James Lloyd Davis

Night Letters from Ecuador

The heat makes every pore collapse into rivulets that mingle with the oar and, then, the river. You become the river, then mist, and finally, the rain. The cycle of life.

Here, they say, white strangers sometimes disappear. Gone. Where? You wonder if someday they'll all return together, hand in hand, sans wisdom, sans civilizing science, sans clothes and fear, as though from Eden where the tree of life abides. But which tree, which fruit, which river, which path. Where?

Instead of those lost souls, a pious campesino, standing at the river's edge, a carved wooden cross suspended by a leather thong over a t-shirt reading "Nike, just do it..." beckons.

Another village, another Mass, another blessing, and on.

Down the river and on.

He travels east and wonders where the jungle ends, not knowing how the rivulets that wash the muddy hills are only the beginning of the great river.

Not far from here, it happened. The murder of the four young men, Protestants. Missionaries. In those days, the Indians were hidden. In those days, the summer dresses, yellow prints and cotton shirts did not exist. Eden's children never knew they were naked, but they knew that the strangers, these men gave away too many treasures.

The old priest said generosity aroused suspicion in the people, so they killed the strangers, thinking them cannibals. Generosity.

A young girl dressed in a yellow cotton dress leans against a tree with short cuttings of sugar cane in her dark hands and smiles.

They haggle over cost in coins. She wants him to buy them all, but finally he gives her only the price of one sweet stalk and nothing more. The young priest wants to give her more, but does not dare to appear generous.

He strikes the bargain with a negative stroke, a chop of the hand through the air at chest level, says firmly, "Nada mas."

Nada mas. Nothing more. But when she smiles so sweetly, as they do, he wants to empty his purse.

"Nada mas."

CP

James Lloyd Davis currently lives in Ohio with his wife, MaryAnne Kolton, who is also a writer. He is working on two novels and has published short fiction and poetry in literary journals and anthologies in the US, Canada, Australia and the UK.

James Lloyd Davis

Being Picasso

His full name? Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. No man with a name like that could ever do anything in a small way. Neither could he be anyone but an overpowering, vital, and inimitable force in whatever world he chooses as his own. Picasso chose art.

I will now attempt to become Picasso. Stepping into the persona of such an enormously powerful luminary may be too great a task for any mortal man, but for the sake of art and knowledge I will now apply the Stanislavski method in the more powerful literary sense and become Picasso. To my knowledge, this particular application of a process normally used on the stage has never been attempted previously and the possible effects are not really understood.

I will now try slipping into the essence of Picasso for whatever period of time my psyche will permit.

***

I am Picasso.

Please. You will be seated.

I will not discuss art. Nor will I touch upon politics. Yes, I was a Communist. No, I was not a Communist. The relevance of either condition must remain the petty consideration of my biographers.

I am Picasso.

I will not discuss women. They love me. They hate me. They will always talk about Picasso. How could they not? The form of women is worthy of oils, but I must be kind and refrain from discussing them. I enjoy them. I despise them. Let the petty gossips of history debate the ecstasies of impertinent moments.

I am Picasso.

I will not discuss my fellow artists. Their opinions belong where they are valued. My opinions, however, will not save them. They copy, they borrow, they steal from Picasso, but they are not Picasso.

I am Picasso.

I will not debate the relevance of pacifism, nor defend or deny the accusations of those who have decried my lack of involvement in the cause of liberty when the fascists threatened the freedom of the entire world. I painted, I cast bronze, I survived so many wars. Let those who judge do what they will.

I am Picasso.

What more is there to say?

You may applaud now. After which...you will leave.

***

Being Picasso has left me entirely drained, so I must now lie down. It is also dangerous. Please don't try this at home.

CP

James Lloyd Davis, a veteran and former electrician, shipfitter, pipefitter, boilermaker, ironworker and engineer, lives in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. He has returned to writing after a long absence and is currently working on a novel. He blogs occasionally and experiments with various forms and styles.