Handball (Coney Island) 2002
Oil on Canvas
11 x 14 inches
With the permission of Max Ferguson, the artist

Who knows? A gang thing? Some crazy random guy? A loner? Just one shot. That’s all it was. Hit Dyson right in the temple. He dropped like a sack. With the ball in his hand.  Still tight in his grip as he lay on the ground. When they told his grandmother, who’s raised him since he was a baby, she wailed. She howled and beat the sides of her head with her fists. How? How? She screamed. No, no, she cried. Why … why … a good Christian boy … please Jesus, Mother of God, please no.
It should never have happened. He wasn’t into handball. Basketball was his game. In fact, basketball was pretty much his life. It was only because Tyrone said that Marlene watched the boys play handball that he decided to join in. To show some skills. For he’d a real thing for Marlene, ever since third grade. To seal the deal he’d heard she’d broken with Jackson, what with his brother and the pending meth charge and her old man warning her off. So, maybe he’d be in with a chance. Maybe even lose his virginity before school breaks up for the summer. Now there was something to dream on. Almost as exciting as his basketball scholarship to Missouri that he’d be hearing about on the twenty-fifth of next month. Sometimes, at night, he’d weigh up what he’d want more. His first real sex before the summer school break? Or the basketball scholarship? Both please, Jesus (and if it could be Marlene for one and Missouri for the other, that’d be just perfect).
Just before the bullet, just before it all came crashing down, Dyson played a great shot, looked up at Marlene and she gave him the look he’d been waiting for, waiting for all his short life. 
Kids from his school pinned messages and ribbons, flowers and keepsakes to the fencing of the handball court. The following Saturday a rally took place on along Surf Avenue to protest at all the violence in the area and to demand an end to the drug dealing. No one was ever convicted of Dyson’s murder and no one responded to the call for witnesses. Maybe it was just a random act of violence in a world where violence is so often calculated and targeted.
But it’s endlessly strange how life has a habit of turning out. Jose Mendes Junior, from Camden, New Jersey, who if events had turned out otherwise would have joined his uncle’s garage business and given up on his dreams. Instead he took up a basketball scholarship to Missouri, officially vacated by a boy who, “due to unforeseen circumstances was unable to enrol”. The day before he left home, his grandmother, with tears of joy in her eyes, baked a milk cake to celebrate the first Mendes ever to make it to college.
Back on Coney Island, Dyson’s grandmother cried herself to sleep, just as she would do every night for the rest of her life.  
​

Amsterdam 3 A. M
Oil on Panel 2018, 12 x 18 inches
With the permission of Max Ferguson, the artist.

​I knew he'd come back. Later. After dark. Alone. This gracious gentleman from Beijing. I could tell Valentine thought much the same. We could see it in his eyes. The way he stared at me as he spoke, as he asked his questions. The lilt in his voice. The smell of excitement exuding from his pores.
I’m always happy to help Valentine. To talk with the visitors she’s showing around. Exposing them to Amsterdam. The liberal Dutch, with the coffee shops and legalised sex industry. We’ve known each other for nearly twenty years. Ever since she was an outreach worker handing out needles and condoms to the street-girls. I was a teenager back then. Fresh from the country with a raging smack habit. It was scary and dangerous and the vultures were as eagle-eyed in Amsterdam as in any place. The guy who pimped me was a professional. He injected me full of heroin and for that I did whatever he put my way. Yet Valentine always seemed to be there. At all hours. In the darkest corners of the city. With her backpack, flask of soup and kind words. She knew all our names. Where we were from. What we dreamed after. Trust grew between us. Then, when it mattered most, it was she who called the ambulance when I overdosed. And it was Valentine who was at my bedside when I came around. Valentine persuaded me to go to detox and rehab. And I've been clean ever since. Then I followed a time-honoured path. I did some studying. Fell in love. Had my beautiful daughter, Miranda. Fell out of love. I tried other work (even at Valentine’s agency). But I wanted to be an active participant in Miranda’s growing up. So I went back to the job I knew best, that paid well and gave me agency and control. It won't last forever, but what does?
Nowadays Valentine’s big in the Health Department, heading up HIV policy, speaking on the TV, travelling to international conferences. Dr Yeuwan was on a study tour for Chinese clinicians specialising in sexually transmitted infections. He seemed especially impressed by the doctor who visits us for weekly check-ups. And, like I said, he also seemed impressed by me.
Business had been slow today. There was a football game in town, so it was mainly young men strolling by, window shopping, swilling beer and chanting. Egging each other on, but no one crossing the threshold. I was thinking of going home. To be indoors before Miranda finished her shift at the restaurant. That's when I saw Dr Yeuwan. He was standing on the pavement as I sat patiently on display in my bay window. I smiled. Just the hint of a smile, but enough to put him at his ease. Then I outstretched my hand. Almost imperceptibly.  Wiggled my fingers. Time honoured gestures. Beckoning. Enticing. He moved from view. Then I heard the familiar turn of the handle and the opening of the door.

​The hour is late. The platform empty save for one solitary soul. A young woman. No more than a girl. Standing on the edge. Looking this way and that. Into the darkness of tunnels. Heartbroken for the first time. Cheated. Cut loose from comforting. Waiting for the night train. For a light to appear. A pinprick. A gush of wind. Presaging intent.
Meanwhile, far west on the Golden Gate Bridge. In this year of 1985, when the act of love is a death sentence. A young man teeters on the brink. Staring into the void between him and the watery depths below. Inky, swirling, inviting him in.
If he were to look up he might see angels waiting, crouched like gargoyles of mercy on the parapet. Their duty to perform. This beautiful boy coughs and spits.  The taste of death fresh in his mouth as the diamond in his newly pierced ear catches the moonbeams from the bay. Knowing what is before him. Not now. In this simple act. But the future he’s seen in the bathhouses and bars. The twisted emaciated bodies. Lost eyes surveying lost lives. He stretches upwards then takes his leap of faith. Above, an angel spreads her wings, flying in an arc towards the young man as he tumbles and falls, circling in his slipstream, whispering in his ear.
“Fear not, for I am with you, will hold you, enfold you, and bring you home.”
Toppling. Somersaulting. The earth, the sky, the vastness of the bay, steel and girders, girth and width, all a kaleidoscope of beauty, of life and living. And as his body shatters and splinters on the glassy surface the angel intercedes, swooping him up to beyond and mystery. Just as she will, in decades to come, shepherd the couple who jump from the burning towers, hand in hand, stunned at how a day can unravel and amaze.
And here at Grand Central Station this one young woman stands alone. Deep into the night. Hopeless and helpless in her thoughts of loss and sadness. Felt only as the young can feel. A tear trickles down her cheek, salty on her lips. She gulps back a sob that strikes hard at her heart.
Suddenly the wind ruffles her hair. She hears the sound of the train approaching. The hum of electricity. The rumble of wheels. She bows her head, as if in one last prayer. Then, forever attentive, her angel glides down from the eaves above.
And this is what the angel whispers, as the young woman feels his breathe upon her neck.
“For you will have a son, who will grow strong and tall. Known for his smile. For his exquisite talent. Acclaimed for the beauty he gives to the world. And you, his one and only mother, will sit with the husband you’ve loved for decades, in the front row at Carnegie Hall and listen as your boy beguiles and enraptures the adoring crowds.”
Listen out for the solace of angels.

"Deyrolle", oil on panel, 16x24 inches, copyright Max Ferguson 2019, used with permission

The blue tinged finch she once held in her palm. Quietly lifeless. And Ann-Marie no more than a babe herself. Seeing death in the raw. Stroking the fine feathers that once soared above the belvedere. With tiny fingers, gently opening, parting, the beak of a mother who’d carried the grubs and titbits to fledglings waiting in the uppermost branches of an ancient oak. The bird now quite still, its duty done. Cupped and nestled in the hands of a young girl who’ll one day head to Paris and to a life beyond her wildest dreams, among the wildest of animals, stilled and glassy eyed. A menagerie for her to map and sketch and marvel at. Predators and prey scattered hither and thither in rooms and corridors unfamiliar. Continents colliding in passageways and cellars. Animals and birds, reptiles and insects out of place, yet happy and contented in each other's company. Even a winged unicorn to conjure God’s imagination. Yet on that blue-finch day Ann-Marie’s innocent eyes beheld in wonder her first encounter with mystery. With such compassion she’d taken the little bird into the forest and laid it to rest beneath the fallen leaves of autumn. Reverently. A pine cone for a headstone. And she said a prayer to the sky. From the Bible. The Talmud. From the Koran where animals and birds pray by their very being. 
Then in years to come, now a woman of note, of substance, stroking the fur of the tiger still and proud, she chronicles the size and weight, the look in the eye, the keenness of sound. What ways this creature must have gone? What sights he must have seen? Like once, lifetimes ago, before he had a name, when he saw a princess standing by the river. The princess in a long flowing dress looking up and down for a place to cross. But it was deep and the current raging. The tiger told her to climb upon his back. She knew to trust him. The tiger swam like a crocodile. When the princess got to the other bank, to her land, she lay down and gave birth to a baby. When she arrived at her palace she named the river Tigris in honour of her saviour.
There’s magic if you look for it. In words. In stories. In unicorns and small blue birds. Even in silence. Now the tiger’s gaze is fixed and steadied, focused on the Rue du Bac and the elegant mammals looking in from the street beyond. Storing away her notes, the bird in its hollow grave, Ann-Marie's work is over. She touches with her fingertip the claw of the Lord of the Forest. A connection. Igniting, reviving, the power and majesty, the might and the fury. Turning off the lights she leaves the Deyrolle to rejoice in the full moonlight that floods the passageway. Then she walks, one step at a time, mindful and respectful of what is left behind and of what is yet to come.

"Looking for America", oil on panel, 50x75cm, copyright Max Ferguson 2019, used with permission
(shown here in-progress)

​This is what Dad’d say to me and Jed, my brother. When he took us to a gallery. “Okay, you know the game … each guesses which painting the others like best … no talking, no conferring.” (He’d told us what conferring meant, so we didn’t). Then we’d walk through the gallery. Poker players. Hovering over a painting we had no intention of choosing. Doubling back. Ignoring a favourite, or lingering as a double-bluff. But I was easy to pick. If there was a cat in a picture. “It’s the cat one, isn’t it Jules?” That’s what Jed’d always say. And Dad would smile, remembering how I pestered him for our Siamese (Yul Bryner). At first he’d said, after he split from Mum and moved to the small apartment by the marina, that he couldn’t keep a cat. It’d be too much trouble. I’d keep saying how nice it’d be for me to have something to come home to after school on the nights when I stayed with him. Something to cuddle up to. Something to love. (I used to go on my own then. That was around the time Jed refused to see Dad on account of the incident with Mum at the basketball game). Anyway, this one morning we were walking in the park and I said (a kind of blackmail really) “You know, Dad, deep in your heart you want a cat.” And he looked at me and said yes and so we got one. A small warm kitten that I’ve loved with a vengeance ever since.
So if Dad was with me now, or Jed, they’d know in a heart-beat that this would be my pick. A cat on a boat with two mean-looking fur-trappers. Wondering if it ought to bite through the leash, jump and take its chances in the icy waters in case the men took a fancy to his own sleek coat. Razor sharp knives in their belts. Greed in their hearts. Even if the cat found he couldn’t swim, having never once tried, at least he’d be the master of his own demise. Not like that picture I chose on our holiday in London. (When we went with one of Dad’s new women). That picture stuck in my head. Two creepy girls holding up the kitten to the lamplight. To show the frock and bonnet they’d dressed her in, with strange butter-wouldn’t-melt-in–our-mouths-smiles-but-look-out-for-what-we’ll-do-when-we’re-out-of-sight. Did they squeeze her? Did they tease her?
What do paintings do to those they trap once you turn away?
Nowadays I come to galleries alone. At my own pace. No need to rush through the rooms. Choosing. Selecting. Conniving (but not conferring). It’s been five years since Dad moved up to Portland Oregon with his new wife. They have dogs. (So does Mum. She switched sides and lives in Hawaii with Jocelyn and a greyhound called Lightning). Jed’s done well. He lectures in American history in Champaign, Illinois. If he was here now, he’d pull me into the next room, leaving the cat to contemplate his options, and tell me all about what George Washington did at Trenton on Christmas Day in 1776.
Yul Bryner lives with me these days. Tonight, before we drift off to sleep together, I’ll lift up his silk purse ear and tell him that, yes, there are wars and there is greed and malice and men who’ll strip you bare, but there’s love and kindness and beautiful paintings on walls. Some with cats.
 

Been reading Roberto Bolano, Delia Falconer, Donald Hall, Leonard Cohen and Dorothy Porter to get the creative juices flowing to work up a new slant on form and structure.
Short fiction+disjointed narrative+poetry=a fun way to proceed.