Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love by Hillary Kanter Page A
Authors: Hillary Kanter
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listens to me for one whole hour a week. Yes, indeed. He is cute in a Matt Damon sort of way, and he smells good. He’s funny, too. Unusual traits to find in a man these days. Why wouldn’t I fall in love?
It is a Sunday evening, and I wonder what he is doing there in his house in Connecticut. He goes there with his wife and a menagerie of animals, every weekend. He’s a writer too, working on a book. I can picture him at his desk. He is in jeans and a t-shirt, and barefooted. I think he might have nice feet. The kind you would not mind playing footsies with under the table … or under the covers. I had a dream about him last night. We were making love, and I soon noticed there was blood on his mouth, or rather I should say pouring from his mouth.
Nice dream, up until that part.
I wonder what it all means? It has to mean something. I think I will ask him in our session next week. I am not in my right mind tonight, that’s for sure.
Chapter Five:
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
Today was my usual weekly appointment with Mr. Perfect, my shrink. I still did not have the nerve to tell him about these strange journeys I have taken lately—or of Hemingway and Beethoven. I’m afraid he might throw me into the looney bin, if I did. Hell, I’m almost ready to throw myself into the looney bin. But these trips and escapades are certainly growing on me. Not bored anymore, I find myself looking forward to what might happen next. I now knew it was all connected to the crystal heart the psychic had given me. What else could it be?
When I left Mr. Perfect’s office, I headed in the direction of the New York City Museum of Art. A cold, early spring wind was blowing, and I needed somewhere quiet to go warm up and review what we had discussed.
The therapy topic “du jour” had been about how frustrating a writing career could be, how hard it is to sell one’s work, what a challenge it is avoiding insanity, and how difficult it is knowing that no matter how good you are at anything in the arts, no matter how high your level of aptitude, your odds of becoming successful—at least while still alive—were piss poor.
I have seen that, for most people, success comes with excess, infidelity, divorce, alcoholism, anxiety, depression, etc. With failure came … well, failure. Failure, for me, is fairly simple. It has a pure, quiet, simplicity to it that can be easy to deal with, once you get used to it.
And I was used to it.
Fortunately, publishing magazine articles helped pay the bills and left me better off than most writers. But I was still frustrated with the rejection letters streaming in for my unpublished book. As the songwriter Roger Miller once said when asked how things were going in his career, he said, “ yeah, my career is gaining momentum—as all things do that are going downhill.” Bingo.
Leaving these weightier thoughts behind, I walked into the museum. It was warm and quiet—exactly what I needed. Someone touched me on the shoulder just as I began to relax.
“Hi, Ariel. I thought that was you.”
Oh, crap. It was that chubby lawyer, Rob, who lives upstairs from me. I had gone out with him once, and trust me, once was enough. At dinner, I was so bored my head almost fell into my bowl of fettuccini. He was always showing up somewhere, usually in the hallway of my apartment building.
“Oh, hi, Rob.” I could barely contain my excitement.
“Isn’t this a great museum?” he said.
I nodded in agreement, and was grateful that after some inane small talk, he finally moved on. Happy to be alone again, I parked myself on a bench in front of one of the most interesting paintings. Yellow stars wore shimmering halos, and shone down on tall, dark, cypress trees and rooftops, with a church steeple in the distance. I knew this painting well—Vincent Van Gogh. From history, I also knew this was one passionate man, to say the least.
Closing my eyes, I took deep breaths and felt my chest rise and fall.
It is a Sunday evening, and I wonder what he is doing there in his house in Connecticut. He goes there with his wife and a menagerie of animals, every weekend. He’s a writer too, working on a book. I can picture him at his desk. He is in jeans and a t-shirt, and barefooted. I think he might have nice feet. The kind you would not mind playing footsies with under the table … or under the covers. I had a dream about him last night. We were making love, and I soon noticed there was blood on his mouth, or rather I should say pouring from his mouth.
Nice dream, up until that part.
I wonder what it all means? It has to mean something. I think I will ask him in our session next week. I am not in my right mind tonight, that’s for sure.
Chapter Five:
STARRY, STARRY NIGHT
Today was my usual weekly appointment with Mr. Perfect, my shrink. I still did not have the nerve to tell him about these strange journeys I have taken lately—or of Hemingway and Beethoven. I’m afraid he might throw me into the looney bin, if I did. Hell, I’m almost ready to throw myself into the looney bin. But these trips and escapades are certainly growing on me. Not bored anymore, I find myself looking forward to what might happen next. I now knew it was all connected to the crystal heart the psychic had given me. What else could it be?
When I left Mr. Perfect’s office, I headed in the direction of the New York City Museum of Art. A cold, early spring wind was blowing, and I needed somewhere quiet to go warm up and review what we had discussed.
The therapy topic “du jour” had been about how frustrating a writing career could be, how hard it is to sell one’s work, what a challenge it is avoiding insanity, and how difficult it is knowing that no matter how good you are at anything in the arts, no matter how high your level of aptitude, your odds of becoming successful—at least while still alive—were piss poor.
I have seen that, for most people, success comes with excess, infidelity, divorce, alcoholism, anxiety, depression, etc. With failure came … well, failure. Failure, for me, is fairly simple. It has a pure, quiet, simplicity to it that can be easy to deal with, once you get used to it.
And I was used to it.
Fortunately, publishing magazine articles helped pay the bills and left me better off than most writers. But I was still frustrated with the rejection letters streaming in for my unpublished book. As the songwriter Roger Miller once said when asked how things were going in his career, he said, “ yeah, my career is gaining momentum—as all things do that are going downhill.” Bingo.
Leaving these weightier thoughts behind, I walked into the museum. It was warm and quiet—exactly what I needed. Someone touched me on the shoulder just as I began to relax.
“Hi, Ariel. I thought that was you.”
Oh, crap. It was that chubby lawyer, Rob, who lives upstairs from me. I had gone out with him once, and trust me, once was enough. At dinner, I was so bored my head almost fell into my bowl of fettuccini. He was always showing up somewhere, usually in the hallway of my apartment building.
“Oh, hi, Rob.” I could barely contain my excitement.
“Isn’t this a great museum?” he said.
I nodded in agreement, and was grateful that after some inane small talk, he finally moved on. Happy to be alone again, I parked myself on a bench in front of one of the most interesting paintings. Yellow stars wore shimmering halos, and shone down on tall, dark, cypress trees and rooftops, with a church steeple in the distance. I knew this painting well—Vincent Van Gogh. From history, I also knew this was one passionate man, to say the least.
Closing my eyes, I took deep breaths and felt my chest rise and fall.
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