Everyone thinks he knows Harlan Ellison.

Even I - and I really do. That is, we are acquainted - and more.

We share sustenance - and more.

Thrice did he offer to smite my enemies.

And did.

And more.

One evening after dinner, he wrote a nameless story at me in five splashy minutes, typing loudly on his Philip Marlowe typewriter in the castle he lives in and the one inside that. I have it still - a complete and circular one-paragraph tale. He did it to show off.

I love his showing off.

I love him showing off.

Different sentiments.

Joined.

He's not a show-off. He just shows off sometimes, that's all. He does it to give joy. It is a summons to gladness. I get to do a little showing off myself, then. I get to jump and play. I know Harlan, you see. At least, I know that. He knows things too - like how I love a bit of braggadocio from a man who has no need to brag.

Ever.

For-

Ever.

Amen.

I have seen all through my life before Harlan, a host of pure, small, masculine boys launch themselves into the world in a spiral of escalation -  watched them boast, believe, take flight into the unknown. It is a valiant act, this jump into the void - this paradigm for the watcher - this exhibition, presentation, donation of oneself:

Come and play.

See what I can do.

Your turn.

Now me.

Some say that Harlan is hostile, rude, offensive. (And long may he be to Some.) But I have never met more splendid chivalry. The consent he gives! The sanctions! The blessings to those who dwell but briefly in his house! The doors he opens! Into the labyrinth of the millisecond - Into the playroom, Into another chamber of his heart...

Each time a renunciation.

Each time a bequest.

And everyone thinks he knows Harlan Ellison.Even I do sometimes, after these bright ephemeral journeys.After these enchanted internal intervals in time.  After the frank revelation. After the game of Make-believe.He manifests for a moment  -

Make believe.

Make true.

Once, I came across his gallantry with such suddenness that he whisked it away like a carpet beneath my feet. It had cost him something too: a little private compromise - a tiny sacrificial lamb.

I would have thanked him but it's no good dealing in the known with Harlan. He knows things too. Understands the wish, the will, to gratitude. He is good with wills and wishes, preferring the unknown. So we know each other, other people would say.

For we have talked and played together, inside the house with the gargoyles jutting out from the embattled walls - gargoyles he bespoke from a dexterous storyteller in stone - depicting the people he despises. They are emblems of victory, these wicked bestial fiends.

Victory, verity.

 Veni.

Vidi.

Vici.

Vulnerari.

I would not like to be a gargoyle on Harlan's house, imprisoned in cement, heralding triumph. I like to jump and play. I wonder if Dubya is up there now grinning manically from a turret wall. I don't know. I know who I would like to see up there, though. And I haven't seen Harlan for a long time.  I miss him -

This whirlwind of candour and opacity -

This bold encastled wordsman -

This madcap Maccabee -

This armoured fleeting manchild -who plays and gifts and smites.

Sometimes I think I know Harlan as well as anyone - beneath his fitted raiment - behind his steepled halls... buttressed by his one lone Susan, dancing on a monument, smiling at grief.

But then, everyone thinks he knows Harlan Ellison.

~ Harrison Solow 2006