Hawley tugged on the sleeves of his uniform as he paced out on the loading dock then shoved them into his pockets and felt the paper clip. The fog was rolling in from and his wrists were cold, but he wouldn’t go back into the warehouse, not yet. He was supposed to be happy now. He had a job and a girl, and a truck that was paid for a boat he owned with a bank. He could sleep on the boat if he didn’t want to stay at Johanna’s house for if he got tired of her mother glaring at him. He didn’t have to talk to anyone at work, just once a night get out of way when they delivered then punch and punch out. They’d made their delivery and now they were gone. It wasn’t his business, yet his fingers kept noticing the paperclip in his pocket.
If he just stayed out here, walking and fuming, he’d live to old and fat and happy. Life would be perfect if only these sleeves were a half inch longer, his pant legs too, just a bit more so the cold wasn’t knowing at his ankles and wrists. He kept warm, pacing, telling himself that it wasn’t his business. But the cold wouldn’t leave him alone. It started to creep down his collar and he began to shiver, he wasn’t going to stand there just shaking. He stepped back into the warmth of the warehouse and stood looking at all the crates they’d dropped off. Dull green and padlocked. There was only one way of knowing exactly what was inside. He stepped over, fingering the paper clip until he could kneel down next to the lock and took out the paperclip, straightening it out and then bending it into a decent pick. Shouldn’t take long, not long at all, until finally he heard the tumblers click.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Greed & Solace - Kent Wright
Alice felt the need. There was never a question about that. She had felt the need for attention as far back as she could remember, before that too of course, but that vocabulary wasn’t Alice’s. The attention Alice needed ran in thick underground rivers and filled reservoirs far beneath the surface. They were different than the need for it she battled on her first bike, or in grade school or trying out for cheerleader (5th & 6th grade, 7th & 8th grade, freshman year, sophomore year) unsuccessfully.
Her little thick legs didn’t pedal her bike as far or as fast as Beverly’s or Teddy’s or even Betty Ambern who was poor and had to wear her bigger brother’s old pants. Alice’s little white hand never flew up when Mrs. Ash in first grade flashed those cards with words like ‘was’ and ‘hop’ and ‘start’ on them. And long before math had gotten exciting for other classmates, Alice was used to not being called on for answers. She never made cheerleader either. Those legs that couldn’t keep up on her bike couldn’t jump high enough to make an impression when they got longer, and the splits were out of the question. And by that time adolescence had brought in abundance new needs.
Using a lonely, poorly tended path of reasoning, Alice decided that she was just being greedy wanting all those things that she saw others have. Fate helped Alice. She lived across the street from a church. It’s minister, himself no stranger to the outsider role, offered his assistance and helped Alice define her greed as sin. The preacher even wrote on a piece of typing paper GREED IS SIN and drew arrows from the word SIN to other words that were examples of it to help Alice, who he told his wife later on their screened in porch ‘wasn’t very smart at all’, understand.
“Take solace in the Lord Alice,” the reverend said to her when he handed her the piece of paper to take with her. Alice took the paper, and she kept it for a long time in a diary she started, but she never looked up the word solace to see what it meant.
Her little thick legs didn’t pedal her bike as far or as fast as Beverly’s or Teddy’s or even Betty Ambern who was poor and had to wear her bigger brother’s old pants. Alice’s little white hand never flew up when Mrs. Ash in first grade flashed those cards with words like ‘was’ and ‘hop’ and ‘start’ on them. And long before math had gotten exciting for other classmates, Alice was used to not being called on for answers. She never made cheerleader either. Those legs that couldn’t keep up on her bike couldn’t jump high enough to make an impression when they got longer, and the splits were out of the question. And by that time adolescence had brought in abundance new needs.
Using a lonely, poorly tended path of reasoning, Alice decided that she was just being greedy wanting all those things that she saw others have. Fate helped Alice. She lived across the street from a church. It’s minister, himself no stranger to the outsider role, offered his assistance and helped Alice define her greed as sin. The preacher even wrote on a piece of typing paper GREED IS SIN and drew arrows from the word SIN to other words that were examples of it to help Alice, who he told his wife later on their screened in porch ‘wasn’t very smart at all’, understand.
“Take solace in the Lord Alice,” the reverend said to her when he handed her the piece of paper to take with her. Alice took the paper, and she kept it for a long time in a diary she started, but she never looked up the word solace to see what it meant.
Solace - E. D. James
Usually he felt solace in the company of strangers in a bar. He could sit quietly nursing his whiskey and enjoy the camaraderie of the group next to him gossiping and complaining about their jobs in a jungle of cubes or vicariously be part of a relationship with the couple sitting shoulder to shoulder to his other side. But tonight all he felt was himself and his own life. Neither the alcohol nor the crowd offered him any escape from his struggles and his loneliness. But on this evening, he was confronted by reality and could not escape it. The beer tasted flat and the music was jarring. He tossed a five dollar bill on the bar, slid the stool back, and headed for the door.
The lights on Market Street were bright and blurry in the fog. Alan swerved to avoid a man in a leather coat carrying two big shopping bags and had to keep weaving to make it through a crowd that all seemed to be going the other way. It was as if he were invisible. A woman in a stained dress sitting on the sidewalk with a sign that read I just need a little help gave him a gap toothed grin, the first sign that someone knew he was alive. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and pulled his neck a little deeper into the collar. Walking felt good. It was action. It was movement. He didn’t know where he was going, but he let his legs keep carrying him forward.
He wound his way up along the cable cars with their bundled tourists and ringing bells and through the shoppers of Union Square. The crowds melted away as he climbed the stairs next to the Stockton Tunnel and took on the hill at California Street. A Grateful Dead fragment hung in his ear, “California, I’ll be knockin’ on your golden door, standing on the beach, the sea will part before me.” At the crest of the hill the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont reminded him of his early days in San Francisco. Exploring what the city had to offer. Then he crossed in front of the Pacific Union club, a space he would never enter, and stopped at the start of the labyrinth that lay in the square in front of Grace Cathedral. The curving lines led to a lotus at its center. He wondered if he would ever find his center, and if it would be empty or full.
The lights on Market Street were bright and blurry in the fog. Alan swerved to avoid a man in a leather coat carrying two big shopping bags and had to keep weaving to make it through a crowd that all seemed to be going the other way. It was as if he were invisible. A woman in a stained dress sitting on the sidewalk with a sign that read I just need a little help gave him a gap toothed grin, the first sign that someone knew he was alive. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket and pulled his neck a little deeper into the collar. Walking felt good. It was action. It was movement. He didn’t know where he was going, but he let his legs keep carrying him forward.
He wound his way up along the cable cars with their bundled tourists and ringing bells and through the shoppers of Union Square. The crowds melted away as he climbed the stairs next to the Stockton Tunnel and took on the hill at California Street. A Grateful Dead fragment hung in his ear, “California, I’ll be knockin’ on your golden door, standing on the beach, the sea will part before me.” At the crest of the hill the Mark Hopkins and the Fairmont reminded him of his early days in San Francisco. Exploring what the city had to offer. Then he crossed in front of the Pacific Union club, a space he would never enter, and stopped at the start of the labyrinth that lay in the square in front of Grace Cathedral. The curving lines led to a lotus at its center. He wondered if he would ever find his center, and if it would be empty or full.
Solace - Melody Cryns
It’s a new day, I keep telling myself. And today a very kind older gentleman, probably close to 80 years old, is giving me a ride to the Burning Uke campout in Big Sur. I have become completely and utterly hooked on playing my ukulele and singing with the most awesome groups of people ever – it gives me great joy. And, I’d been looking forward to this Burning Uke campout for a couple of months now – even took days off work. I couldn’t imagine anything more amazing that being by the beach for several days with a group of fun, like-minded people who just want to play uke and sing or play whatever instruments they have, or just sing…there will be jams and workshops and well, all kinds of things.
Today is a new day, and I’m not going to let losing my car get to me. Late yesterday afternoon, a claims adjustor called from the insurance company my car is insured with and informed me that it would cost $8,000 to $10,000 to fix my car and they have to declare it a total loss. I never thought I would cry over a lost car, but I did…my wonderful car that took me and my kids and friends on the most wonderful adventures, the Beatles mobile…the best car I’d ever had. Now she will go to car heaven and long may she rest…
And I realized that what car I had kind of determined where I was in my life always and forever…it was part of who I am and now I’m entering a whole new phase. I cried softly at my desk hoping no one at work would notice my pain. I felt like an idiot because it wasn’t like anything happened to one of my kids…it was, as my son Jeremy told me to give me solace, after all, only a car.
“You’ll find another one, Mom. You wait and see.”
Yes, yes, I will…I guess. So as I take off on this journey to Big Sur, the insurance company is determining how much they will pay me for my car – and I get to decide the next course of action. Meanwhile, I remain without a car – perhaps renting a car next week to get me by… all it took was a split second, someone bashing into my car, to change the course of my life. And, I take solace in knowing that it could be so much worse and I still get to go to the Burning Uke campout because this wonderful guy who is at least as old as my Dad, if not older, who sings in a wonderful low voice and who kindly offered to lend me sleeping bag and mattress pads and is more than happy to have him ride with him all the way to Big Sur because he would’ve gone down there alone, is taking me on a huge adventure…
It’s a new day…new beginnings.
Today is a new day, and I’m not going to let losing my car get to me. Late yesterday afternoon, a claims adjustor called from the insurance company my car is insured with and informed me that it would cost $8,000 to $10,000 to fix my car and they have to declare it a total loss. I never thought I would cry over a lost car, but I did…my wonderful car that took me and my kids and friends on the most wonderful adventures, the Beatles mobile…the best car I’d ever had. Now she will go to car heaven and long may she rest…
And I realized that what car I had kind of determined where I was in my life always and forever…it was part of who I am and now I’m entering a whole new phase. I cried softly at my desk hoping no one at work would notice my pain. I felt like an idiot because it wasn’t like anything happened to one of my kids…it was, as my son Jeremy told me to give me solace, after all, only a car.
“You’ll find another one, Mom. You wait and see.”
Yes, yes, I will…I guess. So as I take off on this journey to Big Sur, the insurance company is determining how much they will pay me for my car – and I get to decide the next course of action. Meanwhile, I remain without a car – perhaps renting a car next week to get me by… all it took was a split second, someone bashing into my car, to change the course of my life. And, I take solace in knowing that it could be so much worse and I still get to go to the Burning Uke campout because this wonderful guy who is at least as old as my Dad, if not older, who sings in a wonderful low voice and who kindly offered to lend me sleeping bag and mattress pads and is more than happy to have him ride with him all the way to Big Sur because he would’ve gone down there alone, is taking me on a huge adventure…
It’s a new day…new beginnings.
Love is Easy - Judy Albietz
It is so easy to love your grand-child. Everyone told me so, so I should have expected it. But how was I to know, really know about this, this absolute joy, this soaring happy feeling when I pick him up. He smiles at me and leans over to give me a peck on the cheek. I taught him that. Then he sticks his arms out for a hug. He taught himself that.
We go outside and dig dirt with the old yellow metal tonka truck. He tells me it’s a loader. We transfer the dirt into another truck. He tells me it’s a dump-truck.
We love to read books. We curl up together on the brown loveseat and read This Truck five times. He knows the words. We read a new book from the library about an 8-year-old kid who decides to move to a retirement community. As a two-year-old, my grandson doesn’t get all the jokes, but he laughs anyway when I laugh.
We sing. We sing the same songs I sang to his father and his aunt. When we don’t know the words we just make them up. We plug my IPod in to the speakers and listen to the Beatles, John Fogarty, the Dead, Pavarotti, Sinatra. We dance around the kitchen and sometimes wiggle our hips just because we like to. Sometimes we hold hands and jump up and down. We eat bananas in the living room even though we’re supposed to keep food in the dining room. He drags the white plastic step-stool to reach for the crackers he sees on the counter. I get them for him. I’m Bubbe. I don’t have to say “No.”
We go outside and dig dirt with the old yellow metal tonka truck. He tells me it’s a loader. We transfer the dirt into another truck. He tells me it’s a dump-truck.
We love to read books. We curl up together on the brown loveseat and read This Truck five times. He knows the words. We read a new book from the library about an 8-year-old kid who decides to move to a retirement community. As a two-year-old, my grandson doesn’t get all the jokes, but he laughs anyway when I laugh.
We sing. We sing the same songs I sang to his father and his aunt. When we don’t know the words we just make them up. We plug my IPod in to the speakers and listen to the Beatles, John Fogarty, the Dead, Pavarotti, Sinatra. We dance around the kitchen and sometimes wiggle our hips just because we like to. Sometimes we hold hands and jump up and down. We eat bananas in the living room even though we’re supposed to keep food in the dining room. He drags the white plastic step-stool to reach for the crackers he sees on the counter. I get them for him. I’m Bubbe. I don’t have to say “No.”
Love is Easy - Anne Freeman
Love is as easy as a root canal, even the easiest of loves. What a laugh I find this quote. It must be dripping with sarcasm – it has to be. But I will agree that falling in love is easy. I fall in love twenty times a day, and yes, when I fall in love it is with an idea. An idea of the case that will make my career and take two years off my track to being partner. An idea of a date with that man whom is nothing like my husband and will make me forget the difficult discussions about refinancing our home, or his need to get in better health to pass the upcoming life insurance physical exam. An idea of my pied a terre in New York City that I can slip away to and soak in a bubble bath with a glass of wine, overlooking the city’s sparkling lights. An idea of promoting my books and making a healthy living at it, no longer needing to shepherd people through their divorces for a cut of my billable hours.
The ideas are intoxicating. No, I cannot resist them, nor should I, for underneath them lie what I long for and am missing. I cannot hope to love my life today unless I analyze what wish each idea is fulfilling. The ideas are easy; I’ll daydream all day, until the lack of action and productivity makes me sick, literally, with anxiety at my dishonesty.
The ideas are intoxicating. No, I cannot resist them, nor should I, for underneath them lie what I long for and am missing. I cannot hope to love my life today unless I analyze what wish each idea is fulfilling. The ideas are easy; I’ll daydream all day, until the lack of action and productivity makes me sick, literally, with anxiety at my dishonesty.
Telling the Truth - Kate Bueler
Telling the truth. I am attempting to tell the truth to myself. I am attempting to see the truth and recognize it for what it is. See I see things. I see them all. But then I ignore. Or pretend. Or remember the warmth of another and forget. So the other night, the other night I had met this man and we were off to go to the next thing. After this event to a bar. It seemed like I should go. That I should follow on the path of undetermined of where this night would lead until. Until as I walked them to their car (him and his friends) I was getting the directions. Just google it. I don’t have I phone. I like to actually talk to people wit thrown their way. But makes it hard to find directions. Laughter. I will just follow you. No we got a stop.
Stop. See telling the truth I knew the stop was not a gas station, or someone had to pick something up at their house, or something normal. They were getting drugs. Drugs and they would of course be the variety that would lead to such secrets. See pot smokers not so secret- they wear their pride upon their eyes, their shirts, their subtleness of discussion- the intentions in their voice. But the cocaine folks no they are all about secrets. Secrecy of having it and who they will share with it, trips to the bathroom and they don’t wear the shirt of user. But in their behavior they always do. See telling the truth I saw it. And as I walked back to my car more slowly than needed. Each step I heard it. And I knew. This isn’t a world I want part of. I tired once to play the game of outsider in the the blowing of the lines. And failed miserably. I can’t fall in love again with someone who uses and lies. And lies and uses. Even if it was for the night. Even if it was for this moment.
I called my friend and retold her the details but she said just go and see what happens. Telling the truth I knew what would. Telling the truth I knew. I knew that these aren’t the type of folks that I would like to call my own. So we went from bar to bar and I stayed with my drug of choice alcohol and I tried to stay present but remain detective and still get to know this guy. Telling the truth- I am good at it when it isn’t mine. But theirs No secrets here. So the moment I knew the truth was when I heard the words of stop.
I saw the slip to the back pocket and I love you and then the run to the bathroom. I envisioned the movement never slowing down- next stop keep moving- I couldn’t even finish my beer. When the night went on the secrets became less- if you have xanax ill trade you some cocaine. Out loud. No secrets. Telling the truth. They tell the truth when they need to.
As I walked in to the last place the last place on my list of destinations, the man from behind the bar who had befriended me and shook my hand- boomed who the fuck is she? Staring at my 5’2 and ½ stature in my vintage dress. I didn’t get the aggression until I looked down and saw his own father reaching down to blow a line. Telling the truth. Is we know the truth we don’t need to dive in the depths of others realities to see it. As the father and son blew lines during quality time. I am nobody. Nobody to you. But nobody really is. I left to buy beers and never came back. Telling the truth is I like to hang out with drunks anyways. There are no secrets with them. Telling the truth is I knew. I knew. I knew.
Stop. See telling the truth I knew the stop was not a gas station, or someone had to pick something up at their house, or something normal. They were getting drugs. Drugs and they would of course be the variety that would lead to such secrets. See pot smokers not so secret- they wear their pride upon their eyes, their shirts, their subtleness of discussion- the intentions in their voice. But the cocaine folks no they are all about secrets. Secrecy of having it and who they will share with it, trips to the bathroom and they don’t wear the shirt of user. But in their behavior they always do. See telling the truth I saw it. And as I walked back to my car more slowly than needed. Each step I heard it. And I knew. This isn’t a world I want part of. I tired once to play the game of outsider in the the blowing of the lines. And failed miserably. I can’t fall in love again with someone who uses and lies. And lies and uses. Even if it was for the night. Even if it was for this moment.
I called my friend and retold her the details but she said just go and see what happens. Telling the truth I knew what would. Telling the truth I knew. I knew that these aren’t the type of folks that I would like to call my own. So we went from bar to bar and I stayed with my drug of choice alcohol and I tried to stay present but remain detective and still get to know this guy. Telling the truth- I am good at it when it isn’t mine. But theirs No secrets here. So the moment I knew the truth was when I heard the words of stop.
I saw the slip to the back pocket and I love you and then the run to the bathroom. I envisioned the movement never slowing down- next stop keep moving- I couldn’t even finish my beer. When the night went on the secrets became less- if you have xanax ill trade you some cocaine. Out loud. No secrets. Telling the truth. They tell the truth when they need to.
As I walked in to the last place the last place on my list of destinations, the man from behind the bar who had befriended me and shook my hand- boomed who the fuck is she? Staring at my 5’2 and ½ stature in my vintage dress. I didn’t get the aggression until I looked down and saw his own father reaching down to blow a line. Telling the truth. Is we know the truth we don’t need to dive in the depths of others realities to see it. As the father and son blew lines during quality time. I am nobody. Nobody to you. But nobody really is. I left to buy beers and never came back. Telling the truth is I like to hang out with drunks anyways. There are no secrets with them. Telling the truth is I knew. I knew. I knew.
Guilty Pleasure - Lisa Faulkner
Once upon a time I understood this phrase as it pertains to music. Now I love it all. And am not embarrassed by it at all. Feel no regret. How can it hurt me to like and dance to any and all songs. Nasty, dirty, raw hip-hop. Only once in awhile though. The San Francisco studio and girls just aren’t as into hip-hop as LA. Sheila kicked off her talk on Sunday by playing a snip-it of some hip-hop dude. Asked us if anyone had danced to it. I’d never heard it. Don’t get me wrong, in the right frame of mind it fills me and my body with confidence. Creates the most amazing energy with the woman in the chair. I draw power from the song. But rock, especially classic rock, like Dream On by Aerosmith or Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Lepard or something by the Stones. Sheila loves the Beatles. But they are hard to dance to. I listened to everything by them, since Brian has a huge collection, for almost an entire week non-stop to find a short list of their music that worked for me. Revolution #1 was strong enough to grab onto. They were rated number one in a recent countdown by VH1. As most influential or greatest something or other. Brian agrees with that. I was never a huge fan growing up. Sure I bopped around to I wanna hold your hand as much as the next teeny-bopper, but my heart belonged to Donny Osmond and his brothers. I was little, four or five, when I began listening to the radio and One Bad Apple was climbing the charts. Both about young love. The first pure joy at wanting to hold the girls hand. And it makes you want to bop, lift your knees to the percussion and claps. What was the go-go dance called, the pony? Whereas One Bad Apple told a story. There was history. The girl had been hurt. The guy wants her to try again. Trust him. He won’t hurt her. The song made me want to spin. And it gave me richer images. A basket full of apples. Lots of vocal oohs and ahhs. Different threads to choose from for how how to dance to it. Yet I’m supposed to feel guilty for being a fan? Sure the Beatles were cooler and they evolved their music. Took chances, got creative. But if it’s all there were I couldn’t S. Not that the Osmonds gave us much to dance to either. Both probably have a handful of songs. Preference in music is up to the listener. For S’ing I’d pick earthy stuff. I’d choose Etta James backed by Red Johnson on sax in a heartbeat over either of them today. Listen to the first 30 seconds of the sax in I can’t have you. Just close your eyes and listen. Don’t do anything else. Go ahead. I’ll wait. So, what did you think? I’d easily played the song 25 times, but never heard it with my entire body until early one August Sunday morning when that sax intro demanded I put my pen down, and listen, with my ears, my heart, my soul and my skin.
Music, all of it, any of it, is magic. Just because a song isn’t cool. Or the singer is a Mormon and doesn’t drink. Just check out the elegance of Donny Osmond as an adult with another awesome sax player singing This Guys in Love with You. It melts my insides because it reminds me that it’s how my husband loves me. And he shows me ever day. I danced to that song and it was like floating in the clouds in the sky. I’ve seen oodles of girls, women really, go crazy to dance to Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart. Their is deep longing in that song that seems to grab a lot of woman. And some men. I chose the perfect moment to go out and get the mail one day. A lean, fit guy zoomed by on his gleaming racing bike singing his heart out Total Eclipse. Why is that song a classic guilty pleasure. Sure, it’s a bit over the top. Sentimental. But haven’t we all felt that way at one time. Desperate for love. Depressed. Besides, guilt implies regret. A need to change and do something different. So does a guilty pleasure song mean you need to change it? Why isn’t it called Embarassed Pleasure? Or Hidden Pleasures? Since its songs people like and think they shouldn’t. Or will be judged for. I guess we all have those. Britney Spears is mine. Her voice is a bit too girly for me, but a few songs I enjoy and can even get my sexy on to - which, okay, embarrass me a tad. But I’ll get over it. Go ahead, just try not to get your groove on to Breathe On Me (Jaques LuCont's Thin White Duke Mix) [feat. Ying Yang Twins], Toxic, or her cover of My Perogative.
Brian just got home. I asked him “What’s so much better about ‘I want to hold your hand’ than ‘One Bad Apple’. “Oh, no contest.” He replied. But “Why?” He shrugged at me, like no need to explain telling me with telepathy. They’re the Beatles. So, Nothing else need be said! So I shared my reasoning from above. He just laughed and said “Oh, really.” Rolled his eyes then said “I’ve got to go out again.” “Why?” I asked. I got volunteered last night. “Oh, I forgot.” Yeah Me too. He’d gone to the firs meeting of our neighborhood watch at my nudging. And promised to go back today and replace a burned out lightbulb. I’m going back to Robert Plant’s newly released cd. He’s cool. No defending or arguing needed. And Silver Rider sounds like it might be a great song to S to.
Music, all of it, any of it, is magic. Just because a song isn’t cool. Or the singer is a Mormon and doesn’t drink. Just check out the elegance of Donny Osmond as an adult with another awesome sax player singing This Guys in Love with You. It melts my insides because it reminds me that it’s how my husband loves me. And he shows me ever day. I danced to that song and it was like floating in the clouds in the sky. I’ve seen oodles of girls, women really, go crazy to dance to Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart. Their is deep longing in that song that seems to grab a lot of woman. And some men. I chose the perfect moment to go out and get the mail one day. A lean, fit guy zoomed by on his gleaming racing bike singing his heart out Total Eclipse. Why is that song a classic guilty pleasure. Sure, it’s a bit over the top. Sentimental. But haven’t we all felt that way at one time. Desperate for love. Depressed. Besides, guilt implies regret. A need to change and do something different. So does a guilty pleasure song mean you need to change it? Why isn’t it called Embarassed Pleasure? Or Hidden Pleasures? Since its songs people like and think they shouldn’t. Or will be judged for. I guess we all have those. Britney Spears is mine. Her voice is a bit too girly for me, but a few songs I enjoy and can even get my sexy on to - which, okay, embarrass me a tad. But I’ll get over it. Go ahead, just try not to get your groove on to Breathe On Me (Jaques LuCont's Thin White Duke Mix) [feat. Ying Yang Twins], Toxic, or her cover of My Perogative.
Brian just got home. I asked him “What’s so much better about ‘I want to hold your hand’ than ‘One Bad Apple’. “Oh, no contest.” He replied. But “Why?” He shrugged at me, like no need to explain telling me with telepathy. They’re the Beatles. So, Nothing else need be said! So I shared my reasoning from above. He just laughed and said “Oh, really.” Rolled his eyes then said “I’ve got to go out again.” “Why?” I asked. I got volunteered last night. “Oh, I forgot.” Yeah Me too. He’d gone to the firs meeting of our neighborhood watch at my nudging. And promised to go back today and replace a burned out lightbulb. I’m going back to Robert Plant’s newly released cd. He’s cool. No defending or arguing needed. And Silver Rider sounds like it might be a great song to S to.
Guilty Pleasure - Bonnie Smetts
No phone, no address, no one knew where I was. That summer was hot. The mornings were still and I listened to the sounds of Vuille waking. Farm dogs barked across the valley, I knew their voices but I had not yet ventured outside the village. The deliver carts as wide as the paths called streets rolled toward the market in the town’s center. Then the carts pushed by old men who’d maintained the strength of their work even as their backs curved with time.
From my terrace, a postage stamp of a landing, I overheard my neighbors get ready for their day. Behind the vines planted by my apartment owner (who had instructed me in exactly how to care for them), I sat each morning with coffee I’d made on the tiny stove. I chose a china cup, cracked and cherished, no doubt from my landlady’s grandmother. I could hear Monique yell at Michelle. Get ready for school. You must put your books in your bag. Michelle, do you hear me? Are you dressed yet? The father interrupted with a word that I could not understand. I never understood his French. I’d begun to think he was from somewhere else, that his French was as incomprehensible as my own. The family’s shoebox-sized dog got attention next. Oui, oui, pepè. Here’s breakfast for you. Ten minutes later the father would be out on the street with the dog. I followed his deep voice, gentle and low, down the street and as he spoke to his dog and to each shopkeeper he passed—always something about the lovely weather and the state his dog’s health.
And then, they were back in the kitchen together. This time of year, with all the windows open, I heard, kiss, kiss, mother to son. See you tonight. Be good. I don’t want to hear from your teachers. Love you. And a few minutes later the boy and his father’s voices made their way away from me toward school. In the distance the voices of other children added to my neighbors singsong. Water would run, I imagined the mother cleaning up the kitchen and getting herself ready for the day.
Then the windows slammed against the rising heat and force me inside. I hated closing my windows but I didn’t want to be the only one in the building with windows left wide open. The foreigner, the lady from somewhere else, how can she leave everything open, how can she not pull down the blinds. So I did. And then I waited for the next morning when I could start all over again.
From my terrace, a postage stamp of a landing, I overheard my neighbors get ready for their day. Behind the vines planted by my apartment owner (who had instructed me in exactly how to care for them), I sat each morning with coffee I’d made on the tiny stove. I chose a china cup, cracked and cherished, no doubt from my landlady’s grandmother. I could hear Monique yell at Michelle. Get ready for school. You must put your books in your bag. Michelle, do you hear me? Are you dressed yet? The father interrupted with a word that I could not understand. I never understood his French. I’d begun to think he was from somewhere else, that his French was as incomprehensible as my own. The family’s shoebox-sized dog got attention next. Oui, oui, pepè. Here’s breakfast for you. Ten minutes later the father would be out on the street with the dog. I followed his deep voice, gentle and low, down the street and as he spoke to his dog and to each shopkeeper he passed—always something about the lovely weather and the state his dog’s health.
And then, they were back in the kitchen together. This time of year, with all the windows open, I heard, kiss, kiss, mother to son. See you tonight. Be good. I don’t want to hear from your teachers. Love you. And a few minutes later the boy and his father’s voices made their way away from me toward school. In the distance the voices of other children added to my neighbors singsong. Water would run, I imagined the mother cleaning up the kitchen and getting herself ready for the day.
Then the windows slammed against the rising heat and force me inside. I hated closing my windows but I didn’t want to be the only one in the building with windows left wide open. The foreigner, the lady from somewhere else, how can she leave everything open, how can she not pull down the blinds. So I did. And then I waited for the next morning when I could start all over again.
Guilty Pleasure - Jennifer Baljko
I knew I shouldn’t have even given it a second thought. I should have just kept walking. But, I swear, I heard it call to me from the bakery window. “Jenn, Jenn… I love you! I’m yours. Take me home. Me – the lemon muffin with the white chocolate chips. I’m over here next to the brownie!” Honest to god, the muffin was bouncing on its cute little bottom, desperately trying to catch my attention.
Orgasmic waves of joy lapped my whole body. My feet stopped dead in their tracks. My eyes did their oogly-googly thing. My stomach purred, “Oh, baby. Come to mama.” My head, of course, had a thing or two to chime in, unconvincing as it was, “You know, you had chocolate ice cream yesterday, and that apple thing a few days ago. You can’t have the muffin, too… it’s, uh, um, it’s just wrong.” My thighs and stomach belted out their empty promises, again. “Oh, pleeeaaaase. We’ll walk up the 7 flights of stairs when we get home.” “And, I’ll do 200 sit-ups…and the 200 I was supposed to do yesterday after the ice cream.” Even my heart, usually in pensive reflection and distant from my body’s cravings, offered up a balanced proposition. “You could have a couple of cups of green tea with the muffin. At least you would be putting antioxidants in your body at the same time you’re ingesting white flour and who knows what else.”
Huffing up the last flight of stairs, calves burning, white bakery bag in hand, I turned on my heels and walked back down the stairs. “Let’s go. Another 120 steps back up,” my inner dictator barked. That drill sergeant voice of mine always seems to go missing when I’m slapping down change on the countertop and indulging my guilty pleasure of the day, but I am glad she shows up now and again to keep the rest of me in check.
Orgasmic waves of joy lapped my whole body. My feet stopped dead in their tracks. My eyes did their oogly-googly thing. My stomach purred, “Oh, baby. Come to mama.” My head, of course, had a thing or two to chime in, unconvincing as it was, “You know, you had chocolate ice cream yesterday, and that apple thing a few days ago. You can’t have the muffin, too… it’s, uh, um, it’s just wrong.” My thighs and stomach belted out their empty promises, again. “Oh, pleeeaaaase. We’ll walk up the 7 flights of stairs when we get home.” “And, I’ll do 200 sit-ups…and the 200 I was supposed to do yesterday after the ice cream.” Even my heart, usually in pensive reflection and distant from my body’s cravings, offered up a balanced proposition. “You could have a couple of cups of green tea with the muffin. At least you would be putting antioxidants in your body at the same time you’re ingesting white flour and who knows what else.”
Huffing up the last flight of stairs, calves burning, white bakery bag in hand, I turned on my heels and walked back down the stairs. “Let’s go. Another 120 steps back up,” my inner dictator barked. That drill sergeant voice of mine always seems to go missing when I’m slapping down change on the countertop and indulging my guilty pleasure of the day, but I am glad she shows up now and again to keep the rest of me in check.
Guilty Pleasure - Maria Robinson
You crashed into a black and blue sleep on the night train from Marseilles to Paris.
You wondered if the six hours spent with Ben drinking pastis in the bar and gulping kisses in his room had been true. You left the bright city on the Mediterranean from the St. Charles Station and walked out into the shivering autumn wind at St. Lazare station in Paris past midnight. The tears that you shed in the taxi to the Champs Elysee were rock crystals. You knew it had been too easy. You'd fallen in love in a way that only the French can describe: the lightning flash, the earth torn asunder and your heart, heavy as a stone.
You wondered if the six hours spent with Ben drinking pastis in the bar and gulping kisses in his room had been true. You left the bright city on the Mediterranean from the St. Charles Station and walked out into the shivering autumn wind at St. Lazare station in Paris past midnight. The tears that you shed in the taxi to the Champs Elysee were rock crystals. You knew it had been too easy. You'd fallen in love in a way that only the French can describe: the lightning flash, the earth torn asunder and your heart, heavy as a stone.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Going Barefoot - Maria Robinson
It's the end of the San Francisco summer that chilled your back as the wind swept you up Market Street. Stuck under a hat, wrapped in Peruvian shawl, you wondered about the meaning of a sun that shone so bright with absolutely no heat. Then yesterday, the morning was still and you knew that meant that the fog had pressed its eery curtain of doom south and you'd be able to walk barefoot in the courtyard and swim in the pool in your building that you could never use.
A few steps onto the tile in a white terry robe. The tops of your toes toasty on the stone and suddenly, San Francisco was a paradise, a charming Riveria-side town where you installed every summer at rented chateau. You stared up at the sky with your big black shades and became a star for a day.
A few steps onto the tile in a white terry robe. The tops of your toes toasty on the stone and suddenly, San Francisco was a paradise, a charming Riveria-side town where you installed every summer at rented chateau. You stared up at the sky with your big black shades and became a star for a day.
Going Barefoot - Jennifer Baljko
Adele remembers the kite the most. That’s what she thinks about whenever she thinks about her older brother Harry. Harry’s dead now. Was killed over during the war. Harry had worked in the five and dime that summer, the summer Adele turned 7. One afternoon, he came home with this kite. It was the nicest thing Adele remembers ever seeing. It had a red dragon painted onto the white background, and red and white ribbons trailing down the bottom. Harry took Adele to Beach Haven that afternoon. He bought her cotton candy even. He was happy and handsome, she recalls years later, sipping her green tea. They spent hours running barefoot in the sand, coaxing the wind to pull the kite up, up and away. Adele hoped the wind would take her and Harry up and away, too. Anywhere the wind would take them would be better than anything she had waiting for her in Roman Mill.
Going Barefoot - Anne Freeman
She closed her eyes and turned her face into the spray of water, her hands gently massaging the soap off of her face. Turning around to let the shower rinse the last of the conditioner from her hair, she leaned down to run her hands up and down her legs, making sure she didn’t miss a patch while she was shaving. They were smooth, save for a scab here or there from the picking of a couple of nights ago – or had it been a couple of mornings ago? There were no lines between days anymore. The most recent delineation came when she recently awoke from a sleep. She had slept sixteen hours. He had slept, too, even longer – twenty-four, twenty-seven hours? Enough that after he had passed out on the couch, she had pried his pipe out of his fingers, and smoked the rest. She was careful to leave a little left in the pipe so he would think he smoked it down and passed out. He had been doing this so long that sometimes he just passed out when his heart got going too fast. He would close his eyes, and slump down in the couch. When she saw it coming, she knew it would not be long before several hours of blissful alone time lay ahead, where she could sit on her beanbag in the corner of the living room, away from him, to watch a few movies and write lists in her notebook, lists of things to do. Except sometimes when she was writing, she mindlessly caressed her legs or face, only to feel a bump. Then the list would stop and she would have to pick.
Going Barefoot - Bonnie Smetts
When Julie moved to Oregon, I discovered slippers and now ten years later, I don’t think it’s a good thing. She moved back home to Portland and when I visited her in the giant creaking northwest-y house with a view of Mt. Hood out the windows, I froze. Julie had lived in California for five years but had never lost her love of open windows and fresh cold air. When she watched me cross her aged wood floors, my toes curling against the cold, and she offered me a pair of her slippers. She had a closet full. Very northwest-y too, most of them of fleece in deep shades of magenta, blue or forest green. I couldn’t wait to borrow slippers on my visit.
After a few stays in Portland, Julie inspired me to get slippers for home (where I’d been content with my collection of heavy sox for cold days). My feet never again touched my bare floor, my slippers were there to catch them as I slid off the bed each morning. For someone who wore no shoes four months a year all my childhood, I quickly lost all toughness on the bottoms of my feet thanks to slippers. But I loved them, I loved being warm. I wore out a few pair of fleece, the same kind Julie kept for guests, and I finally bought a suede pair to last many winters.
I knew I was losing something with the slippers but I didn’t want to see it. I could no longer dash from my back door to my car without walking as if I were stepping on broken glass. I’d lost all toughness. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t wash off my wetsuit in the driveway, standing on the now too rough surface. Yet indoors I couldn’t sit for a minute at my desk without my slippers. I’d become dependent on their fuzzy warmth.
This summer I decided to reclaim my feet. I’ll still borrow Julie’s slippers when I visit in Portland but at home where I should be able to survive without them, I’ve put them aside. I walk the length of my rough driveway, tipping and uttering ouch, ooh, ouch. It’s practice. As a kid I walked the block to my friends’ houses without shoes. I need to at least walk from the bedroom to the dining room in bare feet.
I’m reclaiming the bottoms of my feet and my freedom—to rush outside to watch the sunset with a neighbor, or carry something to the car when I’ve forgotten to put on my shoes. And when other parts of me are showing signs of age, this is something I can easily revive.
This winter I’ll keep my fuzzy mules nearby but like an athlete acclimating to running to high altitude, I’ll be adding minutes to non-slipper time to what I’ve built up this summer. That way by next summer, I’ll be going barefoot, at least a few steps at a time.
After a few stays in Portland, Julie inspired me to get slippers for home (where I’d been content with my collection of heavy sox for cold days). My feet never again touched my bare floor, my slippers were there to catch them as I slid off the bed each morning. For someone who wore no shoes four months a year all my childhood, I quickly lost all toughness on the bottoms of my feet thanks to slippers. But I loved them, I loved being warm. I wore out a few pair of fleece, the same kind Julie kept for guests, and I finally bought a suede pair to last many winters.
I knew I was losing something with the slippers but I didn’t want to see it. I could no longer dash from my back door to my car without walking as if I were stepping on broken glass. I’d lost all toughness. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t wash off my wetsuit in the driveway, standing on the now too rough surface. Yet indoors I couldn’t sit for a minute at my desk without my slippers. I’d become dependent on their fuzzy warmth.
This summer I decided to reclaim my feet. I’ll still borrow Julie’s slippers when I visit in Portland but at home where I should be able to survive without them, I’ve put them aside. I walk the length of my rough driveway, tipping and uttering ouch, ooh, ouch. It’s practice. As a kid I walked the block to my friends’ houses without shoes. I need to at least walk from the bedroom to the dining room in bare feet.
I’m reclaiming the bottoms of my feet and my freedom—to rush outside to watch the sunset with a neighbor, or carry something to the car when I’ve forgotten to put on my shoes. And when other parts of me are showing signs of age, this is something I can easily revive.
This winter I’ll keep my fuzzy mules nearby but like an athlete acclimating to running to high altitude, I’ll be adding minutes to non-slipper time to what I’ve built up this summer. That way by next summer, I’ll be going barefoot, at least a few steps at a time.
Going Barefoot - Kate Bueler
Going barefoot. I am barefoot right now as I sit upon my pillow-lined chair placed there by me in my emergency dress bought in the OC but really it was a nightgown. Who knew? It was the cheapest thing to buy at the anthropologie. I have a hoodie around me to keep me warm in this newfound fog not forgotten for long. But I am barefoot. Barefoot with my two feet resting on each other. My left in the crease of my right finding a home between my big and second toe comforting each other as they do.
The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car. In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.
I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten. I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.
The other day as I walked across the street to my car. I was going barefoot. And in that moment as I walked across church street I remembered how nice it felt. How nice it feels. I wasn’t looking for memories of days past as I walked down my wooden stoop softly patting my way to the sidewalk and then braving the street slightly diagonal. I walked pausing for each train track-one and two-and then I reached my car. See I crossed the street without shoes, going barefoot I was, but I did it because I left my shoes in the car. In the process of a move-your shit is scattered everywhere- quarter of my wardrobe was in my house in noe, the other in my new place, and probably the other half in that car or lost somewhere in space. But as I walked across that street-that street that was mine for awhile-I borrowed if it for awhile. I felt the coldness of each material as I walked in the morning. The freshness that is exiting on this city street. In the morning. While going barefoot. The texture of the wood of my stairs warmer than the sidewalk but not as icy as that asphalt of the road. But if felt good and refreshing and it reminded me of going barefoot.
I used to do it all the time. Through my neighborhood, through my house, I even tried it at school, the park wherever. Going barefoot until my black feet of my travels could be seen by all. There is something to be said for the safety of walking barefoot, barefoot in a city and not being scared. Scared of what is to come. See you don’t remember how it feels or how it felt and how it was part of you until you wrap many layers on to hide away from feeling the ground under your feet. I wish I could walk barefoot more often maybe always. But if I did I would long for the feeling of newness that I have forgotten. I will reserve it to my bed-the two feet rest on each other as lovers, my house as wood of the old house pushes back on me as I walk on it, at yoga against my mat as I hold the poses and stretch my toes wider than when walking, at the park on my blanket and maybe brave the grass dampness of dew or city sludge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have the perfect manicured feet, the nail polish greenish like a mermaid now rubbing off. I take off those shoes. When I can. When I want to. Going barefoot.
Going Barefoot - E. D. James
Olivia lay in the dark until the red numerals on the clock next to her bunk read 3:00. She had feared that might actually fall asleep and miss her opportunity, but she didn’t want to set the alarm on the chance someone might hear and remember it. The precise hour was not so important, but she liked to have a schedule that felt rigid. She’d asked a bit about how the watch on deck was carried out and learned that this time was the dead middle of the shift for the night crew. They came on at ten p.m. and worked until eight in the morning. Around three a.m. was their lunch break. This should be the time when she would have the best chance of slipping off the ship unnoticed. She needed to be able to investigate the gulag graveyard without anyone watching her. The fact that one of the crew had been following her every day when she headed out into the field made her nervous to collect the samples she needed. She feared that the Russians would cover up anything she found. She wanted to have the data and make her case before they had a chance to cover up the horror that she believed remained in the earth.
She sat up as quietly as possible, gently swinging her legs over the side of the bunk and setting her bare feet on the cool linoleum. She stood and picked up her pack with the sampling equipment, maps, and food she’d put together the night before and slug it over her shoulders. She picked up her boots in her left hand by the shoe laces she’d tied together to make it easy to carry them until she made it onto the dock. She didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary as she walked the passageways and the ladders. She gently turned the handle and swung the door in, stepping over the steel threshold and onto the textured vinyl of the passageway. She could feel the bumps on the bottom of her feet. She pulled the door shut, twisting the handle so the latch wouldn’t click, then turned and headed towards the ladder.
She sat up as quietly as possible, gently swinging her legs over the side of the bunk and setting her bare feet on the cool linoleum. She stood and picked up her pack with the sampling equipment, maps, and food she’d put together the night before and slug it over her shoulders. She picked up her boots in her left hand by the shoe laces she’d tied together to make it easy to carry them until she made it onto the dock. She didn’t want to make any more noise than necessary as she walked the passageways and the ladders. She gently turned the handle and swung the door in, stepping over the steel threshold and onto the textured vinyl of the passageway. She could feel the bumps on the bottom of her feet. She pulled the door shut, twisting the handle so the latch wouldn’t click, then turned and headed towards the ladder.
Sleeping Through It - Kent Wright
I didn’t hear it ring. What time was that first call? Maybe around 2 in the afternoon someone said who had talked to the woman who had gotten that from a sister in New York who was stunned and worrying about calling the airlines to find a flight that was going to be long, longer than perhaps any flight she’d taken between there and here. There was another call not long after that from my son who had a question about the baby they were expecting. The baby was my first grandchild, a girl. The sex had been known for some time, but just recently they had found out that the baby had decided not to dive into the world head first. Not coming out that way caused concerns, maybe problems, so there had been a flurry of questions and calls about possibly urging the baby into the right position a few days after all the call. After the second call from my son there were more calls because I didn’t answer and not answering made them call more frequently. The phone rang and rang, and each time after seven rings the recording came on. It was my voice assuring my son that I would return the call as soon as I could. But when I didn’t, he kept calling back and then came over to my house and called so more except now he was standing in the drive way by the back door, and when he called, he could hear my phone ringing. He didn’t have a key. The window was open just above the back door. It was my bedroom window, and the cell phone was on the table next to the lamp where it was ringing not much more than a foot from the bed where I was lying on my stomach with my head on the pillow turned to the right like I always slept. Except I wasn’t sleeping through it
Performance - John Fetto
The doors to the Senate opened and Firth followed the page inside. His feet fell muted on carpet as he pretended not to notice all the eyes that followed him, the necks that craned to get a look at his face, at his eyes, into his soul. Who was this man, they all wanted to know. Who was Firth? Firth walked steadily as if he were walking along a tree shaded path in Arlington, walking solemnly, not wanting to disturb the dead, as if the attention meant nothing to him, as if his mind were fixed on a higher, more solitary purpose, as if he did not care about the spotlights that warmed his skin as he sat down now at the long table before the senators. It was an act, a performance, his greatest performance, and he was determined to deliver it flawlessly.
Performance - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I’m as stumped by this prompt as if I’d forgotten my lines, standing on the stage with a blank in my head, fear in my heart and sweat on my face. As stumped as if I’d forgotten the steps of the dance, the notes of the sonata. The audience beyond the lights pulses and waits, embarrassed for me as the silence lengthens or the frozen body refuses to move. It coughs, squirms until finally someone runs out from the wings to draw me away, out of sight, safe behind the curtain.
Unreachable is the pure, smooth flow of the script etched into memory until it is no longer an act, but me living my life out loud and on stage, the dance steps my proclamation, the piano my voice.
I stare at the blank page, batting away the editor, the critic, the stubborn child who doesn’t want to perform for guests. Slowly, I see the image is the blank page, the bare stage, the empty seats. Describe them. So it starts.
Unreachable is the pure, smooth flow of the script etched into memory until it is no longer an act, but me living my life out loud and on stage, the dance steps my proclamation, the piano my voice.
I stare at the blank page, batting away the editor, the critic, the stubborn child who doesn’t want to perform for guests. Slowly, I see the image is the blank page, the bare stage, the empty seats. Describe them. So it starts.
Performance - Lisa Faulkner
While most of me has forgiven my parents for making me quit dance as a child, there’s a small part of me that hasn’t. Doesn’t understand why they made me quit, but were willing to drive me almost as far for organ and then in high school for swim team at crazy ours since we had to borrow pools from others. I sometimes wonder how my life would’ve been different. How I would be different. More confident, free, uninhibited and fit had I kept dancing through my childhood.
I was good. Damn good. More importantly I was a ham on stage. I loved performing. Big smile. Knew the routines. The teachers were just hidden off stage behind the current. I didn’t need to watch them. I knew was I was supposed to do and did it. I couldn’t tell you now what the moves were. But I tapped and twirled and tumbled my heart out. It was only for two years. Then we moved. The drive was too long. I was sad. Not even sure how much I would later miss it. Regret having quit. In fact, it wasn’t until the 6th or 7th grade when the dance studio opened a branch a couple miles from my house. My friend Denise and I signed up for Jazz classes. We had danced for play for years. We’d put on shows for our parents in the basements. Stuff we made up. Our parents sat through it and clapped and cheered us on. My dad once asked me if I recalled the time Denise and I had planned a strip routine and he had to stop us. Who knows where we even got that idea. And I don’t remember it. I just remember playing music and dancing. Having fun and loving it.
But when I restarted in jazz in junior high, it wasn’t the same. I’d become self conscious about my body. I thought I was fat and needed to lose weight. Looking back at pictures, I wasn’t. I just didn’t have a normal waist that tucked in so pants made for the average girl didn’t fit me around the waist. But that made me think I was fat.
I looked back at pictures and movies and longed for that free spirit of 5 or 6. Most of the other little girls on stage were looking at the teachers. Not me. I looked out at the audience. Big beaming smile. Full of confidence. Not needing anyone to tell me what move came next. I suppose if I forgot I just faked it, or did what I was sure came next. Then again, I have a good memory so I probably just knew, and had developed the muscle memory.
Not sure why, but in junior high I had more trouble remembering what came next. Cared about doing it right. Even now, I am supposed to go to a open house event at my halau - hula school. Part of me just doesn’t want to go. It’s going to be crowded. With lots of food I don't eat. People I don’t know. And I just don’t know what to expect. They were vague in their descriptions: but strongly encouraged us newbies to come. Last night when I told Brian: “You just don’t want to perform.” Probably true.”They can’t make me” I replied. Though they didn’t say we’d have to. I know enough to know that since we learned a routine we’ll be asked to. And I haven’t practiced. And don’t remember all the moves. Can’t sing it. And definitely have no flair yet.
Sigh...At least I have S Factor. I don’t get performance anxiety there anymore. Maybe with pole tricks or pole week sometimes. But not with the dancing. Not since the first week of improv. I and my body get to do whatever we want. Even not move. And no matter what I do or don’t do it's okay. Will be cheered. And most importantly, it’s for me. Something will feel good, surprise me, amazed me. Like the times my leg crawls up the wall. Or my body invents a trick on the pole, combines things in new ways. Or does something I didn’t think she could do, like a cat pounce from standing or layout on the pole. My mind gets in the way. It didn’t when I was a kid. How can I get back that childlike freedom with hula and other performance. Is it just practice?
I was good. Damn good. More importantly I was a ham on stage. I loved performing. Big smile. Knew the routines. The teachers were just hidden off stage behind the current. I didn’t need to watch them. I knew was I was supposed to do and did it. I couldn’t tell you now what the moves were. But I tapped and twirled and tumbled my heart out. It was only for two years. Then we moved. The drive was too long. I was sad. Not even sure how much I would later miss it. Regret having quit. In fact, it wasn’t until the 6th or 7th grade when the dance studio opened a branch a couple miles from my house. My friend Denise and I signed up for Jazz classes. We had danced for play for years. We’d put on shows for our parents in the basements. Stuff we made up. Our parents sat through it and clapped and cheered us on. My dad once asked me if I recalled the time Denise and I had planned a strip routine and he had to stop us. Who knows where we even got that idea. And I don’t remember it. I just remember playing music and dancing. Having fun and loving it.
But when I restarted in jazz in junior high, it wasn’t the same. I’d become self conscious about my body. I thought I was fat and needed to lose weight. Looking back at pictures, I wasn’t. I just didn’t have a normal waist that tucked in so pants made for the average girl didn’t fit me around the waist. But that made me think I was fat.
I looked back at pictures and movies and longed for that free spirit of 5 or 6. Most of the other little girls on stage were looking at the teachers. Not me. I looked out at the audience. Big beaming smile. Full of confidence. Not needing anyone to tell me what move came next. I suppose if I forgot I just faked it, or did what I was sure came next. Then again, I have a good memory so I probably just knew, and had developed the muscle memory.
Not sure why, but in junior high I had more trouble remembering what came next. Cared about doing it right. Even now, I am supposed to go to a open house event at my halau - hula school. Part of me just doesn’t want to go. It’s going to be crowded. With lots of food I don't eat. People I don’t know. And I just don’t know what to expect. They were vague in their descriptions: but strongly encouraged us newbies to come. Last night when I told Brian: “You just don’t want to perform.” Probably true.”They can’t make me” I replied. Though they didn’t say we’d have to. I know enough to know that since we learned a routine we’ll be asked to. And I haven’t practiced. And don’t remember all the moves. Can’t sing it. And definitely have no flair yet.
Sigh...At least I have S Factor. I don’t get performance anxiety there anymore. Maybe with pole tricks or pole week sometimes. But not with the dancing. Not since the first week of improv. I and my body get to do whatever we want. Even not move. And no matter what I do or don’t do it's okay. Will be cheered. And most importantly, it’s for me. Something will feel good, surprise me, amazed me. Like the times my leg crawls up the wall. Or my body invents a trick on the pole, combines things in new ways. Or does something I didn’t think she could do, like a cat pounce from standing or layout on the pole. My mind gets in the way. It didn’t when I was a kid. How can I get back that childlike freedom with hula and other performance. Is it just practice?
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Hope - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
Is a whisper,
stubborn
in the face
of evidence.
A traitor,
an angel,
all-knowing,
ignorant,
right,
wrong,
shifty,
shape-
changer,
beating
in the shape
of a heart.
stubborn
in the face
of evidence.
A traitor,
an angel,
all-knowing,
ignorant,
right,
wrong,
shifty,
shape-
changer,
beating
in the shape
of a heart.
Hope - Kent Wright
-When are you coming? You said but I forgot to write it down.
-Thursday Dad. I’ll pick up a car so I should be home 8 – 8:30.
-What will you want for supper? I can hardly cook so if you want something special you’d better tell me.
-I’ll eat something on the way. Don’t worry about cooking for me.
-How’s the weather out there? Been cool here so you better bring a jacket.
-Fine. It’s been fine here.
-How long you going to be home for Alice?
-Until Monday Dad. I have to be back for work.
-You mean next Monday? Why would you want to come all that way and turn around and go right back?
-It had to be a quick trip, but I wanted to come back for the school reunion. Remember?
-No. You never said anything to me about the reunion. You never used to come back for that when your Mother was alive. She was always after you to come back.
-Well, for some reason or another it was never the right time then I guess.
-Well, I hope the weather is nice for you. Supposed to be rain by the weekend. Be a mess if it rains.
-The reunion is in the gym so it won’t matter that much.
-Now when did you tell me you were coming?
-Thursday Dad. I’ll pick up a car so I should be home 8 – 8:30.
-What will you want for supper? I can hardly cook so if you want something special you’d better tell me.
-I’ll eat something on the way. Don’t worry about cooking for me.
-How’s the weather out there? Been cool here so you better bring a jacket.
-Fine. It’s been fine here.
-How long you going to be home for Alice?
-Until Monday Dad. I have to be back for work.
-You mean next Monday? Why would you want to come all that way and turn around and go right back?
-It had to be a quick trip, but I wanted to come back for the school reunion. Remember?
-No. You never said anything to me about the reunion. You never used to come back for that when your Mother was alive. She was always after you to come back.
-Well, for some reason or another it was never the right time then I guess.
-Well, I hope the weather is nice for you. Supposed to be rain by the weekend. Be a mess if it rains.
-The reunion is in the gym so it won’t matter that much.
-Now when did you tell me you were coming?
Hope - Lisa Faulkner
Hope. Without it I wouldn’t want to live. Love too. But on a day to day basis I need hope. And passion. Hopelessness is the worst for me because then I have no energy and sit around doing nothing or worse, watching bad tv. Luckily it doesn’t take much, just a wisp of hope. Like a little seed deep inside. It doesn’t take much to bring it to life. Listening to an inspiring documentary. Or reading an encouraging voice, someone who’d been there before. Getting a hug from my husband (though that one can also just be pure comfort - still need to write that one). Talking to a friend. And of course my S class. That never feels to bring back hope and energy and passion to my life. Last week I did not want to go to class on Friday. But I didn’t want to lose it, so I went. And Ana’s circuit of a minute on each pole, then chair exhausted yet energized me. It pulled shit out of me, crankiness and debris that makes it harder for that seedling to flourish. Sometimes it just takes a song. Listening to an uplifting one like Anastacia’s Beautiful Messed Up World. That never fails to make me want to dance around my kitchen and I often do. I think it reminds me that just like the world I don’t have to be perfect to be wonderful. When I first heard that phrase I didn’t believe it, didn’t accept it. It took lot of repeating and a chipped vase for me to see it was true. My friend, Karen gave me a blue vase as a birthday present. My husband was washing it when it was still new, maybe after I’d used it once. He dropped it in the sink and it chipped. We couldn’t fix it. Instead of being happy it hadn’t shattered to pieces, I was angry. He apologized. I don’t remember if he suggested or I made the connection myself to the “you don’t have to be perfect to be wonderful.” But it fit this vase perfectly. And it's true. When filled with flowers, you can’t even see the chip. The flowers cover it up. The vase reminds me that we all have flaws and scars. But they don’t make us any less. We learn from them. And sometimes the scars and blemishes make us more beautiful. Like with antiques. Like our dining room table, which is very imperfect. The planks are reclaimed wood from a Scottish brewery. But I prefer it to a shiny new table. And my rocking chair, which is getting worn from use, one runner more than the other. And yet it’s natural cherry color has gotten deeper, richer with age. I’ve spent many hours in that chair. I was in that chair when I first read the ETL book that introduced me to plant-based eating, the cure for our modern chronic diseases. I wouldn’t trade that chair for a brand new one.
Hope - Kate Bueler
As I go to sleep I hope. I hope to sleep. Without waking up in the middle of the night. Due to an outside noise of a woot woot or fight or catcall or love singing against reverberating against my sidewalk. My windows shake from the bass of the car as I try to hope to nap. It used to be the waves of the J church but now down more one street these are my new neighbors of sound.I hope for sleep in succession of 6 hours or more. When I wake up to a noise. A noise I sometimes am startled. Where am I? What was that? What should I do? Hyper-vigilance doesn’t sleep and I wish it would. Would go to bed and allow me to dream. Dreams.
My dreams are either so boring I forget or so interesting I can’t help but remember. Last night I dreamt of seeing me my most recent x boyfriend. He was in a store behind the check out (even though his work is a bar) and he was asking for a favor and for me to listen as he always did and does and just recently stopped. Except when we talk I do most of the listening and he does the talking. And I think he might have stopped asking about me. He might not ever asked. So he asked me for something and as I paused. To think if I could do it. He transformed into an old x boyfriend who in my early 20s I thought I would marry. You think a lot of things when you are young. He started to get angry and rude. And I just walked away. And as I walked away I knew in my dream I would never see him again ever. It was done. Part of me wanted him to run after me. But the other part was glad he didn’t. He didn’t. When people change identities in dreams sometimes it is so clear and translucent you can’t help but see through. See through the dream into yourself. Yourself.
I don’t just dream of endings I dream of first kisses with crushes. And once we kiss, kissed in that dream. We started laughing because he had lettuce in his mouth. Lettuce in his mouth and he wasn’t even eating. I had seen good will hunting a week earlier and there is a similar scene but still. And then there was another when he the same man wrestled with me. And would hold me close and embrace me but never did he kiss me. Never kiss me upon my lips. But he held me in a way; in a way that when I woke up I wished it was real. Real. See this man never did kiss me or hold me. But somehow not just in the dreams he warmed me. Warmed me up my coffee cup spilling over as I try to balance across the room to meet him. I spill. He laughs. In dreams. In real life. I hope. I hope for more. For more dreaming. For more sleeping. For more spilling. I hope for more.
My dreams are either so boring I forget or so interesting I can’t help but remember. Last night I dreamt of seeing me my most recent x boyfriend. He was in a store behind the check out (even though his work is a bar) and he was asking for a favor and for me to listen as he always did and does and just recently stopped. Except when we talk I do most of the listening and he does the talking. And I think he might have stopped asking about me. He might not ever asked. So he asked me for something and as I paused. To think if I could do it. He transformed into an old x boyfriend who in my early 20s I thought I would marry. You think a lot of things when you are young. He started to get angry and rude. And I just walked away. And as I walked away I knew in my dream I would never see him again ever. It was done. Part of me wanted him to run after me. But the other part was glad he didn’t. He didn’t. When people change identities in dreams sometimes it is so clear and translucent you can’t help but see through. See through the dream into yourself. Yourself.
I don’t just dream of endings I dream of first kisses with crushes. And once we kiss, kissed in that dream. We started laughing because he had lettuce in his mouth. Lettuce in his mouth and he wasn’t even eating. I had seen good will hunting a week earlier and there is a similar scene but still. And then there was another when he the same man wrestled with me. And would hold me close and embrace me but never did he kiss me. Never kiss me upon my lips. But he held me in a way; in a way that when I woke up I wished it was real. Real. See this man never did kiss me or hold me. But somehow not just in the dreams he warmed me. Warmed me up my coffee cup spilling over as I try to balance across the room to meet him. I spill. He laughs. In dreams. In real life. I hope. I hope for more. For more dreaming. For more sleeping. For more spilling. I hope for more.
Hope - Anne Freeman
My sister-in-law believes in hope. I suppose I would too, if I had her life. Every argument she and her husband have ends up with one threatened the other for a divorce. Mr. Passive Fuddy-Duddy yells at her that he is going to have full custody of the kids because she’s always working and never home to care for them anyway, and that she’s going to end up paying him tons of child and spousal support. I have to stifle a grin when she tells me this because it does show that the wheels do turn in that seemingly vacuous brain of his. All of her arguments about what a loser he is, that he can’t get a job, or when he has one he can barely hold on to it because he’s so lazy, fly out the window, because it’s true – she’s not around for the boys, and frankly, she prefers to work that to be a mom. She only married this guy because she was getting older, and no one else was asking her out on a date, let alone contemplating marrying her. She doubted whether she wanted to have children, so she stopped thinking about it, closed her eyes one night soon after they got married, and lay down. Less than a year later she was a mom, and for the first month she thought about posting an ad on Craig’s List for someone to come take her child away.
If I were Lori, I suppose I would believe in hope, too. Hope that my husband will change, hope that I will one day enjoy being a mother. As she sits on the couch at night reading romance novels, and eating ice cream while her husband is out playing poker and smoking Cuban cigars, she hopes that things will be different one day.
When Obama came out with the “Got Hope?” campaign, she rushed to get one of those bumper stickers for her car, and slapped it on. She waxed effusively one night, enthralled by the romance of Obama and his “Got Hope” campaign. I supported Obama, too, but not this “Got Hope” crap. I couldn’t resist. “Got Hope is crap,” I said to Lori. “Hope is for people in who don’t like their lives, or don’t like something, but aren’t willing to do anything about it differently. It’s passive living, it’s not real.” I looked right at her as I spoke.
If I were Lori, I suppose I would believe in hope, too. Hope that my husband will change, hope that I will one day enjoy being a mother. As she sits on the couch at night reading romance novels, and eating ice cream while her husband is out playing poker and smoking Cuban cigars, she hopes that things will be different one day.
When Obama came out with the “Got Hope?” campaign, she rushed to get one of those bumper stickers for her car, and slapped it on. She waxed effusively one night, enthralled by the romance of Obama and his “Got Hope” campaign. I supported Obama, too, but not this “Got Hope” crap. I couldn’t resist. “Got Hope is crap,” I said to Lori. “Hope is for people in who don’t like their lives, or don’t like something, but aren’t willing to do anything about it differently. It’s passive living, it’s not real.” I looked right at her as I spoke.
Violence - Bonnie Smetts
It wasn’t a storm that ripped the town to shreds. It was that aunt, Jane Whitfield’s aunt, who brought her own kind of storm. You can live some place your whole life and know what to expect. Who’ll be driving down the road, who’ll be at the grocers, who’ll be at the farm fair. Then this woman comes along and changes up everything.
Last summer the crops were looking good, we were all talking about the fall harvest we’d all be having. I know every man in Welford was eyeing a new car, or at least a new tractor. The hedges were high and the creeks ran with water all the way into July.
Yes, the bugs were big too, but nobody cared. At least until the aunt so-and-so started in on the men.
One by one, a man would be missing for an hour or two. Somebody would ask, hey, you seen Walt or Bunkie or Workman? You know, standing around the pub at noon. Nope, nobody saw him, not since yesterday, of course.
Then the next day, hey, you seen —and there was another name called out. When we did see them, they just said they’d had business keeping them busy. That’s seemed possible with the big harvest coming up. You know everyone was making deals behind everyone else’s back, trying to be the first to line up buyers. We’re supposed to act like a cooperative, the whole valley able to sell as one. But the good year had unleashed greed in us. And then with the aunt showing up, the man thing, the thing that happens to any righteous man, reared up. I’m guessing Workman got sexed up with that aunt because he was the first to say he’d found a buyer for this crops, all of them.
Now nobody sells the whole lot like that, so that set off a jealousy. Then every last one of us, I could see this coming, was calling up the grain brokers and the vegetable people and the hay guys, mad that we’d been so trusting. Then we started hearing actual words about that aunt. Words like, you know that Helen woman, I seen her with Walt. Oh yeah? Where? Where around here you’d see her with Walt? Not here, one town over, they’d mention another town.
Every one of us started eyeing every other one. Next thing I know Walt beat up Wrotham, then Wrotham went and beat up Berg. And so it went. My guess is that each man that Helen took then turned mean and wicked, like she cast a spell over us. Men walking around with black eyes and broken arms. Never seen such a thing.
This summer, we’ve had no rain. Not a drop. Nobody’s got orders from anyone outside. We’ll have to get together and sell as a co-op again, just to get something out of the year. That woman disappeared right around the time the rains stopped.
Last summer the crops were looking good, we were all talking about the fall harvest we’d all be having. I know every man in Welford was eyeing a new car, or at least a new tractor. The hedges were high and the creeks ran with water all the way into July.
Yes, the bugs were big too, but nobody cared. At least until the aunt so-and-so started in on the men.
One by one, a man would be missing for an hour or two. Somebody would ask, hey, you seen Walt or Bunkie or Workman? You know, standing around the pub at noon. Nope, nobody saw him, not since yesterday, of course.
Then the next day, hey, you seen —and there was another name called out. When we did see them, they just said they’d had business keeping them busy. That’s seemed possible with the big harvest coming up. You know everyone was making deals behind everyone else’s back, trying to be the first to line up buyers. We’re supposed to act like a cooperative, the whole valley able to sell as one. But the good year had unleashed greed in us. And then with the aunt showing up, the man thing, the thing that happens to any righteous man, reared up. I’m guessing Workman got sexed up with that aunt because he was the first to say he’d found a buyer for this crops, all of them.
Now nobody sells the whole lot like that, so that set off a jealousy. Then every last one of us, I could see this coming, was calling up the grain brokers and the vegetable people and the hay guys, mad that we’d been so trusting. Then we started hearing actual words about that aunt. Words like, you know that Helen woman, I seen her with Walt. Oh yeah? Where? Where around here you’d see her with Walt? Not here, one town over, they’d mention another town.
Every one of us started eyeing every other one. Next thing I know Walt beat up Wrotham, then Wrotham went and beat up Berg. And so it went. My guess is that each man that Helen took then turned mean and wicked, like she cast a spell over us. Men walking around with black eyes and broken arms. Never seen such a thing.
This summer, we’ve had no rain. Not a drop. Nobody’s got orders from anyone outside. We’ll have to get together and sell as a co-op again, just to get something out of the year. That woman disappeared right around the time the rains stopped.
Comfort - Maria Robinson
The burnished Frog Hollow peaches sleep in the wire basket. There's the possibility of cobbler or just slices along side a few scoops of vanilla ice cream. It's comforting to be in a cold San Francisco summer with the fruits of warmer valleys: Cherries, plums, nectarines and elusive pluots, dark purples planets of plum and apricot genes, dazzling on a dessert plate of cookies and sorbet.
Comfort in the summer means, a warm fire, a chef whose restaurant you can walk to, Anderson Valley pinot noir and classes at a pool that make you feel like you're in blazing hot Mexico. You never seem to get away, the pull of home continually drowning your wanderlust. You think of what to do with the peaches and come to vanilla creme anglaise with shortbread, as a show of faith.
Comfort in the summer means, a warm fire, a chef whose restaurant you can walk to, Anderson Valley pinot noir and classes at a pool that make you feel like you're in blazing hot Mexico. You never seem to get away, the pull of home continually drowning your wanderlust. You think of what to do with the peaches and come to vanilla creme anglaise with shortbread, as a show of faith.
Freedom - Judy Albietz
The warm afternoon breeze caressed Bakarti’s cheeks, drying his tears. With Lily and Risto by her side, Sophia held Bakarti in her arms as he shook with grief. Sam slowly walked over to Bakarti, and lay down next to the small Blue Monkey. “You are not alone. You have us,” Sam said, now putting his head between his paws.
“Why did they have to die? Why do I get to live?” Bakarti asked, pointing to the lifeless bodies of the eleven Blue Monkey elders on the hard-packed ground around them.
“I do not know if you will ever find an answer to your questions,” Sophia said in her gentle voice.
“There is so little we know about the Elder Blue Monkeys. We weren’t even sure the Elders existed when we first searched for all of you,” Sam said. “All we had was the story—passed down through the years—that the Elder Blue Monkeys were still living in the Protected Zone which they entered when the rest of the Blue Monkeys traveled 5000 years into the Future through the Time Portal.
Now Risto finished the story, “The legend was that the Elders would only leave the Protected Zone if they had to save the Time Portal. Since they were old to begin with when he entered the Zone, they couldn’t survive for long outside the zone. Perhaps since you were so young when you entered the Zone, you were not affected in the same way.”
Overwhelmed with sadness, Bakarti tried to get his bearings. He was the only one left. He didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t go back to the Protected Zone. He was stuck here, in this world, in the Future, where his family had traveled to 200 years ago. His mother, father and brothers were dead. Perhaps his brothers had children. Perhaps those children had children of their own. Perhaps he might find family after all. And then there was this telepathic dog, Sam, who seemed pretty nice. Bakarti wasn’t too scared of the girl, Lily, even though she was a human.
Bakarti knew he should be happy he was still alive. Alive and no longer saddled with heavy responsibilities carried for over 5000 years. Now he was free to do anything he wanted.
“What am I going to do now?” Bakarti asked his new friends, his voice breaking.
“Why did they have to die? Why do I get to live?” Bakarti asked, pointing to the lifeless bodies of the eleven Blue Monkey elders on the hard-packed ground around them.
“I do not know if you will ever find an answer to your questions,” Sophia said in her gentle voice.
“There is so little we know about the Elder Blue Monkeys. We weren’t even sure the Elders existed when we first searched for all of you,” Sam said. “All we had was the story—passed down through the years—that the Elder Blue Monkeys were still living in the Protected Zone which they entered when the rest of the Blue Monkeys traveled 5000 years into the Future through the Time Portal.
Now Risto finished the story, “The legend was that the Elders would only leave the Protected Zone if they had to save the Time Portal. Since they were old to begin with when he entered the Zone, they couldn’t survive for long outside the zone. Perhaps since you were so young when you entered the Zone, you were not affected in the same way.”
Overwhelmed with sadness, Bakarti tried to get his bearings. He was the only one left. He didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t go back to the Protected Zone. He was stuck here, in this world, in the Future, where his family had traveled to 200 years ago. His mother, father and brothers were dead. Perhaps his brothers had children. Perhaps those children had children of their own. Perhaps he might find family after all. And then there was this telepathic dog, Sam, who seemed pretty nice. Bakarti wasn’t too scared of the girl, Lily, even though she was a human.
Bakarti knew he should be happy he was still alive. Alive and no longer saddled with heavy responsibilities carried for over 5000 years. Now he was free to do anything he wanted.
“What am I going to do now?” Bakarti asked his new friends, his voice breaking.
Freedom - E. D. James
Alan sat at the kitchen table and Googled earworm on his old Dell laptop. The song had been playing in his head with increasing frequency over the past few weeks and he was beginning to feel as if it was taking over his life. Wikipedia said that ninety-eight percent of people experienced earworms at one time or another in their lives. The name had originally been adapted from the German “Ohrwurm” by a marketing researcher. A marketers dream was to give you an earworm. He and his sister could still spontaneously break into a jingle that had been burned into their brains between the cartoons they watched as children. All that made him feel better. He liked some of the synonyms, “tune wedgy” and “humsickness”. It was just a normal thing. Then, out of curiosity, he clicked on the link for musical hallucinations imbedded in the article. This information didn’t make him feel so good. People that actually thought they were hearing songs could be schizophrenic or had brain lesions. But they could also just have had something pounded into their head by hearing a piece of music too often or because they were under a lot of stress. He did feel stressed.
He’d hadn’t told the shrink anything about the song. He was just about off probation and he didn’t want to give her anything new to change his status. Their weekly meetings had been ok at the start. The medications she’d given him had helped him sleep in those first weeks after it happened. But now she was trying to dig deeper in to his cranium and he wasn’t going there. He’d learned how to cope with his baggage. His life was a little messy, but it was the way he liked it. He had his freedom. He wondered if the jumper had felt freedom in those first moments. He wondered why the guy couldn’t find that freedom in his life. He wondered if the guy had an earworm and somehow passed it off in those last moments. Then he pushed the screen of his Dell down on to the keyboard, went to the refrigerator for a beer, and headed for the couch. Nigeria was playing Cote d’Ivoire.
He’d hadn’t told the shrink anything about the song. He was just about off probation and he didn’t want to give her anything new to change his status. Their weekly meetings had been ok at the start. The medications she’d given him had helped him sleep in those first weeks after it happened. But now she was trying to dig deeper in to his cranium and he wasn’t going there. He’d learned how to cope with his baggage. His life was a little messy, but it was the way he liked it. He had his freedom. He wondered if the jumper had felt freedom in those first moments. He wondered why the guy couldn’t find that freedom in his life. He wondered if the guy had an earworm and somehow passed it off in those last moments. Then he pushed the screen of his Dell down on to the keyboard, went to the refrigerator for a beer, and headed for the couch. Nigeria was playing Cote d’Ivoire.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The River - E. D. James
Olivia could feel the vibrations of the footsteps pounding up the ladder behind her through the pounding of the blood in her ears and her own breathing. When she got to the rail of the ship she turned towards the stern hoping to get onto the fantail before her pursuers made it out of the hatch. As she ran along the deck her mind worked frantically to come up with a plan for what she would do next. Her foot caught on a thick rope coiled at the base of the rail and she went sprawling, barely catching herself with her hands to avoid smacking her face into the gritty steel of the deck. She glanced over her shoulder as she forced herself back to her feet shaking off the pain. The first of Scriabins men was just turning out of the hatch and had spotted her. Her focus narrowed as she approached the rail at the stern of the ship and leaned out over the rail to survey the river below her. The shore launch was tethered to the pier just to her left. She made a quick calculation of how far out she should jump to clear the launch and the blades of the ships props. Then she swung her leg over the rail, caught her heels in the small seam where base of the rail hit the hull of the ship, held onto the rail and flexed her legs and leaned her body forward and then pushed off with as much force as she could towards what she thought should be the clear spot in the water.
She waved her arms to keep upright like she had at the quarry at the family compound when they jumped off the cliffs into the lake. For a moment she felt weightless and the body memory of those hot and sultry summer afternoons with her cousins and step brothers sank in as her boots hit the water and the dense cool water pushed up the legs of her khakis and pushed her shirt up under her arms. She let herself ride the energy of her jump down as far as she could keeping her legs bent in case she hit the bottom. As the descent slowed she shifted her body forward and started the wide stroke she remembered from the quarry. She spread her legs and kicked widely with her boots, keeping her breath down in her stomach to conserve the oxygen as long as possible. She pulled as hard as she could for dark area of water that she thought would be under the launch and the pier.
She waved her arms to keep upright like she had at the quarry at the family compound when they jumped off the cliffs into the lake. For a moment she felt weightless and the body memory of those hot and sultry summer afternoons with her cousins and step brothers sank in as her boots hit the water and the dense cool water pushed up the legs of her khakis and pushed her shirt up under her arms. She let herself ride the energy of her jump down as far as she could keeping her legs bent in case she hit the bottom. As the descent slowed she shifted her body forward and started the wide stroke she remembered from the quarry. She spread her legs and kicked widely with her boots, keeping her breath down in her stomach to conserve the oxygen as long as possible. She pulled as hard as she could for dark area of water that she thought would be under the launch and the pier.
The Other Side of the World - Kate Bueler
The other side of the world. I am moving to the other side of the world. For as we write or speak, I am packing up my room in the redone attic after a serious heat spell to move from the pleasantville of noe valley to the urbaneness of the mission. It is in fact the other side of the world. What I leave behind is part warmth and the roll of the eyes for the neighborhood I sometimes I belong in. Nostalgic I am for where my great grandparents immigrated to a few blocks away for the streets my grandmother walked and rode the cable car down the street for the church where my grandparents married. For my father playing here as a child. All near me welcoming me home. My grandmother beginning and stories all felt today as real. I feel she is still with me especially when I walk upon the tree lined quietish streets even if people “forget” to clean up their dog poop and to stop at stop signs. See I belong here. Here in that this is my roots. Roots grown through my own ability to befriend my neighbors. I know storeowners names and they know mine. They mourn for the loss of me my face on a regular basis as I mourn for their yours.
But there are times I hate this neighborhood. When I can’t get by the doublewide strollers across the sidewalk. Twins all not natural I am sure. When I don’t have a dog. A dog because without a dog or kids you might be a leper in this hood. I get to borrow kids, the ones I nanny, but that can only get me by for so long. Also how everyone gets worked up over the little things so quintessential I am urban but still a yuppie. Like the movement to stop a street closure for people to roam. A place where there are so many pedestrians its hard to get through. But home this is-with my love and hate for it-is still home. And know I am moving to the other side of the world. The most suburban urban place will no longer be mine.
Soon my neighbors will be a non-practicing dominatrix and drag queen couple with a habit for hoarding sequin dresses. Oh and also the projects. Not the big large ones that are scary but the ones that look like condos. My neighbors will know be the hipsters and their tats. I am leaving the cheers of home. For convenience. For proximity to all the places I hang out anyway. For the peace of mind from a crazy landlord. For a backyard. And hardwood floors. And a bear claw tub. And so much.
But moving to the other side of the world really isn’t so far away. But the end. The goodbye. Not by my choice always feel the same. The same. I was put in a corner until I had no other choice but out. Out. I am leaving to the other side of the world. But this time I want to feel it all differently. In the new world of me. I am trying. Trying to not weep for loss and rejoice for the new day of school of beginnings. For I have moved to the other side of the world but this time I am just moving to the neighborhood next to me. Next to me. Goodbye could be just a see ya later. Which feels so much better than the end.
But there are times I hate this neighborhood. When I can’t get by the doublewide strollers across the sidewalk. Twins all not natural I am sure. When I don’t have a dog. A dog because without a dog or kids you might be a leper in this hood. I get to borrow kids, the ones I nanny, but that can only get me by for so long. Also how everyone gets worked up over the little things so quintessential I am urban but still a yuppie. Like the movement to stop a street closure for people to roam. A place where there are so many pedestrians its hard to get through. But home this is-with my love and hate for it-is still home. And know I am moving to the other side of the world. The most suburban urban place will no longer be mine.
Soon my neighbors will be a non-practicing dominatrix and drag queen couple with a habit for hoarding sequin dresses. Oh and also the projects. Not the big large ones that are scary but the ones that look like condos. My neighbors will know be the hipsters and their tats. I am leaving the cheers of home. For convenience. For proximity to all the places I hang out anyway. For the peace of mind from a crazy landlord. For a backyard. And hardwood floors. And a bear claw tub. And so much.
But moving to the other side of the world really isn’t so far away. But the end. The goodbye. Not by my choice always feel the same. The same. I was put in a corner until I had no other choice but out. Out. I am leaving to the other side of the world. But this time I want to feel it all differently. In the new world of me. I am trying. Trying to not weep for loss and rejoice for the new day of school of beginnings. For I have moved to the other side of the world but this time I am just moving to the neighborhood next to me. Next to me. Goodbye could be just a see ya later. Which feels so much better than the end.
The Other Side of the World - Anne Freeman
I don’t recall us spending any time with him, really. But we must have, given the amount of time we spent at each other’s homes. Why, by the end of the summer, when you had returned from Australia and I from the U.S., I think we spent two or three straight weeks together – four days at my house, then three days at your house, followed by back to my house, and so on until school started. I remember your brothers – so sophisticated, home from boarding school, with their thick Aussie accents, girls flocking to your home to follow them around town. Whenever Matt asked me, “hey Anne, how’s it hanging?” in his jovial, cool manner, I reddened and clammed up… All I could get out was that I was in a bad mood! How much I had to learn about being appealing, let alone conversation.
Funny how I can’t remember what we did at my house, though the memories from yours are clear snapshots in my mind. We must have gone down to the pool, and showed off our dives and flips off the board. And practiced our dance routines – Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.” The image of cans of Dr. Pepper come to mind to, an American novelty in the middle of Tokyo. Dr. Pepper and mini pepperoni pizzas at the snack bar on the American Embassy Compound.
Funny how I can’t remember what we did at my house, though the memories from yours are clear snapshots in my mind. We must have gone down to the pool, and showed off our dives and flips off the board. And practiced our dance routines – Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.” The image of cans of Dr. Pepper come to mind to, an American novelty in the middle of Tokyo. Dr. Pepper and mini pepperoni pizzas at the snack bar on the American Embassy Compound.
Coming Home - Judy Albietz
“Did you move anything in my room?” Lily called down the stairs to her mother who was unpacking the cooler in the kitchen.
“What? You know I never go into your room. Anyway, we were all at the cabin together. No one was here at the house. Hey, give me a hand with dinner when you’ve finished unpacking.”
“Okay Mom, but something feels different here,” Lily said as she looked around at her bed, desk, dresser and the pillows piled in the window seat. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something had changed. Through her open closet door she saw the same pile of shoes and junk on the closet floor. The same old stack of books was on the floor next to her bed. She didn’t remember her reading pillow being that shade of purple. What about the ceiling light? Was it always so bright? She turned it off and squinted into the room again. Even though it was still light out, she walked over to the other side of the bed and turned on the floor lamp. The florescent bulb glowed on and off and on again. That’s weird, she thought. The room felt hot and stuffy so she opened a window.
As she sat on the bed and unpacked her backpack, she heard something rustling in her closet. She looked over in time to see a box of gloves tumble off the top shelf. Probably just ready to fall. Probably just the breeze, she thought. But after a minute, she got up and ran out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time.
“What? You know I never go into your room. Anyway, we were all at the cabin together. No one was here at the house. Hey, give me a hand with dinner when you’ve finished unpacking.”
“Okay Mom, but something feels different here,” Lily said as she looked around at her bed, desk, dresser and the pillows piled in the window seat. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something had changed. Through her open closet door she saw the same pile of shoes and junk on the closet floor. The same old stack of books was on the floor next to her bed. She didn’t remember her reading pillow being that shade of purple. What about the ceiling light? Was it always so bright? She turned it off and squinted into the room again. Even though it was still light out, she walked over to the other side of the bed and turned on the floor lamp. The florescent bulb glowed on and off and on again. That’s weird, she thought. The room felt hot and stuffy so she opened a window.
As she sat on the bed and unpacked her backpack, she heard something rustling in her closet. She looked over in time to see a box of gloves tumble off the top shelf. Probably just ready to fall. Probably just the breeze, she thought. But after a minute, she got up and ran out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time.
Coming Home - Maria Robinson
You're in Morocco and it feels like home. The diamond patterned tiles swirl in your head as your sleep on the first night.
In your dream, you wander in and out of shadows and darkness, turning corners to see the blue of the ocean, entering doorways
filled with red carpets and gold oil lamps.
On your first morning, birds soar in the watercolored sky and when you hear the fountain beneath your window, you feel you are in paradise.
In your dream, you wander in and out of shadows and darkness, turning corners to see the blue of the ocean, entering doorways
filled with red carpets and gold oil lamps.
On your first morning, birds soar in the watercolored sky and when you hear the fountain beneath your window, you feel you are in paradise.
Insurance - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I’ve got your back, you get mine.
Four eyes can roam the circle round.
You can see the gun that shines,
I can see the enemy’s lines.
Our hair alert as we walk,
Four-legged creature: let us stalk.
Four eyes can roam the circle round.
You can see the gun that shines,
I can see the enemy’s lines.
Our hair alert as we walk,
Four-legged creature: let us stalk.
Insurance - Kent Wright
I was preferred. It was my chest he reclined on when he had finished marauding for the evening. The black, faux-fur bag bed was just insurance in case I didn’t come home or wasn’t in bed before his bedtime. It was very, very soft, which he liked, and because it was made like a sack he could either sleep in its inky inside or on top. Still that was clearly not in the same league as the perfect nest he preferred under the comforter between my legs.
Metro, my ocicat had an evening ritual. He dozed first on my chest nose to nose with me. After a few minutes of this (quality time), he rotated 180 degrees, which left my nose alone with his tail end. He assumed this position so that he could slip deeper into his slumbers with his chin on my hands, which he wanted folded across my chest. When the fresh bay breezes slithered in the skylight above the bed and reached Metro’s back, he rose, tapped firmly on the edge of the comforter, which was raised, and disappeared to spend the remainder of the night stretched out between my legs. His own legs extended straight out from his body so that if, and this was not encouraged, I moved during a particularly vivid dream, they could be stiffened automatically to wake and warm me.
In the morning, and he was not an early riser, he would follow along the outline of my body to find his way out from his warm den. He head would pop out with his green eyes still unfocused but purring at full volume. He remained like that for a few moments while he tried to remember where he was, but finding nothing pressing on his calendar he would slowly sink down. His head came to rest in the notch of my arm with his body still hidden under the warm down.
Metro, my ocicat had an evening ritual. He dozed first on my chest nose to nose with me. After a few minutes of this (quality time), he rotated 180 degrees, which left my nose alone with his tail end. He assumed this position so that he could slip deeper into his slumbers with his chin on my hands, which he wanted folded across my chest. When the fresh bay breezes slithered in the skylight above the bed and reached Metro’s back, he rose, tapped firmly on the edge of the comforter, which was raised, and disappeared to spend the remainder of the night stretched out between my legs. His own legs extended straight out from his body so that if, and this was not encouraged, I moved during a particularly vivid dream, they could be stiffened automatically to wake and warm me.
In the morning, and he was not an early riser, he would follow along the outline of my body to find his way out from his warm den. He head would pop out with his green eyes still unfocused but purring at full volume. He remained like that for a few moments while he tried to remember where he was, but finding nothing pressing on his calendar he would slowly sink down. His head came to rest in the notch of my arm with his body still hidden under the warm down.
The Devil You Know - Bonnie Smetts
The devil is in the details, the dust devil, the devil on your shoulder. Devil, Devil, Devil. It’s the devil inside that’s got me. I keep my mouth shut so it doesn’t pop out. It sits inside, red with a long spiked tail. I never know when it might pop out.
“You’re ugly.” Ooops.
“Your drawing’s ugly.” Ooops.
“I hate you.” Ooops.
The devil’s there and I’ve been carrying it around since I was five. That’s when I first met the devil. I pointed to a girl’s ugly Thanksgiving turkey drawing. We’d all made those turkeys where you put your open hand on a sheet of paper and trace your fingers, creating that turkey shape. Ann Baker’s was ugly and I pointed to hers on the wall and somehow I touched it. I must have jumped up to touch it because they were pinned high above the green chalkboards.
The teacher swooped toward me, toward the falling turkey, and in that moment everyone knew I’d said, “Look, it’s ugly.”
I’m ashamed. I said Ann’s drawing was ugly. That isn’t me. The me who encourages everyone to draw, to sing, to write. That was the devil, a devil I hadn’t met until then. After that I didn’t say very much, I didn’t point, I didn’t gossip. I kept quiet just in case that red man inside had something to say.
“You are ugly, your art is ugly.” How awful. That’s not me, not the one I set out to be, even at five years old.
That kindergarten day I started to lie. Lying keeps the devil quiet, lying keeps him satisfied, like a dog who takes a bone from the neighborhood butcher and gnaws it noisily under a picnic table in the park, growling when children come by to look.
That’s my devil. I don’t know much about him because I’ve never given him a chance to dance around in front of me and embarrass me since Mrs. Graves looked at me in shame. Bad girl, you bad girl.
I don’t know if she knew why Ann’s turkey fell, that I’d said something and then the devil had thrown the picture down to reveal my evil, small side.
OK, devil. Devil, be gone, you’ve done your work, you did your work. I don’t need you lurking around anymore.
Maybe that’s why I hate the color red. Deviled eggs, diavolo, Mt. Diablo, diabolico, diva, divine, devotion. Devil be gone and turn into something quite different.
“You’re ugly.” Ooops.
“Your drawing’s ugly.” Ooops.
“I hate you.” Ooops.
The devil’s there and I’ve been carrying it around since I was five. That’s when I first met the devil. I pointed to a girl’s ugly Thanksgiving turkey drawing. We’d all made those turkeys where you put your open hand on a sheet of paper and trace your fingers, creating that turkey shape. Ann Baker’s was ugly and I pointed to hers on the wall and somehow I touched it. I must have jumped up to touch it because they were pinned high above the green chalkboards.
The teacher swooped toward me, toward the falling turkey, and in that moment everyone knew I’d said, “Look, it’s ugly.”
I’m ashamed. I said Ann’s drawing was ugly. That isn’t me. The me who encourages everyone to draw, to sing, to write. That was the devil, a devil I hadn’t met until then. After that I didn’t say very much, I didn’t point, I didn’t gossip. I kept quiet just in case that red man inside had something to say.
“You are ugly, your art is ugly.” How awful. That’s not me, not the one I set out to be, even at five years old.
That kindergarten day I started to lie. Lying keeps the devil quiet, lying keeps him satisfied, like a dog who takes a bone from the neighborhood butcher and gnaws it noisily under a picnic table in the park, growling when children come by to look.
That’s my devil. I don’t know much about him because I’ve never given him a chance to dance around in front of me and embarrass me since Mrs. Graves looked at me in shame. Bad girl, you bad girl.
I don’t know if she knew why Ann’s turkey fell, that I’d said something and then the devil had thrown the picture down to reveal my evil, small side.
OK, devil. Devil, be gone, you’ve done your work, you did your work. I don’t need you lurking around anymore.
Maybe that’s why I hate the color red. Deviled eggs, diavolo, Mt. Diablo, diabolico, diva, divine, devotion. Devil be gone and turn into something quite different.
The Devil You Know - Carol Arnold
The forest was utterly still, not even the caw of a blue jay. Martha stood with her back to the lake, Dr. Grizby smiling at her with his big white teeth. The world must be a pretty good place with teeth like that, Martha thought.
“Beautiful day,” he said.
“Yes. Lovely.”
Then Cede was there, standing nude, next to them. First he wasn’t there, then he was, like the forest had spit him out and this was where he landed. She hadn’t heard him approach. She hadn’t known that about him, his ability to be quiet like an Indian, something she knew how to do also. She remembered her brother telling her, “You have to walk like an Indian, so soft you don’t bend the grass,” the both of them having climbed out the bedroom window to sneak away for the night. “If Dad catches us he’ll kill you.” It was always “you” he would kill, not “me” or “us,” as if her brother was immune. She believed him, learned to walk so softly the grass remained upright under her feet. She could have run away, but never did. Her father was the devil she knew, and at least it was better than the ones she didn’t, which seemed to Martha just about everybody.
“Swimming in the buff, huh?” Dr. Grizby said. “A fine thing to do.”
What was it about this man that made everything so easy? You have horrible teeth, and a week later they’re the envy of all. A man with angel wings on his back creeps out of the woods naked and what he’s doing is a fine thing.
“Beautiful day,” he said.
“Yes. Lovely.”
Then Cede was there, standing nude, next to them. First he wasn’t there, then he was, like the forest had spit him out and this was where he landed. She hadn’t heard him approach. She hadn’t known that about him, his ability to be quiet like an Indian, something she knew how to do also. She remembered her brother telling her, “You have to walk like an Indian, so soft you don’t bend the grass,” the both of them having climbed out the bedroom window to sneak away for the night. “If Dad catches us he’ll kill you.” It was always “you” he would kill, not “me” or “us,” as if her brother was immune. She believed him, learned to walk so softly the grass remained upright under her feet. She could have run away, but never did. Her father was the devil she knew, and at least it was better than the ones she didn’t, which seemed to Martha just about everybody.
“Swimming in the buff, huh?” Dr. Grizby said. “A fine thing to do.”
What was it about this man that made everything so easy? You have horrible teeth, and a week later they’re the envy of all. A man with angel wings on his back creeps out of the woods naked and what he’s doing is a fine thing.
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