I. Waters of March by Art Garfunkel

March 1

Dreamt I was eating out with YQ. She was saying how she was a good friend because she was funny. I was amused that she thought she was. She tried to make me laugh by waggling a cucumber stick at my face. It wasn’t successful. She got angry.

March 2

Rode my bike. Neighbors had tethered their cat outside to the fence. Rode past their house again at night. It was still tethered.

March 3

OB called and told me he has a bladder infection. He’s in the hospital. He sounded really bad on the phone.

March 10

Went to the bookstore with YQ. Chose not to tell her about the dream. I was comfortable in the reading chair while she browsed but she ran into people she didn’t like, so she told them we had to leave and made me get up.

March 11

Checked the fridge for milk. Realized it was unplugged and that it had been for hours. Cradled the cartons of milk and carried them down the road. Felt bad about throwing them all out at once. Put them gently in the trash one by one and said goodbye to each.

March 16

YQ told me I should listen to “Waters of March” by Art Garfunkel. I said I will never listen to solo material from Simon or Garfunkel.

March 18

Rode by the neighbor’s house. The cat was still tethered to the_fence.

March 21

Dreamt I was eating out with OB. We almost choked on our food while laughing.

March 22

Heard something rattling in the trash where I threw the milk out. Waited for it to stop but it kept rattling on. I didn’t stay or look inside for what it was.

March 23

YQ made me watch a horror movie called “Paperhouse.” It wasn’t a horror movie at all. I teared up a bit towards the end. YQ didn’t see. Stupid movie.

March 24

Got to glimpse a shooting star. Won’t write down my wish, just in case.

March 25

Visited OB in the hospital. He was even worse. He wanted me to read a Salinger story about Eskimos to him. He fell asleep halfway through and snored really loud with the tube I assumed went up his bladder.

March 28

Listened to the Garfunkel song.

March 29

Sneaked into the neighbor’s garden and untethered the cat. They saw me so I ran away. The cat didn’t move or come along. Next time I rode by the house it was tethered again.

March 30

Dreamt I was still out eating with YQ. She remained angry from the previous dream. I apologized. She refused to talk. I challenged her to a duel of cucumber sticks. She looked out the window and didn’t say anything. I ate the stick whole. She didn’t look.

II. Jones Beach on Long Island in 1939

“How much is a foot long?”

“A foot long.”

“You’re out already.”

“When you’re in your winter suit.”

“And dumb too.”

“I can’t help it. You look like a penguin. When you’re in your—”

“You’re out and dumb and about to slip, hold onto my arm!”

“One more lap, then I’ll fall onto yours.”

“You’d crush me, you dummy.”

“I’ve a crush all over you already. In your wint—”

“Okay! Gimme your arm or you’ll fall.”

“One more lap. Around the . . . what’s this called?”

“A rink! It’s a rink!”

“Once more ’round the rink! ’Round the rink. Look, you’re having fun too.”

“You can’t get through another lap. You’ll slip and smash your_face.”

“I might slip now and smooch your face.”

“Oh how very of you.”

“And you say I’m out. You can’t even talk, that’s how out you_are.”

“Alright, you wanna last lap? Let’s do a last lap.”

“No but not fast! Hihihihiiii!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“WUUUUUUUUUUU!”

“Hold on to the railing! We’re gonna run someone over and decapi-ooooo-AGKH!”

“Look who fell first. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good thing you’re packed up like an Eskimo. Like a penguin. I can’t help it. When you’re in your winter suit.”

“Can’t help what? Gush? You dummy.”

“I can’t help—”

“Dummy. Come here.”

“Like a penguin.”

“Plant one on the beak.”

“Penguin beak.”

“And what are you?”

“I’m a me-te-or-ite.”

“Come here, you’ll fall like I did!”

“Maybe I’ll crash and leave a crater! Maybe I’ll—”

“Snap out!”

“Let’s go get the footlongs.”

III. Fires of September by Callimachus of Cyrene

September 1

I had a slightly somber dream last night, wherein it was the distant future and Alexandria had fallen long ago. I lived out a quiet life and spent my time with friends. At some point I remember trying to free an unwilling cat.

September 2

At last I gathered up the courage to send my message to Ptolemaios, praise be upon him, about the compiling of Pinakes, along with some of my new poetry. I doubt any other pharaoh would have been—or will ever be—as charitable as he has, though I wish he wouldn’t take so long responding back.

September 3

Afternoon, in the Library, young Eratosthenes was overseeing some large construction over the observatory’s reflection pool. He told me Ptolemaios was funding his Mesolabio. When I asked him what a Mesolabio was, he said it was a device for “measuring the harmonic alignments of the stars.” I’m glad Ptolemaios got back to him at least.

September 10

Apollonius was sharing his godawful Argonautica with his pitiful audience. It mystifies me how people still in this day and age fall for cheap Cyclic verse. Once your mediocrity gets you exiled, you shouldn’t be allowed back, certainly not after a redraft that is barely any better, let alone be appointed a scholar at the Library. If I had stayed to hear another derivative epithet, I would have flung a sandal by impulse at his stupid face.

September 11

No response from Ptolemaios. He is a busy man, and a great man. He is a great and busy man.

September 16

Theocritus invited me to a walk up the mountains. We followed a shepherd and his herd of goats on a climb, then we sat down to rest on tree stumps. Theocritus shared his work in progress. Delightful as always. At the very least it was for me, since the shepherd seemed occupied, but what do shepherds know of pastoral poetry? Theocritus is never unwholesome to be with, never not at peace with everything. Maybe I shouldn’t let Apollonius get to me as much as he does. And I’m sure Ptolemaios will respond any day now.

September 18

Nothing from Ptolemaios. Maybe tomorrow . . . Meanwhile, I’m helping Aratus versify the Phenomena. We met up today in the observatory, below the newly built “Mesolabio.” To my fortune, I got to see a shooting star in the pool, though sadly Aratus missed it.

September 21

I got very little sleep due to a nightmare. Maybe a fever dream. There were sieges and the library was burnt down. Almost every work I had catalogued in Pinakes was lost. Pinakes itself was completely destroyed, as well as the Mesolabio, which had crashed down into the reflection pool like a burning wooden bridge. I tried to enter the library to salvage what I could, but the floor was molten and I sank down in it.

September 22

In light of my dreams, I decided it best to visit the oracle. She told me not to worry about Alexandria, but that the earlier dream about the cat meant that I should buy a goat to spare it from sacrifice. I might start seeing a different oracle from now on.

September 23

To hell with Ptolemaios! If he thinks he has more important business to attend to, then let him. And we shall—or shan’t—see who or what history will remember, and how. But who am I to waste time concerning myself with that which will eventually perish? In the end, whether Pinakes or not, all will be lost.

September 24

I am giddy! Ptolemaios sent a messenger conveying that Pinakes was of great significance to him, and that he had taken care of the necessary arrangements to start the cataloguing process. He added that he loved my new poetry and was considering promoting me to head librarian!

September 25

Ptolemaios the second, great Philadelphos, peace be upon him, is dead. I am in shambles. Ptolemaios the third has risen to the throne. How matters will unfold from here on out remains to be seen.

September 28

Ptolemaios the third appointed Apollonius as head librarian. I might as well jump off the observatory with the way things are going. What’s worse—much worse—is that Apollonius found in himself the audacity to offer his help with Pinakes, by taking on the lead. He said it would ease the weight of work on my shoulders so that I could devote myself fully to “some of that pretty little poetry” I’m writing. He wouldn’t know poetry if it shot him by accident in the games. The one fate worse than this might be to have him as my neighbor in the grave. I told him to do as he wishes with what he wishes to do it with.

September 29

Knowing little of what to make of all the happenings of late, I thought of consulting with Theocritus. We walked up the mountains with the shepherd and the goats again. He made me tea. I told him everything. Of all the things I said, he seemed fixated on the oracle’s advice the most. He said I should pay for a goat to be spared of sacrifice. We went over to the herd and out of a sea of lizard gazes, one of them was looking at me with seeing eyes, very much unlike those of a goat. So I ended up paying the shepherd to set it free, but it followed us back down the mountain, refusing to leave despite my efforts to scare it off. Theocritus seemed amused by this so I asked him if he wanted to keep it. He told me it was all mine now. I am unsure as to what one is supposed to do with a goat, though now I can but hope that he proves a tasteful judge of epigrams.

September 30

I had a series of dreams last night, all involving complete strangers, though I couldn’t discern any prophetic content this time. In one, I was an executioner who worked at the top of a tower, suffocating prisoners who were put into a machine. In another, I was drunkenly sliding on a frozen lake with a girl who was my lover. And in the final one, I was dining with another girl, this time a friend who was angry at me. I tried inviting her to play out a sword fight with the cucumbers we were eating. She finally gave in and we had a cucumber fight, but I accidentally broke a glass. I was awoken by the goat licking my face.

IV. Tower of Death on the Banga Bandhu Şeyh Mucibur Rahman in 2939

Summers up the tower of death, when a heart from inside the chamber feels the need to press the bell and ask, “Warden, how much longer of this?” I end. And though I’ll even sometimes get the urge to say, “A foot longer,” I never do. Alas the poor souls, at that stage, are in no shape to take it. But helium is evil. A chamber is flushed, and it takes with it what it may out the vent, eloping up along migrating penguins and shooting stars. So until then, I ask of the sentenced to close their eyes and tell me what they see.

“It’s winter. I am sitting on a bench that overlooks the shore. I get up and walk over to a sandwich stand. I order a sandwich and eat it as I walk down to the beach. Sauce drips down onto snow while I’m eating it. There is a trail of sauce following me. Warden, there is a trail! Birds and cats are eating the ingredients that keep falling from my sandwich. I try to finish it so it stops dripping down, but I’m full and there’s still all of it left. Warden, what kind of a sandwich is this? Warden, why aren’t you saying anything? Warden, are you angry at me?”

At times, it’s tempting to say it and be done. And always, just as I’m about to, they’re out. Then contents flee, like the penguins and the shooting stars, never to make the journey back. But then also, not unlike the trail of sauce, we’re led to believe that something would run out. Only up to when. A thousand years ago, they said we were bound to, sometime. Definitely, definitely. They still say, “Any day now.” So it’s left to me to be the one left asking, how much is a “foot long” really? But no, I’m not angry. I swear, I’ve never been angry.