the rembrandt society

[Author's note:  This too is what may become a work-in-progress for a project that as of now has no complete outline or plan, but the sliver of an idea has irritated its way under my skin & I am compelled to see whether I am able to remove it or live with it as it is.  RP]

the moment he bit into the winter apple, the ricochet crunch was a bullet to my heart and i feared i would not see him again.  we had this one last day together, a picnic in the barren orchard, the sun low in the sky & that cider smell of rotten apples & fallen leaves

i could not bear the thought of losing him but my anxiety just increased my nervous laughter & when i climbed up into the tree i had hoped to get away from him, but he followed; in the tight crux of the branches he leaned into me, his wool uniform, his odor wrapping around me (like his arm eventually)

his bright teeth worked at the apple & bite by bite it disappeared between his lips. i watched him swallow, so close i could count the cleanly-shaven whiskers on his neck, they rippled as he bit into the apple again & i thought i should kiss him now, i would kiss him now.  he turned his golden eyes to me (apple of his eye, adam’s apple, apple pie, gala, delicious, granny smith) & i

laughed at his antics, of all things, the two of us up in our favorite tree, two boys (still)

[photo found at the flea market this weekend.]

someone loved him.  sometimes he would laugh, exposing a mouthful of white teeth (that red tongue pulled back in a chuckle).  his pale blue eyes were the color of early morning, the mist pulling back against the heavens.  someone would have brushed his blond hair; touched his shoulder; straightened his collar; pulled the top button though its hole; rested their hands on his chest; felt his heart beat (a moment); the sigh of a breath escaping his lips would have touched them (both).

perfect in about every way. the arch of the eyebrow.  the up-turned nose.  that pouty lower lip.  the dimpled chin.  & the hair, my god, the hair.  don’t forget those sweet little jug-handle ears.  but it’s those heavy-lidded eyes, ready to close as he leans in for a kiss, that put me over the moon.

when finally all of the young men had gathered in the studio, rembrandt (the name he had chosen for himself for this time, forever) stood in the dusky, dusty light & studied each one of them carefully & fully.  in this light from the north-facing windows he walked among them, placing his cool hand on their chins & turning their heads this way, that, the slightest of smiles flickering underneath the fullness of his pale rose lips.

he had a way of looking at you that made you feel at once welcome and slightly unsettled; he delved and divined your mysteries, the you you were only vaguely aware of existed.  he stopped to face brother dick, the one who had traveled the furthest, the one whose journey had been the most turbulent physically & emotionally & put his arm around his shoulder pulling him closely in an act of charity & of clarity.  brother dick inhaled a sob, acceptance coursing through his nervous system, sparking the blue of his eyes, a summer storm’s lightning flashing.

standing back from the embrace as brother dick regained his bearing, rembrandt turned & continued on his path through the assembly of young men, all of whom had been drawn to him in secret, a secret that they did not fully understand at the time, but only that it was a pull of energy that drove them to this meeting place, this destination, this safety.  in their past, they had understood the subtle hand-signals, the lidded eyes of other men.   on their way to leaving their past they had discovered messages scrawled in an impatient hand & stuffed in the burls of tree trunks by the river.  the look from the station-master as they boarded the train in pittsburg (ks.) confirming their intent & direction; then kansas city, like water seeking its own level they flowed to chicago & his studio, following the continental divide, the geography of want & the law of gravity pulling them to this place in time.

i saw him standing outside the depot, anxious, waiting & knew he’d be jumping on at the very last instant as they engine chuffed up a head of steam & moved across the plain, out of town & past the line of colliers waiting to descend into their hell (little deaths each day) their tools, their canned lunches, the whistle of the train commingling with that of the coal mine

once we got to kansas city, i walked away from my station (conductor) & joined him on the train to chicago, an unspoken agreement reached between us, although we discussed many things that day, none truly touched upon our real reasons for coming together.  i left my family behind, i left my old life behind. i turned away from the desperation & confusion of my past, i turned toward hope.

pittsburg, kansas—incorporated ten years after kansas became a state, the crossroads for 4 railway lines; industrial, coal mining & oil fields.  in 1876 over 14,000 residents, more unsolved homicides than any other community in kansas combined with rampant prostitution made it a destination for many fleeing the law, the south, the remnants of the civil war.  so many murders that the coal-miners often times tripped over dead bodies on their way to the mine for the early morning shift.  (all true.)

competing photography studios: wm. mcfarland (photo above) & rembrandt studios — the youth of pittsburg flocking to both to have their beauty frozen in time as if the degradation of their continued existence could somehow be stopped, at the least slowed down.  some did find escape from what surely would be a short hard life of labor, drunkenness and dissipation.  kansas was a ‘dry’ state, but pittsburg was loaded with saloons & bawdy houses serving liquor.  every monday the owners of said establishments (closed for the day) would head down to the courthouse, receive their fines & promptly pay them — & open on tuesday for another week of debauchery.  (parts of this paragraph are true.)

escape is on the mind of our jug-eared young man, it’d been whispered that once photographed here in pittsburg the opportunities for escape were suddenly endless, as if an underground current charged through the photography studio right into the chair you were seated in for your portrait & shocked you, changed you, motivated you to action, jumping one of the five rail lines made up the ‘queen & crescent’ rail system, that intersected here in pittsburg.

“i love you,” he breathed quietly through his slightly parted lips, the cameo you had given him, worn with jaunty dignity on his lapel, glinting in the stark light of the studio.  you had heard him, but did not respond as you continued with the preparations for the photographic process, glass plate slid into place, the rustle of the cloak as you draped it over your head (the quiet & concentration in the dark) & his beauty, his youth, his confusion, his love as he focused to the left (your right arm & hand outside the cloak gesturing with the flash bar)  & the sudden quiet before the ignition of light that caught him at the very moment he understood your reticence & reserve.

they met at the train station in kansas city, all fleeing their pasts, futures on hold while the present presided over their mutual need (for friendship, understanding, love.)  their youth & their suspicion brought them together; & this man (whom someone loved deeply & ached for years after his disappearance) took the lead & they followed

pittsburg, kansas:  police are questioning the owners of rembrandt studio regarding the recent disappearance of two local young men shortly after they had picked up their finished portraits at the studio.  each young man has left his photograph on his pillow as if to say goodbye to family and loved ones.  in each instance their bedroom window has been left open.  police are trying to determine if foul play was involved, but currently believe that the young men have run away from home.  this is the second such occurrence in as many days with yesterday’s disappearance of brother “dick.”

the last we saw of brother dick was the night before we found his made-up bed & his room empty of his presence, his few clothes gone & the window open & mother’s lace curtains billowing inward with a gust of spring.  this portrait laying on the pillow arranged just so.  he always had a way of looking at you, like he knew something you didn’t, but not in a mean way, but somehow saying something to your soul, a whisper of the future, a hint of the past.

i left, i left them without a note. what was i to say?  their constant scrutiny of my every mood & my every movement; trying to parse the vocabulary of my difference, i could not tolerate another minute of it.  i left, i left them for somewhere that i can be myself, perhaps get lost in the crowds of a large city or another country.  i don’t feel that i’m alone, but i don’t know that i’m not. & being away is more important to me than staying, chained to such anguish.  i am not ready to give in or give up.