Maybe there’s some solace in this loneliness. Mustn’t one learn things the average man doesn’t? I have faith in my perceptions. My acquaintance with my surroundings is intimate. Seldom does a sound reach my ears which I can not identify. My fingers have traced the faces of my past; skimming the surfaces of dozens of photographs kept in a shoe box beneath the bed. The same fingers now trace the line of my trachea, running from the dimple at the top of the ribcage to the bottom of my chin and back again. The photographs connect me to lives long since lost. Not necessarily dead, just lost. I, myself, am not dead. It wouldn’t take much, though, to put my finger through my windpipe. Loss is a matter of perspective. Things lost to one man are found by another. Then again, some things are simply lost.

Yesterday there was snow on the ground. But today the air is visibly hot, rising from the ground in gaseous waves. The outside can not be conquered: the definition of nature. I am king of myself alone. My empire consists of quiet and stillness. Holding on to my territory is no mean feat. Nature is just outside the door, waiting to claim my dominion as her own. She has no particular axe to grind with me. But if I can not master my interior, then, as they say, Nature will take her course. Land will trade itself for sea. Day will take the place of night, dancing, dusk to dawn, in black, satin vestments. Entropy, the one, indisputable truth, will prevail. I have no plans to surrender. But every man eventually grows weak. It is simply a matter of time.

I can exclude the outside. There are tricks, techniques. I can gaze into my own eyes. The mirror is the simplest effective subterfuge. A man, so accustomed to seeing from the inside out, can turn the tables on himself. He can look outside in. What lies behind those eyes? What motivations? Who, of the many selves within, is at the helm? Not that examining myself in a mirror will keep Nature at bay. But, for a while, at least, I can forget about it. My face has grown gaunt for not eating. I know it’s stupid. I just can’t be bothered. But I can’t plead ignorance either. A baked potato, a fried chicken – the names, themselves, dictate their preparation. So I just keep drinking this wretched port wine, even though it turns my teeth black.

There is a brief tremor. I climb out of my chair. Still facing the mirror, I say my name out loud, watching my lips form the syllables. I catch myself in an unexpected expression; my eyes recoiling in disbelief. A spray of leaves is turned back by the curtains. The floor buckles, but manages to repel the heaving earth. It is as if the whole house has taken up my cause. Perhaps there is hope yet. I turn from the mirror. And, though the refrigerator and the sink are in their usual places, the blood I spit into the porcelain basin, is gone. The kitchen clock I’d hung just moments ago still holds. My feet are killing me. I kick off my shoes and socks. I expected to see something – a rash, blisters, something. But my feet look normal. They burn. I want to plunge them into a bucket of water. But I don’t own a bucket. I’ve been lazy and cheap. For years, I’ve been using the kitchen garbage can for mopping. But I do feel a little better for having taken off my shoes and socks. So I take off the rest of my clothes. I glance back at the mirror again. It’s been months since I’ve been in the sun. My thighs are ashen white the entire length of their curvature. I put my hands on my belly, try to move it, as if it is a separate entity. Upon release, it drops, craning for the earth. I close the closet door. Ninety seconds have passed. Yet I sense a shift. One thing has been exchanged for another. Things are not so simple anymore.

It’s as if he is born of my breath. I exhale and he is there. I mean…I am there. I am facing myself. Not in the mirror, but face to face. Both of us: me and me, naked as jay birds. And, foolishly, I am overcome by a flash of modesty. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of the wind lifting glowing cinders through the air. There is a scent of alder. I jump back into my trousers and I dash to the closet for a second pair. The mirror on the closet door is empty. I turn to face me, one in jeans, the other in gray slacks. I haven’t clothes for two. I feel faint. There is a distant laughter. I’m struck with an urge to rush outside, though it is raining sickly yellow rain, leaving puddles the color of urine. I have only one umbrella. Both of me rush to the front door. I get there first and snatch the umbrella. We are both breathing heavily. Evidently, the other me has asthma too. Where is that music coming from? I haven’t touched the radio.

"Occasionally, the air itself is music," I say aloud.

"Density," shit, I meant to say destiny, "determines the selection."

God, I could use some salt. I drop the umbrella. To the cupboard! I lick salt from my hand, but it is not enough. So I stick the spout in my mouth and suck it directly from the canister. I swallow half a cup at least. So does me. There is no more salt. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with questions. Who will wear my glasses? Who will use my rail pass? How will we report ourselves during the upcoming census? Nosce te ipsum. I think about eating myself; think of the philosophic (not to mention the biological) ramifications. Could eating myself cause chromosomal aberrations?

I remember walking home from the train this afternoon. They’d let us out of work at four for the holiday. But the sun goes down so early. It was already dark. It’s almost as if, each year, the winter sun sets a little earlier. Truth is, it’s probably my eyes a little closer to the blindness of death. I could smell the first of the season’s wood fires emanating from neighborhood chimneys. The smell, usually quite lovely, I found offensive. Don’t those people know that, by rushing to their tinder at the first sign of a nip in the air, they admit defeat. It is as if they are putting the door on the latch and putting out a plate of cake. A wood fire is an invitation to Winter.

I walked briskly, as usual, getting out ahead of the other people exiting the station. I turned right down Hermitage, through the church parking lot. I remember seeing a shadow out of the corner of my eye. And then, a second, just a few steps behind the first and just as substantive. It put me on edge, this second shadow. How had someone come up so close behind me? And why, for god’s sake? I tried to catch a glimpse of the interloper without turning my head in an obvious fashion. I listened for the sound of steps. Finally, when my anxiety grew too much, I turned to look behind me. There was no one there. I looked up and realized I was roughly equidistant between two streetlights. The one ahead projected my shadow on the ground slightly behind me and the one behind me, slightly ahead. A step or two more and the shadow in front began to dissipate. Before long the shadow behind drew even with me; my doppelganger equal. Then it moved ahead and another began to form, slowly, like a spirit, behind me. I’d experienced this phenomenon many times before. And, yet, it had fooled me.

Am I under a similar spell now? I search my pockets for a remnant to confirm my identity; a dry cleaning ticket, a receipt, a photo ID. Nothing. The other me is turning his pockets inside out as well. I am parched. The salt has left my throat in brambles. I stumble to the bathroom and lean over the sink. I’m gagging violently. I see myself in the mirror; my eyes, saucers of worry. I cup my hands under the faucet and bring handfuls of water to my mouth. It does no good. My windpipe is obstructed. An acidic, metallic wash backs up into my mouth.

I rush outside, spitting out the bitterness. The ground is smoldering and I seem to sink into it as I step. As if from an oven, my breath burns eye-sized holes in the air. Finally, from beneath my tongue, I cough up a coin. The choking stops. Beneath a Romanesque bust, framed by olive boughs or maybe stalks of wheat, appear the words "Veritas Unum." And again, I am alone.

Chicago December 1999

© 1999 Seth Kim-Cohen