And of course the cognitive dissonance of his secret life produced strange visions in his mind melting down: 

A row of Hasidim sitting at the bar in the clubhouse, drinking beer and singing of themselves as vermin, pounding their chests and declaring themselves traitors, finally admitting it.

And likewise, he saw his friends in White Power t-shirts sitting in a circle surrounded by bookshelves of the Zohar, speaking haltingly of their desire to change.

He had to laugh, with awe—who knew his friends could be this way?

There were Jews in the class who were pasty and scrawny, true.  But there were definitely a few athletes.  No one who could take him though, not even close.

He eyed their windpipes.  He felt his hamstrings ready to jump; he was throwing the one named Ethan back in his chair to the ground, beating him bloody, breaking that miser’s nose.

And he saw his friends, planning a march, suddenly speak in a new tongue…

Each spoke in his voice, confessing his own long stay in the hospital at age 6, struggling to express the loneliness. Now Karl was telling of meeting the teacher of purity, who had spread the ideas into him so they grew with his bones and all his other genes manifesting.

Led here by a vision: one night, drunk, unhappy, ears still ringing with anthems, he dreamed of Hebrew letters on the wall of a cave…

And could go back to them whenever he wanted, trace their shapes…

Till he found them here, embedded in book titles, even in speech!

But now, as the students emoted, he wanted to tell them to at least try to get their foreskins restored and their blood replaced.  He could feel his fist going through Ethan’s paper-thin chest.  Ethan, who was also a faggot.

Karl was crying, breaking down in front of them all.  And he himself was getting up and turning off the song Hunting Season, so they could listen.

More and more, his urge was clarifying:  to be an angel.  An angel who worked out and ran and trained, but could live in the upper worlds.  A particular area of thought and feeling, within the one soul.

It seemed that in the week since the last class, he had somehow assimilated these faces; they were familiar, and a certain goodness came from them.  Not Ethan, though.  Not at all.

There was a small group of stem cells that were with him from beginning to end, till circulation stopped and the blood congealed.

In water and tissue, they witnessed the inflow of love through the umbilical cord.  Then later the inflow of milk, and the proteins from meat. 

All this was pre-trauma–within a boy, learning to ride horses.  The stem cells were intimately familiar with those features of his brain that drew him to other boys, and as time went on they wanted to scream and point to this proof.

And then post-trauma, the disgust knifing into his bloodstream.  The look on his father’s face infused every cell and lifted on black oil the jewel box that held his soul.

This small group of cells, that never had a purpose except to be witnesses, now lived in the invasion of smoking, drinking, cocaine, attractive and repulsive.

New circadian rhythms.  Love from a new family far away.  Images of the skyline.  Of two rivers.  The faces of artists.

Party boy, influencer, gallery owner, mayor of the cobblestoned streets.  His small dog grew into his side and looked up at him. 

Then eventually died, and stayed there for a long time.  Till she was cremated, and a tiny puppy fit into that place.  As he fed and trained her, he petted her, like Orpheus playing the instrument in his flesh; caring for small dogs and giving them a good life was Egizio’s art.

Along with talking, and hosting, and getting tipsy on martinis.

Opinions—what he loved, what he hated.  He surged around his opinions, lit with transcendence.

His childlike gaze went again and again to the new object in his home.  Balefully he stared into shop windows, reviewing in arias.

Falling towers, black smoke, and the stem cells were overwhelmed. This was different.  In came chemicals truly antithetical to life.  Just as the streets were engulfed, his organs were engulfed, and the ash could never be cleared away.

Malignant cells in the palate that so valued its discernment! 

But resilience, recovery.  The ash quiet, the ash stirred up…

One long beautiful agonizing walk, through light and shadow, through his beloved neighborhood.

Seeking love, the unique shape of a receptor, offering itself.

Now when it’s all stopped, and Egizio is as still as SoHo at 4am, let’s eat and drink and look at things he approved of.  And let’s eat and drink and look at things he detested. 

How can we see him and make more memories? Be around him? Tall and thin, looking like a Count.  Hair short, hair long.  Join him on his walk, as he lets the dog with her incredible energy explore on her leash, toenails clicking, then scoops her up and carries her?

Egizio grows into our side.  There in the sling, we hold him.

Egizio slowly climbing two flights of steep wooden stairs, to bring us a thick smooth vegetable soup he had made.

(I hear him coming, his footsteps and the hollow beat of his cane.)

Egizio at his wide shallow closet, with clothes hanging like musical notes.  Pulling out Tumi jackets and giving them to me.  Giving me, with great excitement, velvet blazers–beautiful but far too flamboyant for me.  I feel them draped over my forearm.

What imposing and disturbing wooden masks covered one wall!  As his guests sip scotch or Prosecco, we’re hit by jagged waves of mana.  We’re in a polytheistic temple, if we choose to be.

On other walls, the artwork of friends—portraits of him when he first lit up the scene.

And scattered among all the unique objects, a few penises in fiberglass or ceramic, clearly modeled from life.

Too sick to work, worried about the rent, he shows us a new silver bracelet.  Shows us, around his thin bicep, an Egyptian-style armband.  What can you say?  He should be adorned!

One January, I leave my hat on the train.  He gives me a warmer one, along with a scarf.

He gives my wife a scarf.  One of many, some functional, some dazzling.

This one is both–filmy but surprisingly thick, gray with with gray leaves inset with silver ziggurat zigzags and tiny pearl-like studs.  She wore it tonight and it seemed alive.  The leaves and the glitter together seemed alive.