“Too late now.”
—Henry Darger on his deathbed,
complimented on his work for the first time.
—but those BOOKS, Henry Darger!—keep those books and paintings coming!—the world can never have enough of you!—nobody has ever said to me, so let me share a secret with you—come closer, voices down, sunrise whispers—about—the secret’s about—hang on—look!—what a magnificent day outside!—somewhere else, I’m sure of it, almost, process of elimination, anything’s possible, who’s to say with such bright, frisky, luminous shades of downfall, only what I really want to tell you about is something else—the gift I plan to give myself for my thirty-second birthday, eighteenth, forty-ninth, hike!, how time lies, though no matter what you try they just keep crowding you up, don’t they, the birthdays, like walking into a room busy with hornets, don’t know which one to slap at first, so keep it under your hat—the secret, because—
—because I know I can trust you, kind of, sort of, up to a point, if absolutely no farther, nothing personal, statement of fact, about, it’s about, the secret: Henry’s jumping ship, flying the coop, St. Augustine’s Home for the Aged, never too old to run, words to live by, for nobody should ever groan out of bed in the morning without a getaway plan tucked in his back pocket—learned that if nothing else, don’t know why, accidents happen, knowledge too, I sure didn’t have anything to do with it, though, even so, everyone has the right to flight, look it up, matter of record, each of us a single decision away from a different life—amen to that, Jack—maybe better, in all likelihood worse, won’t know till we get there, will we, won’t know then either, don’t hold your breath, because whoosh!—I’ll be out of here before they know it, fucking nuns, down the street, across the square, what square, gusty one, called what, the square, tip of the—who needs luggage, is the thing, never have, never will, travel light, three one-dollar bills, spare change, trusty cane, wheelchair sheer bonus should one happen to pop up beneath me without warning, dressed to the nines in new thoughts and diaper, thrilled to be part of it all—by mistake, feasibly, right—couldn’t disagree—or—the how do you say it—at the verge of—at—nearby—yes I—YES—um—
—all the same, let’s admit it: you’re inventing me—or vice versa—idiom from the Greek meaning night screams—whatever way it goes somebody’s clearly getting invented around here, both of us, now wouldn’t that be a knock-back, maybe not, par for the course, sign of the times, cut your losses, minimize the—cathedral square, that’s—which—amusement park—beside the—I don’t—good start—not great, mind you, but good—good enough—keep the ball—
—that instant in everybody’s life when the barometric pressure reaches a certain negative stress—oxygen saturation—molecules—particles—matter and energy—haven’t a clue—no Double Eagles on that golf course—temperatures mild—April afternoon, April or May, no later than June, in any case, wild guess, June or September, little wind, high 67, everything menacing, chatter without end, though I’m not at all convinced you can hear a word I’m saying, that technical difficulty, not since you attained escape velocity back in the—when was it—even so, got to keep trying, don’t we—
—not really, pulling your leg—except, seriously, we’ve got to keep trying, is an exaggeration, only here I am shouting across deep space to you, even if we both know sound doesn’t travel in a vacuum—you shouting across to me, silences arriving one after another, sometimes waving, us, sometimes waving at each other, sometimes a basic semaphore will do—maybe you can feel it in your chest—the atmosphere of my language—give me a signal—wink, nod, cradle your face in your palms, tell your reflection in the mirror—under my mattress upstairs—the secret—mum’s the world—keep your ears sharp—that’s the—because under my bed—beneath the blue—
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—back again, yes, who would have thought, quick nap, keep it light, under my mattress upstairs, look at that, what a comeback, who said Henry’s out of the game, under my mattress upstairs I’ve stashed three objects: ebony cigarette holder, black beret, crimson scarf, all lifted from this or that garbage can, which one, none of your business, mine either, evidently—so quick: head for the hills, there are no hills, keep the bar low, head for the knolls, that’s better, mounds, nobody’s going to miss Saint Dargarius till breakfast, is the gist of the matter, ixnay, lips sealed, if anyone then, miss him, for the Vivian Girls will protect us, Blengins leading the charge, star-spangled wings, curved fangs, let the nuns fluster before the squadron of benevolent butterflies sweeping in from Minnesota—we—we!—are we—outside voices?—sure—outside, inside—but—
—gone by the time they notice, the nuns, pay attention, by the time they notice I’ll be history, rolling down the sidewalk in a pink Cadillac of grins, wheelchairing along like nobody’s business—or shuffling—another option—shuffling along like nobody’s business—wheelchairing or shuffling, one of the two, barely, with the help of my cane used as oar or defense—what beautiful thoughts I’m not having today, rolling, rolling or shambling, toward the lakeshore, ocean liner already at dock, what ocean liner, carries no weight, any sport in a storm, baseball, basketball, unicycle hockey, then that slow sail through the inside passage toward New York, three one-dollar bills, rich in every sense of the word except the one that counts—
—conceivably a sketchbook, too, a sketchbook and pencil would be nice—seventy-third birthday, twenty-first, how time cries, plans to return to Chicago in four or five nevers—and something else—always that—something else—anthems—lullabies—anyway, I did that—I think—what an idea—wouldn’t want to pin my hopes on it—look!—
—falling up—
—into the sky—
—it’s all so—
—so—
—you know I used to work for IBM, don’t you—public knowledge—open book—check the accounts—great company—executive staff—
—Xerox, I mean—I used to work for Xerox—when in doubt hire a professional, is what I always don’t say, because around here—and, uh, I don’t have much more to add—
—hire a professional—
—just that—
—though I rode like a cowboy, you should have seen me, on my bicycle, mine, red as rage, in the sense that I stole it, briefly, alley, couple minutes of pleasure while some kid’s back was turned, none the wiser, riding in circles, let’s call that pleasure, eager shiver at the base of the spine, meaning if I’ve accomplished anything on this asteroid it’s been the maintenance of total control over my room, for Henry knew some things once upon a time, bold assertion, me lounging on my deck chair beneath the stars while steaming farther and farther through the icebergs toward the center of—Paris!, that shudder, crepes, wine, always hated the stuff, like licking bricks, bunghole cheeses too from what I can make out in the literature, cigarettes, the French, so I’m fully acquainted with the work of not one of their painters, proud to say, if you want to know the truth, figure of speech, all fuzzy trees, blurry haystacks, misaligned eyes, noses—not interested—gloves off—though I could still wrestle any five of them with one hand tied behind my lack—let any of them try to write a novel long as mine—
—yet everything in the fullness of time comes down to the spirit of cappuccino—for that I would fight you—croissants—try anything once—except smoking, nothing doing, cigarette holder veed between my thumb and forefinger empty as God Himself intended, all show, no glow, let the chips fall where they may, me bereted and scarfed at my little table in front of a café, which café, don’t worry about it—there I am relaxing in the middle of an ordinary existence for once in my life, sipping, mine, not too much foam, too much foam and you’ve wrecked it, April afternoon, April or May, breezy, high 67, noon, time at last passing gently in the comfort of my own boredom, framing the rare, pedestrians in abundance, recollecting that red bike I pinched in that alley on my thirty-second birthday, fifty-sixth, out for a joyride, and after a while deciding—what?—
—go shopping!, there it is, I’ve said it, pastel macaroons, tin replica of that thing, Eiffel Tower, lived in it for years, little known fact, up top where the invisible landmines and Xerox employees are kept, Xerox or IBM, ceaseless misery of the listless—and for this reason I thumbed through old postcards beside him at the stalls along the—that river—which—remains to be seen—and off again, strolling the park, you know the one—posh—hobbling—tottering—tottering the park among all that tidiness of French foliage—seen it myself—thick coffee-table books—wedding-cake architecture being another thing Henry has always detested about that place—and with that we realize we’re in a movie!—a MOVIE!—of course we are!—who would have—hidden cameras—unseen mics—just two extras doddering through the set of a park, what park, makes no difference, me doddering more than you, rule of thumb, not that I’d ever play anyone else’s leading man except yours, my daughter, pixie looks, perfect elegance, definition of starlet, gorgeous eyes, color of verse—that’s why the paparazzi are squeezing us in, bastards can smell the fame coming off us and—
—thank you for asking—family’s great—father, mother, sister, brother—just like families everywhere—treasures one and all—couldn’t be closer—tender heresies—we had two sons, that man and me, one a doctor of atrocity, can’t recollect the other, not in the least, promise never to ask how we arrived here, only to find ourselves mugging on a red carpet in front of a theater, what theater, not worth the bother, cameras flashing, questions slapping in—
—over there in the corner, what’s his name, artist, that guy, Joseph what—Cornell—Joseph Cornell, balding dome, fist of white hair stuck on the back of his head like a big cotton ball, shapeless suit, pissed-off face, sorting through my paintings—not yours, sorry, sweetheart, some of us make it, some of us don’t, lottery plain as the rosacea on your face, no disrespect, envy all over the place, suck it up, get on with your life, nothing to lose, gain, not when everything is said and—
—spread out on a huge table, the paintings, mine, and next to him Frank Tree, Baum, Frank Baum, shaggy mustache, pince-nez, oily hair split down the middle like Alfalfa in The Little Rascals, reading my novel aloud for the journalists to admire, carpenters, physicians, masters of the hula hoop, The Book of Undoing, new one we’re jailed in right now, whole goddamn thing just stories, all stories, stopping now and then to raise his head and appreciate this turn of phrase, Herr Baum, compliment its genius, you get used to such stuff, playing yourself, shamming humility, never cared for the flim-flam of it—can’t recollect his exact wording, something something pure poetry of complexity, something something brilliant beyond words, because the family’s good, as I say, thank you for asking, mother and brother dead, father fled, sister unsaid—we had two kids, that woman and me, son and daughter, nothing but trouble in the end, live miscarriages both, one a doctor of escape velocity, the other a whatever he was, to this day I’m not positive, don’t believe I ever caught their names—my bicycle—Stingray—banana seat—bell—did I already get my hair done today?—no importance—let the alarm pass—
—no, not that, something else—how for a second when you were born you were the youngest person on earth, and then you understand the feeling, what feeling, the one we’re having right now, me more than you, some of us loved, some of us less so—they adore me!—that feeling—everything in its time—walk before you limp—I can see it in their eyes—let’s call it devotion, what the hell, because it might last the rest of the day, rest of the hour, less, three seconds, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have this, your arm around my waist on the red carpet in front of the theater, mine around yours, you never liked that, did you, all those stillbirths between us, which is why I think I’m supposed to be somebody to you—uh—
—a picture—is where I was going with this—we should get our picture taken for posterity—I know you’ll want to remember these sensations bathing us, because I’ve got what I’ve got, and it’s astonishing, and you’ve got what you’ve got, not as astonishing, yet more astonishing than some, less than others, so everything’s perfect, in a manner of speaking, even if now and then you forget what sleep feels like because your head won’t turn you loose at bedtime—
—good enough, nearly, never sure what you’re going to lose next, just have to wait and see, so take them all in, these objects in my museum, enjoy, proof we’ve been somewhere, is an overreach, what more could you ask for—besides money, naturally—a job—money, a job, those, an end to pain goes without saying, some edible food, privacy, higher Social Security payouts, a special friend to leave you alone—besides those, I mean, what more could you ask for—
—and when they inquire on the red carpet about my favorite color and the nature of time, tell them this—tell them I’ve always wanted more paint brushes—make sure to tell them that, the little shits, more paint brushes sure would have been nice once in a goddamn while—
—and, um, tell them three Tootsie Rolls were never enough—
—let me think—
—let me—
—right, and tell them tomorrow is already broken—
—because every movie is the same movie to the extent they all end and, uh—
—and make sure to tell them everything’s okay now—that old lie—tell them that and tell them to step the fuck back because Henry Darger isn’t done yet, you can bet your Eiffel Tower on it, not even close, no way, barely off the ground, engines revving, head spinning, bowels flowing, better goddamn believe it, because here’s the real deal, Jack: you’ve got to love it all away—your life—your grief—
—that worn-out saw—not a grain of truth in it—because he’s rolling out the door, rolling or shuffling, shuffling or tottering, cane in hand, off to Paris, London, London or Hinsdale, we’ll see, could be Pittsburgh for all I care, never had the pleasure, only that’s not the point, stay with me, hang in there, postcards coming shortly, check your mailbox, reports from the front, we’re taking fire!, keep your head down, listen for the bombers, that’s it—there—here they come—telegrams as well, when extravagance knows no bounds, bunghole cheeses, cinderblock wine, macaroons—I used to live at the top where the ermines are kept, off the record, state secret—so tell them that—and tell them this, too—don’t forget, muffin—I’m counting on you—you tell them like you almost believe it yourself: Henry Darger—he’s been the luckiest man al—
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—so anyway—
LANCE OLSEN is author of more than 30 books of and about innovative writing practices, including, most recently, the novels Absolute Away(Dzanc, 2024) and Always Crashing in the Same Car: A Novel After David Bowie(FC2, 2023). A Guggenheim, Berlin Prize, D.A.A.D. Artist-in-Berlin Residency, Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Center Residency, two-time N.E.A. Fellowship, and a Pushcart Prize recipient, as well as a Fulbright Scholar, he is Professor Emeritus of experimental narrative theory and practice at the University of Utah.
