n o n e o f t h i s i s r e a lM I R A N D A M E L L I S

none of this is realM

IRANDA MELLIS

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sidebrow books • isbN-13: 978-0-9814975-4-9 • $18

It seemed the world had not decided she was

a destination; she was only part of the scenery.

She had no address, and she produced nothing,

so the world had no use for her. She was of no

use to the world but she found the world very

useful indeed. Without the world, she thought,

what would I have to look at?

SB005-MELLIS-COVER-FINAL.indd 1 1/26/12 11:09:59 AM

Published by Sidebrow BooksP.O. Box 170113

San Francisco, CA 94117-0113sidebrow@sidebrow.net

www.sidebrow.net

©2012 by Miranda MellisAll rights reserved

Cover art by Monica CanilaoCover & book design by Jason Snyder

ISBN: 0-9814975-4-3ISBN-13: 978-0-9814975-4-9

f i r s t e d i t i o n | f i r s t p r i n t i n g

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

s i d e b row b o o k s 005

p r i n t e d i n t h e u n i t e d s tat e s

Sidebrow Books titles are distributed by Small Press Distribution

Titles are available directly from Sidebrow at www.sidebrow.net/books

Sidebrow is a member of the Intersection Incubator, a program of Intersection for the Arts (www.theintersection.org) providing fiscal sponsorship, networking, and consulting for artists. Contributions to Sidebrow are tax-deductible to the extent allowed by law.

sidebrow books • 2012 • san francisco

N o n e o f T h i s I s R e a lM i r a n d a M e l l i s

F a c e1

n o n e o f t h i s i s r e a l5

t h e c o f f e e j o c k e y53

t r i p l e f e at u r e69

t r a n s f o r m e r77

F a c e

3

Here is what happened. I became ill suddenly. I tried to act normally,

taking walks with friends, eating chocolates, giving advice. But then it

would rise up in me. My face moving involuntarily, twitching, leering,

telling a story over which I had no control. The illness subsided if I was by

myself or only incidentally with strangers (on the bus, in line at the café,

passing in the hallways of houses or buildings). But if there was a deeper

acquaintance, some superstructure of expectation to companionship, a

closeness or depth of feeling or sincerity required, the attack was trig-

gered. The walks, the talks, the chocolates, the advice giving—it seemed

they would destroy me.

We would walk right to the edge of high cliffs, a small crowd marveling at

the vista. Beautiful? Opaque. Trying to find meaning in the view, my face

would start its antic, sneering rebellions. I couldn’t enjoy the view with

the others. My body was rejecting meaning, or so it seemed. At the very

least, I had learned to refrain from complaining, or even speech. In not

speaking I became a plateau.

My cheerful companions tried to keep things light, understandably un-

nerved by my facial aggressions. Truly, a person may become an abyss:

I felt it happening to me. My visage became a kaleidoscopic mask;

people weren’t sure who they were looking at. I could not translate. I felt

non existence encroaching. Occasionally some little thing would bring

n o n e o f t h i s i s r e a l

7

The first night on a visit to see his mother, O hardly slept on an emaciated

mattress in the trough of an old sofa bed. He had dreamt of a vast con-

struction site made of thin, gray plastic rods that, like the intersecting

leaves of the horsetail plant, were easily adjoined or separated. The site

was porous, open to the elements. Here and there people “worked,”

which consisted of sticking the rods together and then pulling them apart.

An angry foreman told O in despair that he was the only one who knew

the truth: the whole work site was a façade. His job was to hide the truth

from the workers, forever. O remarked to the foreman that the workers

might notice for themselves, as pulling the rods apart and then sticking

them back together was self-evidently meaningless. The foreman shook his

head. You don’t understand, he said; they wouldn’t know unless I told them

and I’m hired not to. Is your work pointless too then? O asked. No, said the

foreman; I keep everything going. What would happen if you told them?

O asked. I would lose my job, the foreman replied sadly, turning away.

In the morning O’s mother Sonia had come upon him standing in a curious

way with his head turned all the way to the left and tilted slightly forward. O

had always been a quiet person, which his mother appreciated, but this visit

he seemed to talk less than ever. What Sonia had once found a comforting

quietude in her son now registered as a nameless despair. She hadn’t seen

him in a year, and now this, an unexpected visit that found him drooping

by the foldout.

t h e c o f f e e j o c k e y

Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.

—Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

55

The coffee jockey bent over to get some lids and her back went out.

She couldn’t move, nor could she speak. People in line just waited and

sighed and looked at their watches. The radio played a song by Van Halen.

The coffee jockey was bent in half. She could see the rubber mat on the

floor, and the shelf where the packets of sugar and extra lids were kept.

She could hear Van Halen and she looked at the rubber mat, which she

would put outside when she mopped at the end of the day, and she stared

at the big holes in the rubber mat and heard the song say, “My love is

rotten to the core,” and it was like she was being killed. She couldn’t stand,

nor could she speak. The phone rang and she couldn’t answer it. She just

hung there, bent in half, staring at the rubber mat and smoking a cigarette.

The woman at the head of the line looked down at the coffee jockey bent

in half on the other side of the counter and wondered how long it would

take to get her espresso.

The people in line were angry about the line and waited impatiently but

with a look of patience because of what others might think. They were

angry because the coffee jockey made herself a cup of coffee for every

single one she made for everyone else and now, bent in half, she had ceased

making espressos altogether. One man in line sighed loudly. He crossed

his arms and shook his head because time was taken up standing in line.

During these interludes he felt his time being wasted. He did not know

what to make of this loss, only to lament it.

t r i p l e f e a t u r e

71

The movie theater smelled of cigarettes and rain. The rows of seats creaked.

The older sister could see that the tall white man on the movie screen was

dangerously crazy. She felt sad for him. His flat, wide-brimmed hat was

familiar. Who wore hats like that? Oh yeah, the Quaker oatmeal man. The

man in the Quaker hat resided where creepy men are found, in bushes by

the sides of highways. He was in a terrible mess. Because of his religion. But

what is wise blood? This their mother had not explained to them when she

took them to the triple feature, just to get out of the house today; she said,

“It’s only a dollar at the Strand.” But the older sister knew that they weren’t

there to get out of the house, they were there to get away from her mother’s

boyfriend.

During the movies, her mother kept getting up and going to the lobby.

Usually she was rapt at the movies, shushing her daughters. But this time she

was distracted. Every time that her mother came back and sat down next

to her the older girl looked at her but she wouldn’t look back. “Who were

you talking to?” the older girl whispered. “Your uncle,” she said. “Why?”

Her mother didn’t answer. The older girl knew that her uncle had lent her

mother money. A few minutes later her mother left again.

When the man in the Quaker oatmeal hat poked his own eyes out, the

younger one cried and hid in the older girl’s lap. He had realized something

about life, the older girl thought, something that she knew as well: you had

t r a n s f o r m e r

The object of fear is a future set in the past.

—Adam Phillips, Terrors and Experts

79

In the old world, a woman asked her daughter to set fire to the woods with

her mind. The daughter tried, hoping to please, as all young do. She looked

at the forest behind their house and told it to burn. But the forest remained as

it was. “Try again,” her mother commanded. “Send yourself into the wood

and rub against it with the flint of your life; use that spark.” She snapped her

fingers and said, “It should catch, just like that.” The daughter, obedient,

tried again. She closed her eyes and saw herself floating erratically towards

the woods. Coming to a broken branch, she rubbed. Nothing happened. She

saw the forest floor spread out below her, an alphabet she had only just begun

to learn. Her mother looked intently into the trees, scanning for flames. She

knew her authority was not in question. Nor did her daughter lack heart.

The girl lit upon a small dry twig in her mind’s eye and tried to catch it on

fire, though she had no real interest in that action, no desire to perform it,

the way a dog has no real interest in trying to eat with a fork, except maybe

as a joke. What’s more, she could tell, though her mother had yet to realize

it, that she was not equipped with that sort of flint. But she tried. And again,

she failed. The mother turned to see her daughter lost in reverie, eyes closed,

hands clasped in front of her, her body rising up on her toes, falling back on

her heels, a warm, pleasurable pressure in the center of her feet, between her

ribs, in her throat. When the girl opened her eyes, she was alone.

She walked to the forest. She noticed a woman in the brush foraging. She

also saw a worm moving through the undergrowth. She watched its antenna-