Monday, June 28, 2010
Good Deeds - Maria Robinson
Kat's Diary: Who am I really? I wife of over 50 years, a mother of 48. A child rescuing a mother, tethered with innumerable screaming babies. A father at the shipyard day and night off Staten Island in the 40s. A taste of Manhattan and the life of the upper level Jewish and Protestant women, breaking free of family and home and worship. And here I am, at 70, a mother to my grandsons, a dreamy dysfunctional daughter, and absent but good provider husband. I have not lacked for anything. But duty, duty, duty. that's all its been. Yes, I have my mother-in law's house in Florida, but really I am still the caretaker of everyone and everything. Didn't anyone ever think that I wanted something more in my life? Yes, I have my dog's, my special time to be alone, but that is all part of the show.
Good Deeds - E. D. James
Bright lights lit the end of the tunnel and the station indicator beeped insistently. Alan struggled to open his eyes and pull his head off the glass. The train would operate automatically but it wouldn’t look good if one of the supervisors happened to be on the platform and saw him napping. The warning panel began marking off the distance – 100 meters, 50 meters – at 25 meters he got his head up and grabbed the rag he kept on the dash and quickly swiped it across the grease spot he’d left on the window from his hair. One of the tricks of the trade his buddy Dave had taught him years ago when he was first training.
Suddenly the dark cocoon of the tunnel opened to the blazing expanse of the Embarcadero station. The run under the Bay always lulled Alan into a relaxed and easy state. A long dark run with no possible obstacles. It was his favorite section. He always regretted that station popping out of the dark. He could ride that tunnel for eternity and be perfectly happy.
The platform was jammed. Usually was on the midnight run. Last train to Daly City. People got out of the bars and down the hole so they didn’t have to take a cab and waste a days pay. Alan sat up and got his head into the game. The platform was the place things happened if they were gonna, especially at this time of night. Right at the end of the platform two groups with flags seemed to be jostling. Alan’s field of vision telescoped and he could see bodies getting bumped very close to the edge so he put his hands on the controls and switched to manual pulling the speed down more quickly than the computer would have done. Just as he passed the halfway point he could see a young woman in an oversize red, white and blue jersey suddenly lose her balance and pitch down on to the road bed. He jammed on the brakes and felt the lock and heard the squeal of fifty tons of steel and flesh grind against the rails. The slide seemed to go on forever, the girl was getting to her knees and Alan could see that she wasn’t going to make it up and back to the hands of her friends frantically reaching down to try and snatch her up from the onrushing battering ram. The girl began crawling on her hands and feet moving forward like a crab and then standing and stumbling along the ties her feet slipping as they hit the edges. And then the distance between she and he seemed to reverse. She was getting farther away and he was slowing and stopping.
He hit the lock button, slammed open the door behind him, stepped across the passengers who’d been thrown to the floor, and made his way out the door. He stepped over a sign that said “Slovenia Rules!” and pushed his way through the throng that was jamming forward to see if what had happened to the girl. When he got to the front he yelled, “Don’t move, the rail to your left is electrified.”
The girl looked up and burst into tears.
Suddenly the dark cocoon of the tunnel opened to the blazing expanse of the Embarcadero station. The run under the Bay always lulled Alan into a relaxed and easy state. A long dark run with no possible obstacles. It was his favorite section. He always regretted that station popping out of the dark. He could ride that tunnel for eternity and be perfectly happy.
The platform was jammed. Usually was on the midnight run. Last train to Daly City. People got out of the bars and down the hole so they didn’t have to take a cab and waste a days pay. Alan sat up and got his head into the game. The platform was the place things happened if they were gonna, especially at this time of night. Right at the end of the platform two groups with flags seemed to be jostling. Alan’s field of vision telescoped and he could see bodies getting bumped very close to the edge so he put his hands on the controls and switched to manual pulling the speed down more quickly than the computer would have done. Just as he passed the halfway point he could see a young woman in an oversize red, white and blue jersey suddenly lose her balance and pitch down on to the road bed. He jammed on the brakes and felt the lock and heard the squeal of fifty tons of steel and flesh grind against the rails. The slide seemed to go on forever, the girl was getting to her knees and Alan could see that she wasn’t going to make it up and back to the hands of her friends frantically reaching down to try and snatch her up from the onrushing battering ram. The girl began crawling on her hands and feet moving forward like a crab and then standing and stumbling along the ties her feet slipping as they hit the edges. And then the distance between she and he seemed to reverse. She was getting farther away and he was slowing and stopping.
He hit the lock button, slammed open the door behind him, stepped across the passengers who’d been thrown to the floor, and made his way out the door. He stepped over a sign that said “Slovenia Rules!” and pushed his way through the throng that was jamming forward to see if what had happened to the girl. When he got to the front he yelled, “Don’t move, the rail to your left is electrified.”
The girl looked up and burst into tears.
Good Deeds - Anne Wright
The cub scout’s head almost reach the waist of the old woman, but he took hold of her arm as they stood waiting for the light to change. At his touch, she gave him a malicious stare and hugged her pocketbook to her chest with gnarled hands. She was my mother although sometimes I didn’t recognize her as the pretty young woman in the family photos, the same way I didn’t recognize myself when I looked in the mirror, now that I was nearly fifty and fighting grey hair and wrinkled craw.
The light changed and we moved into the crosswalk monitoring mother’s halting steps while the Vespas fought and heaved alongside us anticipating the seconds until they’d surge and race to their destinations. We were in the middle of the cobbled street, the one overlooking the Arno when mother stumbled, knocking the cub scout to the ground, clinging to me and cutting my arms with her unmanicured claws. The little boy clambered up and ran to the sidewalk, leaving us bloody and disheveled, me kneeling and mother sitting on her feeble hips. The light changed and all I remember is the gutteral roar of the Vespas’ engines.
The light changed and we moved into the crosswalk monitoring mother’s halting steps while the Vespas fought and heaved alongside us anticipating the seconds until they’d surge and race to their destinations. We were in the middle of the cobbled street, the one overlooking the Arno when mother stumbled, knocking the cub scout to the ground, clinging to me and cutting my arms with her unmanicured claws. The little boy clambered up and ran to the sidewalk, leaving us bloody and disheveled, me kneeling and mother sitting on her feeble hips. The light changed and all I remember is the gutteral roar of the Vespas’ engines.
Fake - Camilla Basham
Well, you don’t know me, but let me tell you, if anyone could keep a secret, I could.
If there was a prize for secretiveness I would have won it and kept it on the foot of my bed, slept with it like a body pillow, worn it like a blanket. So, Eddie asking me if I could keep a secret wasn’t so much a real question, just a guy stalling before he got to what he really had to say.
I set up in bed, wiped the blurriness from my face and focused on him through the veil of the mosquito net.
“What’s wrong, Eddie?”
Eddie was never one for words so I knew right off this would be like pulling teeth. He tugged at his roman collar. He was always in some sort of uniform, when hands weren’t clapping for him as he took the field in his football jersey they were clasped in prayer as he led the Sunday procession in his altar boy cossack.
The scent of incense still lingered on him, his right hand motioned from his lips to about a foot away from his face and back again, as if he was trying to pull the words out by some invisible cord, his eyes drowning in their own tears, his cinnamon brown hair sticking straight up from the constant running of his sweaty left hand through it, stroking and tugging as if to coax the very roots out that it might offer some relief to his brain.
He opened his mouth to speak and instead of words out came a heaving sound followed by a putrid sour jet of liquid that sprayed into the palms of his now raised hands. The look in his eyes said, flee. And that’s exactly what he did.
Using the Virgin Mary statue to brace him self, he grabbed her hips, lifted himself from the floor and ran out chanting, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t”
I could feel my heart beating in my chest and I didn’t know whether to go after him or leave him in peace. Giving into my ancestry, I chose the fake security of avoidance. The smell of incense, and sour wine lingered. I watched the latter run down the robed hips and thighs of the Virgin Mary, pulled my blanket of secrets up to my chin and fell into my pillow.
If there was a prize for secretiveness I would have won it and kept it on the foot of my bed, slept with it like a body pillow, worn it like a blanket. So, Eddie asking me if I could keep a secret wasn’t so much a real question, just a guy stalling before he got to what he really had to say.
I set up in bed, wiped the blurriness from my face and focused on him through the veil of the mosquito net.
“What’s wrong, Eddie?”
Eddie was never one for words so I knew right off this would be like pulling teeth. He tugged at his roman collar. He was always in some sort of uniform, when hands weren’t clapping for him as he took the field in his football jersey they were clasped in prayer as he led the Sunday procession in his altar boy cossack.
The scent of incense still lingered on him, his right hand motioned from his lips to about a foot away from his face and back again, as if he was trying to pull the words out by some invisible cord, his eyes drowning in their own tears, his cinnamon brown hair sticking straight up from the constant running of his sweaty left hand through it, stroking and tugging as if to coax the very roots out that it might offer some relief to his brain.
He opened his mouth to speak and instead of words out came a heaving sound followed by a putrid sour jet of liquid that sprayed into the palms of his now raised hands. The look in his eyes said, flee. And that’s exactly what he did.
Using the Virgin Mary statue to brace him self, he grabbed her hips, lifted himself from the floor and ran out chanting, “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t”
I could feel my heart beating in my chest and I didn’t know whether to go after him or leave him in peace. Giving into my ancestry, I chose the fake security of avoidance. The smell of incense, and sour wine lingered. I watched the latter run down the robed hips and thighs of the Virgin Mary, pulled my blanket of secrets up to my chin and fell into my pillow.
Out of Oxygen - John Fetto
Hawley stood at the sink, washing the blood from his hands, watching the red water circle down the drain, and breathing, long deep gulps, his chest stretching to collect enough oxygen to push the blood pulsing in his brain, but no matter how fast he breathed, there wasn’t enough. The bare light bulb of the washroom flickered, as if it too were gasping for air and with each pulse of light, the room disappeared in darkness as if the whole world stuttered and gasped, on the verge of deserting him in darkness because of what he had not done. He rubbed his hands harder, harder, no, he was wrong. He wasn’t being cast in darkness. The darkness had always been there. This wasn’t punishment. This was a test. He would get another chance. At least one chance. And the moment he thought that, his lungs caught a breath as easily as a boat’s sail opened to a warm breeze. He knew how to make it right. He would make it right.
Out of Oxygen - Judy Albietz
Richard likes to listen to Rose’s version of how they met. That was fifteen years ago. She was on a business trip. He was coming back from a long vacation. The way he likes to tell it he was caught off guard since he was so relaxed—or maybe he was just jetlagged. Rose describes how she spotted him at the ticket counter. A green day pack slung over one shoulder, he was tall and lean in his worn blue jeans, t-shirt and tan blazer. When he turned around, she saw he had a heavy day’s growth of beard. She didn’t see him again until she got on the plane and saw he was sitting in the row right behind her. She usually didn’t talk to anyone on an airplane, but that day she did. She even talked to him through the crack between the seats. Finally, he moved up to the empty seat in her row. What did they talk about? That’s not part of her story. Next she tells how the seat he sat in refused to recline and he threatened to move back to his seat for the long five-hour flight. “So what did I do?” she asks. “I fixed the seat.”Then she goes on to describe how he swept her off her feet. After a long sigh, she slowly lifts both hands in the air, palms faced away from her, to illustrate her surrender to him—or maybe she was showing how inconvenient it was to meet him. After all, once they met, fell in love and decided to live together, she was the one who had to move 3000 miles to a new place, get a new job and leave all her friends.
Out of Oxygen - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
He slammed the door of the old white station wagon and turned the ignition key. The car was parked in front of the house facing the wrong way. He leaned into the steering wheel as he engaged the gears. She stood beside the car in her green running shorts and top, hugging herself against the morning chill.
``What time will you be home? See you tonight?’’ He didn’t turn his head but managed a little wave. He pulled the car away from the curb with a deep thrust of the accelerator. She kept her eyes on him as she began to run alongside, feeling at least she could be beside him for a minute more. He pulled away onto the right side of the street.
She kept pace for two more seconds until she slammed into the concrete with her chin and knees. He kept going. Flat on the rough sidewalk, she gasped and began crying with the shock, curling around to reach for her knee, patting her face and coming away with blood. Confused and stunned, she sat up. She had stepped in a deep hole in the sidewalk in front of their next door neighbor’s house, a hole she had never noticed. She couldn’t get her breath and held her stomach until slowly, air returned and she could get up.
She hobbled into the house feeling as if she’d been assaulted. At least the children were already gone to school and she could tend to herself without scaring them. She dabbed at her scraped knees and hunted in the medicine cabinet for the antibacterial ointment.
Tending herself, by herself. She sat still in the quiet house, no chaos, no shouts and tears. She wanted this. She had to make it happen. She had to go, take the children and go, before she stepped in another hole, before she ran out of oxygen for good.
``What time will you be home? See you tonight?’’ He didn’t turn his head but managed a little wave. He pulled the car away from the curb with a deep thrust of the accelerator. She kept her eyes on him as she began to run alongside, feeling at least she could be beside him for a minute more. He pulled away onto the right side of the street.
She kept pace for two more seconds until she slammed into the concrete with her chin and knees. He kept going. Flat on the rough sidewalk, she gasped and began crying with the shock, curling around to reach for her knee, patting her face and coming away with blood. Confused and stunned, she sat up. She had stepped in a deep hole in the sidewalk in front of their next door neighbor’s house, a hole she had never noticed. She couldn’t get her breath and held her stomach until slowly, air returned and she could get up.
She hobbled into the house feeling as if she’d been assaulted. At least the children were already gone to school and she could tend to herself without scaring them. She dabbed at her scraped knees and hunted in the medicine cabinet for the antibacterial ointment.
Tending herself, by herself. She sat still in the quiet house, no chaos, no shouts and tears. She wanted this. She had to make it happen. She had to go, take the children and go, before she stepped in another hole, before she ran out of oxygen for good.
Grown-ups - Kate Bueler
Grown-ups. I am a grown up or I play one regularly on this show called my life. Sometimes my job as a nanny. Sometimes in my family. But the kids think I am a kid adult. And I am not sure if it is because I don’t have grown-up things like a house or a husband or kids to call my own. But actually it is probably because I am a grown up but still childlike. The kids write me notes and cards that say- Kate’s number one rule- Have fun! Y will say you remember how it is to be a kid. How important street cred is- I laugh. I let them play and laugh in the safety of not running while chewing or terrorizing each other too much.
For I am still a grown-up but it is nice to take off the veil of adultness that seems to squelch the fun of living. I let it go, go until K starts skipping with his mouth full. Or when he runs with his hands in the pocket- power hand out I remind. I am a grown-up again. But grounded in the sand of the playground, throwing the water in the play fight, allowing the kids to have whip cream poured in their mouth from their can sometimes. Sometimes. Once a month I allow them to. I tell them stop having fun. Having fun is not allowed in a serious tone with a smirk coming through. Then we laugh. Laugh. And I splash the kids with water, water, water from the dishes sprayed from the sprinkler of my hand.
It is hard to be a grown-up and not forget the childhood ways, the ways we were, the lightness of when the next game of super hero, when the next ice cream run would happen, when we might play doctor or school again. I forgot about water fights, water fights until last weekend. Last weekend when I was watching a set of twins and their sister. All together with tupperware and plastic cups and hoses. I sprayed them like my childhood sprinkler I ran into back and forth up and down on the damp grass it was the solitude from the heat. Laughter reverberated into my heart. Into theirs and we decide, I decide that water fights should be required. Required. So as grown-ups we don’t forget.
Grown-ups. As grown-ups I have learned what matters most other than the chalk of the line of boundaries is modeling. Psychology reports this, cognitive and behaviorists analyze this, studies support this, parents and child givers try and do it. Model. Model my clay of humanity. Of how to be a grown-up, how to be a kid, how to make the right choices.
As I run after, after the empty milk carton gallon down the Cole Valley Street. I run after recycling because I shouldn’t litter of course. But I run more and more as it tumbles pounding it’s plastic against the pavement springing up and down it keeps going. But I keep going, keep going because she is watching me. Watching me run after the milk carton. I keep running because she is watching. And I know, I know she values recycling. And would be heartbroken if we littered the family trash. I run praying that it will stop down it’s windy hill. My bouncing ball of modeling keeps going until it stops in the bottom half of a bmw. Alas, I reach down to grab it and my reefs begin to slip from under me. I am sliding and catching myself and now flashing the cars and their passerbys my world from underneath my dress. Flying up. I catch myself and catch the carton and turn around running up the hill. I know I did it because I am a grown-up. I know I did it because I am still a kid. I know I did it because she was watching. Modeling and laughing is what I try to do. Try to remember what was fun so I can teeter tooter between responsibilities and the freedom. The freedom. I laugh. But I still run after that carton. But alone I might have let it go. You can’t let it go when they are watching.
As I drive, I remember they are watching. As I remember my father yelling. Yelling at the cars. I willed children super powers for him to stop. Heart rattling my chest. And not get out of the car. But I still talk to the driver’s. It wasn’t your turn. I say. Come on dude drive. I say. Seriously. I say. For the quest and calling of urban driving is a map of routes in my head of the best way to go. Best way to go. Then I hear her say. It wasn’t your turn. It wasn’t their turn she was right. They are always watching. Even when we forget we are grown-ups.
For I am still a grown-up but it is nice to take off the veil of adultness that seems to squelch the fun of living. I let it go, go until K starts skipping with his mouth full. Or when he runs with his hands in the pocket- power hand out I remind. I am a grown-up again. But grounded in the sand of the playground, throwing the water in the play fight, allowing the kids to have whip cream poured in their mouth from their can sometimes. Sometimes. Once a month I allow them to. I tell them stop having fun. Having fun is not allowed in a serious tone with a smirk coming through. Then we laugh. Laugh. And I splash the kids with water, water, water from the dishes sprayed from the sprinkler of my hand.
It is hard to be a grown-up and not forget the childhood ways, the ways we were, the lightness of when the next game of super hero, when the next ice cream run would happen, when we might play doctor or school again. I forgot about water fights, water fights until last weekend. Last weekend when I was watching a set of twins and their sister. All together with tupperware and plastic cups and hoses. I sprayed them like my childhood sprinkler I ran into back and forth up and down on the damp grass it was the solitude from the heat. Laughter reverberated into my heart. Into theirs and we decide, I decide that water fights should be required. Required. So as grown-ups we don’t forget.
Grown-ups. As grown-ups I have learned what matters most other than the chalk of the line of boundaries is modeling. Psychology reports this, cognitive and behaviorists analyze this, studies support this, parents and child givers try and do it. Model. Model my clay of humanity. Of how to be a grown-up, how to be a kid, how to make the right choices.
As I run after, after the empty milk carton gallon down the Cole Valley Street. I run after recycling because I shouldn’t litter of course. But I run more and more as it tumbles pounding it’s plastic against the pavement springing up and down it keeps going. But I keep going, keep going because she is watching me. Watching me run after the milk carton. I keep running because she is watching. And I know, I know she values recycling. And would be heartbroken if we littered the family trash. I run praying that it will stop down it’s windy hill. My bouncing ball of modeling keeps going until it stops in the bottom half of a bmw. Alas, I reach down to grab it and my reefs begin to slip from under me. I am sliding and catching myself and now flashing the cars and their passerbys my world from underneath my dress. Flying up. I catch myself and catch the carton and turn around running up the hill. I know I did it because I am a grown-up. I know I did it because I am still a kid. I know I did it because she was watching. Modeling and laughing is what I try to do. Try to remember what was fun so I can teeter tooter between responsibilities and the freedom. The freedom. I laugh. But I still run after that carton. But alone I might have let it go. You can’t let it go when they are watching.
As I drive, I remember they are watching. As I remember my father yelling. Yelling at the cars. I willed children super powers for him to stop. Heart rattling my chest. And not get out of the car. But I still talk to the driver’s. It wasn’t your turn. I say. Come on dude drive. I say. Seriously. I say. For the quest and calling of urban driving is a map of routes in my head of the best way to go. Best way to go. Then I hear her say. It wasn’t your turn. It wasn’t their turn she was right. They are always watching. Even when we forget we are grown-ups.
Grown-ups - Karen Cassey
How many times have we looked back at our childhood and realize how much time we wished away? I can remember that I couldn’t wait to turn thirteen, I’d be a teenager, a teeny bopper as our parents of our day would refer to us.
My next wish was I couldn’t wait until I was fifteen. I would be able to get my learner’s permit and take Driver’s Education, on my way to getting my Restricted Drivers License. The law at the time was that you could drive during the hours of 8:00AM and 6:00PM without a licensed driver, the other hours with a licensed driver accompanying you.
The next wish was, I couldn’t wait to be sixteen…….my Special Restricted License turned into a Regular Driver’s License, just like the grownups. Most importantly, I could finally date.
My last wish was to be eighteen. Finally, I would be taken seriously, after all I was consider an adult by then.
Now I’m fifty. And where did all the time go? I find it interesting that still people of my generation are still wishing their lives away. Wishing they were younger now, while time still passes them by.
My next wish was I couldn’t wait until I was fifteen. I would be able to get my learner’s permit and take Driver’s Education, on my way to getting my Restricted Drivers License. The law at the time was that you could drive during the hours of 8:00AM and 6:00PM without a licensed driver, the other hours with a licensed driver accompanying you.
The next wish was, I couldn’t wait to be sixteen…….my Special Restricted License turned into a Regular Driver’s License, just like the grownups. Most importantly, I could finally date.
My last wish was to be eighteen. Finally, I would be taken seriously, after all I was consider an adult by then.
Now I’m fifty. And where did all the time go? I find it interesting that still people of my generation are still wishing their lives away. Wishing they were younger now, while time still passes them by.
Grown-ups - Melody Cryns
The years melted away as I approached Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park – walking down the familiar trail from Stanyan Street near Haight where I’d parked – carrying a brown paper sack with chips and salsa and my Beatles purse. I wore the orange and yellow tie-dye shirt that my son Stevie and his girlfriend had gotten for me in Thailand – no size on it, Stevie just guessed and he got it just right. Honestly, I’ve come to the realization that my own sons know me better than any guy I have in my life! I found myself wishing that Stevie and his girlfriend Liezl were with me now, as I walked past the dried up lake and through the tunnel past Children’s Playground which now breaks my heart because it’s now completely remodeled and no longer resembles the wonderful playground I remembered playing at all the time when I was a kid – the big round slide is gone and sadly the moon swings are gone as well – deemed as too dangerous. All that’s left are some lame play items designed for small children and not any kid I can think of past about the age of 6 or 7.
But the trees that surround the park still look the same and so does the historical Sharon Building and the merry-go-round, oh yes the old merry-go-round still remains thank heavens! So if I look in that direction, it’s as if 40 years have melted away.
As I looked around the area for a large group of people, I began to feel more and more nervous. It’s no big deal, I thought – it’s been 35 years after all…
I was looking for the big picnic next to Children’s Playground – the class of 1975 and other 70’s classes high school reunion picnic for George Washington High School in San Francisco. I’d never been to any of the reunions, so I had no idea what to expect – my first reunion ever…but I was glad at least it was in an informal picnic-like setting and I didn’t have to get dressed up and wear some weird cocktail dress or anything – I wore my tie-dye, the brightest shirt I could find – and jeans – cool-looking jeans for once, not like in high school when I didn’t always wear cool clothes…
Hey wait a second, I thought – you’re a grown-up now, who cares about all that stuff, like what they think of you, what you’re wearing and is it cool? I mean, really…
I had to laugh at myself as I looked over and Hippie Hill hearing some conga drums – a small group milled about there. I knew that group wasn’t big enough. Somehow I knew where they’d be – in the picnic area above the merry-go-round, the same area where I’d ride a skateboard down the hill as a kid so many times and the hill we walked or rode down to get to Children’s Playground from where we lived—and now for the first time ever, I’m going to see some of my classmates from high school, many of whom I haven’t seen for 35 years. I’ve only kept in touch with a small handful of people from back then.
I saw the large group of people and smelled the barbecue and the balloons, and I knew that was my group, the 70’s people – still so vibrant and ethnically diverse as they were in high school. I felt nervous, as if I didn’t quite fit in as I walked past people, some of whom nodded and smiled as I walked by. They all had sticky name tags on, “Ruth, 1975.” Yes, I recognized Ruth right away – she looked almost exactly the same as she did in high school – I think she was the “class clown,” and she still wore the same clothes she wore back then, it seemed. How cool – so many people…do I really belong here I thought? I’d always felt sort of like an outsider looking in while in high school, and this seemed no different.
It was warm, kids ran around with hula hoops, a group of guys played conga drums and barbecued chicken and hot dog smells floated through the air – everyone looked as if they were chilling and just having a good time. Suddenly someone yelled, “Group picture, c’mon everybody, especially class of ’75!”
That’s when I saw Mark a dude who had just befriended me on Facebook who had seen me at Woodham’s – he’s friends with some of mine apparently and I didn’t realize he was a GWHS alumni as well, class of 1973. “Hi, good to see you!” he said, hugging me. Wow, this is kinda cool – Mark wore his hair long – he looked exactly like the kind of guy I might have hung out with in high school, one of the cool, down to earth people. We talked for a few before being whisked off to a small hill to get our group picture taken. How would any camera fit in this huge group of people, I wondered, plopping myself down right in the very front – so I’d be seen…I had never felt seen in high school, and now there I sat front and center.
After the photos, I walked around, seeing people who looked vaguely familiar, others who didn’t. I bought my raffle ticket, paid my five bucks and went for the food --- so much amazing food and drink. Rita Marie, one of the organizers, looked familiar to me and she said, “Hey didn’t you sing in high school?”
“I was in the chorus, yes,” I said. “I remember you – you sang alto like me.”
“Yes! Wow!” Rita stood up and gave me a hug as if we were long lost friends – that was cool, especially since I was still attempting to remember who she was, feeling bad that it hadn’t hit me yet.
I walked around listening to the groovy 70’s music playing on a loud speaker, singing along with “Betcha by golly wow, you’re the one that I’ve been waiting for forever…” even though it was classified more as popular music than anything else.
Mark, the cool hippie musician dude, came back over and stood around with me, along with a guy named Tony who also looked really familiar to me – we all three talked and that’s when I saw my son Stevie and his girlfriend Liezl walking up the hill – yaaayy! They’d made it. I was so happy to see them. Stevie had his digeredoo and his drum with him, just like he said he did and his hair is long again – like when he was a teenager. He fit right into the rather diverse group of people.
Slowly but surely I began to recognize more people and they me – there was Bruce Jolly who totally remembered me from several classes – and wow, Julie. I remembered her.
But the right of passage moment, that special moment when I finally felt as if I’d done something I’ve been wanting to do for 35 years, but had never had the guts to do it, came a little later. In high school, I had just watched, on the outside looking in and I’d always wanted to do it.
When a group of my class of ’75 classmates started doing one version of the Hustle to disco music, I jumped in and did it with them – and then I danced the Soul Train dance and another version of the Hustle and well – it was fun and later one chick even said, “Wow you’re a dancin’ fool out there, how cool.”
And Carli Jones, the prettiest girl I remembered in high school, was there – still looking beautiful 35 years later. We immediately recognized each other because we had lockers right next to each other in junior high. “I always thought you were beautiful in high school,” I said to Carli as my son Stevie snapped a photo of us.
Carli smiled and said, “Well, you still have the hair that I remember – wow, did I want your hair!”
That to me was the ultimate compliment – me the wallflower girl hearing that from Carli Jones.
But the trees that surround the park still look the same and so does the historical Sharon Building and the merry-go-round, oh yes the old merry-go-round still remains thank heavens! So if I look in that direction, it’s as if 40 years have melted away.
As I looked around the area for a large group of people, I began to feel more and more nervous. It’s no big deal, I thought – it’s been 35 years after all…
I was looking for the big picnic next to Children’s Playground – the class of 1975 and other 70’s classes high school reunion picnic for George Washington High School in San Francisco. I’d never been to any of the reunions, so I had no idea what to expect – my first reunion ever…but I was glad at least it was in an informal picnic-like setting and I didn’t have to get dressed up and wear some weird cocktail dress or anything – I wore my tie-dye, the brightest shirt I could find – and jeans – cool-looking jeans for once, not like in high school when I didn’t always wear cool clothes…
Hey wait a second, I thought – you’re a grown-up now, who cares about all that stuff, like what they think of you, what you’re wearing and is it cool? I mean, really…
I had to laugh at myself as I looked over and Hippie Hill hearing some conga drums – a small group milled about there. I knew that group wasn’t big enough. Somehow I knew where they’d be – in the picnic area above the merry-go-round, the same area where I’d ride a skateboard down the hill as a kid so many times and the hill we walked or rode down to get to Children’s Playground from where we lived—and now for the first time ever, I’m going to see some of my classmates from high school, many of whom I haven’t seen for 35 years. I’ve only kept in touch with a small handful of people from back then.
I saw the large group of people and smelled the barbecue and the balloons, and I knew that was my group, the 70’s people – still so vibrant and ethnically diverse as they were in high school. I felt nervous, as if I didn’t quite fit in as I walked past people, some of whom nodded and smiled as I walked by. They all had sticky name tags on, “Ruth, 1975.” Yes, I recognized Ruth right away – she looked almost exactly the same as she did in high school – I think she was the “class clown,” and she still wore the same clothes she wore back then, it seemed. How cool – so many people…do I really belong here I thought? I’d always felt sort of like an outsider looking in while in high school, and this seemed no different.
It was warm, kids ran around with hula hoops, a group of guys played conga drums and barbecued chicken and hot dog smells floated through the air – everyone looked as if they were chilling and just having a good time. Suddenly someone yelled, “Group picture, c’mon everybody, especially class of ’75!”
That’s when I saw Mark a dude who had just befriended me on Facebook who had seen me at Woodham’s – he’s friends with some of mine apparently and I didn’t realize he was a GWHS alumni as well, class of 1973. “Hi, good to see you!” he said, hugging me. Wow, this is kinda cool – Mark wore his hair long – he looked exactly like the kind of guy I might have hung out with in high school, one of the cool, down to earth people. We talked for a few before being whisked off to a small hill to get our group picture taken. How would any camera fit in this huge group of people, I wondered, plopping myself down right in the very front – so I’d be seen…I had never felt seen in high school, and now there I sat front and center.
After the photos, I walked around, seeing people who looked vaguely familiar, others who didn’t. I bought my raffle ticket, paid my five bucks and went for the food --- so much amazing food and drink. Rita Marie, one of the organizers, looked familiar to me and she said, “Hey didn’t you sing in high school?”
“I was in the chorus, yes,” I said. “I remember you – you sang alto like me.”
“Yes! Wow!” Rita stood up and gave me a hug as if we were long lost friends – that was cool, especially since I was still attempting to remember who she was, feeling bad that it hadn’t hit me yet.
I walked around listening to the groovy 70’s music playing on a loud speaker, singing along with “Betcha by golly wow, you’re the one that I’ve been waiting for forever…” even though it was classified more as popular music than anything else.
Mark, the cool hippie musician dude, came back over and stood around with me, along with a guy named Tony who also looked really familiar to me – we all three talked and that’s when I saw my son Stevie and his girlfriend Liezl walking up the hill – yaaayy! They’d made it. I was so happy to see them. Stevie had his digeredoo and his drum with him, just like he said he did and his hair is long again – like when he was a teenager. He fit right into the rather diverse group of people.
Slowly but surely I began to recognize more people and they me – there was Bruce Jolly who totally remembered me from several classes – and wow, Julie. I remembered her.
But the right of passage moment, that special moment when I finally felt as if I’d done something I’ve been wanting to do for 35 years, but had never had the guts to do it, came a little later. In high school, I had just watched, on the outside looking in and I’d always wanted to do it.
When a group of my class of ’75 classmates started doing one version of the Hustle to disco music, I jumped in and did it with them – and then I danced the Soul Train dance and another version of the Hustle and well – it was fun and later one chick even said, “Wow you’re a dancin’ fool out there, how cool.”
And Carli Jones, the prettiest girl I remembered in high school, was there – still looking beautiful 35 years later. We immediately recognized each other because we had lockers right next to each other in junior high. “I always thought you were beautiful in high school,” I said to Carli as my son Stevie snapped a photo of us.
Carli smiled and said, “Well, you still have the hair that I remember – wow, did I want your hair!”
That to me was the ultimate compliment – me the wallflower girl hearing that from Carli Jones.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Perhaps it’s taste of lemon that brings
a hint of loss, the tart, acid juice
that wrinkles the face and puckers
the mouth. Or maybe it’s sugar
blurring the clean, sharp perspective,
making it acceptable like a wife
hushing the ranting husband
before he has his say.
Or the other way around.
a hint of loss, the tart, acid juice
that wrinkles the face and puckers
the mouth. Or maybe it’s sugar
blurring the clean, sharp perspective,
making it acceptable like a wife
hushing the ranting husband
before he has his say.
Or the other way around.
The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake - Anne Wright
The eyes did not want lemon cake. They wanted chocolate, rich and dark, with secret chunks of chocolate chips hidden inside. The lemon cake sat untouched. Prissy in pastel. Too good for anyone. Maybe it was the tart that fought with the sweet, but the lemon cake’s crumbs, moist and dense, defended her from the fork tines, the knife blade and the brutal ivory teeth. Of course, the tongues desired to be slathered in brown creamy chocolate, sweet sweet sweet sugary frosting that teeth knew was very bad. Lemon was too light. Chocolate did a disappearing act.
Mint Condition - Kate Bueler
I have been thinking lately that I might want to do an ad maybe an old school one on the print you read in your hands or the new age one that of craigslist that you read on your lap. It doesn’t matter which one I’ll chooses but I do know this it will say something about finding a date, a lover, a companion who is in mint condition. Almost perfect but not of course. Because perfection can be daunting and only exists in airbrush pictures in the magazine pages turned by us all.
No I am looking for a relatively normal guy in mint condition. I am starting to think this might be asking a lot. A lot. I am kind of sorta okay-really sick of dealing with guys that would actually be served more from a boot camp in therapy individual or group. I have grown tired the once awhile recreation really are habits. I habitually date men who are serial monogamists but they don’t serially date me. They don’t commit to me. But given my track record. I guess I am lucky. Lucky. Because who wants someone to commit to some of them that could be more broken, so broken the super glue versions will not do enough. Your super glue isn’t super man’s or wonder woman’s it is just store bought.
I want a man in mint condition. I want a man who is strong. Strong enough for me to lean on not all the time but once in a while. I want a man who thinks outside of himself. Not a ghandi wannbe but somewhere between oprah and wanting to be a reality television star might do. Might do.
I want a man in mint condition but when I found one, found one. I realized he was in mint condition only because he was too young to be damaged. At 23 he thought community college was like the maze of high school and waiting for me outside my class each day. It reminded me of my high school boyfriend that my friends used to make fun of since he made me lunch. It was enduring. And truth be told no one packs me brown bags anymore. I miss those bags. Like the love letters I used to get. Lost somewhere is sexting and emails and some other technological deterrent from the reality of the love, the letter. It was sweet. Sweet like a puppy dog.
But then I realized he is 23, I am not. I was interested in him. But he liked me because I talked to him when I gave him a ride home. Home. Really it felt just like high school. Because I soon found out, found out he was in fact living with his parents, no ride or license to call his own, no job to speak of, and he never left city college or sf for that matter. What universe did he reside where he thought there was a real potential. He was in mint condition but he was a baby, I needed a man.
But show me a man in his late 20’s early 30’s or beyond that could be in mint condition, mint condition and still lived. Maybe I am wishing, wishing for fairy tales upon fairy tales- god mother save me from this step mother of orders, disappointment, and it never being good enough. Save me from the pretend at reading the cliff notes, skimming and then finding out so much more later. Later. Maybe a mint condition man wanting one is liking wanting a perfect like, or perfect job. It is fleeting. It is childish. It's not real. But how about more like I am looking for someone who might have been a mint once but dropped a few times but is still in one piece. Is that too much? Too much to ask? Because a story of the heartbreaking potential, the heartbreaking stories, the heartbreaks the heartbreaks have just grown too much. I don’t want a fairy tale. I just want a better ending. Or maybe I should really read the book instead of the cliff notes.
No I am looking for a relatively normal guy in mint condition. I am starting to think this might be asking a lot. A lot. I am kind of sorta okay-really sick of dealing with guys that would actually be served more from a boot camp in therapy individual or group. I have grown tired the once awhile recreation really are habits. I habitually date men who are serial monogamists but they don’t serially date me. They don’t commit to me. But given my track record. I guess I am lucky. Lucky. Because who wants someone to commit to some of them that could be more broken, so broken the super glue versions will not do enough. Your super glue isn’t super man’s or wonder woman’s it is just store bought.
I want a man in mint condition. I want a man who is strong. Strong enough for me to lean on not all the time but once in a while. I want a man who thinks outside of himself. Not a ghandi wannbe but somewhere between oprah and wanting to be a reality television star might do. Might do.
I want a man in mint condition but when I found one, found one. I realized he was in mint condition only because he was too young to be damaged. At 23 he thought community college was like the maze of high school and waiting for me outside my class each day. It reminded me of my high school boyfriend that my friends used to make fun of since he made me lunch. It was enduring. And truth be told no one packs me brown bags anymore. I miss those bags. Like the love letters I used to get. Lost somewhere is sexting and emails and some other technological deterrent from the reality of the love, the letter. It was sweet. Sweet like a puppy dog.
But then I realized he is 23, I am not. I was interested in him. But he liked me because I talked to him when I gave him a ride home. Home. Really it felt just like high school. Because I soon found out, found out he was in fact living with his parents, no ride or license to call his own, no job to speak of, and he never left city college or sf for that matter. What universe did he reside where he thought there was a real potential. He was in mint condition but he was a baby, I needed a man.
But show me a man in his late 20’s early 30’s or beyond that could be in mint condition, mint condition and still lived. Maybe I am wishing, wishing for fairy tales upon fairy tales- god mother save me from this step mother of orders, disappointment, and it never being good enough. Save me from the pretend at reading the cliff notes, skimming and then finding out so much more later. Later. Maybe a mint condition man wanting one is liking wanting a perfect like, or perfect job. It is fleeting. It is childish. It's not real. But how about more like I am looking for someone who might have been a mint once but dropped a few times but is still in one piece. Is that too much? Too much to ask? Because a story of the heartbreaking potential, the heartbreaking stories, the heartbreaks the heartbreaks have just grown too much. I don’t want a fairy tale. I just want a better ending. Or maybe I should really read the book instead of the cliff notes.
Mint Condition - Judy Albietz
I was so relieved today to read in the paper that my aging brain is truly in “mint” condition. Here I was worrying about my mind going fuzzy. But the article cleared up all those concerns. In fact, it looks like our brains just get better with age. That was the first piece of good news I’d heard about getting older.
Just last week, my adult children had an intervention. They told me I was losing my hearing. I wasn’t responding to questions. In conversations, I was asking them to repeat themselves. When I asked my husband about it, he said he didn’t notice anything, but suggested a hearing test to resolve the issue. “After all, the test is free,” he said.
I didn’t want to be one of those old people who are always cocking their head to the side while they ask, “Whatya say?” So I found a nearby hearing aid clinic which had just gotten a cancellation. That probably happens a lot in their business. After all, they work with people on their last legs of life.
The shop was brightly lit like a department store. I was excited to see the pretty hearing aids lined up in a large glass case. Shopping! That got my attention. What fun new technology! Did you know these new hearing aids have Blue Tooth technology? The receptionist said I could pick up a device at Radio Shack to link up my Ipod and Blackberry with the hearing aid. I heard you can even use Blue Tooth to start your car up remotely. Might be a good idea, at least until I fail the eye test and they take my driver’s license away.
The hearing test lasted an hour. The technician said there was nothing wrong with my hearing. I was disappointed. I had to go home empty-handed. No shiny new Blue Tooth gadget. Maybe now I can afford an iPad.
Just last week, my adult children had an intervention. They told me I was losing my hearing. I wasn’t responding to questions. In conversations, I was asking them to repeat themselves. When I asked my husband about it, he said he didn’t notice anything, but suggested a hearing test to resolve the issue. “After all, the test is free,” he said.
I didn’t want to be one of those old people who are always cocking their head to the side while they ask, “Whatya say?” So I found a nearby hearing aid clinic which had just gotten a cancellation. That probably happens a lot in their business. After all, they work with people on their last legs of life.
The shop was brightly lit like a department store. I was excited to see the pretty hearing aids lined up in a large glass case. Shopping! That got my attention. What fun new technology! Did you know these new hearing aids have Blue Tooth technology? The receptionist said I could pick up a device at Radio Shack to link up my Ipod and Blackberry with the hearing aid. I heard you can even use Blue Tooth to start your car up remotely. Might be a good idea, at least until I fail the eye test and they take my driver’s license away.
The hearing test lasted an hour. The technician said there was nothing wrong with my hearing. I was disappointed. I had to go home empty-handed. No shiny new Blue Tooth gadget. Maybe now I can afford an iPad.
Mint Condition - Melody Cryns
There isn’t much in my funky apartment that’s in “mint condition.” Everything in my old-school kitchen is older – or cheap. And I don’t even have a decent set of pots and pans. I’m not sure what happened to all of our spoons either – it’s like the supply of silverware is waning – and even a couple of my beloved Beatles mugs have broken. I don’t have the heart to throw them away. There they sit in the corner behind the microwave waiting to get fixed.
Only the guitars remain in good condition – all three of them – and now a baritone ukulele to add to the mix. The classical guitar with the nylon strings that I bought from the Mountain View Music Store before it closed back in 1998 still remains in mint condition along with the steel-stringed six string Jasmine guitar that I stole from my son Stevie over 10 years ago – along with the cool electric guitar that I’d won in a raffle years ago – autographed by all the guy sin the White Album Ensemble – needed a bit of TLC after my daughter messed with the wammie crank – but it still remains in good shape as well.
There are bunches of books – way too many probably, but many of them are in mint condition – some are old.
As I sit here drinking my mint mocha drink which has altered quite a bit from the double mint mocha days – can’t take 500 calories of sugary stuff anymore – I think of all the things I’ve lost over the years – and how some of it I don’t miss, but some of it I do…
My guitars gently weep for the past but embrace the future.
Life is fragile and sadly, it’s possible the guitars might outlive us all – or they might not. My Dad reminded me of it when he called yesterday and spoke of his sister, my Aunt Annemarie who has Alzheimer’s now – and she may or may not remember us all. It made me sad because the last time I saw Aunt Annemarie, she’d come to visit and when I asked how long she was going to stay with us, “I’m not on any timelines honey!” I loved it – and I loved it when she talked about how if she saw a body of water, she’d always feel the desire to swim in it no matter where it was, whether it was a lake or a river.
Aunt Annemarie stayed with us for around nine days. She slept in the extra single bed in Megan’s bedroom and told us lots of stories about back in the day – even before my Dad was born when my Grandpa lived in Brazil before moving to the United States.
Does Aunt Annemarie still remember?
I hope so.
Only the guitars remain in good condition – all three of them – and now a baritone ukulele to add to the mix. The classical guitar with the nylon strings that I bought from the Mountain View Music Store before it closed back in 1998 still remains in mint condition along with the steel-stringed six string Jasmine guitar that I stole from my son Stevie over 10 years ago – along with the cool electric guitar that I’d won in a raffle years ago – autographed by all the guy sin the White Album Ensemble – needed a bit of TLC after my daughter messed with the wammie crank – but it still remains in good shape as well.
There are bunches of books – way too many probably, but many of them are in mint condition – some are old.
As I sit here drinking my mint mocha drink which has altered quite a bit from the double mint mocha days – can’t take 500 calories of sugary stuff anymore – I think of all the things I’ve lost over the years – and how some of it I don’t miss, but some of it I do…
My guitars gently weep for the past but embrace the future.
Life is fragile and sadly, it’s possible the guitars might outlive us all – or they might not. My Dad reminded me of it when he called yesterday and spoke of his sister, my Aunt Annemarie who has Alzheimer’s now – and she may or may not remember us all. It made me sad because the last time I saw Aunt Annemarie, she’d come to visit and when I asked how long she was going to stay with us, “I’m not on any timelines honey!” I loved it – and I loved it when she talked about how if she saw a body of water, she’d always feel the desire to swim in it no matter where it was, whether it was a lake or a river.
Aunt Annemarie stayed with us for around nine days. She slept in the extra single bed in Megan’s bedroom and told us lots of stories about back in the day – even before my Dad was born when my Grandpa lived in Brazil before moving to the United States.
Does Aunt Annemarie still remember?
I hope so.
Mint Condition - E. D. James
At first he thought the little round spot was just a speck of dust. Or a bug that died and left its carcass as an homage to the beauty of it surroundings. He actually was in a good mood as he got out the Swozol Divine car wax he’d had specially formulated with his favorite sandalwood scent and prepared to restore his beauty to mint condition. There was no detail too small for him to attend to when it came to the Lamborghini Reventon roadster that was his pride and joy. Outside of his business, it was the only thing he paid attention to with any regularity. The cars name (Reventón, after the fighting bull owned by the Don Rodriguez family and known for killing the famous bullfighter Felix Guzman in 1943), its sleek shape, and the fact that there were only twenty of its vintage in the world made it his prized possession.
The can of wax felt great in his hand. Took him back to his roots working on the line at the Ford factory as a very young man. He’d come a long way. Those tech geeks didn’t know shit about actually making things when the whole Silicon Valley thing got going. Sure they understood their chips and software, but they need hardware to put it in, and that’s where he came in. He wasn’t any futuristic egghead genius, but he’d made a pile of money, and he was enjoying it.
He pulled out the shop rug and laid it on the shiny concrete floor of the garage he’d had specially built behind his house in Atherton to house his prize. The big space was perfectly lighted to allow him to fully enjoy its beauty. The lid of the wax popped up easily, amazing what they can do in a fifteen hundred dollar can, put the cloth on it and tipped out a tiny dollup to rub out whatever bit of flotsam was marring the surface of his prize. He looked forward to restoring it again to perfection. The first wipe of the cloth brought the sandalwood scent to his nostrils and gave him a thrill. He rubbed and suddenly felt sick. The tip of his finger defined the speck not as a lump or bump, something that he could rub off; but as a dimple, a hole, a depression, something he would not be able to rub off. He pulled the cloth away and looked closer. God, it was a ding. A ding in the door that could only be caused by the edge of another car door hitting it.
That fucking Tommy and his fucking slut model girlfriend. He must have snuck the car out to impress her while I was away on that trip to China last week. The fucking worthless spawn of his loins would pay for this. The kid needed to learn.
The can of wax felt great in his hand. Took him back to his roots working on the line at the Ford factory as a very young man. He’d come a long way. Those tech geeks didn’t know shit about actually making things when the whole Silicon Valley thing got going. Sure they understood their chips and software, but they need hardware to put it in, and that’s where he came in. He wasn’t any futuristic egghead genius, but he’d made a pile of money, and he was enjoying it.
He pulled out the shop rug and laid it on the shiny concrete floor of the garage he’d had specially built behind his house in Atherton to house his prize. The big space was perfectly lighted to allow him to fully enjoy its beauty. The lid of the wax popped up easily, amazing what they can do in a fifteen hundred dollar can, put the cloth on it and tipped out a tiny dollup to rub out whatever bit of flotsam was marring the surface of his prize. He looked forward to restoring it again to perfection. The first wipe of the cloth brought the sandalwood scent to his nostrils and gave him a thrill. He rubbed and suddenly felt sick. The tip of his finger defined the speck not as a lump or bump, something that he could rub off; but as a dimple, a hole, a depression, something he would not be able to rub off. He pulled the cloth away and looked closer. God, it was a ding. A ding in the door that could only be caused by the edge of another car door hitting it.
That fucking Tommy and his fucking slut model girlfriend. He must have snuck the car out to impress her while I was away on that trip to China last week. The fucking worthless spawn of his loins would pay for this. The kid needed to learn.
Delivering Happiness - Camilla Basham
His body was toned, tanned, his eyes and mouth more perfect than I had even imagined in the flattering light of the bar. He removed his simple white wife beater and moved towards me fisting the skirt of my dress and tugging it slowly upward, our eyes never breaking contact except for the moment the fabric brushed over my face, my breath suddenly smothered in cotton, I inhaled deeply, arms over head, until I was relieved of my dress and presented once again with his green eyes. His lips immediately devoured mine while one hand firmly braced the back of my head rendering me unable to escape his kiss, the other landed on the curve of my back and slid down past the lace waistband of my panties.
Without saying a word he threw me on his futon and I watched the world unfold through the “v” of my thighs: his thick black hair, his strong hands resting on the plain of my bare stomach, his upper back depicting glow in the dark Jesus, rising and falling, behind him a closed black out shade flapping in the breeze, the smell of honeysuckle, church bells in the distance ringing out the hour. And for some reason, one I can not begin to explain, in the blurred vision of my mind’s eye I saw Sister Claire standing behind him swathed in her heavy black habit, arms crossed, the every present rosary dangling from arthritic fingers, the glass eye, the scowl that ran chills up my already trembling thighs, her head shaking slowly back and forth with disdain. Whether it was the booze, or the sun playing tricks on me I can’t say, but through my hazy eyes somewhere over glowing Jesus’ humping motions and hot beast’s ass, Sister Claire turned into my dying mother.
With little regard for his wellbeing, I grabbed a clump of hot beast’s hair and jerked him up and away from me while slamming my thighs together. From the look on his face, that didn’t happen much.
I rolled out from under him and landed on my crumpled dress, pulled it on with the same urgency one might use to try and lift a car off of a crushed infant, and in my drunken state, this small task seemed almost as daunting.
He kneeled half naked on the foot of the bed, his green eyes glazed, his face glistening with my leftover excitement, the sun formed a sort of halo around his head and torso.
“What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry. My mother’s dying. I’m a terrible person. Sister Claire’s between my legs.” I turned, made my way to the door and rushed out.
“What’s between your legs? Maybe you should get that checked out.”
The door slammed shut behind me.
Convinced I could actually drive better drunk than sober, I headed back. It was coming back that I saw my hometown for the first time. Bringing the car to an impulsive halt, I descended and walked out to the splintered cypress pier while the steam from the lake rose and mingled with the late afternoon August heat. I looked up through the mist of heat and water and saw, to my astonishment, where I came from; to deny it, was to deny my very soul. The sleepy town commanded me to wake up and help heal my mother, my family, my past, my reality; the one I spent the best part of my years running from, because it was obvious I could never, in my mind, truly escape it, and in deference I did, in my psyche, reach out and offer up my hand. It was at that moment, and for the first time in my life, I granted Bumfucked, USA magnanimity.
Without saying a word he threw me on his futon and I watched the world unfold through the “v” of my thighs: his thick black hair, his strong hands resting on the plain of my bare stomach, his upper back depicting glow in the dark Jesus, rising and falling, behind him a closed black out shade flapping in the breeze, the smell of honeysuckle, church bells in the distance ringing out the hour. And for some reason, one I can not begin to explain, in the blurred vision of my mind’s eye I saw Sister Claire standing behind him swathed in her heavy black habit, arms crossed, the every present rosary dangling from arthritic fingers, the glass eye, the scowl that ran chills up my already trembling thighs, her head shaking slowly back and forth with disdain. Whether it was the booze, or the sun playing tricks on me I can’t say, but through my hazy eyes somewhere over glowing Jesus’ humping motions and hot beast’s ass, Sister Claire turned into my dying mother.
With little regard for his wellbeing, I grabbed a clump of hot beast’s hair and jerked him up and away from me while slamming my thighs together. From the look on his face, that didn’t happen much.
I rolled out from under him and landed on my crumpled dress, pulled it on with the same urgency one might use to try and lift a car off of a crushed infant, and in my drunken state, this small task seemed almost as daunting.
He kneeled half naked on the foot of the bed, his green eyes glazed, his face glistening with my leftover excitement, the sun formed a sort of halo around his head and torso.
“What the fuck?”
“I’m sorry. My mother’s dying. I’m a terrible person. Sister Claire’s between my legs.” I turned, made my way to the door and rushed out.
“What’s between your legs? Maybe you should get that checked out.”
The door slammed shut behind me.
Convinced I could actually drive better drunk than sober, I headed back. It was coming back that I saw my hometown for the first time. Bringing the car to an impulsive halt, I descended and walked out to the splintered cypress pier while the steam from the lake rose and mingled with the late afternoon August heat. I looked up through the mist of heat and water and saw, to my astonishment, where I came from; to deny it, was to deny my very soul. The sleepy town commanded me to wake up and help heal my mother, my family, my past, my reality; the one I spent the best part of my years running from, because it was obvious I could never, in my mind, truly escape it, and in deference I did, in my psyche, reach out and offer up my hand. It was at that moment, and for the first time in my life, I granted Bumfucked, USA magnanimity.
Not Untrue and Not Unkind - Karen Cassey
I've never been one not to get a job done, no matter what it takes. Today has been a very hard day for me emotionally and spiritually. I'm the proud mother of a US Marine, who will be deploying this week to Afghanistan. There's always anxiety anytime a loved one is going off to war.......my son Marine Sgt R. Justin Cassey, and his Company 2/6 received some devastating news today that sent a reality check for all those deploying in the next couple of days.
My son is my HERO and early today he had sent me a text message that read and I quote "I just wanted to say that I love you", unquote. I instantly responded "Justin, I Love You with all my heart! You don't know how much this means to me! Mom XO". Little did I know, that he would be phoning me a few hours later with some devastating news. All Marines in His Company 2/6 were ordered to a location, where my son went onto say "that when he saw the Officers eyes, he saw death". His first thought was that their Company Commander had been killed in Afghanistan.
Two of their own were doing a sweep of an area, when one stepped on a hidden Improvised Explosive Device (IED). In other words, a crudely made bomb well hidden by the Taliban, that upon making any kind of contact explodes and literally blows you up in pieces. Both Marines died instantly..........and by the grace of God, I pray painlessly. I could tell in his voice that he was not only grieving for the two fellow Marines who had been killed, but that they were his friends. Yes, that's right, his friends! You couldn't help but feel his fear through the phone, that in a few days he will be deployed to the very same place that his two fellow Marines and friends had been killed.
Sadly, the family members left to mourn their loss for a lifetime. My prayers not untrue and not unkind will be with all that have not only served our country, but selflessly made the ultimate sacrifice with their lives. May God Bless and Rest in Peace. As a Veteran myself........."I Salute You".
My son is my HERO and early today he had sent me a text message that read and I quote "I just wanted to say that I love you", unquote. I instantly responded "Justin, I Love You with all my heart! You don't know how much this means to me! Mom XO". Little did I know, that he would be phoning me a few hours later with some devastating news. All Marines in His Company 2/6 were ordered to a location, where my son went onto say "that when he saw the Officers eyes, he saw death". His first thought was that their Company Commander had been killed in Afghanistan.
Two of their own were doing a sweep of an area, when one stepped on a hidden Improvised Explosive Device (IED). In other words, a crudely made bomb well hidden by the Taliban, that upon making any kind of contact explodes and literally blows you up in pieces. Both Marines died instantly..........and by the grace of God, I pray painlessly. I could tell in his voice that he was not only grieving for the two fellow Marines who had been killed, but that they were his friends. Yes, that's right, his friends! You couldn't help but feel his fear through the phone, that in a few days he will be deployed to the very same place that his two fellow Marines and friends had been killed.
Sadly, the family members left to mourn their loss for a lifetime. My prayers not untrue and not unkind will be with all that have not only served our country, but selflessly made the ultimate sacrifice with their lives. May God Bless and Rest in Peace. As a Veteran myself........."I Salute You".
Not Untrue and Not Unkind - Maria Robinson
Sean had not been untrue to himself, he'd just been his untrue self. He wasn't unkind to Martha in his mind, even though he'd left her with the two twins, he was just being kind to himself. In Sean's way of thinking, truth was only a temporary proposition imposed upon you by someone else, like a wife. In Sean's mind, kindness was something that you bestowed on strangers who could help you make money or get ahead. Everything was truly transaction, predictable and not unfriendly.
Love, to Sean was not truth, it was simply something that his parents told never really mattered. He'd learned in his parents' marriage that love was simply the kindness of tolerating each other day after day after the reasons had faded and the children were on their way. Unkindness would have meant living with Martha even though he lacked the kindness to pretend to love her, so he could not understand why she thought it unkind of him to leave her. Sean was being true and kind when he just didn't come home that day in London and left for Morocco and knew that Martha's stoic Mother Katherine would handle all of the chaos that followed after he closed the door.
Love, to Sean was not truth, it was simply something that his parents told never really mattered. He'd learned in his parents' marriage that love was simply the kindness of tolerating each other day after day after the reasons had faded and the children were on their way. Unkindness would have meant living with Martha even though he lacked the kindness to pretend to love her, so he could not understand why she thought it unkind of him to leave her. Sean was being true and kind when he just didn't come home that day in London and left for Morocco and knew that Martha's stoic Mother Katherine would handle all of the chaos that followed after he closed the door.
Friday, June 11, 2010
In Memorium - Camilla Basham
“Are you coming or not?” The authority in his voice reminded me of my father when he would beckon me to wake for school in the morning after my mother’s pleading had failed.
“Well, are you?” His voice was strong, he was half my age, he had the power and believed he would always have the power. It was all I could do to not physically pour myself into his opened palm.
For a fleeting moment my father’s hand, calloused, stained, trembling appeared in my mind’s eye.
And there in my mind I smoothed down the pleats of my skirt, tightened my ponytail and fell into the creases of his warm palm smelling of motor oil and beer.
“A man can only stand here so long without feeling rejected.”
Loneliness jabbed me in the gut, fear threw me an uppercut to the chin and I did what any middle aged woman faced with the inevitably of mortality and a vodka buzz would do: I traded in the mediocre stemware for his warm, calloused, stained, steady hand.
Not surprisingly he lived in walking distance from the bar in a double wide. I wondered how many lonely women he picked up there. I caught myself feeling disdain for such women: those who would be led out of a bar by a stranger for the sole purpose of fucking in the middle of the day, but then I realized I was one of them.
Attempting to make idle conversation to offset the awkwardness I looked around his apartment for something, anything, to compliment in typical southern fashion. “Nice….plant.”
“It’s fake.” He moved towards me. “I’m away a lot. Fake works for me.” I took two steps back still desperately searching for the art of conversation at which I’m sure I once excelled, at least in more sober times.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Seven and seven.”
Seven and seven they called it, meaning he worked on an off shore oilrig, home for seven weeks, offshore for seven weeks. I remembered his type from childhood. They were the rock stars of rednecks.
“Well, are you?” His voice was strong, he was half my age, he had the power and believed he would always have the power. It was all I could do to not physically pour myself into his opened palm.
For a fleeting moment my father’s hand, calloused, stained, trembling appeared in my mind’s eye.
And there in my mind I smoothed down the pleats of my skirt, tightened my ponytail and fell into the creases of his warm palm smelling of motor oil and beer.
“A man can only stand here so long without feeling rejected.”
Loneliness jabbed me in the gut, fear threw me an uppercut to the chin and I did what any middle aged woman faced with the inevitably of mortality and a vodka buzz would do: I traded in the mediocre stemware for his warm, calloused, stained, steady hand.
Not surprisingly he lived in walking distance from the bar in a double wide. I wondered how many lonely women he picked up there. I caught myself feeling disdain for such women: those who would be led out of a bar by a stranger for the sole purpose of fucking in the middle of the day, but then I realized I was one of them.
Attempting to make idle conversation to offset the awkwardness I looked around his apartment for something, anything, to compliment in typical southern fashion. “Nice….plant.”
“It’s fake.” He moved towards me. “I’m away a lot. Fake works for me.” I took two steps back still desperately searching for the art of conversation at which I’m sure I once excelled, at least in more sober times.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Seven and seven.”
Seven and seven they called it, meaning he worked on an off shore oilrig, home for seven weeks, offshore for seven weeks. I remembered his type from childhood. They were the rock stars of rednecks.
Telling Tales - John Fetto
Tate could lie with the best of them. He’d know just when to bend the tale. You just watched the eyes, watched when they sharpened, watch when they dulled over in disbelief. He actually enjoyed it when they figured out he was lying, when they finally understood that he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about what he said. Sometimes their lips would quiver, as if they were about to say something but thought better of it. The braves would loosen their hands, but still wouldn’t do anything with them, just let them hang loose at their sides, not even making a fist, or more than clenching a few fingers before they let go. They’d look at him and think better of it, and then their eyes would do that little trick where they turned away, not wanting to see Tate right in front of him, turning, like they wanted to swivel back all the way and roll down his head. Sometimes they’d gulp too. Their mouth we be dray as Tate loomed over them, letting the silence dig deep as a grave. And then and only then would he break the spell with a dumb question, something he knew they’d never be able to answer truthfully.
“You think I’m bullshitting, don’t you?”
“No,” they would say, always that weak, “no,’ even when Tate was lying through his teeth.
“You think I’m bullshitting, don’t you?”
“No,” they would say, always that weak, “no,’ even when Tate was lying through his teeth.
It Was a Test - E. D. James
The first time Andrei had administered the fungus was just a test. The subject was very near death, pulse fast and shallow, breathing labored, all of the digestive functions shut down. He was really beyond feeling, which was perfect for the experiment that Andrei wanted to perform, but wasn’t what he hoped to achieve when he really put his plan into action.
Andrei had talked at length with Duloo about the mushrooms effects on the shaman. Duloo told him that the shaman would become violently ill within ten minutes of ingesting the beautiful red caps with the white sprinkles. They would sweat profusely and vomit and piss their pants, completely out of control of their physical being. The shaman had to be cared for during this period so that wouldn’t hurt themselves or choke on their vomit. Then, after about an hour as far as Andrei could understand from Duloo’s description, which wasn’t very precise as to time because the Evenkis didn’t use watches or otherwise keep to close a track, the shaman would relax into a euphoric state during which they would play drums and talk of visions that were like nothing the others could see or hear or feel. This state could last for hours. Duloo told him that there had been a few cases of the shaman dying, usually just as the euphoric phase of the drugs effects too hold. Duloo seemed to suggest that those who had died were older and near death anyway.
Andrei had carefully prepared a concentrated solution of liquors created by successively boiling the beautiful Amanita that Duloo collected. He took a small bottle with him to the lab that first evening. After his rounds were completed and the laborers had finished their chores and left for the night, Andrei got the subject to drink the contents of the bottle. Within ten minutes the man was retching and convulsing in his bed and his movement would have been immediately evident to anyone who might have walked into the lab. This worried Andrei but he felt he could pick his times when it was unlikely anyone coherent would invade his privacy. After about a half an hour of moaning and tossing and retching, the subject quieted and for about fifteen minutes he had a beautific expression on his face that Andrei hoped was a euphoric dream. His breathing stopped and he was dead within an hour. The end was very quiet.
Andrei carefully cleaned the man and arranged his limbs so that it would appear he just died peacefully in his bed, as so many had done in the first weeks of the experiment. In the morning he reported it as a routine matter. The tenth to die in the current batch of fifty.
He left the lab that morning feeling a mixture of sadness and hope. Sadness for the death he had hastened. Hope for those whose agony he might be able to lessen in the future.
Andrei had talked at length with Duloo about the mushrooms effects on the shaman. Duloo told him that the shaman would become violently ill within ten minutes of ingesting the beautiful red caps with the white sprinkles. They would sweat profusely and vomit and piss their pants, completely out of control of their physical being. The shaman had to be cared for during this period so that wouldn’t hurt themselves or choke on their vomit. Then, after about an hour as far as Andrei could understand from Duloo’s description, which wasn’t very precise as to time because the Evenkis didn’t use watches or otherwise keep to close a track, the shaman would relax into a euphoric state during which they would play drums and talk of visions that were like nothing the others could see or hear or feel. This state could last for hours. Duloo told him that there had been a few cases of the shaman dying, usually just as the euphoric phase of the drugs effects too hold. Duloo seemed to suggest that those who had died were older and near death anyway.
Andrei had carefully prepared a concentrated solution of liquors created by successively boiling the beautiful Amanita that Duloo collected. He took a small bottle with him to the lab that first evening. After his rounds were completed and the laborers had finished their chores and left for the night, Andrei got the subject to drink the contents of the bottle. Within ten minutes the man was retching and convulsing in his bed and his movement would have been immediately evident to anyone who might have walked into the lab. This worried Andrei but he felt he could pick his times when it was unlikely anyone coherent would invade his privacy. After about a half an hour of moaning and tossing and retching, the subject quieted and for about fifteen minutes he had a beautific expression on his face that Andrei hoped was a euphoric dream. His breathing stopped and he was dead within an hour. The end was very quiet.
Andrei carefully cleaned the man and arranged his limbs so that it would appear he just died peacefully in his bed, as so many had done in the first weeks of the experiment. In the morning he reported it as a routine matter. The tenth to die in the current batch of fifty.
He left the lab that morning feeling a mixture of sadness and hope. Sadness for the death he had hastened. Hope for those whose agony he might be able to lessen in the future.
It Was a Test - Melody Cryns
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called me even though I asked him to – via email – more than once. But now I’m not sure if I should text him because he says that when I text him while he’s working, the text interrupts his work-related calls. What’s up with that? You’d think he’d be happy to hear from me at any time, right? Maybe not. I don’t know. I just don’t know what to do anymore – whether I should email, should I call – should I just ignore him and not communicate at all? Like the other day, when he called and said he was in the area, my friend Debby had just pulled up and we were going to take an adventure to Larkspur – way off in Marin County which is really far from where I live – to see the Sun Kings because Debby had never seen them before. The Sun Kings are awesome and they know how to evoke the spirit of the Beatles in special ways that are difficult to explain.
I did offer for Mike to go to Larkspur with us – but he declined, saying he had many things to do – errands to run, etc. and etc.
There are always too many things to do and too many reasons why, this entire three-day weekend, I only got to see him for about two hours. He was able to squeeze me in between errands on Monday – after I had lunch with my friends. I could’ve gone over and visited with my friends after the lovely birthday lunch, but he had finally called – so I dashed home right after we ate and met him in front of my apartment to capture those precious few moments he was available. I remember when I jokingly mentioned the “precious moments” we had to share, he said, “Oh no, don’t go all Hallmark on me!”
What the heck is that supposed to mean? Don’t go all Hallmark?
And why doesn’t he even have time to answer most of my emails? Occasionally I get a one liner…I know he’s busy.,
But aren’t we all? I’ve been working long hours at work, and I barely have enough time to do my laundry because by the time I finally get home from work I’m exhausted. And I wasted Monday afternoon and evening feeling sorry for myself – because HE left at 3pm and then I found out that my daughter wasn’t even coming home until the next day. You’d think I’d be thrilled to have all that time alone – for writing, playing my guitar or anything I wanted. But no, I’ve been working so hard that I really needed to veg out a little and read a little, and watch That 70’s Show reruns a little and fret about him a little – and wonder, is he really just testing me? Maybe he wants to see if I’m going to hang in there.
Or maybe the reality is that I should also be dating other people instead of worrying about HIM so much.
I did offer for Mike to go to Larkspur with us – but he declined, saying he had many things to do – errands to run, etc. and etc.
There are always too many things to do and too many reasons why, this entire three-day weekend, I only got to see him for about two hours. He was able to squeeze me in between errands on Monday – after I had lunch with my friends. I could’ve gone over and visited with my friends after the lovely birthday lunch, but he had finally called – so I dashed home right after we ate and met him in front of my apartment to capture those precious few moments he was available. I remember when I jokingly mentioned the “precious moments” we had to share, he said, “Oh no, don’t go all Hallmark on me!”
What the heck is that supposed to mean? Don’t go all Hallmark?
And why doesn’t he even have time to answer most of my emails? Occasionally I get a one liner…I know he’s busy.,
But aren’t we all? I’ve been working long hours at work, and I barely have enough time to do my laundry because by the time I finally get home from work I’m exhausted. And I wasted Monday afternoon and evening feeling sorry for myself – because HE left at 3pm and then I found out that my daughter wasn’t even coming home until the next day. You’d think I’d be thrilled to have all that time alone – for writing, playing my guitar or anything I wanted. But no, I’ve been working so hard that I really needed to veg out a little and read a little, and watch That 70’s Show reruns a little and fret about him a little – and wonder, is he really just testing me? Maybe he wants to see if I’m going to hang in there.
Or maybe the reality is that I should also be dating other people instead of worrying about HIM so much.
Inseparable - Maria Robinson
Martha and Sean were inseparable. Her parents had flown back home to New York. Sean's had disappeared into quaint Kent, England and they were alone in London. Newly married and feeling free. Everyday was another encounter with the freezing March weather, the hot pot dinners and dreams of opening their own art gallery. Martha, front of house, drawing everyone in with a New York honed cachet. Sean in the back, closing the deal and getting the pounds and euros in exchange for the framed proofs of sophistication, intelligence or even insanity that would perch in cosmopolitan living rooms. It was after the closings and after the money was counted, that they saw themselves laughing and rollicking more like each others' kin, locked together in the game and forgetting about New York.
Inseparable - Kate Bueler
Inseparable. We used to be inseparable. It happened quickly. Quickly before you know it one night turns into 3 day night sleep over and then you can’t think of not texting or calling to talk about something funny that happened- like I lost my car again. Where did I park it. Or I just died a little in this class when they started reading the syllabus. Or the kids did this. Or maybe, maybe something like I can’t wait to see you again, when can you come over. I hate the phone he says but then hours go by and we say we should have just gotten together. But being inseparable is scary. Scary it is.
Because what happens when you separate. For a few days, or hours, or weeks. What happens to you. To him. Inseparable. It was hard to separate. Separate physically it was. We had the perfection combination of stamina, him being pussy deprived, me being penis deprived, and the ability to recover and repeat, and repeat. Our romps were marathons. They started that way. It was insatiable. We were insatiable. And then. Then we would have to separate you must. To wait a few hours before the shakes set in the withdrawal real, the drunken dial or text, or I'm so hard get over here. Over here.
Our marathons became mini runs around the track. We weren’t deprived anymore. Anymore. We were inseparable. But then the separating. Separating had to happen. Not days or hours but weeks and months. And then the inseparable piece. The inseparable piece that made me miss those romps and talks and romps and talks and food making and beer drinking and pot smoking. The cocoon of the bed only getting up to eat or pee or breathe outside. Separating. The separating is so hard when you once were inseparable.
So when you have separated and this time it is permanent. His penis of best meat in town hasn’t paid your danger triangle magical vagina a visit. The vacation more permanent. A study abroad is now home. Home. Once you separate and you once you were inseparable when you hear, hear they aren’t okay. He is not okay. Okay you can’t help but feel inseparable again. Because you want nothing more than to merge again and make it okay. No not the banging, not the sex, not the relationship-you can’t separate from your feelings of loss of potential-not the death of the relationship-but the quiet slow death of him. When you must numb yourself to the point of extinction. Extinction. Beautifully flawed we all are.
But this is different. I couldn’t separate from my feelings, feeling for him to be okay, for me to be with being okay, okay with knowing he might not, he might not and there was nothing I could do again. Again. Disempowered by separation. Inseparable the feelings of love and loss and love and loss and the want for it to be different. That he would be healed, healed and not run away. Run away in white lines, or alcohol or any of it. Because last time I saw him he looked skinny. But I pollyannaed it and didn’t believe. I couldn’t separate those feelings of being inseparable from him my feelings for him.
But this time, time as I have watched my mother and at least one former lover I had no choice to separate. No words could be enough. No looks enough. No tears enough. I weep for the loss of a life, a life that can matter. A life that would not be pained pained so much so much that we need to separate again. Again. Inseparable it so hard to separate. Separate the feelings. The feelings of disappointment and knowing there is nothing I can do. Can do at all. But separate. Separate. And do better at the choosing. The choosing next time. This time. Another
Because what happens when you separate. For a few days, or hours, or weeks. What happens to you. To him. Inseparable. It was hard to separate. Separate physically it was. We had the perfection combination of stamina, him being pussy deprived, me being penis deprived, and the ability to recover and repeat, and repeat. Our romps were marathons. They started that way. It was insatiable. We were insatiable. And then. Then we would have to separate you must. To wait a few hours before the shakes set in the withdrawal real, the drunken dial or text, or I'm so hard get over here. Over here.
Our marathons became mini runs around the track. We weren’t deprived anymore. Anymore. We were inseparable. But then the separating. Separating had to happen. Not days or hours but weeks and months. And then the inseparable piece. The inseparable piece that made me miss those romps and talks and romps and talks and food making and beer drinking and pot smoking. The cocoon of the bed only getting up to eat or pee or breathe outside. Separating. The separating is so hard when you once were inseparable.
So when you have separated and this time it is permanent. His penis of best meat in town hasn’t paid your danger triangle magical vagina a visit. The vacation more permanent. A study abroad is now home. Home. Once you separate and you once you were inseparable when you hear, hear they aren’t okay. He is not okay. Okay you can’t help but feel inseparable again. Because you want nothing more than to merge again and make it okay. No not the banging, not the sex, not the relationship-you can’t separate from your feelings of loss of potential-not the death of the relationship-but the quiet slow death of him. When you must numb yourself to the point of extinction. Extinction. Beautifully flawed we all are.
But this is different. I couldn’t separate from my feelings, feeling for him to be okay, for me to be with being okay, okay with knowing he might not, he might not and there was nothing I could do again. Again. Disempowered by separation. Inseparable the feelings of love and loss and love and loss and the want for it to be different. That he would be healed, healed and not run away. Run away in white lines, or alcohol or any of it. Because last time I saw him he looked skinny. But I pollyannaed it and didn’t believe. I couldn’t separate those feelings of being inseparable from him my feelings for him.
But this time, time as I have watched my mother and at least one former lover I had no choice to separate. No words could be enough. No looks enough. No tears enough. I weep for the loss of a life, a life that can matter. A life that would not be pained pained so much so much that we need to separate again. Again. Inseparable it so hard to separate. Separate the feelings. The feelings of disappointment and knowing there is nothing I can do. Can do at all. But separate. Separate. And do better at the choosing. The choosing next time. This time. Another
Inseparable - Judy Albietz
They love each other. Sam’s big. Lucy’s small. They’re inseparable. When we all take a walk together, she scoots around underneath his belly. He’s always careful not step on her. He weighs 100 pounds. She’s ten pounds.
They eat together. First one bowl then another. Each one politely letting the other get a bite. No pushing. Lucy claimed the job of telling us when the water bowl is empty. She stands in it and tries to scoot it around the kitchen floor. She gets a treat for her hard work. Sam watches on fondly, like a doting uncle spoiling his young niece on the first day of summer with a mint chip ice cream cone.
Last Fall Lucy was seven months old when we brought her home to meet Sam. As soon as we came into the room, he quietly lowered his body and stretched out on the floor. His massive brown head between his white paws, he was at her eye level. Lucy immediately bounded over to him. Sam didn’t move a muscle as she checked him out, carefully licking both of his black-tipped ears. Then Lucy did that puppy-squeal thing and leapt up in the air when she spotted a tennis ball across the room. She fell over herself as she raced to get the ball. She dropped it on the floor in front of Sam. She made us all laugh. Sam too.
Sam’s old, almost 14. That’s really ancient for a big dog. We love him so much. We all worry about his getting old and dying. We worry about Lucy. She’ll miss him terribly. I can’t tell her what’s around the corner. If I could make her understand, how could she prepare herself? Would she put up all sorts of defenses? Distance herself so it won’t hurt so much? Back off and love him less?
They eat together. First one bowl then another. Each one politely letting the other get a bite. No pushing. Lucy claimed the job of telling us when the water bowl is empty. She stands in it and tries to scoot it around the kitchen floor. She gets a treat for her hard work. Sam watches on fondly, like a doting uncle spoiling his young niece on the first day of summer with a mint chip ice cream cone.
Last Fall Lucy was seven months old when we brought her home to meet Sam. As soon as we came into the room, he quietly lowered his body and stretched out on the floor. His massive brown head between his white paws, he was at her eye level. Lucy immediately bounded over to him. Sam didn’t move a muscle as she checked him out, carefully licking both of his black-tipped ears. Then Lucy did that puppy-squeal thing and leapt up in the air when she spotted a tennis ball across the room. She fell over herself as she raced to get the ball. She dropped it on the floor in front of Sam. She made us all laugh. Sam too.
Sam’s old, almost 14. That’s really ancient for a big dog. We love him so much. We all worry about his getting old and dying. We worry about Lucy. She’ll miss him terribly. I can’t tell her what’s around the corner. If I could make her understand, how could she prepare herself? Would she put up all sorts of defenses? Distance herself so it won’t hurt so much? Back off and love him less?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Bubbling Over - Kate Bueler
Bubbling over. The bubbling over out of the champagne bottle is my favorite. As you try to open it-it sometimes takes a while then it does open and all the tiny bubbles drift, push, zig zag to the surface of the lake of love. The bottle of champagne as I open in among my roommates- come on Kate open it- you can do it- it’s taking longer than usual. Usual. So I keep trying until. That welcomed pop bursting your ears into the celebration of drinkable fireworks. And then the bubbling over. The bubbling over into the cup or my mouth or their mouths or on my hands. I love the sweetness of the bubbling over- the mistake so perfectly spilled tastes so good as the bubbles dissipate along your tongue, your mouth. You lick each one of your hands.
I was once reprimanded on New Years. Don’t touch me. He said. Don’t touch me with those champagne hands. It was midnight. We were surrounded by kisses and love and excitement bubbling over around us, fireworks of new beginnings of too much champagne or other recreational freedom. We stood in a line me, him, my best friend, and his old friend. His friend said what the fuck. What the fuck about what he said to me. And then kissed my best friend. In my excitement in my bubbling over-I smacked my lover on the lips and walked away. No one was going to stop me from bubbling over. No one ever has.
I want a man who wants me to touch him, him with or without champagne hands. I want a man that will let me touch him, no matter what has bubbled over on my hands. I want a man who wouldn’t mind if I spilt some of the champagne on him just for fun. This is what I thought. But said nothing. Instead I took up smoking again and drank champagne from the bottle and went to the store to get more tecate. That we hid upstairs in the bathroom-overly done modernly with the proper title of aquamarine and tub with jets and the cabinets just opaque enough is where we hid our beers. Bubbling over, bubbling over, I poured down my familiar escape down my throat again. He kept bringing people upstairs to blow lines. Lines of their celebration. Bubbling over into, into what the truth might be. Might be. I just kept drinking and smiling and looking pretty. Around the room, the house I had helped clean and decorate the balloons glistened and reminded me of the helium we had all sucked down earlier. Hello in a high pitch voice and the laughter. The bubbling over it was all bubbling over. Over it was. Or so I thought. So I thought. Because in the midst of champagne and tecate for her and alcohol and cocaine for him- I just wanted someone to touch and hold. He just wanted to escape. Escaped with both did. Did. Me as a drunk. Him as a drunk and cokehead. It all bubbled over that night. That night it did.
I was once reprimanded on New Years. Don’t touch me. He said. Don’t touch me with those champagne hands. It was midnight. We were surrounded by kisses and love and excitement bubbling over around us, fireworks of new beginnings of too much champagne or other recreational freedom. We stood in a line me, him, my best friend, and his old friend. His friend said what the fuck. What the fuck about what he said to me. And then kissed my best friend. In my excitement in my bubbling over-I smacked my lover on the lips and walked away. No one was going to stop me from bubbling over. No one ever has.
I want a man who wants me to touch him, him with or without champagne hands. I want a man that will let me touch him, no matter what has bubbled over on my hands. I want a man who wouldn’t mind if I spilt some of the champagne on him just for fun. This is what I thought. But said nothing. Instead I took up smoking again and drank champagne from the bottle and went to the store to get more tecate. That we hid upstairs in the bathroom-overly done modernly with the proper title of aquamarine and tub with jets and the cabinets just opaque enough is where we hid our beers. Bubbling over, bubbling over, I poured down my familiar escape down my throat again. He kept bringing people upstairs to blow lines. Lines of their celebration. Bubbling over into, into what the truth might be. Might be. I just kept drinking and smiling and looking pretty. Around the room, the house I had helped clean and decorate the balloons glistened and reminded me of the helium we had all sucked down earlier. Hello in a high pitch voice and the laughter. The bubbling over it was all bubbling over. Over it was. Or so I thought. So I thought. Because in the midst of champagne and tecate for her and alcohol and cocaine for him- I just wanted someone to touch and hold. He just wanted to escape. Escaped with both did. Did. Me as a drunk. Him as a drunk and cokehead. It all bubbled over that night. That night it did.
Bubbling Over - Judy Albietz
Lily’s lungs screamed for air. Her heart almost pounded out of her chest with fear. She had to survive. She had to break free of whatever was sucking her down. She only had a little time left. Willing all her strength into her numb arms and legs, she pulled and kicked as hard as she could. She looked up. It worked! She propelled herself upwards. She felt a thrill as she saw the surface coming toward her.
Her victory was short-lived. Just as she was about to reach the air above her, suction grabbed her again. She fought back. Frantically, she thrashed her arms to pull free. She was jerked back down—even deeper into the murky water. Defeated, she clutched at the pain in her chest as her lungs ached for good air. They wanted to breathe in something, even if it was water. It was so very quiet. All she could hear was her own panic dashing about in her head.
Lily knew this was it. She couldn’t last much longer. Her thoughts slowed. The liquid background noise was almost pleasant as it hummed in her ears. The water around her changed from murky green to clear blue. Thousands of air bubbles appeared out of nowhere. They surrounded her and then shot upwards. She vaguely wondered where they came from.
Through the now-clear water she saw a large shape swimming toward her. It had a huge head and four legs. It was getting closer. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Was that shape real or was she imagining it? Her eyesight was closing in on her. The last thing Lily remembered was a feeling of warmth before she lost consciousness.
Her victory was short-lived. Just as she was about to reach the air above her, suction grabbed her again. She fought back. Frantically, she thrashed her arms to pull free. She was jerked back down—even deeper into the murky water. Defeated, she clutched at the pain in her chest as her lungs ached for good air. They wanted to breathe in something, even if it was water. It was so very quiet. All she could hear was her own panic dashing about in her head.
Lily knew this was it. She couldn’t last much longer. Her thoughts slowed. The liquid background noise was almost pleasant as it hummed in her ears. The water around her changed from murky green to clear blue. Thousands of air bubbles appeared out of nowhere. They surrounded her and then shot upwards. She vaguely wondered where they came from.
Through the now-clear water she saw a large shape swimming toward her. It had a huge head and four legs. It was getting closer. She was tired and wanted to sleep. Was that shape real or was she imagining it? Her eyesight was closing in on her. The last thing Lily remembered was a feeling of warmth before she lost consciousness.
Disorder: Martha's Closet - Maria Robinson
The black suede high heels from the wedding, dented and scuffed lying under a set of red sandals from the honeymoon.
A shoe still life entitled: " When they were in love."
Three identical black skirts, bought on ebay: Wrinkled and pleated,
grosgrain waist band, reverse zipper. Italian.
For hosting gallery openings, selling art, making money.
Soho: black skirt, white starched blouse, funky necklace, lots of cleavage.
Uptown: black skirt, cashmere sweater, pearls and expensive jewelry, hose.
Art Fair: Black skirt, 60's retro blouse, bakelite jewelry.
black high heels, black high heels, black high heels
Yoga and gym clothes, black tights, sequined hoodies and havaiana
flipflops: worn in New York and London and Florida.
Carry the sweat and karma from each place.
New York: David Barton Gym and Bikram Yoga,
London- More Bikram plus Asthanga and Kirtan,
Florida: Sunshine/Moon Yoga and Stellar Beach Gym.
All casual clothes relegated to the floor for the Salvation Army.
A shoe still life entitled: " When they were in love."
Three identical black skirts, bought on ebay: Wrinkled and pleated,
grosgrain waist band, reverse zipper. Italian.
For hosting gallery openings, selling art, making money.
Soho: black skirt, white starched blouse, funky necklace, lots of cleavage.
Uptown: black skirt, cashmere sweater, pearls and expensive jewelry, hose.
Art Fair: Black skirt, 60's retro blouse, bakelite jewelry.
black high heels, black high heels, black high heels
Yoga and gym clothes, black tights, sequined hoodies and havaiana
flipflops: worn in New York and London and Florida.
Carry the sweat and karma from each place.
New York: David Barton Gym and Bikram Yoga,
London- More Bikram plus Asthanga and Kirtan,
Florida: Sunshine/Moon Yoga and Stellar Beach Gym.
All casual clothes relegated to the floor for the Salvation Army.
Disorder - E. D. James
Olivia knew what she was seeing was not right. It was subtle. The crane was standing, it’s feathers and color looked right. But there was a slight trembling in the wings folded along its side. It’s head moved in a small side to side motion that Olivia had never seen before in cranes. The bird did not seem particularly aware of its surroundings, it didn’t have the watchful presence that she was used to seeing. She didn’t see the telltale areas of missing feathers or the reddened areas along the beak that she associated with birds that were older, but she wondered. The motions and the seeming disconnect from the world around it reminded her of her dad in his last months. The emphysema and the diabetes had rendered him palsied and listless. The drinking had left his mind at the bar. She knew the crane did not have long to live, but she didn’t know why.
Disorder - Melody Cryns
This morning I’m cooking a stir fry of veggies on the stove for the HMR Weight Management potluck at lunch today. The leaves on the trees outside my kitchen window are a lush green and I think the sun might come out today. The smell of soy sauce and garlic permeates the air.
“Wow, you’re actually cooking this early in the morning!” my daughter Megan says and we laugh. Yeah, it is kind of weird, especially considering I’ve got to be at work in about 30 minutes or so.
On Sunday, I’d gathered with my whole family at Jeremy’s house to celebrate Stevie’s 29th birthday, my big boy. He and his girlfriend had just returned from Thailand, so I brought a copy of my creative thesis with me to give to Stevie to read. I’m still not sure whether to give Melissa a copy or not because every time I read anything from it, she shouts, “Oh no, that’s not the way I remember it happened!”
“Mom’s just embellishing and making the story happen the way she sees it!” Jeremy argues.
“But I think it would be better if things happened the way they REALLY happened.”
“But how do you know you remember the way things really happened?” Jeremy asked. He’d been drinking a little and was still upset that the Sharks had lost badly – and were now out of it for the year. A pall and silence had fallen upon the room after much animated shouting among Jeremy and Stevie and their long-time friend Jamie. Jeremy immediately changed the channel, walked into his bedroom and changed out of his Sharks Jersey. He was still stinging from that – I’m not a huge sports fanatic, but I wanted the Sharks to win for my boys’ sake.
My friend Debby had arrived at Jeremy’s house before I did because I’d invited her – I wanted her to meet my family. After a while, Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend, picked Melissa up from the train station and her friend Denise, and then Alisha came over with her daughter Alana, who is six now. As everyone shouted and laughed and talked, I relished in the chaos and disorder that is my life. Liezl, Stevie’s wonderful girlfriend, was chopping veggies up in the kitchen because she loves to cook – and baking a cake for Stevie’s birthday. The older kids drank a few shots – and eventually I did read from my thesis, the same pieces I’d read at my special reading that two of my four kids had missed.
I read it for Stevie and Melissa and for Alisha, Jen and Liezl and Denise – starting with 1986 when we were in Germany – Melissa shouting, “Mom, are you sure it really happened that way?” No one else seemed to care.
“But, Mom, I don’t know about that part where Chandel stole money from all of us – and Stevie confronted her – remember that?”
Funny because I’d forgotten that was even in my thesis even though I’d read it through how many times?
“Wow, you’re actually cooking this early in the morning!” my daughter Megan says and we laugh. Yeah, it is kind of weird, especially considering I’ve got to be at work in about 30 minutes or so.
On Sunday, I’d gathered with my whole family at Jeremy’s house to celebrate Stevie’s 29th birthday, my big boy. He and his girlfriend had just returned from Thailand, so I brought a copy of my creative thesis with me to give to Stevie to read. I’m still not sure whether to give Melissa a copy or not because every time I read anything from it, she shouts, “Oh no, that’s not the way I remember it happened!”
“Mom’s just embellishing and making the story happen the way she sees it!” Jeremy argues.
“But I think it would be better if things happened the way they REALLY happened.”
“But how do you know you remember the way things really happened?” Jeremy asked. He’d been drinking a little and was still upset that the Sharks had lost badly – and were now out of it for the year. A pall and silence had fallen upon the room after much animated shouting among Jeremy and Stevie and their long-time friend Jamie. Jeremy immediately changed the channel, walked into his bedroom and changed out of his Sharks Jersey. He was still stinging from that – I’m not a huge sports fanatic, but I wanted the Sharks to win for my boys’ sake.
My friend Debby had arrived at Jeremy’s house before I did because I’d invited her – I wanted her to meet my family. After a while, Jen, Jeremy’s girlfriend, picked Melissa up from the train station and her friend Denise, and then Alisha came over with her daughter Alana, who is six now. As everyone shouted and laughed and talked, I relished in the chaos and disorder that is my life. Liezl, Stevie’s wonderful girlfriend, was chopping veggies up in the kitchen because she loves to cook – and baking a cake for Stevie’s birthday. The older kids drank a few shots – and eventually I did read from my thesis, the same pieces I’d read at my special reading that two of my four kids had missed.
I read it for Stevie and Melissa and for Alisha, Jen and Liezl and Denise – starting with 1986 when we were in Germany – Melissa shouting, “Mom, are you sure it really happened that way?” No one else seemed to care.
“But, Mom, I don’t know about that part where Chandel stole money from all of us – and Stevie confronted her – remember that?”
Funny because I’d forgotten that was even in my thesis even though I’d read it through how many times?
Disorder - Camilla Basham
Abandoned by the distance of time and miles I sit fingering mediocre stemware doubting if I was as happy then as I believed I was. I know there came a time when I sobbed, actually moaned, wailed like a baby, believing I did so because of the incredible beauty of life and the never ending fullness of my days; but I am wondering now, three martinis in, if the tears weren’t induced by something all together different.
I sit with other teary eyed women in the Dew Drop Inn, a mobile home turned into a bar along an otherwise desolate Main Street in the middle of Bumfucked, USA, the town where I was born and immediately plotted to leave, just down the road from the hospital where my mother awaits her destiny. Discussions quickly shift from the best fried catfish recipe to the sexual expertise of a certain neighborhood high school basketball coach, when I notice a man who takes my breath away seated at the far end of the bar. This is no small feat in a god-forsaken town such as this where few men, if any, have all of their teeth. He looks like a man who would take you on the kitchen table before dinner, inhaling the sweet scent of just killed animal flesh searing on his hot charcoal grill; or in the front seat of his car at one of those old drive in movies, as Cary Grant throws his ninety foot long shadow over your exposed heaving breasts and his perfectly proportioned glistening bare ass as you taste his sweet breath rammed down your throat.
My therapist calls it a disorder: this ability to lose myself in sensual fantasy when faced with stress. Actors are sent away to rehab for such a disorder after their wives catch them with women half their ages. I slip a coin into the jukebox; take another sip, pop a vodka soaked olive in my mouth, cross my legs, arch my back and focus on the beast. Is it really a disorder? Or is it actually order: to crave something so raw and primal, when faced with something as raw and primal as death; your parent’s, your own?
I sit with other teary eyed women in the Dew Drop Inn, a mobile home turned into a bar along an otherwise desolate Main Street in the middle of Bumfucked, USA, the town where I was born and immediately plotted to leave, just down the road from the hospital where my mother awaits her destiny. Discussions quickly shift from the best fried catfish recipe to the sexual expertise of a certain neighborhood high school basketball coach, when I notice a man who takes my breath away seated at the far end of the bar. This is no small feat in a god-forsaken town such as this where few men, if any, have all of their teeth. He looks like a man who would take you on the kitchen table before dinner, inhaling the sweet scent of just killed animal flesh searing on his hot charcoal grill; or in the front seat of his car at one of those old drive in movies, as Cary Grant throws his ninety foot long shadow over your exposed heaving breasts and his perfectly proportioned glistening bare ass as you taste his sweet breath rammed down your throat.
My therapist calls it a disorder: this ability to lose myself in sensual fantasy when faced with stress. Actors are sent away to rehab for such a disorder after their wives catch them with women half their ages. I slip a coin into the jukebox; take another sip, pop a vodka soaked olive in my mouth, cross my legs, arch my back and focus on the beast. Is it really a disorder? Or is it actually order: to crave something so raw and primal, when faced with something as raw and primal as death; your parent’s, your own?
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