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Ezra Cantos

I have no patience for people who think themselves so right when obviously so wrong. Ezra was that way. Of strong opinions. Passionate for those he cared about. Exuberant in his infatuations. A blazing tongue. He felt that life should mirror art from inside out.

As is true of truly brilliant people, he didn’t see when that brilliance began to lie to him. Born in Idaho, there was a practicality to his nature, an idealism too that marked him American even though he lived his life abroad. In the end, that idealism brought him pain. Old age became a bitter almond he ached to eat.

Ezra went to live in Italy. He liked the weather with its musty, under linen scent of conspiracies. He went to England and to Spain. Ezra was a Moor at heart, were his complexion darker he would have passed for an aristocratic Ethiopian for coexistent with his American persona he had a Byzantine, eastern cast of thought; an Othello in English tweeds not a Noel Coward in Italian dinner jacket.

There was a darker side to his nature. As things went wrong he was quick to look for Judas goats blaming them for personal flaws of his own. His passionate intensity bordered on Shakespearian theatricality. He was larger than life. During one bizarre period of his public image making he sported a cape with walking stick. There was a certain nervousness to him as well. He was easy to dislike. Impossible to ignore. Ezra had to have an opinion on everything. He was industrious. If he took an interest in you it was you and him against the world. Why am I telling you this? Ezra is dead. I think his ghost has adopted me. I can’t get rid of him.

At first I was flattered by his attention. I was going through a rather boring period in my life. His appearance livened things up. Like the time he left the gas on after blowing out the oven pilot light. When he comes to visit he always leaves something of his own behind. Ezra is a real gentleman about his offerings. I never ask for anything. He never brings the matter up. My life has improved materially with his visitations. He has impeccable taste. The auction houses love me. Strangely, when he leaves something he takes as well. At first those things missed seemed to be of little value. Once it was a piece of tissue I had used when I cut myself. Such things are seldom thought about and easily overlooked.

He can talk for hours. What does he talk about? When he talks to me I hang on every word. I’m enthralled. I can remember laughing, crying or just staring at him with my mouth ajar but when he leaves I remember almost nothing about the extended conversation except, of course, my enjoyment of it. Bizarre, isn’t it? I believe Ezra is beginning to take over my life. He acts like an impresario. A slut bellied obstructionist on the make. While I don’t think Ezra is a devil I am now convinced he has a secret plan regarding his intentions toward me. What that plan is I have yet to fathom.

His visits have begun to tire me out. I can feel myself growing weaker while he seems to be getting more animated all the time. He tells me I’m just depressed, that my pervasive disinclination to do any physical labor is a symptom of that depression and with his help it will pass. What I see as a slow withdrawal and alienation from the world of fraternities, all night binges, and sexual trysts in parking lots, others view as my improvement. These changes began with Ezra’s visits. There is a relationship there I see now. I wonder why it took me so long to notice? As my resentment toward him grows so does my addiction to having him around.

I find myself listening to the kind of music he prefers. I crave unusual foods I never liked before. I’ve taken to drinking wine instead of beer. My professors and girlfriend Pisa are delighted with the change. They say I’ve become more literate, scholarly and introspective, that my conversation is somehow deeper and far more interesting, that I seem to be less interested in pleasing people than communicating my own personal points of view. Anyone who has experienced the safety of anonymous mediocrity will know what I’m up against, what its loss represents to a person like me. I’m loosing my grip on reality. Ezra Cantos has to go.

Ezra just left. He was in fine form, both serious and quite dramatic. I used to be able to glimpse objects through his body. In the beginning he was just a flicker out of the corner of my eye or an image seen like on a TV screen. He’s solid now. I know there’s something in this apartment he’s drawn toward. If only I could find it. I’ve thrown away almost everything and still he keeps coming back. I’m finding it hard to hold on to objects, articles slip from my grasp. Ezra is beginning to look more and more like me. I notice he’s in a good mood when I’m not. Things must be going his way. He’s starting to appear during the day. 

Pisa thinks I have a new roommate. She said she had a nice conversation with him, that we three should all go out together some time. Ezra’s begun wearing my clothes. I found out from him that Pisa has been coming around far more often then I thought. Ezra fascinates her. Why is that?

I notice that Ezra is now able to drink. My best wine is disappearing at an alarming rate. He’s also able to leave the apartment on his own. My only salvation seems to be in burning the apartment down. I need to use a cane when it rains. The weather is effecting my health. Ezra lends me his cape because he doesn’t need it anymore. My friends are dropping away one by one. New people are beginning to enter my life. It’s Ezra that attracts them. He’s now a regular at the espresso shop down by the corner of the street. Things are getting very bohemian. He’s into lothario scarves and grand gestures.

I was told the only way people can tell us apart is that I look more delicate. I think by delicate they mean frail. I’m going to go mad if I can’t get rid of him. I wonder if I killed myself would he die too? Where did he come from? Is it possible to send him back? I don’t get out much anymore. Ezra is now doing the laundry and grocery shopping for us both.

Pisa and I just broke up. I offered to give her back the antique ring she gave me. She got angry. Refused to take it. The argument was over Ezra. I told her the whole story. She said I was making it up. She maintains that Ezra is brilliant. He’s the kindest, most disinterested genius she has ever met. She says he worries about me all the time. I wonder if I could poison him? I have yet to see Ezra sleep. If I could catch him napping I might be able to drive a steak through his heart. I received a letter because of him offering me free tuition if I attended graduate school. What has he been up to?

My health seems to be getting better ever since I turned all decision making and day to day activities over to Ezra. However, I’ve begun to flicker. I remember that Ezra used to do that. He says not to worry about it. That I’ll like it when I get used to it. I’m inclined to favor smaller and smaller spaces now. I’ve fixed up a comfortable space inside an old unused closet that fits me like the covers of a book. I find a strange solace being able to touch the walls around me. Ezra is doing a lot of entertaining. People are beginning to think he’s me. I don’t bother to correct them. Sometimes I get the impression people don’t see me anyway.

Laughter in the living room. Pisa has begun to come around again. I know its not because of me. I’m growing more transparent all the time. The ring she gave me fell off my finger. Now, all I do is read the engraving hidden inside. It reads: From E. to P., May We Live Forever, 1885-1972. I mouth the inscription over and over again. It was Pisa and Ezra Cantos all along. They grow young through time by feeding off of people like you and me.

Whenever I'm asked for a brief bio I wonder about the tales my briefs could tell. It scares me. Fortunately I'm afraid mine are nondescript. I try to write every day. I'm one of the three pigs rather then the big bad wolf. I wash my clothes regularly and am under no illusion regarding the importance of my work. Sometimes, it too goes through the laundry. I write one good piece for every three bad ones. I hope I'm getting better at my craft. I'm the judge of that. I don't listen to anyone else. They’re all crazy.