4997. FITZCARRALDO

FITZCARRALDO

When I woke up not knowing where I was and

it was no crime to be out of body : that was when I

knew myself best. The charnel house, at last, had closed.

Fitzcarraldo was to be no more. I could put away the

spectacles and my shovel. All my friends were near.

-

The man from the German movie crew was filming an 

opera house being built in the Andes  -  anyway I think

that was the story he was telling. I was still dazed from

a rap on the head. He said men were dying, falling from

cliffs, and the railroad cars they'd put in place rolled

backwards, over cows and horses? There had been

a fire, and someone had had a heart attack too?

-

Listening to stories like that, I was putty  -  this puny

23rd street bar held no other attribute for me. Across the

way, right opposite the art-supply store I use, was the old

Chelsea Hotel, speaking of charnel houses. I'd been in there

maybe twenty times  -  various reason, or to look at the

art on the walls  -  pieces given in place of rent by shabby

shits with no money left. The same shabby shits who went

on to fame and now the rent was 'enormous'. Dollars

grow like Pinocchio's wooden nose sometimes,

and everything has got a suitable story.

-

Our nostrums are useless. Prayers and missions don't work.

I wish to bring a doctor into this house to minister to all

the suffering  -  the dead guys from the Andean cliffs,

the horses, wailing in pain as they died, even that

railroad locomotive, gathering speed as it roars

down the hill. Heaven helps those who ask.

I ask for nothing at all.