She would let him stay on the couch. What else could she do? She had fallen for the pups, knew if he left, as he said, he would “take the dogs with him.” She watched his slow breathing, lying there asleep on the cabin’s plaid colonial sofa, the pups rising on his chest with each inhale, lowering with each exhale, a pile of sweet contentment. What else could she do?
A thin ray of sun tumbled through the cabin’s only window, making a stripe on the knotty pine wall next to the kitchenette before stretching across the floor. Martha loved this time of morning, the only time light from outside directly penetrated the cabin’s brooding interior. The wind had died and all was quiet except for the raucous shrieks of jays. The thunder and lightening of the night before had produced little rain, and searing heat was expected again by afternoon.
She had tried to get him to put his clothes on but he had refused, instead getting in her bed and snuggling under the down quilt she had brought from home. His blonde hair streaked across the pillow like wheat tossed in the wind. He looked nothing like an ax murderer. When he closed his mouth he resembled Jesus, at least the Jesus of her Catholic Sunday school, the thin, fair, blue-eyed man with the benign expression she had gone to sleep dreaming of every night as a child, the one whose presence blocked the tumult outside her bedroom door, the voices of her parents at first merely raised, then so loud and angry as the night progressed they were a kind of thunder in themselves.
Martha had at first continued to sit on the bed, but as the booming of the electrical storm got closer and closer her greater fear of physical annihilation overcame her slightly milder fear of the strangeness of this man who controlled the lives of the pups, and she climbed in bed next to him.
They lay there awhile, then began to talk. “Why did you memorize that passage from Crime and Punishment?” she asked, cringing at the recollection - I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open….I shall tread in the sticky warm blood. “Why that quote?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Appealed to me, I guess.” He was on his side now, studying her face, which was turned toward the ceiling. She wondered whether the mascara she had applied that morning had worn off, whether her small eyes looked round and deep the way she always wanted them to, or like beady marbles, the way she hated.
“Why did you take off your clothes?”
“It was hot,” he said.
It was then that it happened, a soft shuffling of his body toward her, the pups being moved out of the way down toward the bottom of the bed. Martha closed her eyes and just as she had done as a child, pretended it was Jesus lying next to her, only this time he was reaching under her sweatshirt and stroking her breasts. Jesus hadn’t needed dental work, did not have a tattoo of angel wings on his back, had clean hair, had certainly not known anything about Russian literature, but for this moment, with mighty blasts of thunder and lightening raining down upon them, the cabin shaking furiously, the dishes rattling in the cupboards, she allowed herself to believe that none of that mattered, that here was a boy/man who needed her desperately, and when had anyone ever felt that way about her before?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Doing It Alone - Kent Wright
Roger walked slowly up the slight hill from the parking garage towards the office building. Near the entrance two women in blue scrubs stood under an awning hunched against the wind smoking. Roger puffed against the incline. Inside, the lobby had a feeling of efficiency that made Roger wince and was decorated in art he despised. Art meant to sooth, but art that deadened the spirit instead. He wished this time, however, it distracted him from thoughts that had refused to rest since he had given in and called this doctor. He’d tried to avoid that call by reminding himself that a symptom or two didn’t mean anything. It hadn’t worked. He didn’t know why he got so winded every time he went up stairs now or why the cough that used to greet him each morning now stayed with him all day. The symptoms had scared him enough finally to make the appointment in the office four floors above.
The soft ding of the elevator sounded. Roger let a man in a wheelchair pushed by what must be his daughter get on first. There was a pregnant woman holding hands with a man too. What had nagged at the edges of Roger’s thoughts now stepped into full view. He was doing this alone. There was no one to call. No one to tell he was coming here or who might have offered to drive him. He still had names and telephone numbers, but not the courage to use them. The bridges had all been burned. Not by huge conflagrations that could have been seen for miles and drawn hordes of the curious to the spectacle. Roger had burned them with the flame of countless matches struck on the abrasive wall of his sarcasm. He had always managed to convince himself that everyone knew it was harmless wit. Wit no more hurtful than being struck by a Wiffle ball. He was wrong. Those endless bits of razor wire spat from his mouth eventually bloodied and dispersed his friends, his only sister and even her son. Roger had called Pete two days before the appointment. Pete was cold and didn’t say why he couldn’t help. Why hadn’t he even asked why he was going to the doctor Roger had wondered when he hung up. He’d always ribbed Pete, but Hell, Pete was his favorite. He had continued called him Perfect Pete long after everyone else had stopped. Roger had forgotten the last time he had seen his nephew. It was three years ago; the first time Pete had brought his partner to Thanksgiving. He’d forgotten slapping his nephew on the shoulder as they sat down at the table and saying, “Guess I’ll have to call you Perfect Pete the Perfect Homo from now on."
The elevator emptied. Roger stood unsure for a moment as the doors closed behind him figuring out which way to go to find office 420. As he headed towards the doctor’s office he suddenly remembered the expression on Pete’s face. He must have known I was joking for Christ’s sake Roger thought as he pushed on the door marked 420.
The soft ding of the elevator sounded. Roger let a man in a wheelchair pushed by what must be his daughter get on first. There was a pregnant woman holding hands with a man too. What had nagged at the edges of Roger’s thoughts now stepped into full view. He was doing this alone. There was no one to call. No one to tell he was coming here or who might have offered to drive him. He still had names and telephone numbers, but not the courage to use them. The bridges had all been burned. Not by huge conflagrations that could have been seen for miles and drawn hordes of the curious to the spectacle. Roger had burned them with the flame of countless matches struck on the abrasive wall of his sarcasm. He had always managed to convince himself that everyone knew it was harmless wit. Wit no more hurtful than being struck by a Wiffle ball. He was wrong. Those endless bits of razor wire spat from his mouth eventually bloodied and dispersed his friends, his only sister and even her son. Roger had called Pete two days before the appointment. Pete was cold and didn’t say why he couldn’t help. Why hadn’t he even asked why he was going to the doctor Roger had wondered when he hung up. He’d always ribbed Pete, but Hell, Pete was his favorite. He had continued called him Perfect Pete long after everyone else had stopped. Roger had forgotten the last time he had seen his nephew. It was three years ago; the first time Pete had brought his partner to Thanksgiving. He’d forgotten slapping his nephew on the shoulder as they sat down at the table and saying, “Guess I’ll have to call you Perfect Pete the Perfect Homo from now on."
The elevator emptied. Roger stood unsure for a moment as the doors closed behind him figuring out which way to go to find office 420. As he headed towards the doctor’s office he suddenly remembered the expression on Pete’s face. He must have known I was joking for Christ’s sake Roger thought as he pushed on the door marked 420.
This Was The Room Where It All Happened - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
The great room spans the front of the house. The floor to ceiling windows, cut into rectangles, bring the crystal-flecked ocean inside. The walls are streaked with horizontal brushstrokes the color of the water. A great yellow Chinese rug stretches from the grand piano to the fireplace where a huge red and green abstract swirls over the mantel. Peach-colored couches and chairs break the grand space into groups where you want to sink down, have a drink and talk forever. Or nap.
You can feel the bones of the family here. It is not my house.
I was married in it, dancing in circles to the Greek band while fog advanced outside. The damp air gave promise to the saying my mother told me about rain on a wedding day: A wet knot is hard to untie. All the other siblings of my young bridegroom married here too.
Parties, grandchildren, sailing talk. The first death. The second. The family gathered to honor each. Off the great room, in the bedroom, the mistress of the house died. The next generation moved in. Her grandchild was born the next year in that room. A decade later, her daughter died in the same room on the same day. Everything that can happen in human life has happened here.
Soon, it will be sold.
You can feel the bones of the family here. It is not my house.
I was married in it, dancing in circles to the Greek band while fog advanced outside. The damp air gave promise to the saying my mother told me about rain on a wedding day: A wet knot is hard to untie. All the other siblings of my young bridegroom married here too.
Parties, grandchildren, sailing talk. The first death. The second. The family gathered to honor each. Off the great room, in the bedroom, the mistress of the house died. The next generation moved in. Her grandchild was born the next year in that room. A decade later, her daughter died in the same room on the same day. Everything that can happen in human life has happened here.
Soon, it will be sold.
Dog Days - Nancy Cech
Dog days of summer. Let sleeping dogs lie. Work like a dog. Three dog night. A man’s best friend. Doggone it. What is it about all these idioms that revolve around our best friends? And many of them don’t make sense. Work like a dog? They’re not exactly known for their industrious ways. Doggone it? Really when did dogs ever god damm anything. They roll with the punches Let sleeping dogs lie? Only when you’re trying to sneak around the guard dogs. Three dog night? It takes more than three to take the edge off the cold, believe me. So they’ve made their mark on our language as easy as lifting a leg. These four legged creatures that can communicate what they need with the lift of an eyebrow. They have become our teachers of living in the now and finding joy in the small things. They understand forgiveness and love like no other being on the planet. Our own Doggy Lamas.
And we have elevated these teachers to be members of the family. Dogs today have names like Sam, Trixie and Alexandra, the same names we give children. Now their stature has moved up to son and daughter. Our culture has made a celebrity out of a man who likely would have ended up lazing around in a wife-beater drinking beer, a tough jerk who bosses everyone around. Instead he is a millionaire that we revere for whispering to dogs. There’s special bacon flavored bottled water, a pet airlines. Dog hotels. Scented poop bags. Doggy ice cream trucks. How did this happen? How did they reverse the order of things to end up on top? And without us really noticing.
And we have elevated these teachers to be members of the family. Dogs today have names like Sam, Trixie and Alexandra, the same names we give children. Now their stature has moved up to son and daughter. Our culture has made a celebrity out of a man who likely would have ended up lazing around in a wife-beater drinking beer, a tough jerk who bosses everyone around. Instead he is a millionaire that we revere for whispering to dogs. There’s special bacon flavored bottled water, a pet airlines. Dog hotels. Scented poop bags. Doggy ice cream trucks. How did this happen? How did they reverse the order of things to end up on top? And without us really noticing.
Dog Days - Maria Robinson
Summer in New York City deepened into the fierce heat of August. Martha exited the subway near Brooklyn's Prospect Park and could smell the leaves and hear the twitching of irritable insects. Under a wide straw hat in a long linen dress, she walked in wide lazy steps towards the meadow with a wicker basket hooked over her arm.
Perhaps this is how an August day was spent in 1911, she thought. An escape from the tall apartments of the City, rowing on the lake and a picnic even with sweat soaking through undergarments. Perhaps this was what luxury meant to those without the means to travel far or a way to move up in the world.
She spread a muted Indian bedspread under a tree, sat and drank a few swigs from her thermos of iced tea.
Perhaps this is how an August day was spent in 1911, she thought. An escape from the tall apartments of the City, rowing on the lake and a picnic even with sweat soaking through undergarments. Perhaps this was what luxury meant to those without the means to travel far or a way to move up in the world.
She spread a muted Indian bedspread under a tree, sat and drank a few swigs from her thermos of iced tea.
Dog Days - Judy Albietz
He showed up the second day of school during lunch hour. Lily was sitting by herself on the dried-out patchy lawn outside the back door. She dug into her backpack for the sandwich she brought from home. There was no way she’d eat with everyone else at one of those horrible fast food places near the school.
Chewing her peanut butter and banana sandwich, Lily saw the shadow of the dog out of the corner of her eye. When she looked up, he was standing about ten feet away from her. He must have come from around the corner of the building. He sat down and cocked his head to the left. His brown and gold coat shimmered in the hot mid-day sun. He wore a large red collar and looked harmless.
She stood up to get a better look. He was huge, about four feet to the shoulders. She had never seen such a large dog, or had she? He gave a short, friendly bark and she felt a wave of familiar-something go up and down her spine. “Who are you?” Lily asked as she stared at him.
“Hi Lily!” a soft voice called. She turned around to see who had come out the door and called to her. No one was there. Her heart racing, Lily felt dizzy and sat back down, reaching for the comforting blue stone she always wore around her neck. Finally catching her breath, Lily looked back over to the dog who had now laid down and put his head between his paws. The small stone began to vibrate in her hand. Lily jumped to her feet as she felt a flood of recognition and happiness wash over her.
“Sam!” she called out, leaping to throw her arms around him like she had done so many times before. “How could I have forgotten you?”
Chewing her peanut butter and banana sandwich, Lily saw the shadow of the dog out of the corner of her eye. When she looked up, he was standing about ten feet away from her. He must have come from around the corner of the building. He sat down and cocked his head to the left. His brown and gold coat shimmered in the hot mid-day sun. He wore a large red collar and looked harmless.
She stood up to get a better look. He was huge, about four feet to the shoulders. She had never seen such a large dog, or had she? He gave a short, friendly bark and she felt a wave of familiar-something go up and down her spine. “Who are you?” Lily asked as she stared at him.
“Hi Lily!” a soft voice called. She turned around to see who had come out the door and called to her. No one was there. Her heart racing, Lily felt dizzy and sat back down, reaching for the comforting blue stone she always wore around her neck. Finally catching her breath, Lily looked back over to the dog who had now laid down and put his head between his paws. The small stone began to vibrate in her hand. Lily jumped to her feet as she felt a flood of recognition and happiness wash over her.
“Sam!” she called out, leaping to throw her arms around him like she had done so many times before. “How could I have forgotten you?”
Paradise - Lisa Faulkner
Bali. Tahiti. Hawaii. Garden of Eden. Eve. Lilith. Goddesses. Saraswati. Pele. Hula and Ori. I wish I could fly away to Tahiti or even Hawaii now. In need of a break and restoration after the long years of teaching and now sleep and long month of being sick. But I guess I’m getting to go in a small way every Saturday now that I am finally taking hula basics and ori basics. Ori is hard. Really hard. And awkward. The stance doesn’t agree with my body. Touching my feet at the toes and ankles makes it nearly impossible to do the fast hip circles- fa’arapu. I almost skipped ori this week, but since we focused on technique during hula since our teacher - kumu Mahea was back from her travels I decided to stay. Highlight Keaho said I have good hip isolation, just top moving my shoulders. Guess I have to slow down. The prior week she said when we start moving our shoulders it means we’re moving too fast for our hips. It’s funny, but true, our shoulders become like a little motor or something helping to power the hips. I’ve loved Tahitian dance -ori- since I first saw it on Moorea. It drew me in with it’s raw power and sexuality. I knew it was hard. The men, women and girls sweat and glisten when doing it. Partly cuz of the heat and humidity there. Partly cuz it is a damn good cardio workout. The little ones are the most amazing to watch. There hips move as if they came out the womb doing it and never stopped because there moms taught them by practicing while pregnant. There hips move so fast they blur just like a hummingbirds wings. I thought hula was boring by comparison.
Tahitian dance is like classic rock or hip-hop, while hula like a soft rock ballad. Beautiful, but quiet. A gentle rain shower that begins so quietly you’re not even sure it’s raining. Whereas Tahitian is a powerful thunderstorm and downpour. When I had my first taste of learning hula at the Aloha music camp I realized it’s much harder than it looks too. And now that I am three weeks in, I adore it. And want to be like Auntie Irene @ 93 spontaneously & proudly swaying to hehekouaka. But first I need to practice more. The kaholo alone has so much to think about. Smaller steps. Wrist below the knuckles. Arms at breast level. Bent arm not crossing center. Down then up as step. Hips swaying. Shoulders back. Chest up. Look over arms. We haven’t even got to the smiling part. Moana used to chastise me to smile. I hear her as I do it now, knowing I have that stern look of concentration so I try to smile and relax and have fun as I am learning. She’d be proud.
Tahitian dance is like classic rock or hip-hop, while hula like a soft rock ballad. Beautiful, but quiet. A gentle rain shower that begins so quietly you’re not even sure it’s raining. Whereas Tahitian is a powerful thunderstorm and downpour. When I had my first taste of learning hula at the Aloha music camp I realized it’s much harder than it looks too. And now that I am three weeks in, I adore it. And want to be like Auntie Irene @ 93 spontaneously & proudly swaying to hehekouaka. But first I need to practice more. The kaholo alone has so much to think about. Smaller steps. Wrist below the knuckles. Arms at breast level. Bent arm not crossing center. Down then up as step. Hips swaying. Shoulders back. Chest up. Look over arms. We haven’t even got to the smiling part. Moana used to chastise me to smile. I hear her as I do it now, knowing I have that stern look of concentration so I try to smile and relax and have fun as I am learning. She’d be proud.
Paradise - Kate Bueler
Paradise. What was paradise yesterday is not my paradise today. My paradise before was a beachfront property in a miami style vice house. My paradise was falling in love with bloody marys. It was the first time we took a run on the dance floor of drinking. I loved them so much- I took the orders from all the family members- first one then multiplying until one day I had more glasses lined up in a row, bartender I had become. I tried to perfect it each time. More family members kept coming back for more. My cousin’s husband said my final one rivaled zeitgeist. I took a moment of silence. A comparison to a the godfather of bloody mary makers. I only was in the ring for a week.
Paradise for me was waking up eating and coffee along the lake and then reading, swimming, and making a bloody mary for me and co. Then repeat again. And again. That was my paradise. Paradise was swimming in the lake so much it became my bath. I was a mermaid again on my back floating-my hair back and forth-the heaviness of the hair weighing me down and freeing me all at once. My childhood habit of being a mermaid still mine as I lay on my back floating and my head and the weight of it to and fro. It was my paradise to sit along the hot shore with a towel small or big and the waves crashing rhythmically as the screen doors opens and closes and opens and closes and opens and closes. I sat there by myself. I laid there and could have laid there forever sun beating on my irish german skin brown. I took off one of my 5 bikinis to see a tan line I hadn’t had in years. It was my paradise. Bloody marys and swimming and white bottoms and family and kids running around saying they are robots.
It was my paradise until I came home. Home to a forgotten feeling of despair and anxiety. And after I was able to shake the familiar feeling away. I found paradise again. Again I did. Today while driving. I left my friends home in the Richmond the fog melted away into the sun of the haight. As I drove, I saw two kids on their bikes on the corner bubbling with summer. I drove behind a person with a red party cup plastic type out the window. I slowed down. I saw a tall man walking a toddler across the street. Paradise again.
As I sat sitting in the sun no bloody mary but a espresso with spice. No beach but sun. And my companion the laptop. I sat and heard. Heard paradise again. I had saw paradise. But paradise was listening to three different people talk about boobs in unison. Paradise was talking to a man from cork. Paradise would be getting proper cocktails with friends and searching for sun tomorrow. I had left my paradise-my lake-my love but now I found home. Paradise all along. All long it was. I just had to drive to the sun and leave the fog. The fog that is.
Paradise for me was waking up eating and coffee along the lake and then reading, swimming, and making a bloody mary for me and co. Then repeat again. And again. That was my paradise. Paradise was swimming in the lake so much it became my bath. I was a mermaid again on my back floating-my hair back and forth-the heaviness of the hair weighing me down and freeing me all at once. My childhood habit of being a mermaid still mine as I lay on my back floating and my head and the weight of it to and fro. It was my paradise to sit along the hot shore with a towel small or big and the waves crashing rhythmically as the screen doors opens and closes and opens and closes and opens and closes. I sat there by myself. I laid there and could have laid there forever sun beating on my irish german skin brown. I took off one of my 5 bikinis to see a tan line I hadn’t had in years. It was my paradise. Bloody marys and swimming and white bottoms and family and kids running around saying they are robots.
It was my paradise until I came home. Home to a forgotten feeling of despair and anxiety. And after I was able to shake the familiar feeling away. I found paradise again. Again I did. Today while driving. I left my friends home in the Richmond the fog melted away into the sun of the haight. As I drove, I saw two kids on their bikes on the corner bubbling with summer. I drove behind a person with a red party cup plastic type out the window. I slowed down. I saw a tall man walking a toddler across the street. Paradise again.
As I sat sitting in the sun no bloody mary but a espresso with spice. No beach but sun. And my companion the laptop. I sat and heard. Heard paradise again. I had saw paradise. But paradise was listening to three different people talk about boobs in unison. Paradise was talking to a man from cork. Paradise would be getting proper cocktails with friends and searching for sun tomorrow. I had left my paradise-my lake-my love but now I found home. Paradise all along. All long it was. I just had to drive to the sun and leave the fog. The fog that is.
Paradise - E. D. James
The story had embedded itself in my mind by now, but something still drove me to open the copy of White’s Farallons, Sentinels of the Golden Gate that lived in the dining room and read it again. Images from my dreams emerged as the words described the bouncy four year old with the big smile who was the first human child on the island in the 1860’s. From the moment she’d sat foot on the rock she felt at home and freely wandered the wind scarred slopes exploring the birds nests and watching the seals rest between their journeys in search of a meal that they hoped to find before becoming one. At the end of that first week she began calling herself the “Girl of the Farallones”. Seven years she and her mother had lived happily with the lighthouse keeper. Baking and gardening and washing and singing, always singing.
And then on that seventh December on the island, word came that her mothers’ father had died. It was determined that it would be too risky and too sad a journey for the little girl so just before Christmas she kissed her mother goodbye and watched her being swung in the bosons chair over the heaving waves and into the boat that would carry her back to the mainland to attend to her grieving. All through January El Nino storms bore down on the Victorian. Rain sluiced across the windows and the wind howled in the eaves. The lighthouse keeper tried to keep the little girl company, but he was a serious man and the lights needed tending to day and night, and so often she sat at the window alone and waited, softly singing the songs that she and her mother loved. Finally, in early February, it dawned a sunny day and the lighthouse keeper told her that her mother was coming home. I could imaging the little girl sitting and watching out the window just as I was now, listening to the ticking grandfather clock mark the slowly moving minutes until finally the dark black shaft of smoke appeared and the boat that would end her loneliness grew on the horizon. I could see her running down in the sunlight, wearing the pink ribbons in her hair that her mother had left for her to open on Christmas Day.
The ocean was still in a mood after that month of storms and the waves were large in Maintop Bay. The ship eased in cautiously and the little girl jumped at the sight of her mother on foredeck in her black coat and large black hat. The mother hung onto the rail of the heaving boat but when she saw her daughter she lifted her right hand and waved and smiled. At first the captain signaled that he would have to go back and try again the next day, that it was too dangerous to try to get anyone ashore. But seeing the girl and seeing the mother and feeling the palpable pull between them, he finally swung into range of the crane. It looked as if it would all be all right for a moment. The boson’s chair swung away from the deck at just the right moment and the mother held tight but then, just as she was about to clear the bow, a huge wave crashed into the bay and violently lifted the ship into the air and the spar that ran from the smokestack hit the boom of the crane and the chain broke and the mother tumbled into the water in her big black coat and skirts and suddenly all that could be seen was her hat floating in the foam.
The sun peaked out just for a moment in the crack between the ocean and the sky and painted the underside of the grey fog bank in pink and white. I saw in that moment that I would never leave the islands.
And then on that seventh December on the island, word came that her mothers’ father had died. It was determined that it would be too risky and too sad a journey for the little girl so just before Christmas she kissed her mother goodbye and watched her being swung in the bosons chair over the heaving waves and into the boat that would carry her back to the mainland to attend to her grieving. All through January El Nino storms bore down on the Victorian. Rain sluiced across the windows and the wind howled in the eaves. The lighthouse keeper tried to keep the little girl company, but he was a serious man and the lights needed tending to day and night, and so often she sat at the window alone and waited, softly singing the songs that she and her mother loved. Finally, in early February, it dawned a sunny day and the lighthouse keeper told her that her mother was coming home. I could imaging the little girl sitting and watching out the window just as I was now, listening to the ticking grandfather clock mark the slowly moving minutes until finally the dark black shaft of smoke appeared and the boat that would end her loneliness grew on the horizon. I could see her running down in the sunlight, wearing the pink ribbons in her hair that her mother had left for her to open on Christmas Day.
The ocean was still in a mood after that month of storms and the waves were large in Maintop Bay. The ship eased in cautiously and the little girl jumped at the sight of her mother on foredeck in her black coat and large black hat. The mother hung onto the rail of the heaving boat but when she saw her daughter she lifted her right hand and waved and smiled. At first the captain signaled that he would have to go back and try again the next day, that it was too dangerous to try to get anyone ashore. But seeing the girl and seeing the mother and feeling the palpable pull between them, he finally swung into range of the crane. It looked as if it would all be all right for a moment. The boson’s chair swung away from the deck at just the right moment and the mother held tight but then, just as she was about to clear the bow, a huge wave crashed into the bay and violently lifted the ship into the air and the spar that ran from the smokestack hit the boom of the crane and the chain broke and the mother tumbled into the water in her big black coat and skirts and suddenly all that could be seen was her hat floating in the foam.
The sun peaked out just for a moment in the crack between the ocean and the sky and painted the underside of the grey fog bank in pink and white. I saw in that moment that I would never leave the islands.
Paradise - John Fetto
Hawley wouldn’t be happy in paradise, Johanna’s uncle said. He’d find something to complain about. The angels weren’t flying right or there feather looked fake. The pearly gates were too ostentatious or the white marble hurt his eyes. He just wouldn’t be happy wherever he was and Johanna’s uncle would be happy if walked out and never came back.
Hawley could hear them talking, even when they weren’t there. He’d sit in the kitchen, by himself, sipping coffee, looking out at the birds and flowers in Johanna’s mother’s garden, knowing it wasn’t for him. He’d sit inside looking out, like a visitor who knows he must leave, and savors the last few moments before he goes. They’d stop laughing when he was gone, he’d tell himself, but he never heard anyone agreeing with him.
Hawley could hear them talking, even when they weren’t there. He’d sit in the kitchen, by himself, sipping coffee, looking out at the birds and flowers in Johanna’s mother’s garden, knowing it wasn’t for him. He’d sit inside looking out, like a visitor who knows he must leave, and savors the last few moments before he goes. They’d stop laughing when he was gone, he’d tell himself, but he never heard anyone agreeing with him.
Leave It Alone - Anne Wright
Jack put his hands on his hips and considered this new fact: the leg Great-Pa was wearing when he died was not the one that he and his cousins had seen when they were little, over forty years ago. So the treasure could be in any one of these old wooden legs. Which one of them was the original? He gave up any idea of sleep, and began moving the legs, one by one, to the workbench.
As he lined them up on the workbench, he realized that some were heavier than others; one was cracked almost all the way through where the wood had dried and aged. Jack decided to arrange them in order of what he thought would be oldest to newest, based on the deterioration of the shoes and boots which were clothing the foot. He turned them over to examine the details. The boots, the suede leather lining of the sockets and the leather straps on the upper parts were all coated with a grey dust, like powder. Jack scraped it with his thumbnail. Mold, dead mold. The stiff shafts smelled faintly of urine, or some sour body smell and Jack found himself breathing through his mouth as he looked for the leg with the bullet scar. He needed more light he could see better, and he needed to find some tools -- a saw, or a chisel, and a vise -- so he could operate.
He flipped the switch for the overhead light but when he saw that the light flooded into the back yard and onto the side of the house where the kitchen windows were, he turned it off again. What was he thinking? What if Blanche woke up and came out to the garage and discovered what he was doing, chopping and sawing the legs. She would think he had gone crazy. He had a vivid technicolor moment, as if seeing himself from above: a man gone mad, greedy for a fantasized hoard, flailing in semi-darkness at old, wooden legs. What would Great-Pa think, looking down from heaven at his oldest great-grandson? He gripped the edge of the workbench and gathered his wits. It was nonsense. He flipped the switch again illuminating the entire dusty cluttered garage.
As he lined them up on the workbench, he realized that some were heavier than others; one was cracked almost all the way through where the wood had dried and aged. Jack decided to arrange them in order of what he thought would be oldest to newest, based on the deterioration of the shoes and boots which were clothing the foot. He turned them over to examine the details. The boots, the suede leather lining of the sockets and the leather straps on the upper parts were all coated with a grey dust, like powder. Jack scraped it with his thumbnail. Mold, dead mold. The stiff shafts smelled faintly of urine, or some sour body smell and Jack found himself breathing through his mouth as he looked for the leg with the bullet scar. He needed more light he could see better, and he needed to find some tools -- a saw, or a chisel, and a vise -- so he could operate.
He flipped the switch for the overhead light but when he saw that the light flooded into the back yard and onto the side of the house where the kitchen windows were, he turned it off again. What was he thinking? What if Blanche woke up and came out to the garage and discovered what he was doing, chopping and sawing the legs. She would think he had gone crazy. He had a vivid technicolor moment, as if seeing himself from above: a man gone mad, greedy for a fantasized hoard, flailing in semi-darkness at old, wooden legs. What would Great-Pa think, looking down from heaven at his oldest great-grandson? He gripped the edge of the workbench and gathered his wits. It was nonsense. He flipped the switch again illuminating the entire dusty cluttered garage.
Leave It Alone - Carol Arnold
Martha fixed him a cup of tea, serving it with the remains of a bag of chocolate cookies (extra soft, extra fudge!) that she had mostly devoured the night before. They sat together at the red linoleum table in the kitchenette, the puppies frolicking on the pine plank floor at their feet.
She knew he probably came around for money. She knew he probably had spent the twenty dollars she had given him on drugs. She had been stupid to give it to him, but her heart had ached so at the thought of the puppies alone with him, she hadn’t been able to help herself.
“What’s their names?” Martha said. The cookie she was holding collapsed in two, the other half falling on the floor. The pups sniffed at it as if unsure whether it was food or not. One of them, the bigger one with the spots, took a tentative lick.
“Leave it alone!” the boy-man said, then picked the cookie up and stuffed it in his own mouth. It was at this moment that the thought occurred to Martha that his skeleton body might be caused by something other than drugs. She thought again of the angel wings on his back, wondered if they were flapping softly as he chewed.
He needs a mother, she thought, no, not a mother, but something. He needs me.
She knew he probably came around for money. She knew he probably had spent the twenty dollars she had given him on drugs. She had been stupid to give it to him, but her heart had ached so at the thought of the puppies alone with him, she hadn’t been able to help herself.
“What’s their names?” Martha said. The cookie she was holding collapsed in two, the other half falling on the floor. The pups sniffed at it as if unsure whether it was food or not. One of them, the bigger one with the spots, took a tentative lick.
“Leave it alone!” the boy-man said, then picked the cookie up and stuffed it in his own mouth. It was at this moment that the thought occurred to Martha that his skeleton body might be caused by something other than drugs. She thought again of the angel wings on his back, wondered if they were flapping softly as he chewed.
He needs a mother, she thought, no, not a mother, but something. He needs me.
Eating Alone - Kent Wright
At noontime the modest reception salon with its uncomfortable couch and two chairs is a parking lot for wheel chairs. They are parked chaotically like abandoned cars in a disaster film in front of the doors to the dining room. It is the dining room where the residents of the nursing home can, with varying degrees of success, feed themselves. The room has been functionalized for easy cleaning. To give some sense of hominess there are two undersized fake crystal chandeliers, which glitter rather sadly. They can’t compete with the harsher blue light of large, square fluorescent fixtures mounted tight to the ceiling.
The residents of the nursing home sit each morning, noon and early evening at the same tables, four to a table. The dietician with her clipboard oversees the distribution of the mostly monochromatic food. She wants to make sure each tray is placed in front of the right person. Most of those persons are females. They almost all have the same poodle cut which a woman from a beauty shop in Parker gives them. All the hair is white. Men die first so there aren’t many of them in the dining room. Of the five there currently, only one can carry on much of a conversation. At the second table in from the door there are just three people. A woman who hasn’t spoken for years, Bill, a man who once had his own plane and a landing strip on his farm, but remembers neither, and my Mother. She takes perhaps three or four slow bites of the tasteless lunch before her head nods forward and she falls asleep. The dietician makes a note. She is eating only 25% of her food the report will say.
Recommendation: Consider moving Maxine to the dining room where the staff can assist with feeding.
The residents of the nursing home sit each morning, noon and early evening at the same tables, four to a table. The dietician with her clipboard oversees the distribution of the mostly monochromatic food. She wants to make sure each tray is placed in front of the right person. Most of those persons are females. They almost all have the same poodle cut which a woman from a beauty shop in Parker gives them. All the hair is white. Men die first so there aren’t many of them in the dining room. Of the five there currently, only one can carry on much of a conversation. At the second table in from the door there are just three people. A woman who hasn’t spoken for years, Bill, a man who once had his own plane and a landing strip on his farm, but remembers neither, and my Mother. She takes perhaps three or four slow bites of the tasteless lunch before her head nods forward and she falls asleep. The dietician makes a note. She is eating only 25% of her food the report will say.
Recommendation: Consider moving Maxine to the dining room where the staff can assist with feeding.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Father - Bud Pfohl
Sometimes I make believe there’s a father there, a man I can go to who has answers to my questions and if not answers a willingness to listen. This wasn’t something I missed until I recognized my son was taking advantage of having a father to ask questions of. He doesn’t ask the sort of questions I’d ask, but that’s likely the result of having always had someone to ask.
I tuck my questions away. Sometimes I write them down and they answer themselves, but generally I file them with a wish that I could ask them out loud. I was lucky after my father died in that I had men in my life who took on many of his roles, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask the sort of questions I always wanted to ask: if she likes me, why does she ignore me?, If I like her how come it hurts in the pit of my stomach?, She’s afraid she’s pregnant, what should I do? These are questions I would never have asked my father, but because he wasn’t there, I always thought how much better it would be if he was and I could ask him these questions.
Actually I probably asked my dad as many questions after he died as I did when he was alive; probably more. I used to lay awake in bed after he died and long after I’d stopped saying prayers, and I’d pray these questions to my dad. I could make up the answers just like I used to make up the answers to my childhood prayers.
I remember childhood prayers, every night kneeling beside my brother, our mom standing behind us and praying that God would keep my soul if I dies. I did it, but it frightened me. I know that prayer like I know the Little League Pledge: Now I lay me down to sleep, I trust in God, I love my country and will respect its laws, I pray the lord my soul to keep, I will play fair and strive to win, If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take, but win or lose I will always do my best.
My mom said if we said our prayers each night we could ask God for special favors, she called them blessings. Out loud I asked for my grandma and my grandpa to be OK and for the war in Viet Nam to end, but there was a silent voice, as loud as my spoken voice, that asked for hits at my next baseball game and for Denise Myers to smile at me during recess tomorrow.
I tuck my questions away. Sometimes I write them down and they answer themselves, but generally I file them with a wish that I could ask them out loud. I was lucky after my father died in that I had men in my life who took on many of his roles, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask the sort of questions I always wanted to ask: if she likes me, why does she ignore me?, If I like her how come it hurts in the pit of my stomach?, She’s afraid she’s pregnant, what should I do? These are questions I would never have asked my father, but because he wasn’t there, I always thought how much better it would be if he was and I could ask him these questions.
Actually I probably asked my dad as many questions after he died as I did when he was alive; probably more. I used to lay awake in bed after he died and long after I’d stopped saying prayers, and I’d pray these questions to my dad. I could make up the answers just like I used to make up the answers to my childhood prayers.
I remember childhood prayers, every night kneeling beside my brother, our mom standing behind us and praying that God would keep my soul if I dies. I did it, but it frightened me. I know that prayer like I know the Little League Pledge: Now I lay me down to sleep, I trust in God, I love my country and will respect its laws, I pray the lord my soul to keep, I will play fair and strive to win, If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take, but win or lose I will always do my best.
My mom said if we said our prayers each night we could ask God for special favors, she called them blessings. Out loud I asked for my grandma and my grandpa to be OK and for the war in Viet Nam to end, but there was a silent voice, as loud as my spoken voice, that asked for hits at my next baseball game and for Denise Myers to smile at me during recess tomorrow.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Anatomy Lesson - E. D. James
The ever-evolving nature of the carnage stuck in my mind, populated my dreams, and dominated my life every fifth day. The death walk tally mounting week-by-week, month-by-month. Slimy wings rejected by gulls’ intestines. Downy piles of feathers in crannies in the rocks comforting the bones that were all that remained of hardy little creatures whose only crime was try and raise a family in the Islands of the Dead.
Death brought me here. A death I never expected. A death I caused. A death that came in the midst of so much life that it overflowed out of my control.
I search for the meaning of that death in observations I record here on my self-imposed island of exile. I hope for a redemption that comes from dedication to something larger than my wants and needs. I pray for forgiveness for a deed committed in a time of turmoil.
The seas and the air and the surface of the rocks that make up the island are in a constant maelstrom that infuses energy into the life that inhabits this fertile boundary at the edge of the continent. Frigid waters charged with oxygen well up from the depths and power an ever-expanding web of life that grows in mass even as the weak are cannibalized by the strong within its ranks.
Surrounded by death that comes in so many forms, I contemplate the inconvenient life that I allowed to be sucked from my womb. I sit with the choice I believed was made to protect, but may only have been an acknowledgement of weakness. I long for acceptance so that I may find the strength to move on and resurrect the light within me.
Death brought me here. A death I never expected. A death I caused. A death that came in the midst of so much life that it overflowed out of my control.
I search for the meaning of that death in observations I record here on my self-imposed island of exile. I hope for a redemption that comes from dedication to something larger than my wants and needs. I pray for forgiveness for a deed committed in a time of turmoil.
The seas and the air and the surface of the rocks that make up the island are in a constant maelstrom that infuses energy into the life that inhabits this fertile boundary at the edge of the continent. Frigid waters charged with oxygen well up from the depths and power an ever-expanding web of life that grows in mass even as the weak are cannibalized by the strong within its ranks.
Surrounded by death that comes in so many forms, I contemplate the inconvenient life that I allowed to be sucked from my womb. I sit with the choice I believed was made to protect, but may only have been an acknowledgement of weakness. I long for acceptance so that I may find the strength to move on and resurrect the light within me.
Biarritz - Kent Wright
BIARRITZ
Making Believe
July 19, 2010
If she stayed, and it had ceased to be a question she considered, this would make her third year living in the two rooms just beneath the well-known writer and his wife. She often heard their light, slippered footsteps, but had glimpsed them only once from behind as they disappeared on a path into the pine forest which shared the beach with the Atlantic. That first year she had begun the scandalous novel that had made him a star, but finding it too tricky for her taste, “forgot it” one afternoon in the sand. Nonetheless, his presence was sited as an example of the “marvelous stimulation” she enjoyed at the Hotel due Palais, when friends urged that she return to Vienna and “work through” her grief. “But he lives just above you know,” she would reply softly into the phone.
This was the same hotel where she had spent her eleventh through fifteenth summers, began puberty, fell in love with a pale blond boy, and experienced the pain that passion and one grain of sand can inflict. Her husband Karl had refused, even when she pleaded “just for old time’s sake”, to consider spending even a single night in the dreary relic as he liked to call it. When Karl collapsed, sighed softly once, and died aboard a Viennese tram, Vivian decamped soon after with luggage and only a small carry-on of grief for the hotel of her adolescence.
She left the note from the concierge (reread twice) on her dressing table amid a vast the array of creams, brushes and pastes. “Madame,” it said, “a gentleman waits for you in the salon, and refuses to leave. He says his name is P------. The messy, wet thumb of the concierge had dissolved the rest.
--------
Playing It Cool
July 19, 2010
Paul fidgeted in the large, maroon chair. He tried to make the rectangle of the old hotel’s lobby, and it’s tall, green draped windows match his memory. It seemed too sparse. There were many more antiques in the pictures he had from that summer. The stairs ascended in the same precise corner, but a silly mezzanine had cruelly abbreviated its grandness. Paul was not alone in the chilly, dust-spiked light of the Biarritz hotel. Several pensioned gentlemen read their morning journals in dark chairs of identical age and fabric. The clack-clip, clack-clip of heels on the marble stair caused him to look up. A shiver of concern traveled along his back.
Of course she would be different after the decades which… He gained control of himself.
The steps became the feet that bore the calves that appeared below the harsh horizontal of the mezzanine. The jelly of the pale thighs, which ended beneath the summer cotton of tan culottes, quivered as each step was carefully considered. Paul leaned forward involuntarily forgetting his oath to be discovered in a pose of indifference and impatience. Now only two treads and a mere three meters from the meeting, Vivian (absent the dark bloom of her 15th summer) paused. She lurched a bit against the dark carved wood of the banister.
‘Which is he?’ she wondered scanning the choice of ghosts scattered about in the low light. ‘Perhaps the one there that seemed about to stand just now.’
Exposed
July 22, 2010
She stepped onto the dark stone of hotel’s salon. She hesitated and adjusted, or appeared to, the mauve and peach scarf swirled in the manner of French women about her throat. Paul didn’t wait to stand although it seemed so because he struggled slightly to get up from the deep chair.
“Vivian,” he said with just a hint of question in case the woman in the short culottes once again in motion was not the Vivian he sought. Her short heels clicked on the stone. She was extending her pale arm and its fingers covered with a variety of rings towards him now. Something uncomfortable spoke to him briefly from the pit of his stomach.
“Ma Cheri,” he woman gushed. “You are of course the same, ah…” It was here that her voice failed, and she averted her face slightly and displayed both palms to him helplessly.
Paul squinted trying to make this woman, who seemed unfortunately about to cry, morph into the image that old photograph he had carried with him from London. That girl, posed before the stripped awning of this hotel, was young, and thin with dark curls framing a pretty face. Before him, in Technicolor was, well… someone considerably larger with wisps of blond escaping from her turban.
“You’ve come back. Come back. You are standing just here once more.” She had recovered her voice and shook her head from side to side. “But please, lets sit again on the terrace. You’ll remember that. Coffee? Oh, let’s do remember everything. Everything.” She was already passing the palm by the doors. He followed obediently behind her behind onto the bright terrace. She sat quickly in a white wicker chair at the edge of the terrace. Behind her the smooth, morning sea was still awakening in colors of grey and blue.
“Now Phillip, my darling Phillip.” Her hands were clasped under her chin. “I can hold nothing back. The memories sweep up me.., no over me,” The hands fluttered, and seemed about to target his hand.
“Vivian.” He was flushed and seemed himself now close to tears. How had this happened he thought? “Vivian, I am not Phillip. My brother,” he was rushing ahead insanely now, “my brother is dead. Phillip is dead. That is what I came for. I am Paul.” He stood up extremely straight, bowed slightly and offered his hand. “In fact we have never met.”
Not What She Expected
July 27, 2010
Vivian did not move for several seconds. Her thin, rouged lips hung slightly apart. Then she slowly pulled the large sunglasses away from her face in the manner one often sees in bad film. She lurched forward, not far, but so suddenly the man opposite jerked back. She squinted at him although the sun was still safely behind the grey silk of the morning.
Inside her head the blood vessels bulged from the terrible pressure of excitement being ravaged by confusion. The images projected on her screens of consciousness ricocheted back and forth with bewildering speed between the still handsome, and familiar – oh dear, yes, so familiar- face across the table, and the blue eyes and soft smile of a sixteen year boy decades before. Behind them both stretched the strand with its thin pines and low dunes where blankets had been spread and skin had experienced for the first time the thrill of nonfamiliar touch.
Making Believe
July 19, 2010
If she stayed, and it had ceased to be a question she considered, this would make her third year living in the two rooms just beneath the well-known writer and his wife. She often heard their light, slippered footsteps, but had glimpsed them only once from behind as they disappeared on a path into the pine forest which shared the beach with the Atlantic. That first year she had begun the scandalous novel that had made him a star, but finding it too tricky for her taste, “forgot it” one afternoon in the sand. Nonetheless, his presence was sited as an example of the “marvelous stimulation” she enjoyed at the Hotel due Palais, when friends urged that she return to Vienna and “work through” her grief. “But he lives just above you know,” she would reply softly into the phone.
This was the same hotel where she had spent her eleventh through fifteenth summers, began puberty, fell in love with a pale blond boy, and experienced the pain that passion and one grain of sand can inflict. Her husband Karl had refused, even when she pleaded “just for old time’s sake”, to consider spending even a single night in the dreary relic as he liked to call it. When Karl collapsed, sighed softly once, and died aboard a Viennese tram, Vivian decamped soon after with luggage and only a small carry-on of grief for the hotel of her adolescence.
She left the note from the concierge (reread twice) on her dressing table amid a vast the array of creams, brushes and pastes. “Madame,” it said, “a gentleman waits for you in the salon, and refuses to leave. He says his name is P------. The messy, wet thumb of the concierge had dissolved the rest.
--------
Playing It Cool
July 19, 2010
Paul fidgeted in the large, maroon chair. He tried to make the rectangle of the old hotel’s lobby, and it’s tall, green draped windows match his memory. It seemed too sparse. There were many more antiques in the pictures he had from that summer. The stairs ascended in the same precise corner, but a silly mezzanine had cruelly abbreviated its grandness. Paul was not alone in the chilly, dust-spiked light of the Biarritz hotel. Several pensioned gentlemen read their morning journals in dark chairs of identical age and fabric. The clack-clip, clack-clip of heels on the marble stair caused him to look up. A shiver of concern traveled along his back.
Of course she would be different after the decades which… He gained control of himself.
The steps became the feet that bore the calves that appeared below the harsh horizontal of the mezzanine. The jelly of the pale thighs, which ended beneath the summer cotton of tan culottes, quivered as each step was carefully considered. Paul leaned forward involuntarily forgetting his oath to be discovered in a pose of indifference and impatience. Now only two treads and a mere three meters from the meeting, Vivian (absent the dark bloom of her 15th summer) paused. She lurched a bit against the dark carved wood of the banister.
‘Which is he?’ she wondered scanning the choice of ghosts scattered about in the low light. ‘Perhaps the one there that seemed about to stand just now.’
Exposed
July 22, 2010
She stepped onto the dark stone of hotel’s salon. She hesitated and adjusted, or appeared to, the mauve and peach scarf swirled in the manner of French women about her throat. Paul didn’t wait to stand although it seemed so because he struggled slightly to get up from the deep chair.
“Vivian,” he said with just a hint of question in case the woman in the short culottes once again in motion was not the Vivian he sought. Her short heels clicked on the stone. She was extending her pale arm and its fingers covered with a variety of rings towards him now. Something uncomfortable spoke to him briefly from the pit of his stomach.
“Ma Cheri,” he woman gushed. “You are of course the same, ah…” It was here that her voice failed, and she averted her face slightly and displayed both palms to him helplessly.
Paul squinted trying to make this woman, who seemed unfortunately about to cry, morph into the image that old photograph he had carried with him from London. That girl, posed before the stripped awning of this hotel, was young, and thin with dark curls framing a pretty face. Before him, in Technicolor was, well… someone considerably larger with wisps of blond escaping from her turban.
“You’ve come back. Come back. You are standing just here once more.” She had recovered her voice and shook her head from side to side. “But please, lets sit again on the terrace. You’ll remember that. Coffee? Oh, let’s do remember everything. Everything.” She was already passing the palm by the doors. He followed obediently behind her behind onto the bright terrace. She sat quickly in a white wicker chair at the edge of the terrace. Behind her the smooth, morning sea was still awakening in colors of grey and blue.
“Now Phillip, my darling Phillip.” Her hands were clasped under her chin. “I can hold nothing back. The memories sweep up me.., no over me,” The hands fluttered, and seemed about to target his hand.
“Vivian.” He was flushed and seemed himself now close to tears. How had this happened he thought? “Vivian, I am not Phillip. My brother,” he was rushing ahead insanely now, “my brother is dead. Phillip is dead. That is what I came for. I am Paul.” He stood up extremely straight, bowed slightly and offered his hand. “In fact we have never met.”
Not What She Expected
July 27, 2010
Vivian did not move for several seconds. Her thin, rouged lips hung slightly apart. Then she slowly pulled the large sunglasses away from her face in the manner one often sees in bad film. She lurched forward, not far, but so suddenly the man opposite jerked back. She squinted at him although the sun was still safely behind the grey silk of the morning.
Inside her head the blood vessels bulged from the terrible pressure of excitement being ravaged by confusion. The images projected on her screens of consciousness ricocheted back and forth with bewildering speed between the still handsome, and familiar – oh dear, yes, so familiar- face across the table, and the blue eyes and soft smile of a sixteen year boy decades before. Behind them both stretched the strand with its thin pines and low dunes where blankets had been spread and skin had experienced for the first time the thrill of nonfamiliar touch.
Playing it Cool - Kate Bueler
Playing it cool. I am playing cool on a small tight compacted plane. Playing it cool by remembering to take the prescribed relaxation at the right time. About 20 minutes before the flight. Flying I used to do it all the time. Now yearly. Now every few months. Not every week. Every week being sent to a new place. A new place to try and connect a dc non profit to the state system. It never tied nicely into a bow.
Playing cool in the tightness of my seat- fake leather- seat change for someone else- but still the aisle. I am always in the aisle unless, unless no one sits next to me. I like the freedom to get out whenever I want without the excuse me. And the wait of the neighbor’s movement. The crampness of the tightness of the plane, I feel on my chest as I begin to heat up. Before the drips of cooling off happens, I find the artificial air knob to the lefty lossie. Air sprays on my face.
Playing it cool. I am on the first flight ever to last only 20 minutes. It is the first time I am going on a family vacation with an extended family derived from my mother. Playing it cool. It is the first time I am sitting next to a NJ firefight. He wears the appropriate uniform of muscles underneath his shirt and speaks in his accent. He has wrinkles of the shore on his face. His clothes prescribed for a firefighter just preppy enough but not too much.
Playing it cool. I like to talk to people. People all the time really but especially when I am nervous. I am nervous now. Now I am. Sometimes the fear of the confined space leaves but now, now it does not. I am playing it cool as I begin the back and forth teeter tooter of discussion of who are you, where are you going, where have you been. We only have 20 minutes. I am still hot. And uncomfortable. Let’s cover your bio quickly. As we talk, I can tell in the subtleness in between the chatter in the silences I can feel his glance my way. I can feel more words moving around his head brewing into audible noises. I know he is attracted to me. I am might be to him. I am not sure.
Playing cool. The more I talk I forget, forget about the uncomfortableness of this plane, of this aisle, of the air. I forget. When we get in the discussion of what do you do. Writing comes in. I learn something about him that given my own fear of anxiety of confined spaces I would have never learned. He too has an earring problem. He currently has a collection of women’s earrings at his house. He is a firefighter of course. I am sure he is popular with the ladies. Firefighters and professional athletes and any one with enough fame and power make women forget their first names and that they might have something to do other then open their legs. Some women chase power only in those that they bone. Others search for power on their own two feet.
He has an earring problem. He doesn’t collect those earrings on purpose- begging or ripping them off the ears of those he beds. No they leave them behind. They leave them behind as I do, as I have done. Done. But no one asks for them back he says. Why? Why don’t they ask. I always ask for them back. I say. Why do you leave them, why do they leave them. And never ask for them back. I don’t know. I always ask for mine back. I always do.
I am intrigued by this man with an earring collection of his own. His own personal history of women who he had conquered or vice versa but never came back for 2nds or thirds and never and never do they collect their leftovers of their earrings. They leave those behind. And just as I ask for the earring every time I leave them behind at a lovers. He never throws them away. Never does he throw them away. We all can’t let go. Let go for different reasons. But holding onto to what is ours and theirs so much that sometimes we forget why. Why we hold onto things, things that could be forgotten. Things that could have been. Different. In playing it cool you learn everyone has collections. Each one is different and unique but collections of our loves are just so hard to throw away. Away.
Playing cool in the tightness of my seat- fake leather- seat change for someone else- but still the aisle. I am always in the aisle unless, unless no one sits next to me. I like the freedom to get out whenever I want without the excuse me. And the wait of the neighbor’s movement. The crampness of the tightness of the plane, I feel on my chest as I begin to heat up. Before the drips of cooling off happens, I find the artificial air knob to the lefty lossie. Air sprays on my face.
Playing it cool. I am on the first flight ever to last only 20 minutes. It is the first time I am going on a family vacation with an extended family derived from my mother. Playing it cool. It is the first time I am sitting next to a NJ firefight. He wears the appropriate uniform of muscles underneath his shirt and speaks in his accent. He has wrinkles of the shore on his face. His clothes prescribed for a firefighter just preppy enough but not too much.
Playing it cool. I like to talk to people. People all the time really but especially when I am nervous. I am nervous now. Now I am. Sometimes the fear of the confined space leaves but now, now it does not. I am playing it cool as I begin the back and forth teeter tooter of discussion of who are you, where are you going, where have you been. We only have 20 minutes. I am still hot. And uncomfortable. Let’s cover your bio quickly. As we talk, I can tell in the subtleness in between the chatter in the silences I can feel his glance my way. I can feel more words moving around his head brewing into audible noises. I know he is attracted to me. I am might be to him. I am not sure.
Playing cool. The more I talk I forget, forget about the uncomfortableness of this plane, of this aisle, of the air. I forget. When we get in the discussion of what do you do. Writing comes in. I learn something about him that given my own fear of anxiety of confined spaces I would have never learned. He too has an earring problem. He currently has a collection of women’s earrings at his house. He is a firefighter of course. I am sure he is popular with the ladies. Firefighters and professional athletes and any one with enough fame and power make women forget their first names and that they might have something to do other then open their legs. Some women chase power only in those that they bone. Others search for power on their own two feet.
He has an earring problem. He doesn’t collect those earrings on purpose- begging or ripping them off the ears of those he beds. No they leave them behind. They leave them behind as I do, as I have done. Done. But no one asks for them back he says. Why? Why don’t they ask. I always ask for them back. I say. Why do you leave them, why do they leave them. And never ask for them back. I don’t know. I always ask for mine back. I always do.
I am intrigued by this man with an earring collection of his own. His own personal history of women who he had conquered or vice versa but never came back for 2nds or thirds and never and never do they collect their leftovers of their earrings. They leave those behind. And just as I ask for the earring every time I leave them behind at a lovers. He never throws them away. Never does he throw them away. We all can’t let go. Let go for different reasons. But holding onto to what is ours and theirs so much that sometimes we forget why. Why we hold onto things, things that could be forgotten. Things that could have been. Different. In playing it cool you learn everyone has collections. Each one is different and unique but collections of our loves are just so hard to throw away. Away.
Setting Fire to It - Anne Wright
He set the fire to watch the flames, to smell the smoke and to feel the heat. He was cold inside and out. He built the pyramid of sticks and branches, about a foot high, with crumpled up paper inside, like a miniature funeral pyre, only this time he planned to burn something that was alive. He had written her name on an index card and folded it into multiple triangles around a piece of her chewing gum he found on the sole of his shoe. How appropriate. He lifted the bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips. It burned, too. His sole. Her soul. He set fire with to it with a match from their favorite restaurant, the one overlooking the harbor where they had met one rainy winter night. He fell in love with her, wondering if this was what it was like, love at first sight. The flames licked the folded card and bubbled the gum, hot and crackling with a life of its own. It went up in wisps of curling grey smoke. Lucky the wind was quiet because he wanted the little cinders to float up as he incinerated his love for her. The orange and black cinders fell to the earth, life gone out.
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