Dear Reader,

I’d like to take a moment first for introductions. For while I feel that in the course of events we may begin to understand each other, I recognize that at the moment we are naught but strangers. My name is Lars Princeton Rutherford, and I am a man of simple pleasures. The moment is what fascinates me. The particular angle of light as it slants through an elm grove, the pattern of ripples dancing along the water as a creek tumbles over the rocks below, or the particular smoky smell of an early October afternoon. Perhaps due to the inconsistencies of my childhood, or my rather poor aptitude for social interaction, this world of raw sensation has long been my constant sanctuary. I say world of sensation, for indeed it has become such to me over the years. I find that in the moment, I can glimpse a private world, a purer world that lies concealed beneath our own. I find myself quite truly immersed, enrapt in the minutia, the fine details by which for a fleeting moment I can feel singularly alive, through which I can feel infinite in my status as the sole observer. Therein alone can I find peace and respite from the hustle and bustle of the world at large.

Prior to this past February I took great relish in this escape, the untarnished beauty of an ant crawling across a dew kissed blade of saw grass could fascinate me for hours, whereas the rigors of maintaining my life in the greater world seemed quite an onerous burden. I would entertain myself during the dull hours of my professional life, or of my personal life for that matter as well I suppose by recalling those pristine sensations. I would find my mind drifting into images, sounds, and smells. I would imagine the sensation of silk under fingertips, the fluorescence of lakes glimpsed from mountain roads, or of the taste of tart unripe lemons. Thereby, I could quite happily distract myself from the daily necessities. Thereby I accomplished these comfortably dull 43 years of life.

I realize now, I may be romanticizing this way of life. Though I doubt you would consider abandoning those social bonds as I have seen sustained in the lives of others in favor of my state, you may think to yourself ‘how pleasant, to find contentment in such little things’. It is not truly so, for I could relate to you the hazards of a dreamy and distracted life. Obviously as aforementioned it does tend one towards solitude, which as any can imagine is not a particularly fulfilling means of living. So too does it contribute various hazards and annoyances. While regularly forgetting to retrieve one’s wallet is quite distressing, I must say the worst part was the constant automotive accidents. It is a rather rude startlement to be dragged out a particularly pleasing thought (the sound of a slightly chilly wind blowing over wet grass, one of my favorites I must say) by a beefy handed, sausage faced (the red kind mind you) maniac as he seizes you by the collar to correct your inattention of his signal light.

Pleasantries and unpleasantries aside, I do rather suppose I could have accomplished the rest of my years in relative comfort engaging in these flights of fancy had it not been for the unconscionable cruelty of one Mr. James T. Hayes. While by these words I do not hope to pass on the burden of my actions, I do hope as stated before that we might reach some understanding of one another. To this effect, I repeat again my statement that this ruffian has been the cause of much woe to myself as well as others, as to be seen. It was on or about February 27th (I remember only because it was nearly within a week of my upcoming birthday) that ‘Jimmy’ and I had the unfortunate pleasure of making each other’s acquaintance.

I had stopped in by the bakery that at one time could be found upon the corner of 17th and Wellington Street when entranced by the soft fluffy scent of freshly baked blueberry scones (a truly sinful pleasure) I happened to tread upon the heels of the fellow in front of me (these city streets are rather painfully crowded I’ll have you know). Upon my realization, I (quite gracefully I might add) quickly begged the young man’s pardon at which point the ungenerous fellow sneered and turned back to his way. I quickly erased the thought from my mind, being used to the casual mishaps that dreamers are prone to. By way of apology I should as well note that I may have discarded the event rather hastily as I rather had hoped to catch another hint of blueberry on the air, the winds being favorable. It was not to be I suppose, indeed it was rather only moments later that to our great misfortune I once again stepped on the brute’s heels.

I distinctly remember the sharp metallic taste of blood, the smell of wet soil from the planters lining the street and the acrid tang of moist concrete rising into the air from where the runoff inched across the pavement… that however is about all that I remember of our first interaction, Jimmy and I. Indeed, as I gathered later Mr. Hayes had rather abruptly turned on his heel and laid me to my rest right there on the spot. Imagine my great surprise upon waking to the sensation of prickly, muggy blankets, the scent of piss and bleach, and the mind numbingly bleak pale gray/blue watery wallboards and runners running tired lines up and down the dusky white hallways of the local Saint Vincent’s Community Hospital. I tell you now; this was not my most pleasant of experiences. I suppose that my thoughts may have been honed on darker things by the dull ache pounding from a point between my eyes through my foggy brain, back to a point of brilliant pain at the base of my neck. My fingers instinctively crawled their way across the spongy brail pocks of the gauze towards the low mounded lump on the front of my head.

I must say, it took me a moment to retrieve my wits as I sagged in that shabby hospital bed. I kept finding myself trailing into and out of my detailed imaginings. I groggily and grumpily rolled into visions of cascading sparks (quite lovely, they impose such a sense of power and freedom), retrieving the faint sense and memory of treasured scents (the faintly organic smell of forgotten library book stacks), or the sounds of cheap tin chimes being clattered by the early September winds. After a time, I pulled to, realizing that all the flights of fancy in the world would not retrieve me from this most truly detestable circumstance. Reluctantly I let the images and sensations swirl away, felt the dull ache building behind my eyes again. Carefully, I levered my head up off the over starched linen cover of the pillow, producing a cascade of faint crinkling snaps as the weathered material slid against the bed sheets below. A slow weak groan rolled over my thick dry tongue as I rolled my eyes about, seeking my bearings.

Work in Progress...

-By: Coalesce Lacuna