slowly, they broke from formation, formed lines and began chasing and eluding each other. "How are they doing that?" asked Iris. "Magic," said her mother. But even then, Iris knew it was simpler than that — that it had more to do with the vinegar.

And now at 25, she stood on the cracked, parched, landscape schooled to know now that those cat's eyes moved as a result of the vinegar's acetic acid reacting with the shell's calcium carbonate. There was no magic. And here, in Death Valley, in the dried and flat lake of Racetrack Playa, she was going to prove just that. They were called sailing stones – mysterious rocks that traversed the flatland, dragging their bodies along the valley floor, crisscrossing, changing directions, leaving long, linear tracks and baffling most scientists. How did these stones move? Even the smallest stone weighed 20 pounds, too heavy for even a gale force wind to effectively put its shoulder against. When did they move? No one has ever witnessed their pilgrimage. Some said it was an ongoing hoax, others claimed that there were strange magnetic fields, and there were even fringe theorists who believed their movements were the results of other worldly beings.

As a child, Iris had read about a grouping of stones that would steal the soul of anyone who had stepped on their shadows. She had read about flying saucers, and bigfoot. She had seen the portrait of the Lochness Monster and read about the Bermuda Triangle. For other children, these tales tickled their imaginations. The world was still new, and these mysteries held promise of magic and wonder, of greater worlds beyond their own. Not so for her, and as she grew older she smirked at the revelatory truths behind them as technology and science unveiled their mysteries. For her, there was always a simple answer. That is why she excelled in the sciences. That is how she had found herself here, reluctantly investigating an area of Death Valley where "sentient" stones moved on their own with 10 other interns from NASA's Lunar and Planetary Science Academy.

Drew walked behind her and offered her a bottled water. "It's really beautiful out here, isn't it?" he said, resting his hand along her lower back. Iris moved away and took his bottled water. Drew rested his hands on his hips and his shoulders protruded from his plain white t-shirt like the handlebars of a bicycle. He was built like a track bike, all angles, always cutting through the wind. "It's humbling, when you think about it."

"What's humbling?" Iris asked.

"So many things we don't know. All the mysteries of the natural world."

"There are no mysteries in the natural world. This isn't a mystery, we're here to confirm a simple hypothesis," she said, taking excessive gulps of his water and letting it cascade along her cheeks and down the collar of her shirt.

"We don't know for sure. It could be a lot of things," said Drew, and squinted into the sun. Iris wondered about the purpose of such an affectation; to raise one's face to the sun and squint. He had been squinting into the sun since morning.

"There are no mysteries in geology. A liquid hydrocarbon lake on Saturn's moon is like any other. You should have burned your pseudoscience magazines when you were 12," she said and handed him the water bottle. "The only mystery here is in human nature. As in, why do you constantly look into the sun only to have to squint? If you don't look at the sun, you won't have to squint. Why?"

"Because it's the sun," he smiled.

"And I suppose you find romance in this," said Iris.

"One of us has to," he said, flipping his half-empty water bottle like a juggler flipping a bowling pin. He let it drop to the hard sand, and it bounced and rolled toward Iris's feet. "Keep the water," he said and walked off to join the others in taking GPS measurements of the area.

Iris pick up the bottle and put it in her back pack. She approached a stone and studied its shape. She jotted down her measurements in an old leather notebook, and measured the length of its traveled path. It weighed 32 pounds and had traveled roughly 600 feet. Its track had a depth of 2cm. The ground surrounding it resembled the scaly back of a lizard.

"Hygrochrons show moisture. Logged some humidity," shouted Salvie from the east. "Looks like we're right on."

"Same here," called out Drew.

"Disappointed?" shouted Iris, her hand cupped over her mouth.

"Why would I be?"

"Such a simple answer to such a grand mystery!" she called out.

"I'm getting tired of your... snarkiness," said Drew.

"Then leave," she said.

"Fine. This stone, has sailed."

"Good one," she said.

Salvie loped up, shifting his Yankee's cap and flipping a hygrometer like a coin. "The two of you put apart show promise. Together, you two are loons," he said. "Go gather the readings from the west end. Looks like we got water after all. "

Iris picked up her pack and began walking.

* * *

On the day her mother took her to the shore and showed her for the first time the marvel of alchemy in a flask of vinegar and a cat's eye, she told her she was leaving. They ate dinner quietly at the end of a long wooden pier, the flask no longer filled with vinegar, but with the glint of a sunset administered something else that mellowed her eyes. The ocean, hushed and lapping against the pillars beneath them, holding them up to a darkening sky, sloshed back and forth rhythmically.

"Iris, baby. I have news. Mommy's going to have to leave."

"Can't I come with?"

"No sweetie. You'll be staying with your Aunt Cora."

"For how long? When?"

"Eventually. Until you grow up, then you can do as you please."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"Nowhere far."

"Why?"

She paused and took a swallow. Behind them, a fisherman pulled up a small cage-load of crabs.

"I'm sick, sweetie," she said and smiled.

"Why don't you go to the doctor, then?"

"I've tried. Okay?"

"No! Not okay! Why can't I come with you?"

"You'll be with your Aunt Cora."

"When are you going to come home?"

"I won't be."

"No," Iris began to sob. Her mother held her. A small fish jumped out of the water, then disappeared.

"I know this is hard," her mother whispered. She held her hand against Iris's cheek.

"No!" Iris screamed. She stood up and began kicking her mother's back.

"I'm sorry, Iris."

"No! No! Mom! Why are you doing this?"

"I'm sick, sweetie," she said.

* * *

The sun began to set against the desert and the air began to cool. Along the rim of the Racetrack Playa, the sky had taken on a bruised quality. Iris had collected all of the hygrochrons and put them in her pack. She took out her sweater and put it on. Next to her, she fancied a rock was sneaking off in microscopic increments.

People always did that – snuck off in invisible, unmeasurable increments, unnoticed until they were too far gone.

The wind picked up and blew her hood over her head. She sat the with her arms crossed and closed her eyes. She imagined the rock moving while her eyes were closed, and when she reopened the rock was gone. She looked around and couldn't find it.

Drew walked up, a dark silhouette with a white shirt and a fishing cap. "Iris, we're leaving. Get your stuff."

Iris removed the hood. "I'm sleeping here for the night."

Drew crossed his arms and began to shiver. "What are you crazy? You'll freeze. How the hell are you going to get back? Don't be silly, let's go."

"Just leave me alone, Drew."

Drew sat down and took off his pack. "So what is it now?"

"I just want to stay."

"That's an impossibility. But if you want to camp, we can come back some other time, better prepared and make a night of it."

"Just leave me alone. That's what I want."

"Just leave you alone, huh? In the middle of the desert. Overnight. Like that."

"Yep."

"I don't get you, Iris. I don't get you at all. One minute we're close and the next..."

"Yeah. I'm a cold, heartless bitch."

"What's eating you? Did i do something? I don't get this!"

"That's right! You never will!"

"Excuse me?"

"Look. We're not good together! With you, it's like your head is always in the clouds! Romanticizing the desert! Squinting at the sun! I'm over it! I just need to be alone. Away from you, okay? Got it?" Iris drew her knees in and pulled the waist of the sweater over her shins.

"Fine. I'm a simpleton. I know nothing of the world. I'm in a fairy tale land where everything is nice and easy. That's what you think of me?"

"Yup."

"Well, see you later, then! Freeze to death in the desert alone! You'll always be alone! You know that? You're like one of these moving rocks." Drew stepped back with his arms open and kicked a rock from it's trail. "Like that one! There's evidence of movement. There's a trail that it's made for miles. But no one has actually seen it move. You're like these rocks, Iris! There's always a hint of something special. There's the possibility of something wonderful happening. People like to think about it, and they send their minds into flights of fancy over it. And I'm not speaking from a scientist's point of view, but from someplace different. You lack that propensity. For you, it just boils down to water, mud, ice and the wind helping the rock along. The entire world is just an existential cluster fuck rattling us one way and another with no magic or mystery to it. That rock is nothing. Cold and lifeless and indifferent to everything around it. That's you." Drew snapped his fingers, threw his pack over his shoulder and walked off.

"Spoken like a true gentleman of science," said Iris, pulling her sleeves out over her hands. "A sailing stone gathers no moss!"

Drew called back. "Stay here tonight, if you're still alive in the morning we'll come get you."

Iris leaned back on her pack. She faced the sky and saw the first of the infant stars announce its arrival. Drew would be just around the corner, sleeping in a one of the vans that he would borrow, waiting for the sun to come strolling up in the morning. He was a puppy with a bell on his collar waiting to hear his name called. But he loved her, and she knew it. Iris took no offense to his words. That was how he felt. He was soft and nurturing, and a dreamer. Perhaps she would come to love that side of him. Or perhaps she would never see him again. People left in invisible increments, the close ones anyway, delaying the moment of truth out of guilt and kindness.

The stones around her began moving. They dragged their bodies against the earth and made soft, breathing noises. In the dim moonlight, she could see a dozen small, dark shadows moving along the desert like giant snails. One stone tipped over, then righted itself and continued moving. Above, the milky way hung like an X-ray negative of the cosmos.

She set her pack onto the hard sand and laid herself down on her back. All around her were the soft exhalations and sifting of the stones. A smaller stone touched her ankle lightly. She picked it up and examined it. When she set it down it remained still for a moment, then it began moving again.

The desert reminded her of her mother; of the ocean; of a vast and desolate absence, of the cat's eyes moving in the plastic tray. She took a breath and waited for the desert stones to converge on her. She waited for a million seashells to spill out of her body. She waited for the desert to fill with water. She waited for her mother to surface.

A shooting star sliced the sky open. With one eye open, she asked to make a wish.