Friday, December 11, 2009
Say You're One of Them - Marigrace Bannon
Say you’re one of them and your stuff gets published and you finally get an agent and the memoir comes out and it gets reviewed-good reviews, respectable as they say in the business. And you have a book tour, it’s modest and you read some of the funnier pieces in libraries, bookstores and reading groups. You save the tragic pieces for the arm chair readers. And you go to a few cities and lots of small towns in New Jersey since that’s where the book is set. And people from High School show up like you’re something to see. And your 9th grade English teacher is beaming in the front row of Books and Such, and you remember every time she gave a writing assignment, she called you Margaret Mitchell, because you started to run your pencil across the page at a ferocious pace. And for fictional purposes you wish her name was something more exotic than Mrs. Jones, but it isn’t. And you remember that her husband was in Graduate School at Princeton University and you remember her telling you not specifically how much she loved her husband only that she wished she had met him sooner. And in that class, Rob somebody with a British accent, handsome with blue eyes and dark curly hair got up to give his oral book review of Truman Capote’s IN COLD BLOOD and you know you love writing and wonder is it in my blood?
The Art Student's War - Darcy Vebber
In retrospect, he might have been looking for a reason to leave. He hated the Pennsylvania winter, not the cold as much as the days when the sky was dark and close overhead. He felt trapped. The girl he was seeing, Amy, said it was because of his unstable childhood. She said he always felt the need of a way out, a direction to flee. Amy wanted him to go to counseling, which was free at student health but it turned out there was a wait of several weeks. By the time he could get in, the weather would have changed.
Amy painted him a big blue canvas, an homage, she said to O'Keefe's blue sky and clouds, and put it in his room at the foot of his bed. She had never been west of Kansas and Sam had offered to take her with him, when he went back, to show her the real New Mexico sky.
Sam thought of her as sunny, a thin girl with copper red hair, bright like a knife, certain of what she knew and she made his days bearable. Until she started in about his family, about his mother, really. Not content to just listen to his stories she asked questions about his feelings, his intentions, what happened after the story ended. It was clear she thought something was wrong with him. She said he needed to look in to his past, to dig in, to confront it. Unless he could do this, he could never be an artist.
It started happening in his acting classes, too. Balding grad students insisted on dredging up feelings of grief or fear or whatever. Go back to the time you thought your mother left you in a store. Only his mother had left him, over and over again. It wasn't like it was for the others, the ones like Amy who looked back on too much parental control, uncertainty about college, the vague feeling they weren't quite good enough.
He began to see that he was surrounded by people who had never experienced real hurt. They were rich, they had regular parents, people who drank or divorced or whatever but who were ordinary, lived in houses, ate regular meals, lived in the expected way. The press of their cheer and optimism, as much as the lowering sky, fueled his desire to get away. He said he wanted to get back to real life.
By which, Amy said, you mean denial.
It was their last fight. He actually wanted her to come with him still. He thought he could show her something and he liked her quirky view of day to day life. He insisted it would be fun, it would be real. This was what an artist needed.
She considered it, too. If he would wait until break, if he would make a plan. If he would promise to consider coming back to school.
He would not. That was the whole point, the purpose. He wasn't used to breaking up with girls like this, getting angry, feeling the edge of violence. He usually let himself be left, let the girl come to her own conclusions about the future, let her ask questions he couldn't really answer then, after some tears and some heartfelt comforting from him, they left. He prided himself on it. This was different. Amy had her teeth into something and she wouldn't let it go and neither would he. It came to shouting. Listen, just listen and No you listen to me.
He hated it. When she finally fell asleep -- they had been arguing in his room, in the student apartment he shared with three guys he barely knew because he hadn't gotten to know most people -- he went out walking in the cold.
The night was clear for once. He saw stars, open sky, all of it going on forever. He could have walked all the way home, he thought, the way people once had walked across the country to settle it. Amy said he was running away but he was certain he was running towards. Real life. L.A. In the morning, he would call Lisa and in a few days, he would be there. He felt the relief, under the weight of his wool coat and sweater, in his shoulders and the muscles along his spine and in his breath. Even in the cold, it came more easily now.
Amy painted him a big blue canvas, an homage, she said to O'Keefe's blue sky and clouds, and put it in his room at the foot of his bed. She had never been west of Kansas and Sam had offered to take her with him, when he went back, to show her the real New Mexico sky.
Sam thought of her as sunny, a thin girl with copper red hair, bright like a knife, certain of what she knew and she made his days bearable. Until she started in about his family, about his mother, really. Not content to just listen to his stories she asked questions about his feelings, his intentions, what happened after the story ended. It was clear she thought something was wrong with him. She said he needed to look in to his past, to dig in, to confront it. Unless he could do this, he could never be an artist.
It started happening in his acting classes, too. Balding grad students insisted on dredging up feelings of grief or fear or whatever. Go back to the time you thought your mother left you in a store. Only his mother had left him, over and over again. It wasn't like it was for the others, the ones like Amy who looked back on too much parental control, uncertainty about college, the vague feeling they weren't quite good enough.
He began to see that he was surrounded by people who had never experienced real hurt. They were rich, they had regular parents, people who drank or divorced or whatever but who were ordinary, lived in houses, ate regular meals, lived in the expected way. The press of their cheer and optimism, as much as the lowering sky, fueled his desire to get away. He said he wanted to get back to real life.
By which, Amy said, you mean denial.
It was their last fight. He actually wanted her to come with him still. He thought he could show her something and he liked her quirky view of day to day life. He insisted it would be fun, it would be real. This was what an artist needed.
She considered it, too. If he would wait until break, if he would make a plan. If he would promise to consider coming back to school.
He would not. That was the whole point, the purpose. He wasn't used to breaking up with girls like this, getting angry, feeling the edge of violence. He usually let himself be left, let the girl come to her own conclusions about the future, let her ask questions he couldn't really answer then, after some tears and some heartfelt comforting from him, they left. He prided himself on it. This was different. Amy had her teeth into something and she wouldn't let it go and neither would he. It came to shouting. Listen, just listen and No you listen to me.
He hated it. When she finally fell asleep -- they had been arguing in his room, in the student apartment he shared with three guys he barely knew because he hadn't gotten to know most people -- he went out walking in the cold.
The night was clear for once. He saw stars, open sky, all of it going on forever. He could have walked all the way home, he thought, the way people once had walked across the country to settle it. Amy said he was running away but he was certain he was running towards. Real life. L.A. In the morning, he would call Lisa and in a few days, he would be there. He felt the relief, under the weight of his wool coat and sweater, in his shoulders and the muscles along his spine and in his breath. Even in the cold, it came more easily now.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Judy Albietz
He always wore that hat. It hid the fact that he had no soul. He pulled it down to cover his eyes, which were dull and flat. Once they were clear blue with a child’s passion. But now they were extinguished lights, the ashes of that long-ago burning. Always with the hat, he continued to get closer to Lindsey, all the time figuring out how to get into her house. He didn’t want to hurt her. She just needed to get out of the way so he could get his things out of the house. It wouldn’t be long before she found them. He had to get to them first. The blood on the shirt and pants would be brown now, like the leaves now lying dormant on the ground. He almost got into the house after the storm. Damn dog got in his way.
He hadn’t meant to kill the woman in that house last year. He actually had decided to walk away after that night. But then when he touched her, she started that yelling. She had no right. She didn’t understand his need and what happens to it when it is refused. It just turns to plain hate, and it was her fault.
He became a judge to bring justice to the uncivilized world. Every day he saw versions of himself, people with excuses for what they did. He had to control them. He had to keep them locked away. The predators of children were the worst. He knew what made them tick and had to stop them.
He hadn’t meant to kill that child last week. She was so sweet then she turned vicious. He only wanted to hold her. She didn’t know when to stop talking. He would have lost everything he had worked for, all the justice he still planned to dish out from the bench, from the wooden boat he steered with his wooden heart with his wooden hat perched on his head to protect him from the cold and the heat. The only thing he feared was fire which might burn up
He hadn’t meant to kill the woman in that house last year. He actually had decided to walk away after that night. But then when he touched her, she started that yelling. She had no right. She didn’t understand his need and what happens to it when it is refused. It just turns to plain hate, and it was her fault.
He became a judge to bring justice to the uncivilized world. Every day he saw versions of himself, people with excuses for what they did. He had to control them. He had to keep them locked away. The predators of children were the worst. He knew what made them tick and had to stop them.
He hadn’t meant to kill that child last week. She was so sweet then she turned vicious. He only wanted to hold her. She didn’t know when to stop talking. He would have lost everything he had worked for, all the justice he still planned to dish out from the bench, from the wooden boat he steered with his wooden heart with his wooden hat perched on his head to protect him from the cold and the heat. The only thing he feared was fire which might burn up
The Man in the Wooden Hat - John Fetto
The man in the wooden hat sat on the bench by the Marina. He had walked all the way from North Beach, and now he was tired. He wanted to see the sea. He wanted to see the sun glitter off the blue water and watch the white boats circumscribe their arc, like ballerinas across a theatre stage. It reminded him of the home he left sixty years ago, traveling from Italy to land in New York. But this was the Pacific, so far from his native Naples or his first adopted home of New York, it seemed so eternally new, it made him feel old. The water was never crossed by Romans or Venetians. Not even fought over by the British or the French. One Spanish ship entered, followed by one British ship decades later and the harbor was conquered. It was young and easy as a school girl just out of the convent.
He took off the hat, and let the sun warm his bald skull. The hat was made of balsa wood, light and airy, and inscribed with the words the community in which he had made his home had honored him, not for any great feat, but simply by virtue of the stubbornness of his genes. “The Mayor of Columbus Street,” it said, though he was no explorer, nor had he just stepped out of the convent. He put it on. He’d earned it because he was the oldest Italian on the street.
He took off the hat, and let the sun warm his bald skull. The hat was made of balsa wood, light and airy, and inscribed with the words the community in which he had made his home had honored him, not for any great feat, but simply by virtue of the stubbornness of his genes. “The Mayor of Columbus Street,” it said, though he was no explorer, nor had he just stepped out of the convent. He put it on. He’d earned it because he was the oldest Italian on the street.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Carol Arnold
Johnny decided we should take the train up to Seattle. We had a car, a 1981 Datsun truck, but at near 200,000 miles, it was on its last legs. He said we’d need to dress up for the train trip. He got out his limp old lime green leisure suit and took it to the cleaners to “spruce it up.” He chose the polyester shirt with the biggest flowers, and a pair of pointy boots he’d had for years. He went down to Sammy’s Shear Shop and had his hair cut, kind of a mullet, with a poof on top held in place with some sticky goo. It was all stiff and squared off, like he was wearing a wooden hat
Myself, I didn’t like 70’s clothes much so I wasn’t about to mix and match. I’ve always been independent that way, doing my own thing when it comes to clothes. I did go in style though, in my Granny’s old fox stole, and a scooped neck yellow dress I’d had around a while. Johnny said I looked real sexy and I have to say I was feeling that way too. He was coming around, organ-wise, if you know what I mean. We spent a few pretty wild nights before we left. He could definitely hold his own, just like the old days. Maybe it’s not too late, I was thinking, maybe we’d have that family after all.
All I remember from the trip north was a gradual graying down of the sky. The rivers and creeks got bigger, the lakes wider. After we were out about a day it started to rain and from then on never stopped once. By the time we arrived in Seattle, Johnny’s poof had collapsed. His leisure suit had wilted right along with his hair, and the big blossoms on his shirt looked like they had shriveled up and died. He was sullen and quiet too, as if the droopiness had gone bored right down to his very soul.
I was no sight for sore eyes either. My mink stole resembled a dog bed, and my scooped-neck dress was riding crooked, making one boob look bigger than the other. I wasn’t too worried about it though. I just wanted to get to the house and get on with it. We caught a taxi but Johnny made the driver stop at a Mobile so we could “freshen up.” I straightened out my dress a little and put on my new Fire Down Below lipstick I had saved for the trip, combed my hair and patted a little powder on my nose, which was shiny from the train ride. That’s about all I could do with myself. Johnny spent about ten minutes in the men’s room, but when he came out he looked even worse. The poof was completely flat by now, no matter how much he had tried to push it back into place. The suit was its old limp self.
“Why are you so worried about how you look?” I asked him as we got back in the taxi. Peering at himself in the mirror had evidently cheered him up, his coal eyes shiny with the old fire.
“Why? You know, babe. I’m a man with responsibilities now, gotta look that way.”
I couldn’t quite see what the responsibilities were other than selling the house and taking the money and run.
Myself, I didn’t like 70’s clothes much so I wasn’t about to mix and match. I’ve always been independent that way, doing my own thing when it comes to clothes. I did go in style though, in my Granny’s old fox stole, and a scooped neck yellow dress I’d had around a while. Johnny said I looked real sexy and I have to say I was feeling that way too. He was coming around, organ-wise, if you know what I mean. We spent a few pretty wild nights before we left. He could definitely hold his own, just like the old days. Maybe it’s not too late, I was thinking, maybe we’d have that family after all.
All I remember from the trip north was a gradual graying down of the sky. The rivers and creeks got bigger, the lakes wider. After we were out about a day it started to rain and from then on never stopped once. By the time we arrived in Seattle, Johnny’s poof had collapsed. His leisure suit had wilted right along with his hair, and the big blossoms on his shirt looked like they had shriveled up and died. He was sullen and quiet too, as if the droopiness had gone bored right down to his very soul.
I was no sight for sore eyes either. My mink stole resembled a dog bed, and my scooped-neck dress was riding crooked, making one boob look bigger than the other. I wasn’t too worried about it though. I just wanted to get to the house and get on with it. We caught a taxi but Johnny made the driver stop at a Mobile so we could “freshen up.” I straightened out my dress a little and put on my new Fire Down Below lipstick I had saved for the trip, combed my hair and patted a little powder on my nose, which was shiny from the train ride. That’s about all I could do with myself. Johnny spent about ten minutes in the men’s room, but when he came out he looked even worse. The poof was completely flat by now, no matter how much he had tried to push it back into place. The suit was its old limp self.
“Why are you so worried about how you look?” I asked him as we got back in the taxi. Peering at himself in the mirror had evidently cheered him up, his coal eyes shiny with the old fire.
“Why? You know, babe. I’m a man with responsibilities now, gotta look that way.”
I couldn’t quite see what the responsibilities were other than selling the house and taking the money and run.
The Man in the Wooden Hat - Camilla Basham
The revelation of his cheating haunted her. Daydreams of sexual abandon infused her thoughts and the thing was, no on understand whom he really was. She, alone, knew this and had instinctively seized every nook and cranny of his awareness. She had made him laugh and he wanted her, but she was gone.
The plan came to her on the Saturday just as the Cochon de Lait Parade took to the streets, lead by a the Lucky Lumber Company float featuring, among other things, a man in a wooden hat riding a saw horse on wheels.
She had just finished sitting for the Thomason’s tot for twenty bucks and had accosted the mailman to see if there was at least a word from him. There was nothing more than a pamphlet from the Acme Siding Company of America inquiring into her home improvement needs.
At least they cared enough to write.
The plan came to her on the Saturday just as the Cochon de Lait Parade took to the streets, lead by a the Lucky Lumber Company float featuring, among other things, a man in a wooden hat riding a saw horse on wheels.
She had just finished sitting for the Thomason’s tot for twenty bucks and had accosted the mailman to see if there was at least a word from him. There was nothing more than a pamphlet from the Acme Siding Company of America inquiring into her home improvement needs.
At least they cared enough to write.
Too Much Happiness - Cindy Rasicot
Chloe watched the children playing at the pre-school. They were little buds of happiness just playing. It was not a complicated thing or something they had to invent. They just fell into it naturally, like a song or dance they had practiced many times. The little girls went into the kitchen space. Anna pretended she was the mom, and Tiffany, was the cat. The cat curled herself into the cupboard and closed the door. Anna pretended to cook at the stove and Viena sat at the table pretending to munch eggs off her plastic plates. Sharon who had the most energy ran around the play area. If another girl wanted to play she would tell the others, “Don’t let her play with us.” This was also part of the happiness, feeling exclusive, feeling powerful, feeling no shame. They had learned this from their older brothers and sisters who told them, “You can’t play with us.”
The boys ran around the classroom with plastic sticks they pieced together from snap on cylinders. Plunging and diving they pretended to be ninja fighters. They were happiest to be out on the play yard. They ran up to the slide and even though they’d been told a million times by the teacher, “Come down on your bottoms,” they persisted in climbing up the down slide. This created a kind of chaos that they enjoyed. It was much more fun to challenge the rules. The boys loved crashing and bumping into each other. They sat at the wheel of yellow tricycles circling the perimeter of the playground on a concrete sidewalk.
Little girl happiness looked different than little boy happiness. The boys were happy flying, diving, crashing, and bumping. The girls were happy bonding in a group, sitting together on the tire swing, flying through the air. One little girl had a look of ecstasy as she the tire swing circled round and round. She threw her head back and let her hair swing in the breeze. Children don’t need to invent happiness, they come by it naturally. Why do adults have such a hard time finding happiness? Perhaps finding happiness as adults means rediscovering a quality of playfulness we lost somewhere along the way. Maybe growing up is losing happiness and then rediscovering it again.
The boys ran around the classroom with plastic sticks they pieced together from snap on cylinders. Plunging and diving they pretended to be ninja fighters. They were happiest to be out on the play yard. They ran up to the slide and even though they’d been told a million times by the teacher, “Come down on your bottoms,” they persisted in climbing up the down slide. This created a kind of chaos that they enjoyed. It was much more fun to challenge the rules. The boys loved crashing and bumping into each other. They sat at the wheel of yellow tricycles circling the perimeter of the playground on a concrete sidewalk.
Little girl happiness looked different than little boy happiness. The boys were happy flying, diving, crashing, and bumping. The girls were happy bonding in a group, sitting together on the tire swing, flying through the air. One little girl had a look of ecstasy as she the tire swing circled round and round. She threw her head back and let her hair swing in the breeze. Children don’t need to invent happiness, they come by it naturally. Why do adults have such a hard time finding happiness? Perhaps finding happiness as adults means rediscovering a quality of playfulness we lost somewhere along the way. Maybe growing up is losing happiness and then rediscovering it again.
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