The Autobiography of Laurel Last
They call it autobiography because it the story that writes itself.
It is never about you, really, but about the somebody adjacent that made the plot possible.
It is like rendering a parabola; the bio requires two points, mirroring every interval. There is the vertex, the focus, the directrix, and the axis of symmetry, that links the entirety.
I don’t remember how I was born, and I suppose none of us truly do, except by the stories told to us, and these become integral, as having certain prospective truth; that which will shape us. Along the same line, I recall vaguely what I did yesterday, but not as well as I recollect certain fiction that I’ve poured over; and it makes me incomprehensively sad that these tales won’t be read the same way, as we tread into the future.
Each book itself an incarnation, a character. I remember my Cervante’s Don Quixote, an ochre cloth bound double volume boxed set, the print so intricate and fine I could not parse through the bundle, succumbing to fatigue, and I surmised that it was a part of the plot, quixotic. I remember, my beloved Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. I covered this one in old brown shopping paper, like might be used at butcher shop. The cover crumbling, and the pages so deeply nicotined they made a tobacco chewer’s smile seem merely ecru. And I remember too my old charming French existential story collection, whose pages were so lacework brittle, that a little triangle remained in the hand if a corner was inadvertently dog eared. I had proffered scotch tape to bandage, but the new material resulted in three breaks instead of one, and so repair proved futile.
I wonder how many of you are left, reading, even if scrolling down with a finger, rolling along paragraphs, on a cold plastic screen. I want you to know, if I were a book, I’d be warm white fine-tooth vellum with the letters so emphatically pressed that they’d left an indent on the page, with serifs.
Life, I’ve learned is about accepting the wasting of time.
I am cynically honored that you are making this observation with me— that way we can both reassure each other that it is only partly true.
We have this dilemma at the outset in our autobiography: I will write what flows from synapsis to fingertips; You will read it, and what backpedals from retina to the conscious, shall be an entity almost entirely unique to yourself.
We can agree in this way to some sliding-scale co-authorship. This is the first moment of our past, present and tomorrow. And now what to do with this space?
Fill it, of course.
You will walk down these same steps. Careful! They are deteriorating on the left-hand side, and there is only one rail. By luck it is on the right, going down. The steps are generous, four feet wide and walking alone there is a reasonable sense of confidence. Walking side by side, together, it is best to hold hands, just in case. On the dilapidated edge, is the appearance of wilderness…
There are blackberries, the uncultivated kind that are hard, bright red, and small, but these will ripen in the fullness of summer sun into juicy purple capsules of C vitamins and sunshine. It’s a promise of health in the impulse to forage. Pushing beyond the briars, there are exposed areas of packed dirt and half buried rocks, promising uncertain footing. A tangle of vines obscures the way, but it seems as if a warm marshy clearing lies just a bit farther. Pausing, we can hear the soothing pulse of running water. Maybe a creak or deeper stream. It is deceptive we know because calm waters run deep and small waters are likewise quiet. There is a temptation to cross the tattered edge of the stairs, that Nature is trying to reclaim, and ascertain what is what...
To the right lies a manicured garden. It has a pebbled path, and the lawn beckons into a maze. It’s manmade, but its structure inevitably replicates the order of the cosmos in neat compactness. One component of the design chains to another; and forms layers like skin, arteries, and substructures, to hold it all upright. The branches of the thorned hedges have been bleached in the afternoon sun into stark blanched living-skeletons, one on top of another, ornamented by fairly uniform little leaves with marron veins and serrated edges turning from yellow to green. These are variously sized yet arguably identical to a mother pattern. Each new branch birthing more tiny leaves, eventually crowning them with rosette blossoms of gradient pinks and purples, blushing in the morning and all the more so in the evening. The hedges are precisely clipped.
At the top of the stairs, we look again, from the right to the left; and we agree to explore them both, separately.
* * *
Tomorrow, we will...
Celebrity Baby Names
Liora sat cross-legged in one of those uncomfortable vinyl chairs in the waiting room, flipping through an old magazine she had grabbed from the rack. The headline screamed *“Top 10 Most Bizarre Celebrity Baby Names of 2024!”* She rolled her eyes but started reading it anyway. Tymothe, slouched next to her with his foot propped up—still in that walking boot—was scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“You’ve got to hear this,” Liora said, not looking up from the magazine. “So apparently, some celebrity just named their kid *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”
Tymothe snorted, still looking at his phone. “Wait, like the ice machine? That’s... wow. Kid’s either destined to be a hockey legend or a heavy metal frontman.”
Liora giggled, flipping the page. “Oh, and it gets worse. Listen to this one: *Epoxy Almond*. What the hell is that? A snack or an adhesive?”
“Sounds like something you’d order at a vegan café,” Tymothe muttered, finally looking over. “I’ll have the gluten-free granola with a side of Epoxy Almond, please.”
She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Seriously, these people act like naming a kid is an avant-garde art project. Like, what happened to just naming your kid something normal? There’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ *Kate* or *Mike*.”
“Yeah, but how could they ever be the center of attention at yoga class with a name like *Kate*? You’ve gotta spice it up, make sure the world knows you’re too cool for basic vowels.” Tymothe stretched his arms over his head, clearly enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. “And the parents think they’re doing something groundbreaking, when really, they’re just dooming the kid to a lifetime of therapy.”
Liora chuckled. “For real. Imagine going through middle school as *Banjo Spatula* or *Moonbeam Harvest*. You’d never recover.”
Before Tymothe could respond, the receptionist called out, “Liora Throckmorton?”
Liora sighed, rolling her eyes again. “That’s me,” she muttered, standing up slowly. She shot Tymothe a look. “God, I hate hearing my last name in public. It sounds like I should be hosting tea parties for people with monocles.”
Tymothe grinned, watching her shuffle toward the desk. “Just lean into it. I’ll start calling you *Lady Throckmorton*, and we’ll get you a fancy cane.”
When she returned, they shared a quick glance, Liora settling back down beside him. “I mean, come on. Throckmorton? Who did my ancestors have to piss off to get that?”
Tymothe chuckled. “It does sound like you should be knighted or something. Sir Liora of the Throckmortons, Guardian of... overpriced antiquities?”
Liora groaned, resting her head in her hands. “You know, it’s bad enough dealing with all the doctor stuff. I don’t need to sound like I’m straight out of a Dickens novel while doing it.”
Tymothe shrugged. “At least it’s memorable. No one’s gonna forget a Throckmorton anytime soon.”
“And you,” Liora shot back, eyes glinting mischievously. “You can’t exactly talk. Tymothe? Really? With a ‘y’? That’s like a hipster knight who only drinks cold brew and solves crimes in his spare time.”
Tymothe laughed. “Oh, trust me, I’ve been having an identity crisis about that ‘y’ since high school. I thought it made me look cool and sophisticated.”
“Yeah, real sophisticated,” Liora teased. “You sound like you belong in a bad indie movie. Like the tortured lead character who writes poetry about abandoned warehouses.”
“And Throckmorton is somehow better?” Tymothe shot back. “Sounds like your ancestors ran a tiny, haunted village where all the kids disappeared.”
Liora cracked up, clutching her stomach. “Honestly, it fits. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself as *Liora, Mistress of Throckmorton Manor*. You know, the one where the lights flicker and the butler’s been missing for 15 years.”
Tymothe chuckled, shaking his head. “Great. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Tymothe, the coffee shop philosopher with more opinions than sense.”
They both laughed harder than they probably should have for a waiting room, but neither cared. It felt good to be loud, to be ridiculous, in a place that always seemed too quiet and too serious.
After catching her breath, Liora wiped her eyes. “We’ve really hit the jackpot, huh? Throckmorton and Tymothe. Two names that sound like we belong in some twisted Victorian mystery novel.”
Tymothe nodded sagely. “Or a band. Definitely a band. *Throckmorton & Tymothe*, playing all your favorite obscure tunes no one’s heard of.”
Liora smirked. “First hit single? *Zamboni Zeppelin*.”
“And the B-side,” Tymothe added, “*Epoxy Almond*.”
They both burst out laughing again, drawing curious looks from the other people in the waiting room. Liora grinned, feeling lighter than she had in weeks.
“Throckmorton and Tymothe,” she said softly, leaning back in her seat. “We’d be unstoppable.”
“Damn right,” Tymothe replied with a wink. “But first, we conquer this waiting room.”
They settled into a comfortable silence, still grinning like a pair of mischievous kids who’d just pulled off the best prank ever.
Parables
The wind
the rain
the sun
Are my teachers.
I walk among the ageless cedar
Observing the way of the beaver.
The galaxies and stars
Are my fathers’ map
guided by along
The less traveled, seldom trodden
Path.
I discern an ancient tale of woes spoken in the cryptic caws of crows
Who witness a world of
Ever change
Never less
the same
The grasping
Nevermore
to gain
Rising, collapsing.
The dawn of days
first born Hills rejoicing
Mountains leaping toward the sky
Came the vain pursuit of man
To find his means to satisfy
His bulging and corrupted-
Covetous eye.
I’ve seen the tower, babel
Thrust toward heaven high
Collapse
Returning to a mound of futile efforts dashed
laden beneath Millennias
of strata
and ash.
You
i owe you myself
you buffed up teddy who lived for all
today when i remember you
to be honest i dont think i am anymore
it took years to be here
it will take years to be where you were
but trust me even if i defied and defied and defied
i did so because i didnt know who i was
now i know
i am you and i will always be you
and now i must also walk on salt
Sanguine
in these tiresome shoes and the wisdom of dormancy-
felines and plundered dreams -
all surround the elixir of forgotten and tomorrow some
fortitudes in musky waters -
sanguine little bird whirling
around lesions silled in
red bricks
standing in oblivion
to krakatoa and orlando
exits and brexits
bullets and rowdy
orbits that sanity cuttles upon
You’re A Long Way From Home, Astronaut
The aeroplane flies away
And carves a bladed frame
Through hypnotic dead air,
Exiled from gravity’s bullying horrors.
Mood ring satellites
Nip deep at moon marrow fingers
And empties its milked ore overload,
To blind the wistful eye
Of an evaporating sun.
The unmoored aeroplane skirts the ebony rim
And punctures paper mâché lungs,
Exhaling death rattle transmissions
In 7/8 time.
Captain Zero kindly requests
That you forward any universal quandaries
To Violeta Of The Soul Sucked Skies,
Where her cosmos crowned saplings
Eat up an afterbirth of stars,
A million miles high.
The aeroplane salutes God
Then dips down
And bleeds a mercury tail,
As delirium casts radar shackled magnet eyes
Through television snow,
And the pull of below is a disintegrating ballet for the ages.