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Description
Salvador and I first met at a local Paris café in March of 1923. The day hangs so vividly in my mind because it was irregularly warm for the time of year. I had slipped into the nook of a business seeking some sort of refreshment, and was immediately struck by this long-haired character. His attire alluded to something straight from the 1890s; a dandy’s coat masked the figure as he sat aloof. I’m not sure what it was, but something called me to this man—so, as a young bachelor might lure a beauteous woman, I ordered a drink for both the sir and I, and sat confidently across from him.
His gaze neither shifted nor fell as my eyes met his. “What are you doing sitting here, all by your lonesome?”
“I think the appropriate inquiry would be, ‘Why have you chosen to seat yourself with such a questionable man?’” It wasn’t his reply, but deep Spanish accentuation that struck me.
I wasted no time, “What’s life without mystery?” He laughed, relieving any tension I had. I pushed the chilled mug toward him, “Drink?”
“No, no. I think I’d rather something hot, thank you.” A bead of perspiration dripped down my forehead almost ironically as he said this.
“In this sort of heat?” I questioned.
“Bask in it,” he smiled, his Spaniard mustache raising.
“Whatever suits you, my friend,” I said, feeling no need to examine this strange man’s habits any further. “If it wouldn’t be too intrusive, may I ask what you’re doing around France?”
“I’m painting.”
That was the last I heard from Dali for many years. And rightfully, it would have been the last I ever saw of him; however, it seemed something divine had other plans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just chance—or fate—that I was visiting a friend in New York of all places in the ghastly year of 1934. I had seen notice for an art exhibition during my passings by, and couldn’t help but to stop and observe. A large banner graced this stone building, portraying an all too familiarly obscure face. Admittedly, I had never forgotten my encounter with the then-unnamed painter, and how could I? His work seemed to be plastered in every place surrealism could be found. I could find no reason not to go.
The night of the show, I arrived to a successfully filled room. Having had an interest in his style of art to begin with, I figured it would be an experience, even if he didn’t remember the stranger from the coffee-shop.
I wasn’t disappointed. Salvador showed up fashionably late—clad in pants, suit, and brassiere. The undergarment was incased in glass, and strapped to his chest. I hadn’t the slightest what it meant, but I was thoroughly amused. His eyes scanned me several times, and finally got the best of him. Not much later that night, he approached me from behind as I stood entranced by The Persistence of Memory.
“Do you see it?”
“See what?” I spat, suddenly shaken out of my dream by the parody of his voice.
“Me. It’s a self-portrait.”
I gazed, trying to find the figure, but only seeing the decay of time, the melting of memory. “Do you mean in a metaphorical sense?”
“No,” he pointed to a subtle, shapeless body in the picture that I’d yet to even notice. “Right there.” He never ceased to surprise me; right when I thought his visions couldn’t get any deeper, there it was, tangible and quite literal.
“And what does this reflecting board represent?” I asked, pointing to yet another object towards the upper left.
“Oh, nothing. Just a filler.”
I laughed. A feeling of comfort, as though I’d known him all my life, came over me. “It’s good to finally see you again. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, but I couldn’t resist coming.”
“Now, how could I forget you? Great minds are drawn to one another, they tessellate.” We spoke on semi-casually for some time, until a familiar questions flowed from his mouth.
“What’re you doing in America?”
“Well, I was visiting a relative,” My words didn’t slow, “However, I also came here to speak to some people about a musical project I’ve been working on.”
“Music, you say? I knew I was correct in taking you as an artist of some sort.”
The next thing I said I deeply regret. I’m not sure what came over me, why I would so openly offer such a proposition—but I did, “Would you like to see?”
“Of course.” No hesitation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the exhibit had finished, Dali and I took a taxi back to the apartment I had temporarily rented out. The old concrete structure was nothing to be proud of, but it was efficient for my short stay. We climbed the stairs to my studio of sorts, the only words exchanged being his laughter at my living in such a run-down place. As we approached the bland door, I reached for my keys, opening the gate to this hellhole.
He must have found it eerie my lack of furniture. All I had to offer him was a single chair facing my small bed across the room. My “project” lay in the middle of the floor; a large drum hooked and mangled too elaborately to explain here, and a small metal box with several wires protruding from its case.
He stared at it blankly, “Well, let’s hear.”
“To be honest with you, I’ve yet to test the new percussion. It’s something I’ve been working on—“ I paused out of embarrassment, “For quite a few years.”
“Then tonight is the time to test it.” I was very unsure. I lifted on a pair of earmuffs, and went to hand him a second; but he declined, obviously unaware of the very real danger factor.
“I really recommend you put them on.”
“No, no. I want to hear it for all its wonder.”
Feeling extremely anxious, I paced over to the machine, and flipped a simple switch on the connected box. Both pieces immediately made a large sum of noise heating up. Cautiously, I picked up a blunt rod—paused—then hit the drum for all it was worth.
Through my muffs, I heard the incompressible thump, like that of a Titan stomping on weak earth. I recoiled back, nearly sheltering myself with my arms as the windows shook. My head swung to Salvador, awaiting to see him clenching his head. But no, he sat, absolutely amazed. A droplet of blood trickled from his left ear.
“My god! Are you alright?” I screamed, half-deaf.
He looked at me for a moment, “Yes. Show me more.”
My eyes rested on him, astonished at this response. “You must be joking! You’re bleeding!”
“Again.”
I had a small piece memorized. Hesitantly, I attached the rod to a small pedal I’d made, and sat the solid box in my lap. My foot rested on the gray mechanism.
Thump thump.
I grabbed two wires and touched them. An indescribable noise emitted. Something so inhuman, yet melodic. I continued to connect these strings, lifting and pushing my foot, and relished in the harshly soothing sound. It was like a nightmare come to life; something not meant to be heard by our own species.
After a moment, I came to, and turned. He was crying; whether or not they were tears of envy or pain, I couldn’t tell.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard,” he spoke in a strangely quiet voice. “Like something from another realm of existence. This world isn’t ready for it, much in the same way they can’t comprehend what I create.”
I didn’t speak to him for 21 years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was an abnormally cold December day when the package arrived. I’d regretfully heeded Salvador’s warning, and long since dismembered the instrument. My venture in sound had turned into an office job—something I never thought myself to be happy doing, and never was. I lived a disturbingly normal life, with a wife and child, and we all portrayed the epitome of a perfect family unit. I was foully content, and would have stayed that way had it not been for that damned gift. It came wrapped in brown paper, with a closed note only disposing the initial ‘D.’ I consciously knew who, but assured myself the large frame of the mysterious object was from someone separate entirely. However, that didn’t stop me from waiting several days to open it.
My heart raced as I finally unfolded the piece of paper:

Ever since that night—and I’m sure I don’t need to specify which—I have solemnly fallen deeper and deeper into something that can only be described as fourth dimensional. But as I fall into this colorful, yet void space, I know you fall out of humanity. Neither of us are meant for this place; this time; this everything. I’m not able to do this to myself any longer; however, no matter what I occupy myself with, I keep falling back into the truth, back into this disreality that is an omega. There is so much more, and I can’t help but keep digging, even if I’d like nothing more than to forget. Maybe it’s time you see things from my perspective.
I’ve simply entitled it ‘¿’.

I can’t describe the nausea that came over me as I peeled away that ugly paper. My hand quivered with every rip and tug, knowingly unveiling something I could never unsee. As I pulled the last strip, I stepped back, feeling so much something it could only be put into text as nothing.
A monstrosity stared back at me, deeply into the pit of everything I was. There was something mechanical and phallic to it, as though every stroke of his brush had conveyed my deepest lusts, my darkest terrors, my very essence. Something so exquisitely introspective as to leave the Dorian Gray feeling typical; something that nothing of this universe could have said any better—not even my own self.
It was a portrait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I ran very far away. Perhaps I really did drop off the face of the Earth.

Description
Salvador and I first met at a local Paris café in March of 1923. The day hangs so vividly in my mind because it was irregularly warm for the time of year. I had slipped into the nook of a business seeking some sort of refreshment, and was immediately struck by this long-haired character. His attire alluded to something straight from the 1890s; a dandy’s coat masked the figure as he sat aloof. I’m not sure what it was, but something called me to this man—so, as a young bachelor might lure a beauteous woman, I ordered a drink for both the sir and I, and sat confidently across from him.
His gaze neither shifted nor fell as my eyes met his. “What are you doing sitting here, all by your lonesome?”
“I think the appropriate inquiry would be, ‘Why have you chosen to seat yourself with such a questionable man?’” It wasn’t his reply, but deep Spanish accentuation that struck me.
I wasted no time, “What’s life without mystery?” He laughed, relieving any tension I had. I pushed the chilled mug toward him, “Drink?”
“No, no. I think I’d rather something hot, thank you.” A bead of perspiration dripped down my forehead almost ironically as he said this.
“In this sort of heat?” I questioned.
“Bask in it,” he smiled, his Spaniard mustache raising.
“Whatever suits you, my friend,” I said, feeling no need to examine this strange man’s habits any further. “If it wouldn’t be too intrusive, may I ask what you’re doing around France?”
“I’m painting.”
That was the last I heard from Dali for many years. And rightfully, it would have been the last I ever saw of him; however, it seemed something divine had other plans.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was just chance—or fate—that I was visiting a friend in New York of all places in the ghastly year of 1934. I had seen notice for an art exhibition during my passings by, and couldn’t help but to stop and observe. A large banner graced this stone building, portraying an all too familiarly obscure face. Admittedly, I had never forgotten my encounter with the then-unnamed painter, and how could I? His work seemed to be plastered in every place surrealism could be found. I could find no reason not to go.
The night of the show, I arrived to a successfully filled room. Having had an interest in his style of art to begin with, I figured it would be an experience, even if he didn’t remember the stranger from the coffee-shop.
I wasn’t disappointed. Salvador showed up fashionably late—clad in pants, suit, and brassiere. The undergarment was incased in glass, and strapped to his chest. I hadn’t the slightest what it meant, but I was thoroughly amused. His eyes scanned me several times, and finally got the best of him. Not much later that night, he approached me from behind as I stood entranced by The Persistence of Memory.
“Do you see it?”
“See what?” I spat, suddenly shaken out of my dream by the parody of his voice.
“Me. It’s a self-portrait.”
I gazed, trying to find the figure, but only seeing the decay of time, the melting of memory. “Do you mean in a metaphorical sense?”
“No,” he pointed to a subtle, shapeless body in the picture that I’d yet to even notice. “Right there.” He never ceased to surprise me; right when I thought his visions couldn’t get any deeper, there it was, tangible and quite literal.
“And what does this reflecting board represent?” I asked, pointing to yet another object towards the upper left.
“Oh, nothing. Just a filler.”
I laughed. A feeling of comfort, as though I’d known him all my life, came over me. “It’s good to finally see you again. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, but I couldn’t resist coming.”
“Now, how could I forget you? Great minds are drawn to one another, they tessellate.” We spoke on semi-casually for some time, until a familiar questions flowed from his mouth.
“What’re you doing in America?”
“Well, I was visiting a relative,” My words didn’t slow, “However, I also came here to speak to some people about a musical project I’ve been working on.”
“Music, you say? I knew I was correct in taking you as an artist of some sort.”
The next thing I said I deeply regret. I’m not sure what came over me, why I would so openly offer such a proposition—but I did, “Would you like to see?”
“Of course.” No hesitation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the exhibit had finished, Dali and I took a taxi back to the apartment I had temporarily rented out. The old concrete structure was nothing to be proud of, but it was efficient for my short stay. We climbed the stairs to my studio of sorts, the only words exchanged being his laughter at my living in such a run-down place. As we approached the bland door, I reached for my keys, opening the gate to this hellhole.
He must have found it eerie my lack of furniture. All I had to offer him was a single chair facing my small bed across the room. My “project” lay in the middle of the floor; a large drum hooked and mangled too elaborately to explain here, and a small metal box with several wires protruding from its case.
He stared at it blankly, “Well, let’s hear.”
“To be honest with you, I’ve yet to test the new percussion. It’s something I’ve been working on—“ I paused out of embarrassment, “For quite a few years.”
“Then tonight is the time to test it.” I was very unsure. I lifted on a pair of earmuffs, and went to hand him a second; but he declined, obviously unaware of the very real danger factor.
“I really recommend you put them on.”
“No, no. I want to hear it for all its wonder.”
Feeling extremely anxious, I paced over to the machine, and flipped a simple switch on the connected box. Both pieces immediately made a large sum of noise heating up. Cautiously, I picked up a blunt rod—paused—then hit the drum for all it was worth.
Through my muffs, I heard the incompressible thump, like that of a Titan stomping on weak earth. I recoiled back, nearly sheltering myself with my arms as the windows shook. My head swung to Salvador, awaiting to see him clenching his head. But no, he sat, absolutely amazed. A droplet of blood trickled from his left ear.
“My god! Are you alright?” I screamed, half-deaf.
He looked at me for a moment, “Yes. Show me more.”
My eyes rested on him, astonished at this response. “You must be joking! You’re bleeding!”
“Again.”
I had a small piece memorized. Hesitantly, I attached the rod to a small pedal I’d made, and sat the solid box in my lap. My foot rested on the gray mechanism.
Thump thump.
I grabbed two wires and touched them. An indescribable noise emitted. Something so inhuman, yet melodic. I continued to connect these strings, lifting and pushing my foot, and relished in the harshly soothing sound. It was like a nightmare come to life; something not meant to be heard by our own species.
After a moment, I came to, and turned. He was crying; whether or not they were tears of envy or pain, I couldn’t tell.
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard,” he spoke in a strangely quiet voice. “Like something from another realm of existence. This world isn’t ready for it, much in the same way they can’t comprehend what I create.”
I didn’t speak to him for 21 years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was an abnormally cold December day when the package arrived. I’d regretfully heeded Salvador’s warning, and long since dismembered the instrument. My venture in sound had turned into an office job—something I never thought myself to be happy doing, and never was. I lived a disturbingly normal life, with a wife and child, and we all portrayed the epitome of a perfect family unit. I was foully content, and would have stayed that way had it not been for that damned gift. It came wrapped in brown paper, with a closed note only disposing the initial ‘D.’ I consciously knew who, but assured myself the large frame of the mysterious object was from someone separate entirely. However, that didn’t stop me from waiting several days to open it.
My heart raced as I finally unfolded the piece of paper:

Ever since that night—and I’m sure I don’t need to specify which—I have solemnly fallen deeper and deeper into something that can only be described as fourth dimensional. But as I fall into this colorful, yet void space, I know you fall out of humanity. Neither of us are meant for this place; this time; this everything. I’m not able to do this to myself any longer; however, no matter what I occupy myself with, I keep falling back into the truth, back into this disreality that is an omega. There is so much more, and I can’t help but keep digging, even if I’d like nothing more than to forget. Maybe it’s time you see things from my perspective.
I’ve simply entitled it ‘¿’.

I can’t describe the nausea that came over me as I peeled away that ugly paper. My hand quivered with every rip and tug, knowingly unveiling something I could never unsee. As I pulled the last strip, I stepped back, feeling so much something it could only be put into text as nothing.
A monstrosity stared back at me, deeply into the pit of everything I was. There was something mechanical and phallic to it, as though every stroke of his brush had conveyed my deepest lusts, my darkest terrors, my very essence. Something so exquisitely introspective as to leave the Dorian Gray feeling typical; something that nothing of this universe could have said any better—not even my own self.
It was a portrait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I ran very far away. Perhaps I really did drop off the face of the Earth.