“as a child,” andrew ramer writes, “i had three books that were my mother’s when she was small. one was about holland, one was about france, and the third was about japan. i could never remember the names of the first two books. the name of the third was little pictures of japan. so i ended up calling all three ‘little pictures.’ . . . what’s odd is that i did not think that there really were such places. . . . i knew nothing about the world. i thought that holland, france and japan were made up.”

All grown up now — for the most part — Ramer has produced his own little pictures. Simple in style, rich in content, Ramer’s book is a collection of diverse tales, wondrously absurd, warm, and funny. This is the work of a man who has not lost contact with the boy inside him.

Ramer writes with lower-case letters because “these are the letters we learned to write on wide-lined yellow paper with fat pencils. and they are the echo of japanese, languages i loved as a child, egyptian hieroglyphics, hebrew, arabic, that did not have big and little letters.” He assigns his own meaning to punctuation, using it “for sound”: “a comma is a pause of two-and-a-half beats, a period is four. the silence between paragraphs is seven or eight beats. The space between stories is as long as you make it.”

The world depicted in little pictures, although filled with bizarre characters in surreal situations, represents a place not entirely made up. Ramer tells of a simple world grown complex, increasingly technological, increasingly chaotic. He tells of children and adults, in various stages of self-discovery and awareness of others. Sometimes his characters live alone, isolated in idiosyncrasy; sometimes individuals come into contact, choosing to hurt or to understand each other; sometimes they fall in love. Ramer’s world is foreign, but not unrecognizable.

As a child, Ramer was unsettled when he learned that the faraway countries in his books actually existed. “when the world was my invention, it was vast, magical, and constantly changing. i was safe in that fluid world, protected by my parents and my imagination.” That Japan was not only real but also easily reached by plane made the world small and frightening, “for the smaller it got, the bigger the distance became between me and other people. . . . scientists are working on a plane now that will be able to fly around the world in two hours. and once we take a seat on it, we may never be able to connect with the person we sit next to again.” Ramer’s key to interconnectedness among people is “for each of us to turn inward. to explore our own inner terrain and to share it.” Ramer’s book represents his efforts to that end. “this is the landscape of the inner me. it is shaped by the upheavals of my life. it is colored by my dreams, and by the books that stormed through me. . . . there are borders here, as with any country. but whereas an external country’s borders can be mapped, however arbitrary or disputed, you cannot do that with internal terrain. its borders are fluid. they shift and bend and drift through all of us. so these are picture postcards from the land called by my name. and if i share them to connect with you, i also share them because some of them may also be your places. curled up inside. waiting to be forgotten or remembered.”

— Dana Branscum

 

a man was down

a man was down on his luck. he had run away. he had left his life behind. he was in a foreign city. sitting in the town square. calmly planning ways to take his life. it was two o’clock. the sun was shining. suddenly, from out of the air, a vast silver cloud descended. clapping, crying, luminous. a thousand hungry birds. they descended upon him. they perched all around him. they sat on his hat. and the man said, “this is a sign. an omen. my luck has changed. i’m sure of it.” and he left that city the very same day. he took a boat. he took a plane. he went back to where he came from. he went back the way he came. and his luck did change. forever after that. all things went well for him. and then he died. many many years later. happily. in his bed. of extreme old age. and in the square, even on that day, at two o’clock in the afternoon, the birds descended. descended as they do each day. looking for any still or empty place to rest upon. every day.

the scientists

the scientists invented a machine. they invented a machine to measure noise. they took their machine out. they measured all the noises in the world. they measured all the noises in the world and they counted them. they counted them and they made lists. they made lists of all the noises in the world and they identified them. but every time, every time, they found that they had one noise left over. one sound that no one could identify. a faint but constant whisper in the background.

one day, one of the scientists was dying. he was dying and all his colleagues went to visit him in the hospital. they went to visit him, and they happened to have the machine with them, so they turned it on. they measured his sobs, his groans. they recorded everything. but when he was gone, when he had died and left them, the machine was still registering sound. in fact, it was picking up the very sound that no one could identify. so the scientists began to record the deaths of everyone they knew. and it was the same each time. that long after the dying was over, after the struggle had ended, they could still pick up that sound in the background. the whispering sound of sorrow that does not stop, even at death. the echoing of sadness, that goes on and on and on forever.

the alien and the leader

the alien wanted to see our planet. it wanted to go everywhere and see everything. so it contacted the leader and asked for the grand tour. the leader decided to accompany it.

the alien’s cameras never stopped clicking. with its numerous arms holding one camera up to the eyes in the front of its head, and another camera to the eyes in the back, it made quite a curious sight. at the end of the tour, the alien promised the leader that it would send copies of all of its favorite scenes.

two weeks later, a package came, express mail. it was wrapped and sealed and beautifully bound. when the layers and layers of inner wrappings were unfolded, the leader pulled out a large thick album covered in a material that no one had ever seen or felt before, shimmering and warm. the leader opened the book and started to flip through the pages. then, turned the book sideways. then, upside down. the cabinet members all were given a chance to go through it. then, the scientists were called in. but no one, not even the chief of the scientists, could tell the leader what any of the pictures were taken of.

finally, after hours of secret deliberations, the leader came up with a brilliant plan to avert galactic incident with the alien. on beautiful paper, the leader wrote the following note.

dear alien,

thank you for your pictures. they are all most beautiful. but, for the enlightenment of future generations on our world, we would all be greatly moved if you could personally caption your images for us.

sincerely yours,
the leader

two weeks passed, and nothing came. the leader was certain a terrible galactic faux pas had been committed, by not sending the original album back along with the note. the chief cabinet minister, in a quiet moment, confessed that the alien had probably seen through the leader’s ploy. the chief of the scientists had thousands of researchers working on the project, certain that the alien was testing earth intelligence in order to explore the possibility of a planetary takeover. and for a few hours, there seemed to be a breakthrough over one of the photos. but then, late one friday afternoon, just when everyone was getting ready for a three-day weekend — another package arrived in the mail, again express. it was the same size as the original package, but wrapped in different materials. and when the leader opened it, with the help of the bomb squad and an x-ray detector, it was found to contain a duplicate of the first photo album. this one was bound in another material, also new to those who saw and held it, glittery and soft. this time, it was clear which way was up and which way was down. for in a tiny, delicate hand, in several earth languages, the alien had dated and labeled each image.

concentric space between two statues.

doorway seen through doorway looking out empty window at night sky toward star of origin.

the particular glow of the lights in the hallway outside the leader’s study, which glow will always call back to my minds the living presence of the leader and the pleasures of our journey.

looking down the sink drain in the guest residence of one of the leader’s establishments, which reminds me of the journey to this world.

the shadows of the leader and cabinet ministers on the asphalt at the central spaceport.

sunrise reflected in the bottom of a glass, singular sun so different from the suns of homeworld, seen through the railing of the balcony of the hundred and fourth floor suite we were staying in.

ballroom with lights out after party. recalls to minds the voices and laughter and music still echoing when all the guests have gone.
more about the scientists

the scientists invented another machine based on all of their previous research. they invented a machine that could measure all the pain in the world. and they took their machine, they took it out into the world. they took it to people all over. and they watched how the needle went up and down. and they noticed that sometimes when people said that they were suffering, the needle hardly moved at all. and that sometimes, a person would say that they were fine, while the needle on the painometer shot all the way up to the top.

the scientists were proud of their machine. “now, for the first time in human history, we can really tell what people are feeling.” but, a great many people were upset by the machine. some said it was unethical. others said that the scientists were tampering with the statistics. some people did not want to know how they felt. and others wanted everyone to know, and they were angered when the machine said that they were feeling nothing. so they gathered a committee together. to protest the machine. but the radical wing of the committee broke away and decided to destroy it. to break into the scientists’ headquarters and destroy the painometer.

even as that was going on, the scientists were gathered in their laboratory, gathered around the machine. it was malfunctioning. and they wanted to find out why. “why?” the machine let out, with a sob. “how could anyone ask me why?” and it burst into tears. “i just can’t take it. i just can’t take it anymore. i don’t know how you humans do it. carry around this pain all the time. but i’ve reached my limits. i just can’t take it anymore.” and, just as the rioters in the street were breaking through police lines, and smashing their way through the outermost doors of the scientists’ headquarters, the machine let out a fearsome wail, and perished.

how to unzip

as a small child, i did not know how to unzip myself. my parents never talked about it. when i was fourteen my father “accidentally” left out a book on his desk called “what to tell your child about unzipping.” by then it was too late. my friend stewey had told me all about it. how he had seen his brother doing it one night. i did it for the first time when i was twelve. people talk about how nice it is, unzipping yourself, but the first time i did it — it was terrible.

i have a nice zipper actually. brass teeth running all the way down my stomach, with a large brass pull. not tin the way some people have. and i used to jiggle the pull sometimes, and polish it up. but it wasn’t until stewey told me about his brother that i ever thought of pulling it down. but that night, i was in the bathroom. alone. just out of the tub. and i found my fingers playing with the pull. and i could not stop. pulling it down and down and down. and then i bent over and peered inside. it was awful! a man and a woman were in there, naked and bloody. screaming and scratching and pounding each other with clubs. i zipped it right up and rushed out of the bathroom. swearing that i would never do it again. and i didn’t tell anyone about it. not even stewey. but i finally knew what all that noise was coming from my stomach. and it revolted me. “keep your stomach quiet” my parents always told me. “it’s not polite.” but as soon as i unzipped for the first time, it got louder and louder. i was sure everyone could tell. so i started carrying a radio around with me. but i could still hear them. so one night, when i couldn’t stand it anymore, i pulled the zipper down, stuck my hand in, pulled them out, and shoved them down to the bottom of my underwear drawer. i could hear their muffled cries all night. and although my stomach was quiet all day at school, all i could think about was my mother finding them when she did the laundry. so i raced home after school and put them back. pulling the zipper up hard.

it seemed to work. they were quieter for a while. and i had almost forgotten about them when the noise came back. all at once, and louder than ever. so i had to unzip myself. just to find out what was going on down there. even before the pull was halfway down, the room was filled with the clash and clang of metal. they were battling in there, carrying shields and swords and wearing armor. and it went on like that for years. but i got used to it after a while. like having a television show going on inside all the time. and i never talked about it. no one did in those days. and i often wondered what other people had inside. but we all went around acting like we had no zippers. and the years went by. and suddenly, people were talking about it. i remember how shocked i was the first time i heard someone say “zipper” in public. and then all at once everyone was going around gold and silver plating their zippers, letting them hang out in public. and i noticed how quiet i was inside. and realized how many years had gone by since the last time i had unzipped myself. and i actually got a little bit frightened. wondering if they had killed each other during that time, or suffocated inside.

i went into the bathroom one night. about to take a shower. but i found myself doing it instead. unzipping myself. pulling my tarnished zipper down just a little. then a little bit more. till it was all the way down to the bottom. and cautiously, i bent over and peered in. and they were still there alright. dark eyes glaring back at me. rocking slowly back and forth, back and forth. on two old wicker rocking chairs. with fierce machine guns cradled in their laps.

the class

he took a class. everyone was taking it. the total experience. the ultimate high. the cosmic, utter, final orgasm. “natural dying.” so he took the class. going week after week. panting and moaning and crying out. letting go. always letting go. as one by one all of his friends died. with a look of bliss on their faces. while he lay, still panting, still exhaling, still breathing deeply from the inside. on his foam rubber mat. on the floor. in the cavern of an old gymnasium.

yes. everyone was doing it. doing it all around him. having it. the big “o.” and each week his classes got smaller and smaller. till everyone was o’ed away. and then he would join yet another class. asking himself over and over again what was wrong with him. panting and sighing and practicing the exercises in his room night after night with no success. while some of his friends would get it in the very first class. sigh, moan, and let go.

but he did not stop. he did not give up. he kept on going. to class after class after class. lying on his mat. as the sighs grew loud around him. loud. louder. and then began to fade. as if one person’s getting it, like a yawn, would give it to everyone else. everyone else but him. still groaning on his mat as one by one his classmates blissed away. he, looking up from time to time. to see only three, two, no one left. he, calling out loudly “oh, i’m dying!” falling back with a thud. then looking up again. out of the corner of his eye.

but, was that someone else across the room, also peeking up, also pretending to be neither seen nor seeing? as even the instructor turned to her mat, and three deep sighs — did it.

so they tried, the two of them tried. but as it is when you’ve gotten into bed already and try to pretend to yourself that you don’t have to pee, they could not pretend to be dead forever. and so, one smiled a little. and the other one, he waved from the shoulder. and they crawled across the room to each other. crawled around blissfully smiling bodies. to hold each other and to cry in each other’s arms. each one trying to comfort the other.

finally, with no one moving around them, there seemed to be no reason to remain. they decided to go somewhere and talk about it. to go out for coffee. to sit and share all their feelings. but everyone was dead. the elevator operator. the door attendant. the street director. people were doing it at their jobs now. so there was no one on the street, and nothing moving but stray dogs and cats. for everyone had done it. gone for it. had it. the big o. the ultimate high. total orgasm. everyone had done it but them. everyone else in the world.

so they found a little coffee shop. on the upper level of the west end of that district. just below the cloud line, on the hundred and seventh floor. and they rummaged through the empty kitchen, till they found a can of coffee and a box of croissants that were not yet stale. they brewed up the coffee, found clean plates, and took a tray out to a little alcove near the moving sidewalk. with a single table, under several hanging plants. a small round marble table, and two wicker chairs.

they sat there and talked. they sat there and cried and held hands. they told each other the stories of their lives. one was a scientist. the other one wrote novels. so they talked about that. about that and all about their common failure. in that alcove. in that silent city. birds circling above them. and long shafts of golden sunlight, angling through the glass dome over their heads. flickering through the leaves of hanging ivy in the artificial breeze.

and they decided. they decided then and there. that they would spend the rest of their lives together. (if it took that long.) that they would spend the rest of their lives together, somewhere. helping each other. just the two of them. helping each other — to learn how to die.

Copyright © 1987 by Andrew Ramer. Reprinted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.