In ``The Sword And The Stone’’ by T. H. White, Merlin the wizard is the teacher of the young King Arthur whom everyone calls Wart.
``Wart,’’ he says one day after the child has suffered a great disappointment, ``when you are sad, learn something.’’
I remember this always. My sadness antidote: Learning new moves. When someone I loved was very sick long ago, I went to the swimming pool and thrashed up and down inexpertly until I was breathless and better. The illness continued. Since I was a member of a small dance group, I felt my soul rise and my sanity return when I learned new choreography: Twist and drop, arabesque, skip, cross behind your partner, leap, fall, stride, tumble into a heap.
The choreographer: ``No, go back, like this: lyric, smooth and slow, NOW: run, jump, turn.’’ We ran, leapt, turned in patterns.
Sweat as blessing, sweat as communal wine, faces flushed, spirits high, we dried, changed into fresh clothes and went for tacos: the spice of being a team.
In San Francisco, I study tai chi where we are corrected weekly, refining, polishing. I have learned how to swim in the cold water of the Bay. Recently, I began quailing before the challenge of the cold, turning more to the pool, feeling sad not to swim in the open water, but at least I could swim through sunlight falling in ripples under the water as I do the crawl and the backstroke.
One day, as I was undulating in the water for fun, diving for children’s toys, I realized I was doing the dolphin kick, the basis of the butterfly. When I got out, I saw a group practicing the butterfly, their arms skimming across the top of the water to lift them forward – it IS like flying, a beautiful motion, free and strong.
``That’s it! I want to do that.’’ Exultation rose in me and I booked lessons. I was so happy I’m not done yet learning how! I’m working to obtain it: undulate, add arms, swing them back, undulate, kick-the-arms-in-kick-the-arms-out, my arms not quite strong enough yet, panting after half a lap but eager for the next one. I’m not sad anymore. And I went back into the Bay last week.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Learning How - E. D. James
Olivia needed to learn how to do something she had never before been able to master. She needed to learn how to lie. Not lie exactly, she told herself. More like hide, obfuscate. She needed to investigate the old gulag camp and didn’t want Scriabin and his men knowing exactly what she was doing. Alexis Moiseyev’s obsession with his father and the camp had gotten to her. Now that he was dead it was up to her to carry on and root out the secrets that were buried in that place. She sat for an hour before the evening meeting going over what she was going to say. She even looked in the mirror and practiced her lines. She wanted it to feel perfectly natural.
The five men sat with beers in front of them and their notebooks open at the table in the mess that they used for their meetings. Olivia came in last and sat down between Cooper and Suda. By now everyone had a routine place at the table. Olivia felt comfortable between these two.
“Alright, what did we learn today and what are we going to do tomorrow?” Semyon started off.
“We have all been punching out the things on our list from two days ago I think,” Cooper said.
Olivia felt her face flush and decided that she wanted to get her story out right away. The longer she sat at the table the more the tension would build up. “I spotted a crane pair heading up to the northeast section of the marsh this afternoon. They looked healthy, unlike those that we have seen from that area previously.”
“That’s interesting,” Boris said sitting forward in his seat. “If you could confirm that and show that they are nesting in that area it would put to rest Alexis’ concerns about that area.”
“Put to rest?” Semyon said.
Boris held out his arms, “Oh, I’m sorry, I suppose that seems a bit insensitive. I suppose I should say that we can eliminate that area as a concern if Olivia could document that pair.”
Olivia could feel sweat forming on her face and under her arms. Her ears felt like they were burning. She was glad she had worn her hair down. “I don’t know that this will eliminate any concerns, but it would make me feel better if I could find a nesting pair in that area. I will head up there early tomorrow and see if I can find them.”
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Semyon said.
“No, I’ll be fine. There is a good road up in that direction. I don’t think they are far off the track. The marsh is pretty narrow in that area.” The last thing she wanted was someone with her. She expected that Scriabin would have someone follow her, but she could keep the alpha radiation detector hidden from someone watching from a distance.
When she got back to her cabin an hour later Olivia was exhausted. She shut the door and leaned her back against it. Her legs were rubbery and her brain felt empty. The adrenaline had burned through her and left her an empty husk. It was all she could do to brush her teeth and crawl into her bunk.
The five men sat with beers in front of them and their notebooks open at the table in the mess that they used for their meetings. Olivia came in last and sat down between Cooper and Suda. By now everyone had a routine place at the table. Olivia felt comfortable between these two.
“Alright, what did we learn today and what are we going to do tomorrow?” Semyon started off.
“We have all been punching out the things on our list from two days ago I think,” Cooper said.
Olivia felt her face flush and decided that she wanted to get her story out right away. The longer she sat at the table the more the tension would build up. “I spotted a crane pair heading up to the northeast section of the marsh this afternoon. They looked healthy, unlike those that we have seen from that area previously.”
“That’s interesting,” Boris said sitting forward in his seat. “If you could confirm that and show that they are nesting in that area it would put to rest Alexis’ concerns about that area.”
“Put to rest?” Semyon said.
Boris held out his arms, “Oh, I’m sorry, I suppose that seems a bit insensitive. I suppose I should say that we can eliminate that area as a concern if Olivia could document that pair.”
Olivia could feel sweat forming on her face and under her arms. Her ears felt like they were burning. She was glad she had worn her hair down. “I don’t know that this will eliminate any concerns, but it would make me feel better if I could find a nesting pair in that area. I will head up there early tomorrow and see if I can find them.”
“Do you want someone to go with you?” Semyon said.
“No, I’ll be fine. There is a good road up in that direction. I don’t think they are far off the track. The marsh is pretty narrow in that area.” The last thing she wanted was someone with her. She expected that Scriabin would have someone follow her, but she could keep the alpha radiation detector hidden from someone watching from a distance.
When she got back to her cabin an hour later Olivia was exhausted. She shut the door and leaned her back against it. Her legs were rubbery and her brain felt empty. The adrenaline had burned through her and left her an empty husk. It was all she could do to brush her teeth and crawl into her bunk.
Freedom - Jennifer Baljko
For the first time in a long while, absolute quiet surrounded her. Only the hum of the refrigerator reminded Luisa that she was still awake, and still waiting. These brief moments away from everyone, while mostly appreciated, also burdened Luisa. Trapped between despair and resolve, Fred’s absence made Luisa feel even more helpless, and acutely aware of her limitations.
Luisa had a room with an ocean view, but she sat with her back to the window. She liked watching the late day sun throw distorted shadows on the dark wood floors. The shadows danced gracefully, effortlessly. Luisa had moved like that, too. Before. Before the accident made her a permanent fixture in a wheelchair and stole her freedom.
Luisa had a room with an ocean view, but she sat with her back to the window. She liked watching the late day sun throw distorted shadows on the dark wood floors. The shadows danced gracefully, effortlessly. Luisa had moved like that, too. Before. Before the accident made her a permanent fixture in a wheelchair and stole her freedom.
Freedom - Judy Albietz
Peter got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He hated it when the late summer sun blasted into his basement bedroom. As he pulled down the blind with one hand, he checked his cell phone calendar. It was September 2. Only a few days of freedom were left before school started.
He decided to spend his time designing new computer war game characters. First he would troll the Internet for recent world-wide coverage of wars and battles. He might be able to get some new ideas for soldiers, combat gear and other equipment. He set his hacking parameters to search for the newest data. Then he settled back to watch what popped up.
“Ho ho. Right!” he laughed as he looked at the time-stamps streaming across his screen. He couldn’t make out the identifier-codes for the individual files but he could read their dates. Obviously errors. He leaned forward to freeze the screen as he read one: April 5, 4008. He resumed the scan and stopped it again: May 12, 4009. Started again and stopped: September 2, 4009.
“Now that’s weird. Let’s see what you are,” he said as he pointed his mouse to the file icon flashing in its frozen position. He clicked. Instantly, the screen opened up on a bright sunny scene. In the distance were a bunch of animals—they looked like monkeys. This is no war! What’s this? Where is this?
It felt like a live streaming web-cam. Off to his right some of the creatures were sitting under trees. As he looked at them, the camera lens brought him up close. Those monkeys were wearing some sort of clothing. As he continued to stare, the scene shifted further to the right. Now he could see there were houses past the trees which were now in the middle of the screen. He looked over to his left and the same thing happened. The screen shifted to the left. It was as if he was looking around, right there, on the ground, wherever there was.
He decided to spend his time designing new computer war game characters. First he would troll the Internet for recent world-wide coverage of wars and battles. He might be able to get some new ideas for soldiers, combat gear and other equipment. He set his hacking parameters to search for the newest data. Then he settled back to watch what popped up.
“Ho ho. Right!” he laughed as he looked at the time-stamps streaming across his screen. He couldn’t make out the identifier-codes for the individual files but he could read their dates. Obviously errors. He leaned forward to freeze the screen as he read one: April 5, 4008. He resumed the scan and stopped it again: May 12, 4009. Started again and stopped: September 2, 4009.
“Now that’s weird. Let’s see what you are,” he said as he pointed his mouse to the file icon flashing in its frozen position. He clicked. Instantly, the screen opened up on a bright sunny scene. In the distance were a bunch of animals—they looked like monkeys. This is no war! What’s this? Where is this?
It felt like a live streaming web-cam. Off to his right some of the creatures were sitting under trees. As he looked at them, the camera lens brought him up close. Those monkeys were wearing some sort of clothing. As he continued to stare, the scene shifted further to the right. Now he could see there were houses past the trees which were now in the middle of the screen. He looked over to his left and the same thing happened. The screen shifted to the left. It was as if he was looking around, right there, on the ground, wherever there was.
Freedom - Melody Cryns
When I trudged into that shabby little one-bedroom apartment in Newport, Oregon in June 1986, holding Jeremy who was just barely two and still in diapers, usually so light but he felt heavy while fast asleep slumped in my arms, I felt a strange, weird sense of freedom – here I was saddled with three young children, ages 2, 3 and 5 – and for now, we were stuck living in this small apartment that my mother and her friends had lovingly decorated for us – it was a tiny one-bedroom apartment with ugly brown linoleum floors – the bedroom was small – there was a crib with the side down and a bunk bed, top and bottom, for the three kids. My double bed was out in the living room covered with a beautiful bedspread all different shades of blues and torquoises, like the ocean we now lived so close to…there was a tiny child-sized wooden table with three small chairs for the kids and a cart table covered with a yellow plastic tablecloth in the small kitchen with the ancient stove and refrigerator – with plastic lawn chairs used as makeshift chairs.
I gratefully plopped down on the double bed in the living room still holding on to Jeremy. My mother held Melissa, who was still wide awake and looking around with her saucer-like gray blue eyes, still clutching the blue tote bag with her beloved doll dishes that she’d carried for 17 hours – all the way from Hamburg, West Germany to Newport, Oregon – it was a journey that seemed to take a lifetime and a day, but only took 17 hours and a couple of tantrums that didn’t occur until we hit O’Hare Airport in Chicago where we had a three hour layover. That’s where Melissa threw herself down on the floor in the middle of the airport with people passing by in all different directions – and she refused to walk one step further. Poor Melissa – she was only three after all, and two-year-old Jeremy needed to be in the stroller at all times, strapped in so that he couldn’t break loose because if he ran away, no one would ever catch him.
So, the journey was over and here we were in Newport, Oregon – life would be a struggle – and I had these three little kids. I breathed a great sigh of relief and lay down on the bed for a moment while my mom put Melissa down, who was still wide awake and Stevie bounced on the bed which woke Jeremy up and soon the three of them were running around in circles because in Germany, it was already the next morning and they had no idea that it was really 2:00 a.m.
Even my mother looked wide awake – We hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, perhaps it had been three.
“I’m going to make some tea for us,” Mom announced, heading for the old stove which already had a teapot on it – we always had teapots growing up, I thought – this looked exactly like the one that always sat on our stove when I grew up in San Francisco – a silver teapot with a black handle and it blew like a whistle when the water boiled. Tea was the answer to all of our ailments or issues – tea and toast. if we weren’t feeling well, that’s what we drank – hot tea with lots of sugar in it. If we were down and out, there was always a cup of tea.
Sitting on the bed and watching my mom fill the tea kettle, I had to smile as I remembered. Mom had even gone so far as to get one of those special filter things for tea leaves – and she had bought a brown bag filled with orange spice tea leaves that smelled heavenly when she opened up the bag.
We both sat at the makeshift table in the kitchen while the kids jumped on the bed and “exerted their energy,” as my mother laughingly said – we sipped on hot, orange spice tea – super spicy just the way I always loved it.
The reality of the situation hadn’t sunk in yet – I was a single mom with three kids – I had no job and very little money, and I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do. But for now, at this moment, sipping on hot orange spice tea with my mother, I felt weirdly free.
I gratefully plopped down on the double bed in the living room still holding on to Jeremy. My mother held Melissa, who was still wide awake and looking around with her saucer-like gray blue eyes, still clutching the blue tote bag with her beloved doll dishes that she’d carried for 17 hours – all the way from Hamburg, West Germany to Newport, Oregon – it was a journey that seemed to take a lifetime and a day, but only took 17 hours and a couple of tantrums that didn’t occur until we hit O’Hare Airport in Chicago where we had a three hour layover. That’s where Melissa threw herself down on the floor in the middle of the airport with people passing by in all different directions – and she refused to walk one step further. Poor Melissa – she was only three after all, and two-year-old Jeremy needed to be in the stroller at all times, strapped in so that he couldn’t break loose because if he ran away, no one would ever catch him.
So, the journey was over and here we were in Newport, Oregon – life would be a struggle – and I had these three little kids. I breathed a great sigh of relief and lay down on the bed for a moment while my mom put Melissa down, who was still wide awake and Stevie bounced on the bed which woke Jeremy up and soon the three of them were running around in circles because in Germany, it was already the next morning and they had no idea that it was really 2:00 a.m.
Even my mother looked wide awake – We hadn’t seen her in a couple of years, perhaps it had been three.
“I’m going to make some tea for us,” Mom announced, heading for the old stove which already had a teapot on it – we always had teapots growing up, I thought – this looked exactly like the one that always sat on our stove when I grew up in San Francisco – a silver teapot with a black handle and it blew like a whistle when the water boiled. Tea was the answer to all of our ailments or issues – tea and toast. if we weren’t feeling well, that’s what we drank – hot tea with lots of sugar in it. If we were down and out, there was always a cup of tea.
Sitting on the bed and watching my mom fill the tea kettle, I had to smile as I remembered. Mom had even gone so far as to get one of those special filter things for tea leaves – and she had bought a brown bag filled with orange spice tea leaves that smelled heavenly when she opened up the bag.
We both sat at the makeshift table in the kitchen while the kids jumped on the bed and “exerted their energy,” as my mother laughingly said – we sipped on hot, orange spice tea – super spicy just the way I always loved it.
The reality of the situation hadn’t sunk in yet – I was a single mom with three kids – I had no job and very little money, and I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do. But for now, at this moment, sipping on hot orange spice tea with my mother, I felt weirdly free.
Nemesis - Anna Teeples
His palms were sweating so much that the ink on the race form was starting to fade away. It had been a very long day with dust collecting around the collar of his neck sticking to the salty layer of stress that cover him. Jared had come to the track early today. Bonnie thought he was over helping Jim finish the cabinets for a remodel project that came through from a friend. He told Jim that he needed to spend the day driving over to Frankfort to see about a possible job. He was alone in his masterminded plan to dig himself out of this hole. When was the last time he slept through a night? He just needed some breathing room.
He liked the jockey on his horse. Kinship Ride. A tall chestnut thoroughbred that he knew was going to make a difference. Jared had his ups and downs all day and it came down to the final race of the day. It was only worth his while if he went big. Let it all ride on this one. This was his ticket back to sanity. He felt good. The trainer was well known for taking difficult and skittish horses and turning them into moneymakers. He just knew that victory beer would taste sweet later tonight.
The pack was tight as they rounded the corned for the final stretch. Stretching his neck he could see Kinship break towards the rail and the jockey press for that extra burst for the final 100 yards. The hooves were growing louder as they approached him. His mouth started to water as his hands systematically crunched the race form. It was still a tight race, the camera snapped. A photo finish is not how he wanted the race to end. The minutes ticked away like years. And the winner is…. Nemesis!
He liked the jockey on his horse. Kinship Ride. A tall chestnut thoroughbred that he knew was going to make a difference. Jared had his ups and downs all day and it came down to the final race of the day. It was only worth his while if he went big. Let it all ride on this one. This was his ticket back to sanity. He felt good. The trainer was well known for taking difficult and skittish horses and turning them into moneymakers. He just knew that victory beer would taste sweet later tonight.
The pack was tight as they rounded the corned for the final stretch. Stretching his neck he could see Kinship break towards the rail and the jockey press for that extra burst for the final 100 yards. The hooves were growing louder as they approached him. His mouth started to water as his hands systematically crunched the race form. It was still a tight race, the camera snapped. A photo finish is not how he wanted the race to end. The minutes ticked away like years. And the winner is…. Nemesis!
Sorrow - Barbara Jordan
Her sorrow was from loss. She couldn't remember a time when she didn't feel as if someone or something was leaving but she held on to pictures --in her mind mostly-- of happier times, so that she could feel some tether holding her. She needed an anchor, something to remind her that she should continue. Of falling in love, of stepping off the plane in Madrid as a newlywed, or holding her newborn for the first time. There was so many, really enough for a lifetime, but there were days when her sorrow felt like a tunnel, so deep that there was no way out.
Her shrink asked her when she felt her life reverse--when was the time when the loss began to beat out the joy. This was always a hard one for her to answer, so he kept asking, persistently, and she never got over the feeling that she was trying to ace some kind of test question. That if she answered wrong, a buzzer would sound and she'd have to go back to the beginning and start all over again. This was not appealing, because she was too tired; it all just seemed like way too much work. So she never answered the question.
Her shrink asked her when she felt her life reverse--when was the time when the loss began to beat out the joy. This was always a hard one for her to answer, so he kept asking, persistently, and she never got over the feeling that she was trying to ace some kind of test question. That if she answered wrong, a buzzer would sound and she'd have to go back to the beginning and start all over again. This was not appealing, because she was too tired; it all just seemed like way too much work. So she never answered the question.
Traveling Back - Kate Bueler
People like me to travel back with them. Travel back in the moment they just had. They just tried to have. Or process. It wasn’t long ago I walked upon 18th street in between the birite- which I heart- the pizza place everyone else does- and tartine which I have been known to have love affairs with. When a man starting saying I can’t believe this- I can’t believe this- Oh my God. I am not green in the city world no but not jaded enough to look back. Look back to see what might be this guys worry. Because I roll with no device in my ear. No I pod to google map me away no. I hear more than I should. Like then. Travel back with me he throws my way. And I stop. I stop and look at him. Then he is talking to me. He isn’t the typical crazy you usually encounter, he has a laptop carrier and is semi dressed up but reeks of alcohol. I just dumped him. I can’t believe. I can’t believe. I wanted to but still. I am standing traveling back into his world. For a moment. I wanted to but he doesn’t get it. Heartache. Heartache. I get it. I hate it. I understand it. Goodbyes fucking suck.
So when he looks at me and says- let’s hug it out, without a moments options of what I should do or should I be doing I am hugging this man on the corner of 18th and guerrero pastry smells surround us, cars whizzing by and we hold each other for a moment. We hugged it out. And then said goodbye. My friends said to me only to you shit like that happens. True. Only to me. Because I travel, I travel in way that my eyes and ears are open. And I can’t help but listen even when I am not supposed to. This has happened for as long as I can remember. For others, it might feel strange but it has been me. And my walk on this pavement for so long.
So last night as I tried to park fit the corolla in a spot maybe too small. I asked the dude who came out of the house. If it was okay. The giants had just won. He wore all black. And said no worries lady. Ya know. Boom. Too close. I was on the phone. He spoke into it. And my best friend said only bueler, only people like that talk to you. We are laughing and now he is back. Back he is walking. Listen lady better yet how bout you come with me to the liquor store. Me now realizing he is drunk. He grabs my elbow and pinches it. No thanks. Lame he says as he proceeds to jaywalk across guerrero in all black the cab screaming at him to move. I got to get out of here. I say to her. To my companion on the phone. That dude is drunk and actually touched me and pinched me. Fucking weirdo. He didn’t turn around because I wowed him, instead, it was because his original location of liquor store was closed.
Good thing he didn’t come back into the phone I say. I wouldn’t have to kick his drunk ass. How with a computer bag, yoga mat, and purse? No I put those down. And then my lemon dropped onto the street. Only to me. Because I travel and talk and make friends and find weirdos to entertain me. I travel back to where they live just for a moment. And then I proceed on my way. Picking up that lemon. Dirtied by the street.
So when he looks at me and says- let’s hug it out, without a moments options of what I should do or should I be doing I am hugging this man on the corner of 18th and guerrero pastry smells surround us, cars whizzing by and we hold each other for a moment. We hugged it out. And then said goodbye. My friends said to me only to you shit like that happens. True. Only to me. Because I travel, I travel in way that my eyes and ears are open. And I can’t help but listen even when I am not supposed to. This has happened for as long as I can remember. For others, it might feel strange but it has been me. And my walk on this pavement for so long.
So last night as I tried to park fit the corolla in a spot maybe too small. I asked the dude who came out of the house. If it was okay. The giants had just won. He wore all black. And said no worries lady. Ya know. Boom. Too close. I was on the phone. He spoke into it. And my best friend said only bueler, only people like that talk to you. We are laughing and now he is back. Back he is walking. Listen lady better yet how bout you come with me to the liquor store. Me now realizing he is drunk. He grabs my elbow and pinches it. No thanks. Lame he says as he proceeds to jaywalk across guerrero in all black the cab screaming at him to move. I got to get out of here. I say to her. To my companion on the phone. That dude is drunk and actually touched me and pinched me. Fucking weirdo. He didn’t turn around because I wowed him, instead, it was because his original location of liquor store was closed.
Good thing he didn’t come back into the phone I say. I wouldn’t have to kick his drunk ass. How with a computer bag, yoga mat, and purse? No I put those down. And then my lemon dropped onto the street. Only to me. Because I travel and talk and make friends and find weirdos to entertain me. I travel back to where they live just for a moment. And then I proceed on my way. Picking up that lemon. Dirtied by the street.
Traveling Back - Maria Robinson
You want to go back to Paris. Or more precisely, you want to relive the week you spent with Angelo, an aging academic in a rented loft overlooking the Pont Neuf. He was a worse for wear 65 and you were 40 for those six delicious days on the Ile de la Cite.
The huge 19th century door at 75 Quai des Orfevres had been preserved by the disputing heirs who owned the property. The animus was so deep that the building had been literally cut in half with thin staircases on each side of a thin dividing wall. But the cut through floor and a half flat was luminous, in the day as the unobstructed sun piled in over the the bridge and at night at the "bateaux mouches", the floating tourist boats, blasted their cinematic lights.
You walked all the way with A. to the Marche Bio in the Raspail, actually reliving your San Francisco life at the Ferry Plaza Market. That night you cooked fava beans, made a mesclun salad and grilled the last briny Brittany shrimp that you literally had to snatch off the fishmonger's ice.
You made love on the sofa overlooking the Seine and later walked to St. Eustace on the Right Bank to watch the rollerblading kids and have a nightcap of champagne.
Truth is, you're afraid to go back. You have to create a new story and have a new love even though you'll walk across the "9th bridge" and look up at a certain window on a certain floor.
The huge 19th century door at 75 Quai des Orfevres had been preserved by the disputing heirs who owned the property. The animus was so deep that the building had been literally cut in half with thin staircases on each side of a thin dividing wall. But the cut through floor and a half flat was luminous, in the day as the unobstructed sun piled in over the the bridge and at night at the "bateaux mouches", the floating tourist boats, blasted their cinematic lights.
You walked all the way with A. to the Marche Bio in the Raspail, actually reliving your San Francisco life at the Ferry Plaza Market. That night you cooked fava beans, made a mesclun salad and grilled the last briny Brittany shrimp that you literally had to snatch off the fishmonger's ice.
You made love on the sofa overlooking the Seine and later walked to St. Eustace on the Right Bank to watch the rollerblading kids and have a nightcap of champagne.
Truth is, you're afraid to go back. You have to create a new story and have a new love even though you'll walk across the "9th bridge" and look up at a certain window on a certain floor.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Feeding Death - Earl James
Arkhara Camp, Siberia
January, 1953
Andrei picked a another morsel of meat from the wooden bown and lifted the spoon towards Nadezhda’s mouth. Meat was a loose term at the camp, but the subjects of the tests got the best that was offered. The particular scrap on the spoon was at least not green. It looked to Andrei as if the Evenki hunters must have brought in a moose. The meat looked as if it had been fresh and was not from the salted slabs that came from the west. The Commissars ordered that the subjects be given the most nutritious food available. They didn’t want their experiment confounded by concerns that the subjects were not being fed property. Andrei reflected on the insanity of giving the most nutritious food to prisoners where being poisoned and decided that it ranked low in the hierarchy of mad acts that the Russian government was undertaking. A society led by a paranoid schizophrenic couldn’t be expected to make too many rational decisions.
He bumped the spoon against Nadezhda’s lips, trying to get her to open and take a bite. A person whose digestive tract was being eaten away by the remnants of a radioactive element does not feel like eating. Soon Andrei knew she would have to be fed intraveinously. As he held the spoon against her lips he imagined that he was sitting next to Stalins bed and feeding him a morsel of meat laced with the Polonium. He could imagine the satisfaction he would feel seeing the man who had caused so much misery ingesting a meal that would eat him to death from the inside. A meal that would liquefy his bowels until he shit them out uncontrollably onto bed. He could imagine making the lie in his own radioactive filth. Listening to the Great One whimper in the pain and misery of it as so many had done in the beds of this lab. He would laugh at the man being reduced to a yellowed cadaver. He couldn’t decide if he would feed him a low dose so he could watch him suffer longer or if he would give him the largest dose possible so that he could watch him wither away in a matter of days.
The image of the death of Stalin made him think of the meaning of Nadezhda’s name. Hope. Despite what he had been through, despite his circumstances, something in Andrei always found a way to hope. To visualize a way that the misery of his life and those around him could be transformed. He knew this was his weakness. He knew this was his downfall. It kept him from confronting those things in his life that were causing his misery. Hope gave him a path to keep his sanity. In his heart he knew that change to something better was a cruel illusion. He knew that this misery that would only be ended when his life was ended. Just as he knew that Nadezhda’s misery would only be ended when her last breath was drawn.
January, 1953
Andrei picked a another morsel of meat from the wooden bown and lifted the spoon towards Nadezhda’s mouth. Meat was a loose term at the camp, but the subjects of the tests got the best that was offered. The particular scrap on the spoon was at least not green. It looked to Andrei as if the Evenki hunters must have brought in a moose. The meat looked as if it had been fresh and was not from the salted slabs that came from the west. The Commissars ordered that the subjects be given the most nutritious food available. They didn’t want their experiment confounded by concerns that the subjects were not being fed property. Andrei reflected on the insanity of giving the most nutritious food to prisoners where being poisoned and decided that it ranked low in the hierarchy of mad acts that the Russian government was undertaking. A society led by a paranoid schizophrenic couldn’t be expected to make too many rational decisions.
He bumped the spoon against Nadezhda’s lips, trying to get her to open and take a bite. A person whose digestive tract was being eaten away by the remnants of a radioactive element does not feel like eating. Soon Andrei knew she would have to be fed intraveinously. As he held the spoon against her lips he imagined that he was sitting next to Stalins bed and feeding him a morsel of meat laced with the Polonium. He could imagine the satisfaction he would feel seeing the man who had caused so much misery ingesting a meal that would eat him to death from the inside. A meal that would liquefy his bowels until he shit them out uncontrollably onto bed. He could imagine making the lie in his own radioactive filth. Listening to the Great One whimper in the pain and misery of it as so many had done in the beds of this lab. He would laugh at the man being reduced to a yellowed cadaver. He couldn’t decide if he would feed him a low dose so he could watch him suffer longer or if he would give him the largest dose possible so that he could watch him wither away in a matter of days.
The image of the death of Stalin made him think of the meaning of Nadezhda’s name. Hope. Despite what he had been through, despite his circumstances, something in Andrei always found a way to hope. To visualize a way that the misery of his life and those around him could be transformed. He knew this was his weakness. He knew this was his downfall. It kept him from confronting those things in his life that were causing his misery. Hope gave him a path to keep his sanity. In his heart he knew that change to something better was a cruel illusion. He knew that this misery that would only be ended when his life was ended. Just as he knew that Nadezhda’s misery would only be ended when her last breath was drawn.
Feeding - Maria Robinson
You take in the Farmer's Market at the Ferry Building with your eyes. The lanes of stalls are filled with tiny greens, heirloom tomatoes,
cherry and apricot jam, miniature baked sweets, garlickly dips and humble loaves of levain bread. You wonder how you'll choose what to base your dinner on.
You decide to start with local lamb chops which leads you to the White Swan herb stand for pearly garlic and a smoky rosemary that only they grow. You grab a handful of the Russian River fingerling potatoes and then head for Dirty Girl's vegetable stand. You select Fennel which you'll slice micro-thin to frame the plate and claim some baby broccoli to add to the color on the plate.
For dessert, you decide to break out that old recipe that you got in Paris for tarts and pluck up from Sonoma Fuji apples. Already you se them scattered over a crunchy crust dusted with nuts.
Your string bags filled, you head home, walking slowly up Folsom street wondering who you'll cook for.
cherry and apricot jam, miniature baked sweets, garlickly dips and humble loaves of levain bread. You wonder how you'll choose what to base your dinner on.
You decide to start with local lamb chops which leads you to the White Swan herb stand for pearly garlic and a smoky rosemary that only they grow. You grab a handful of the Russian River fingerling potatoes and then head for Dirty Girl's vegetable stand. You select Fennel which you'll slice micro-thin to frame the plate and claim some baby broccoli to add to the color on the plate.
For dessert, you decide to break out that old recipe that you got in Paris for tarts and pluck up from Sonoma Fuji apples. Already you se them scattered over a crunchy crust dusted with nuts.
Your string bags filled, you head home, walking slowly up Folsom street wondering who you'll cook for.
Being Fed - Melody Cryns
“As usual, you’re full of shit!”
She was sick and tired of always hearing how great he was, what a great dad he was to his kids, how he always put everyone else before him, blah blah, and blah blah blah some more…
She thought she’d heard it all – a not bad looking 50-something chick she was.
She chuckled when she thought of that guy Harold who said he’d graduated from law school – but that he also had been a dog groomer for famous actors and actresses, and of course he new all the rock n’ roll stars – as the whiskey flowed, the BS became more obvious, louder and thicker – Harold would sashay out to the car to take swigs of whiskey from a bottle in the trunk because the shots in the bar became too expensive. When Melody first encountered Harold in the bar, she thought he was charming – he swept her off her feet with his dancing, swinging her around the dance floor with ease…making it so easy even though Melody only knew how to get out on the dance floor and boogie.
At first, Harold was interesting, then Melody began to realize that he was feeding her a line of BS.
Then there was Scotty, ohhhh Hottie Scotty, the drummer, so cute and charming…he really seemed to like Melody and he sat on a couch next to her in the back of JJ’s Blues Clubs while Harold was doing something out front – and he’d looked right into Melody’s eyes with those big brown eyes, touched her hand softly and said, “Oh, if I could, I’d be all over you right now…”
Melody melted over Hottie Scotty – and one Saturday night, he came over when her daughter was gone for the weekend and they went for it in a big way. But it was only a physical encounter, nothing more and nothing less…Scotty, the tall, dark and handsome cuitie would forever be the “one night stand” guy, or make that “several nights” if he could get away with it.
Then there was Tim, who started coming on to her almost right away – he didn’t even give Melody a chance to decide if that’s what she wanted. His line was, “Why have you been single for so long? I don’t get it.” And onward it went with wanting to buy her drinks and then get her up in his hotel room. But she didn’t quite fall for that one.
But the biggie, the one who stole Melody’s heart, was the tall, 6 foot 5 inches Irish guy with the inviting blue eyes, graying hair and incredible smile – Mike H. It didn’t matter that he’d had a stroke a year and a half ago prior…
Melody had a soft spot for Mike H. and could never say no to him…never. Even though in her heart she knew she should…
Mike H. gave Melody a ukulele and he also gave Melody hope – that it is possible t have feelings for someone, but then even Mike H. is full of shit sometimes…like when he told Melody that he and his wife had been separated for many years, that they’d lived in different houses until he had the stroke and almost died – and now he had to live with her because she’d stepped up to the plate when he needed her most. Mike doesn’t say things twice, but he did say that twice, “She stepped up to the plate.”
But on those occasions when Melody and Mike H. get together, it’s like magic – and they have ways of making each other feel good that are difficult to explain yet warm and pleasant.
Melody invited Mike H. to the big ukulele jam in downtown Mountain View on Monday night – to help lead the large group of people playing ukes and singing – after all, Mike had given me the uke and he had a beautiful, booming baritone singing voice and way more musical talent and background than anyone else I knew – but who knew she’d be sitting at a table with Mike H., and his wife and daughter who also decided to come to the uke jam on a Monday night?
She’d never met Mike’s family before – they always seemed so distant and far away. The sounds of ukulele chords playing and people singing filled the air of the coffee shop and spilled outside, while Melody sat there enveloped by the music…she new Mike sometimes was filled with B.S., and sometimes she wanted to yell it, but she wouldn’t…
She was sick and tired of always hearing how great he was, what a great dad he was to his kids, how he always put everyone else before him, blah blah, and blah blah blah some more…
She thought she’d heard it all – a not bad looking 50-something chick she was.
She chuckled when she thought of that guy Harold who said he’d graduated from law school – but that he also had been a dog groomer for famous actors and actresses, and of course he new all the rock n’ roll stars – as the whiskey flowed, the BS became more obvious, louder and thicker – Harold would sashay out to the car to take swigs of whiskey from a bottle in the trunk because the shots in the bar became too expensive. When Melody first encountered Harold in the bar, she thought he was charming – he swept her off her feet with his dancing, swinging her around the dance floor with ease…making it so easy even though Melody only knew how to get out on the dance floor and boogie.
At first, Harold was interesting, then Melody began to realize that he was feeding her a line of BS.
Then there was Scotty, ohhhh Hottie Scotty, the drummer, so cute and charming…he really seemed to like Melody and he sat on a couch next to her in the back of JJ’s Blues Clubs while Harold was doing something out front – and he’d looked right into Melody’s eyes with those big brown eyes, touched her hand softly and said, “Oh, if I could, I’d be all over you right now…”
Melody melted over Hottie Scotty – and one Saturday night, he came over when her daughter was gone for the weekend and they went for it in a big way. But it was only a physical encounter, nothing more and nothing less…Scotty, the tall, dark and handsome cuitie would forever be the “one night stand” guy, or make that “several nights” if he could get away with it.
Then there was Tim, who started coming on to her almost right away – he didn’t even give Melody a chance to decide if that’s what she wanted. His line was, “Why have you been single for so long? I don’t get it.” And onward it went with wanting to buy her drinks and then get her up in his hotel room. But she didn’t quite fall for that one.
But the biggie, the one who stole Melody’s heart, was the tall, 6 foot 5 inches Irish guy with the inviting blue eyes, graying hair and incredible smile – Mike H. It didn’t matter that he’d had a stroke a year and a half ago prior…
Melody had a soft spot for Mike H. and could never say no to him…never. Even though in her heart she knew she should…
Mike H. gave Melody a ukulele and he also gave Melody hope – that it is possible t have feelings for someone, but then even Mike H. is full of shit sometimes…like when he told Melody that he and his wife had been separated for many years, that they’d lived in different houses until he had the stroke and almost died – and now he had to live with her because she’d stepped up to the plate when he needed her most. Mike doesn’t say things twice, but he did say that twice, “She stepped up to the plate.”
But on those occasions when Melody and Mike H. get together, it’s like magic – and they have ways of making each other feel good that are difficult to explain yet warm and pleasant.
Melody invited Mike H. to the big ukulele jam in downtown Mountain View on Monday night – to help lead the large group of people playing ukes and singing – after all, Mike had given me the uke and he had a beautiful, booming baritone singing voice and way more musical talent and background than anyone else I knew – but who knew she’d be sitting at a table with Mike H., and his wife and daughter who also decided to come to the uke jam on a Monday night?
She’d never met Mike’s family before – they always seemed so distant and far away. The sounds of ukulele chords playing and people singing filled the air of the coffee shop and spilled outside, while Melody sat there enveloped by the music…she new Mike sometimes was filled with B.S., and sometimes she wanted to yell it, but she wouldn’t…
Glamorous - John Fetto
Everyone thought she was beautiful, not just Hawley. Guys would steal looks at her when they went out to eat. You’d see their hungry, side long look with mouths stuffed with food. And when that pissed off Hawley, when his fist started to tighten around his fork and he thought of pushing it through the fat fucks face, then Johanna would do something cut, she’d laugh, a light, musical laugh, like a kid. Only she wasn’t a kid. She was smart, smarter than Hawley and he had no idea what why she was interested in him. And she didn’t deserve having two fat men look at her like she was some whore.
“What’s wrong?” She was looking at the hand holding the fork. He let go and tried to set the fork by his plate but it was bent.
“I need a new fork.” He got up before she could ask him how it happened. He walked back right towards the men who were gawking. They got quiet. He talked to the waitress and she handed two more complete setups, a metal fork, knife and spoon wrapped in a cloth napkin. He stuffed one his back pocket and then slipped out the knife into one hand and the fork in another and walked back to the man. Johanna’s back was still to him, but she snuck one quick back and went back to her food. When he got next to the two, he leaned down and set his forearm on one man’s shoulder so close to his neck that the knife under the napkin in his hand held the sharp end was up against his throat. He jerked, but Hawley held him down, feeling what he was doing with his body while he watched the man on the other side of the table turn white with fear.
“Don’t move. You’ll only hurt yourself.” He was leaning down close, whispering in his ear like a a best friend. The man stopped moving.
“She’s pretty isn’t she?” said Hawley. “Glamorous, just like a movie star. I’ll bet that’s why you were staring, because you thought she was a movie star. That’s it, isn’t it?”
The man nodded his head. Hawley’s grip loosened, and he stood up. The man wouldn’t look at him, but he was listening. Johanna looked back, confused about what’s going on. Hawley smiled and patted the man on the back.
By the time Hawley got back to his seat, the men were paying the waitress and rushing out the back.
“What was that about?”
“Some guys,” he said. “They thought you were some actress.”
“What did you tell them.”
“I said you weren’t giving any autographs today.”
She laughed then. That pretty little laugh, like small bells making sounds as light as soap bubbles.
“What’s wrong?” She was looking at the hand holding the fork. He let go and tried to set the fork by his plate but it was bent.
“I need a new fork.” He got up before she could ask him how it happened. He walked back right towards the men who were gawking. They got quiet. He talked to the waitress and she handed two more complete setups, a metal fork, knife and spoon wrapped in a cloth napkin. He stuffed one his back pocket and then slipped out the knife into one hand and the fork in another and walked back to the man. Johanna’s back was still to him, but she snuck one quick back and went back to her food. When he got next to the two, he leaned down and set his forearm on one man’s shoulder so close to his neck that the knife under the napkin in his hand held the sharp end was up against his throat. He jerked, but Hawley held him down, feeling what he was doing with his body while he watched the man on the other side of the table turn white with fear.
“Don’t move. You’ll only hurt yourself.” He was leaning down close, whispering in his ear like a a best friend. The man stopped moving.
“She’s pretty isn’t she?” said Hawley. “Glamorous, just like a movie star. I’ll bet that’s why you were staring, because you thought she was a movie star. That’s it, isn’t it?”
The man nodded his head. Hawley’s grip loosened, and he stood up. The man wouldn’t look at him, but he was listening. Johanna looked back, confused about what’s going on. Hawley smiled and patted the man on the back.
By the time Hawley got back to his seat, the men were paying the waitress and rushing out the back.
“What was that about?”
“Some guys,” he said. “They thought you were some actress.”
“What did you tell them.”
“I said you weren’t giving any autographs today.”
She laughed then. That pretty little laugh, like small bells making sounds as light as soap bubbles.
Glamorous - Barbara Jordan
Penelope wasn't buying it -- there was no such thing as "happily ever after," or "till death do us part," but the New England autumnal light casting it's shadow on a canopy of yellow and orange leaves, was so seductive that she felt herself being drawn into the moment. Especially when she saw the bride coming around the corner of the farmhouse, making her way to the alter that sat in an open field. She looked glamorous in her simple white dress and blonde hair, holding her bouquet of black calla lilies, walking to the tune of Aerosmith's "Dream on."
Even though it was October in New Hampshire, they all wore sleeveless, including the bride, this being a miracle known to those that understood weather. The morning of the wedding, the photographer had captured a lone red fox running across the field in front of empty white chairs--the chairs that would seat witnesses to the wedding later that day.
During the ceremony a three -year -old boy wandered off and hacked away at a tree with his plastic sword. A baby cried. The restless cows, penned in the barn behind them, mooed in the back round. A dog wandered into the middle, and a lone dragonfly landed on the brides dress and remained there for the duration. She looked like a bride with purpose and she had walked alone, without escort to meet her groom, which convinced Penelope that there might be a chance.
Even though it was October in New Hampshire, they all wore sleeveless, including the bride, this being a miracle known to those that understood weather. The morning of the wedding, the photographer had captured a lone red fox running across the field in front of empty white chairs--the chairs that would seat witnesses to the wedding later that day.
During the ceremony a three -year -old boy wandered off and hacked away at a tree with his plastic sword. A baby cried. The restless cows, penned in the barn behind them, mooed in the back round. A dog wandered into the middle, and a lone dragonfly landed on the brides dress and remained there for the duration. She looked like a bride with purpose and she had walked alone, without escort to meet her groom, which convinced Penelope that there might be a chance.
Glamorous - Judy Albietz
Lily instantly found herself drawn to Sophia. And it wasn’t just because she was beautiful. Lily was sure Sophia had to be the most gorgeous Blue Monkey, even though she had only met three Blue Monkeys so far and other two were males. But it wasn’t about Sophia’s looks. It was something else. Something she saw from the very beginning when they were being introduced. At the sound of her son’s name, Sophia looked over to her son and her big blue eyes glowed with love.
It wasn’t about Sophia’s delicate features or the way her eyes were lined with fine dark blue lashes. Her skin on her face, arms and legs was iridescent—changing from turquoise to pale blue in the light. It wasn’t about how her high forehead was bordered by the bright white fur which surrounded her face down to her cheeks. The thick blue fur on her head fell in waves down to her shoulders.
Then, with a smile lighting up her blue face, Sophia silently reached over and took Lily’s hand in hers. Lily saw in Sophia’s eyes how she could absolutely trust this beautiful creature. As she felt the warmth from Sophia’s fingers spread to her hand, Lily closed her eyes. In her head pictures began to appear. They were scenes of young and old Blue Monkeys. Running, playing, working together. Some had their arms around each other, helping each other. She saw their unconditional love. For the first time in that scary day, Lily felt safe.
It wasn’t about Sophia’s delicate features or the way her eyes were lined with fine dark blue lashes. Her skin on her face, arms and legs was iridescent—changing from turquoise to pale blue in the light. It wasn’t about how her high forehead was bordered by the bright white fur which surrounded her face down to her cheeks. The thick blue fur on her head fell in waves down to her shoulders.
Then, with a smile lighting up her blue face, Sophia silently reached over and took Lily’s hand in hers. Lily saw in Sophia’s eyes how she could absolutely trust this beautiful creature. As she felt the warmth from Sophia’s fingers spread to her hand, Lily closed her eyes. In her head pictures began to appear. They were scenes of young and old Blue Monkeys. Running, playing, working together. Some had their arms around each other, helping each other. She saw their unconditional love. For the first time in that scary day, Lily felt safe.
A Matter of Taste - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
When I talk with you
your eyes flashing,
your mouth lying
or not
I need to learn
to consult my palate
before I swallow
your act
is it sweet
does it cloy
or burn
is it fresh
and real
or will I sit
afterwards
alone
in the dark
a fool for having
bitten?
your eyes flashing,
your mouth lying
or not
I need to learn
to consult my palate
before I swallow
your act
is it sweet
does it cloy
or burn
is it fresh
and real
or will I sit
afterwards
alone
in the dark
a fool for having
bitten?
A Matter of Taste - Jennifer Baljko
A dry white wine, blanc de blanc, chilled, refreshing.
A piece of hake, flash fried, cooked to perfection. Drizzled with olive oil and a squeeze of lemon.
Pasta salad bursting with color. Bright red tomatoes, yellow peppers, green capers, white beans, black olives.
Chips, too salty, but crunchy.
Chocolate and hazelnut ice cream, dripping down the side of a freshly made wafer cone.
Figs, peaches, plums, watermelon… their sweetness fading as the calendar flips.
Lazy weekend mornings at the beach, soaking up the sun. Early evenings reading on the lounge chairs on the terrace, watching the sun drop behind the hills.
Summer living in the Mediterranean. Gone until next year.
Dark clouds. Downpours. A drop in temperature.
Pulling fuzzy socks out of the drawers, shoving flips flops to the back of the closet.
Curling up on the couch, under a blanket.
Marking time, passing time.
Savoring the change.
A piece of hake, flash fried, cooked to perfection. Drizzled with olive oil and a squeeze of lemon.
Pasta salad bursting with color. Bright red tomatoes, yellow peppers, green capers, white beans, black olives.
Chips, too salty, but crunchy.
Chocolate and hazelnut ice cream, dripping down the side of a freshly made wafer cone.
Figs, peaches, plums, watermelon… their sweetness fading as the calendar flips.
Lazy weekend mornings at the beach, soaking up the sun. Early evenings reading on the lounge chairs on the terrace, watching the sun drop behind the hills.
Summer living in the Mediterranean. Gone until next year.
Dark clouds. Downpours. A drop in temperature.
Pulling fuzzy socks out of the drawers, shoving flips flops to the back of the closet.
Curling up on the couch, under a blanket.
Marking time, passing time.
Savoring the change.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Dreaming - Maria Robinson
You've counted exactly seven days of San Francisco hot weather in a year and wonder what makes you stay here.
You know how to tell all of your friends East of the Mississippi about the Mediterranean lifestyle as dictated by Alice Waters and even how to rub it in with hyberbolic descriptions of the meals you cook at home at a moments' notice: Winter: Lentil soup with Sonoma duck confit, spring: crunchy fava salad with asparagus and goat cheese, Summer: grilled Vietnamese style pork chops with ginger, garlic and cilantro and Fall: roast quails with local foraged morel mushrooms.
Despite the really freezing fog and your drafty apartment, you've taken up the cause of living the Northern California dream for your friends and family so that they will never have to know the truth. Your feverish accounts of your lifestyle on Facebook and Twitter give a verisimilitude to a life that does not really exist in San Francisco: Warm evenings, inventive parties, writers' grottos, farm to table cooking. An angle of all of that is true. You are dreaming along with your readers and some of it tastes really good.
You know how to tell all of your friends East of the Mississippi about the Mediterranean lifestyle as dictated by Alice Waters and even how to rub it in with hyberbolic descriptions of the meals you cook at home at a moments' notice: Winter: Lentil soup with Sonoma duck confit, spring: crunchy fava salad with asparagus and goat cheese, Summer: grilled Vietnamese style pork chops with ginger, garlic and cilantro and Fall: roast quails with local foraged morel mushrooms.
Despite the really freezing fog and your drafty apartment, you've taken up the cause of living the Northern California dream for your friends and family so that they will never have to know the truth. Your feverish accounts of your lifestyle on Facebook and Twitter give a verisimilitude to a life that does not really exist in San Francisco: Warm evenings, inventive parties, writers' grottos, farm to table cooking. An angle of all of that is true. You are dreaming along with your readers and some of it tastes really good.
Dreaming - Barbara Jordan
James brought Penelope some junk food from the 7-11 across from the I-5. She felt the beginnings of a crushing headache beginning to form behind her right eye. She knew she should be eating something organic and leafy--with the residual taste of soil. But she wanted salt and sugar and bulk, something immediately filling.
James plopped himself down in a corner chair in her hotel room. James--her big strapping surfer son who had moved to San Diego--what was it now? Seven years ago? She was often amazed that this man-child had actually come out of her body thirty years ago. James--with the body of a linebacker and soul of a teddy bear, who always looked like he was on the verge of giving her a hug.
"You look tired mom," he said.
"I am tired, baby," she mumbled between bites of Chex-mix and Doritos. Penelope couldn't decide if she should start in on the Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia before it melted. "You kids are killing me--a slow and painful death, " she joked.
He flashed his big white teeth as he turned on the TV to watch the game. Penelope had escaped to San Diego with her thirteen- year -old daughter, Annie, the day before--right after her "walk out" from work. Right after she had stepped out the back door of the clinic, and lit a cigarette-- after spending the morning, counseling patients on smoking cessation. Right after she had been unable to decide if she would ever come back.
She had craved some kind of peace of which she had no idea of the content. She had craved water and deep sleep --the endless kind-- in clouds of hotel pillows and clean white sheets that she didn't have to wash herself. She wanted fluffy white towels--where did hotels get those anyway? Her towels at home were always grey and limp after only the first or second wash.
Annie was dancing around the room to music on her I-Pod and the filtered sound coming from her ear buds sounded like African drumming. Penelope knew it was either Sean Kingston or Justin Bieber. Her daughter looked like a young gazelle, sinewy and lithe in her Juicy Couture sweat suit.
Penelope got up from the bed, sweeping crumbs off of the lily-white sheets, and put 'Ben and Jerry' in the fridge (no freezer) She knew 'they' would be melted by the time she got back. She left Annie and James, now curled up together like puppies watching TV, and took the elevator to the first floor. She passed by a room service tray on the floor. Chicken bones were scattered across the hallway next to it. She made eye contact with the maid and as if knowing her question she said, "Los animales, que loco!" Penelope wondered how a raccoon or possum could have found their way into the hallway like that.
She walked out into the damp air and light rain was falling. A path led to the Marina. San Diego was always a surprise. On the short plane ride that she had done numerous times, she always imagined palm trees, and ocean, lush tropical gardens and bright flowers. Her imagination left out the freeways and strip malls and packed housing developments, and she would experience a moment of disappointment at the bird's eye view of urban sprawl, coming in for landing. This morning as she walked, she noticed that she was literally sandwiched between I-5 and the water. Her only escape would be one of the boats up ahead.
She leaned on the railing overlooking the marina, and her hair was already soaked by constant drizzle………….And then she remembered her dream…………..
The night before she had dreamed of this exact spot. It was overcast and grey and the sound of barking seals provided a backdrop of sound effect. That is, until she heard bulldozers and loud voices of men, coming right up to the water's edge-- the sound of loud machinery, digging and clanking, the sound of rock and gravel hitting metal, the sound of scraping, some kind of scream. It occurred to Penelope that one of the bulldozers might just slide over the fifteen-foot drop to the water. She slowly walked up to a man standing off to the side, also watching.
"What exactly are they doing?" she asked the man. He turned slowly to meet her eyes. His were grey, the same color as the sky behind him.
"They are paving the ocean, " he replied.
When she woke up, for a minute she believed it to be true.
James plopped himself down in a corner chair in her hotel room. James--her big strapping surfer son who had moved to San Diego--what was it now? Seven years ago? She was often amazed that this man-child had actually come out of her body thirty years ago. James--with the body of a linebacker and soul of a teddy bear, who always looked like he was on the verge of giving her a hug.
"You look tired mom," he said.
"I am tired, baby," she mumbled between bites of Chex-mix and Doritos. Penelope couldn't decide if she should start in on the Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia before it melted. "You kids are killing me--a slow and painful death, " she joked.
He flashed his big white teeth as he turned on the TV to watch the game. Penelope had escaped to San Diego with her thirteen- year -old daughter, Annie, the day before--right after her "walk out" from work. Right after she had stepped out the back door of the clinic, and lit a cigarette-- after spending the morning, counseling patients on smoking cessation. Right after she had been unable to decide if she would ever come back.
She had craved some kind of peace of which she had no idea of the content. She had craved water and deep sleep --the endless kind-- in clouds of hotel pillows and clean white sheets that she didn't have to wash herself. She wanted fluffy white towels--where did hotels get those anyway? Her towels at home were always grey and limp after only the first or second wash.
Annie was dancing around the room to music on her I-Pod and the filtered sound coming from her ear buds sounded like African drumming. Penelope knew it was either Sean Kingston or Justin Bieber. Her daughter looked like a young gazelle, sinewy and lithe in her Juicy Couture sweat suit.
Penelope got up from the bed, sweeping crumbs off of the lily-white sheets, and put 'Ben and Jerry' in the fridge (no freezer) She knew 'they' would be melted by the time she got back. She left Annie and James, now curled up together like puppies watching TV, and took the elevator to the first floor. She passed by a room service tray on the floor. Chicken bones were scattered across the hallway next to it. She made eye contact with the maid and as if knowing her question she said, "Los animales, que loco!" Penelope wondered how a raccoon or possum could have found their way into the hallway like that.
She walked out into the damp air and light rain was falling. A path led to the Marina. San Diego was always a surprise. On the short plane ride that she had done numerous times, she always imagined palm trees, and ocean, lush tropical gardens and bright flowers. Her imagination left out the freeways and strip malls and packed housing developments, and she would experience a moment of disappointment at the bird's eye view of urban sprawl, coming in for landing. This morning as she walked, she noticed that she was literally sandwiched between I-5 and the water. Her only escape would be one of the boats up ahead.
She leaned on the railing overlooking the marina, and her hair was already soaked by constant drizzle………….And then she remembered her dream…………..
The night before she had dreamed of this exact spot. It was overcast and grey and the sound of barking seals provided a backdrop of sound effect. That is, until she heard bulldozers and loud voices of men, coming right up to the water's edge-- the sound of loud machinery, digging and clanking, the sound of rock and gravel hitting metal, the sound of scraping, some kind of scream. It occurred to Penelope that one of the bulldozers might just slide over the fifteen-foot drop to the water. She slowly walked up to a man standing off to the side, also watching.
"What exactly are they doing?" she asked the man. He turned slowly to meet her eyes. His were grey, the same color as the sky behind him.
"They are paving the ocean, " he replied.
When she woke up, for a minute she believed it to be true.
Dreaming - Judy Albietz
The dream couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes. It couldn’t have been longer than that—could it? But it felt like an all-night dream. The kind that has a beginning, middle and an end.
The dream started out in the coolness of the late summer morning. The air was heavy with the smell of fresh-cut grass and fertilizer. She was on an escalator with her two friends, Josh and Sam. No one was talking. The stairs were moving rapidly. At first it seemed like it was going down. She could see that it made a wide curve. But then it looked like it was going back up again.
Josh gently pushed her to the right and edged his body around to be in front of her. He half-turned toward her as he stepped his left foot down to the next step. Sam was behind her, a solid dog fur wall, taking up the entire space of the escalator’s width, probably four feet. She couldn’t see behind him, couldn’t see where they had gotten on this escalator.
She couldn’t see anything to her right. She felt the coolness of the five-foot-tall chrome wall that moved along with the escalator. On top of the wall was a hard black rubber handrail which she could barely reach. There was no rail to grab on the left side. It was wide open to the air around them. Josh was balancing like a surfer on the stairs. She looked over his shoulder to see what was beyond and below them. They were very high up off the ground. People were walking and cycling on a path which wound in and out of the park-like setting. How did they get on this escalator? How were they going to get off without killing themselves?
She wished she had a way to write down this dream. She would only take ten minutes so then she could contain it, keep it within the confines of the ten minutes—so it couldn’t be real.
The dream started out in the coolness of the late summer morning. The air was heavy with the smell of fresh-cut grass and fertilizer. She was on an escalator with her two friends, Josh and Sam. No one was talking. The stairs were moving rapidly. At first it seemed like it was going down. She could see that it made a wide curve. But then it looked like it was going back up again.
Josh gently pushed her to the right and edged his body around to be in front of her. He half-turned toward her as he stepped his left foot down to the next step. Sam was behind her, a solid dog fur wall, taking up the entire space of the escalator’s width, probably four feet. She couldn’t see behind him, couldn’t see where they had gotten on this escalator.
She couldn’t see anything to her right. She felt the coolness of the five-foot-tall chrome wall that moved along with the escalator. On top of the wall was a hard black rubber handrail which she could barely reach. There was no rail to grab on the left side. It was wide open to the air around them. Josh was balancing like a surfer on the stairs. She looked over his shoulder to see what was beyond and below them. They were very high up off the ground. People were walking and cycling on a path which wound in and out of the park-like setting. How did they get on this escalator? How were they going to get off without killing themselves?
She wished she had a way to write down this dream. She would only take ten minutes so then she could contain it, keep it within the confines of the ten minutes—so it couldn’t be real.
Dreaming - Jennifer Baljko
“Jenn.” I heard a familiar voice calling from behind me.
“Mom? Hi,” I said, turning around. The room was black, bare, except for an old dark wood dresser in the corner, illuminated from some unknown light source. Four drawers, old wrought iron style handles.
“Jenn, get the statue of Saint George out of the drawer,” my mother’s loving voice told me. My mother died three months earlier, but still had things to tell me. She told me what I needed to know in my dreams. Only her voice came through, never with a physical form.
I walked over to the dresser, opened the third drawer, and pulled out a figurine of Saint George, the patron saint of England and Catalonia. He was on horseback, wielding a sword, about to slay a dragon.
“You have to give the statue to P.’s father. He has demons to kill. I’m going to help him. And, so is Saint George,” my mother told me, in the voice I remember her using when I was a kid. She was referring to my former husband’s father, who was close to death in the hospital across the planet.
“Mom, how am I supposed to give him this statue? I’m in Barcelona. He’s in New Jersey,” I asked, probably with some speculation. These strange instructive blurs played on my imagination, and always seemed to lack a logical link for executing the plan.
“You’ll find a way. You’re creative,” she chuckled.
“All right. Thanks, Mom.” I have no idea what I came up with. I think I put the statue on the dresser – I saw it there before the room went totally dark – and I think I asked Saint George to ride his horse to New Jersey. I woke up confused, feeling weird, feeling like I had just been part of a strange death ritual, participating on the fringe somewhere and not certain what was happening where.
Later that afternoon, I found out P’s father had passed away earlier in the day. I got a chill when I read the email. It would have been around the same time my mother had stirred my pre-dawn slumber, and roused my intuitive need to somehow help.
“Mom? Hi,” I said, turning around. The room was black, bare, except for an old dark wood dresser in the corner, illuminated from some unknown light source. Four drawers, old wrought iron style handles.
“Jenn, get the statue of Saint George out of the drawer,” my mother’s loving voice told me. My mother died three months earlier, but still had things to tell me. She told me what I needed to know in my dreams. Only her voice came through, never with a physical form.
I walked over to the dresser, opened the third drawer, and pulled out a figurine of Saint George, the patron saint of England and Catalonia. He was on horseback, wielding a sword, about to slay a dragon.
“You have to give the statue to P.’s father. He has demons to kill. I’m going to help him. And, so is Saint George,” my mother told me, in the voice I remember her using when I was a kid. She was referring to my former husband’s father, who was close to death in the hospital across the planet.
“Mom, how am I supposed to give him this statue? I’m in Barcelona. He’s in New Jersey,” I asked, probably with some speculation. These strange instructive blurs played on my imagination, and always seemed to lack a logical link for executing the plan.
“You’ll find a way. You’re creative,” she chuckled.
“All right. Thanks, Mom.” I have no idea what I came up with. I think I put the statue on the dresser – I saw it there before the room went totally dark – and I think I asked Saint George to ride his horse to New Jersey. I woke up confused, feeling weird, feeling like I had just been part of a strange death ritual, participating on the fringe somewhere and not certain what was happening where.
Later that afternoon, I found out P’s father had passed away earlier in the day. I got a chill when I read the email. It would have been around the same time my mother had stirred my pre-dawn slumber, and roused my intuitive need to somehow help.
Taking it to the Limit - Melody Cryns
It seemed like just yesterday when my tall, good-looking guy friend, Mike H., proclaimed, “I’m going to give you a ukulele!” in that deep voice of his that always makes me melt – whether I hear him on the phone or in person.
I’ve known Mike since December 7th when I stumbled upon these four guys singing Irish folk songs at the coffee shop – Mike sang a beautiful, loud baritone so loudly that he didn’t need a microphone. I didn’t realize until he stood up that he’d suffered a stroke a few months prior and needed a cane. But he still exuded strength and still took my heart away when he looked right at me and said, “You seem like a fun person!”
That was it – we hung out that night and have been sort of seeing each other off and on – whenever he’s got time. I found out from mutual friends that Mike H. is probably one of the most talented musicians in the San Francisco Bay Area – he’s an accomplished bass player – playing in folk bands, rock n’ roll bands and even with symphonies – he commanded stringed instruments – as he said – guitar, bass, ukulele, mandolin, banjo – you name it.
Now as fate would have it, Mike can no longer play his instruments, but he still sings and he plays a little one-handed – I can feel the pain he feels, but cannot imagine what it would be like.
So I was surprised when Mike suddenly said, “I’m going to give you a ukulele.” It was such an honor.
Mike gave me the ukulele on a weeknight when he showed up at my house in his old van – apparently he’d lent his good car, a Toyota Prius, to his daughter to drive to southern California. We went out to eat and drove around in the van and parked on a dark side street to hang out for a little while.
“I brought the uke!” he said. He grabbed a small black plastic gig back shaped like a guitar, only smaller – it was so cute that it almost made me laugh – a ukulele, imagine that! We’d already talked about the ukulele via email. I had told Mike that since it was a baritone uke, larger than the typical tenor or soprano, then it’d be easy for me to play because they’re tuned like the top four strings of a guitar – and I already knew the guitar chords.
“But you must learn ukulele chords or you’ll sound just like a guitar when you play – I’m putting special Italian strings on your uke and you will learn ukulele chords! But if you really want me to put the regular ones on…”
“Oh no, it’s okay,” I’d said – full of doubt. How would I learn ukulele chords when all I’ve known for so many years were guitar chords?
The ukulele was way more beautiful than anything I’d imagined – dark wood, smaller than a guitar definitely, but not too tiny – Mike gave me the envelope that held the special Italian strings with it, a gig bag and even a strap. This was a really nice instrument – not just a cheap ukulele one would buy at a gift store in Maui. It really meant a lot that Mike had given it to me – being the musical guy that he is. I knew that he bought and sold expensive instruments and had quite a collection himself.
I thanked Mike and held the ukulele and played a little bit, not having any idea what I was playing. Mike managed to show me how to strum with his right hand – he showed me how you use one finger to strum the ukulele – very different than the way people strummed guitars.
I remembered how I thanked him – with a long, delicious, warm passionate kiss that seemed to last forever – before finally reluctantly getting out of the van and heading back upstairs to my funky apartment in Mountain View.
I was still trying to get my master’s degree, but that didn’t stop me from downloading ukulele chord diagrams from a cool website called Ukulele Boogaloo. I was determined to figure out the ukulele chords even though at first I’d get them confused with the guitar chords – before long, I could strum a couple of songs. I was excited about that.
That’s how it started – but how would I know that within the next couple of months, I’d get my master’s degree, and then receive 30-day notice to move out of our funky apartment – that we’d move to San Jose and then my car would get sideswiped while parked in the street – and “totaled,” as the insurance company called it?
But in the middle of it all, I kept strumming the ukulele – and it made me happy. I brought the uke with me everywhere and then one day happened to see a sign at my favorite coffee shop in Mountain View, right before we moved to San Jose – a day when I felt great sadness over leaving the town I’d grown to love and think of as home for so many years – that said, “Ukulele Jam on the second Monday of the Month!”
So I made my way to the jam, and next thing I knew, I was completely immersed in the ukulele playing world – strumming my way to the ukulele jams o Saturday morning at the beach in Santa Cruz and even to the burning uke campout where I spent four days playing the uke and singing…with loads of people – taking it to the limit.
Now, the guy who runs the Monday night jam in Mountain View has a family emergency, so we all must pitch in and help in any way we can – we’ve all offered to do it – but I had no idea that I’d be asked to teach the basic ukulele lesson – that somehow I was “volunteered.” Okay, so I’d jumped on the ukulele bandwagon, but who knew I’d actually teach a basic lesson on playing the uke when Ive just been playing a few months.
I’ve known Mike since December 7th when I stumbled upon these four guys singing Irish folk songs at the coffee shop – Mike sang a beautiful, loud baritone so loudly that he didn’t need a microphone. I didn’t realize until he stood up that he’d suffered a stroke a few months prior and needed a cane. But he still exuded strength and still took my heart away when he looked right at me and said, “You seem like a fun person!”
That was it – we hung out that night and have been sort of seeing each other off and on – whenever he’s got time. I found out from mutual friends that Mike H. is probably one of the most talented musicians in the San Francisco Bay Area – he’s an accomplished bass player – playing in folk bands, rock n’ roll bands and even with symphonies – he commanded stringed instruments – as he said – guitar, bass, ukulele, mandolin, banjo – you name it.
Now as fate would have it, Mike can no longer play his instruments, but he still sings and he plays a little one-handed – I can feel the pain he feels, but cannot imagine what it would be like.
So I was surprised when Mike suddenly said, “I’m going to give you a ukulele.” It was such an honor.
Mike gave me the ukulele on a weeknight when he showed up at my house in his old van – apparently he’d lent his good car, a Toyota Prius, to his daughter to drive to southern California. We went out to eat and drove around in the van and parked on a dark side street to hang out for a little while.
“I brought the uke!” he said. He grabbed a small black plastic gig back shaped like a guitar, only smaller – it was so cute that it almost made me laugh – a ukulele, imagine that! We’d already talked about the ukulele via email. I had told Mike that since it was a baritone uke, larger than the typical tenor or soprano, then it’d be easy for me to play because they’re tuned like the top four strings of a guitar – and I already knew the guitar chords.
“But you must learn ukulele chords or you’ll sound just like a guitar when you play – I’m putting special Italian strings on your uke and you will learn ukulele chords! But if you really want me to put the regular ones on…”
“Oh no, it’s okay,” I’d said – full of doubt. How would I learn ukulele chords when all I’ve known for so many years were guitar chords?
The ukulele was way more beautiful than anything I’d imagined – dark wood, smaller than a guitar definitely, but not too tiny – Mike gave me the envelope that held the special Italian strings with it, a gig bag and even a strap. This was a really nice instrument – not just a cheap ukulele one would buy at a gift store in Maui. It really meant a lot that Mike had given it to me – being the musical guy that he is. I knew that he bought and sold expensive instruments and had quite a collection himself.
I thanked Mike and held the ukulele and played a little bit, not having any idea what I was playing. Mike managed to show me how to strum with his right hand – he showed me how you use one finger to strum the ukulele – very different than the way people strummed guitars.
I remembered how I thanked him – with a long, delicious, warm passionate kiss that seemed to last forever – before finally reluctantly getting out of the van and heading back upstairs to my funky apartment in Mountain View.
I was still trying to get my master’s degree, but that didn’t stop me from downloading ukulele chord diagrams from a cool website called Ukulele Boogaloo. I was determined to figure out the ukulele chords even though at first I’d get them confused with the guitar chords – before long, I could strum a couple of songs. I was excited about that.
That’s how it started – but how would I know that within the next couple of months, I’d get my master’s degree, and then receive 30-day notice to move out of our funky apartment – that we’d move to San Jose and then my car would get sideswiped while parked in the street – and “totaled,” as the insurance company called it?
But in the middle of it all, I kept strumming the ukulele – and it made me happy. I brought the uke with me everywhere and then one day happened to see a sign at my favorite coffee shop in Mountain View, right before we moved to San Jose – a day when I felt great sadness over leaving the town I’d grown to love and think of as home for so many years – that said, “Ukulele Jam on the second Monday of the Month!”
So I made my way to the jam, and next thing I knew, I was completely immersed in the ukulele playing world – strumming my way to the ukulele jams o Saturday morning at the beach in Santa Cruz and even to the burning uke campout where I spent four days playing the uke and singing…with loads of people – taking it to the limit.
Now, the guy who runs the Monday night jam in Mountain View has a family emergency, so we all must pitch in and help in any way we can – we’ve all offered to do it – but I had no idea that I’d be asked to teach the basic ukulele lesson – that somehow I was “volunteered.” Okay, so I’d jumped on the ukulele bandwagon, but who knew I’d actually teach a basic lesson on playing the uke when Ive just been playing a few months.
Calculating - Kate Bueler
Calculating. It wasn’t a calculating choice. Like I need this to happen. I need to be born again. I am born again by accident. No rain has poured on my soil in months. This might seem misleading because I have dated, dated more men this summer than last. But somehow along the way I forgot how to seal the deal. There was a calculating choice of slowing things down. Getting to know someone before I show them my world of my vagina. But I didn’t intend for it to go down like this. But you see this isn’t the first time. The first time I have fallen upon such a drought. California baby I must be. Because it either a monsoon of sorts or just a drought. But somehow this born again by accident status is different than the other because I am still getting some moisture, some perception, some 90% chances but somehow it does come down in a full rain. The last time I had the opportunity to play we had a bout of passing out and asthma attack- not in the cards I’d say- no rain just a drizzle.
Sexuality and how we decide to play in the game of it is and always will be personal with a dash of political. See I am bad at the casual with sex. Almost my all my too quick encounters had landed me boyfriends, which have landed me heartbreak because I am in too deep with someone I probably shouldn’t be. So what is a woman in her 30’s who have needs beyond her own mind but biological left to do?
I don’t know but I do know when I hit this mark. It becomes to a point where I feel like a teenager boy. I start to undress bartender and baristas with my eyes. Men who sit next to me in classroom or cafes I start to smell them and they smell good. My sexual energy steps up a notch so much I know I can’t be born again for long. I try to embody the lady gaga that this is a choice I don’t want to lose my creativity through my vagina. But a lot of creativity has come from my affairs and escapades with my vagina.
Born again I might be for now. But it won’t be long. It never is. And then you remember how to do it. Like last year around this time when sun had shone but no rain had fallen and you do what any normal woman would do and found a Halloween costume just revealing enough. Just enough skin. Just enough super hero. All you have to do is take off your clothes in a tasteful way. It is easier to do it on the Halloween. And I don’t break all my patterns and I can’t. So as I walk out of the door American Apparel on the fateful height street, last year leaving with wonder woman gear this year with a scantly clad cat woman outfit. It isn’t calculating, it is just the reality of someone who is born again by accident.
Sexuality and how we decide to play in the game of it is and always will be personal with a dash of political. See I am bad at the casual with sex. Almost my all my too quick encounters had landed me boyfriends, which have landed me heartbreak because I am in too deep with someone I probably shouldn’t be. So what is a woman in her 30’s who have needs beyond her own mind but biological left to do?
I don’t know but I do know when I hit this mark. It becomes to a point where I feel like a teenager boy. I start to undress bartender and baristas with my eyes. Men who sit next to me in classroom or cafes I start to smell them and they smell good. My sexual energy steps up a notch so much I know I can’t be born again for long. I try to embody the lady gaga that this is a choice I don’t want to lose my creativity through my vagina. But a lot of creativity has come from my affairs and escapades with my vagina.
Born again I might be for now. But it won’t be long. It never is. And then you remember how to do it. Like last year around this time when sun had shone but no rain had fallen and you do what any normal woman would do and found a Halloween costume just revealing enough. Just enough skin. Just enough super hero. All you have to do is take off your clothes in a tasteful way. It is easier to do it on the Halloween. And I don’t break all my patterns and I can’t. So as I walk out of the door American Apparel on the fateful height street, last year leaving with wonder woman gear this year with a scantly clad cat woman outfit. It isn’t calculating, it is just the reality of someone who is born again by accident.
That Was Before - John Fetto
As he walked, straining against the weight of his backpack, feet stabbing dirt, Hawley tried to tear up the past. Every time an image of what had been rose up, he peeled it back and looked at the steep grind of the trail. It didn’t matter, that was history. It didn’t matter what he could have had, that was before. He needed to tear and burn it, this was now. He needed to toss it all in a fire, and watch it burn. But when they finally stomped marching, when the food was served and he sat down by the fire, next to Hernandez and the English reporter, all were too tired to talk, and quietly, as they staring the fire. Hawley pulled the leather book from his pack and found the photograph between the pages. In the flickering firelight, he stared at the photograph, telling his hand to toss it in the fire, but his fingers wouldn’t let it go.
The English reporter saw him hesitating. “A pretty friend?”
“Doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
“But you are alive, aren’t you?”
“Suppose so.”
“Then anything is possible, isn’t it?”
Hawley nodded, and tucked the photograph back in the book, and tucked the photograph back in the book and closed it. The reporter was smiling as if he’d lit a small candle of hope in Hawley’s mind, and knew better than risk extinguishing it with a bit of unnecessary wind.
The English reporter saw him hesitating. “A pretty friend?”
“Doesn’t even know I’m alive.”
“But you are alive, aren’t you?”
“Suppose so.”
“Then anything is possible, isn’t it?”
Hawley nodded, and tucked the photograph back in the book, and tucked the photograph back in the book and closed it. The reporter was smiling as if he’d lit a small candle of hope in Hawley’s mind, and knew better than risk extinguishing it with a bit of unnecessary wind.
That Was Before - E. D. James
“I won’t deny that I told you I believed that the truth would win out in the end, but that was before the Russians made it clear that there was only one truth,” Arch said.
“So what, now you’re just going to fold up and give it to them?” Olivia said as she stood small space in front of his in front of his desk and turned to grab the handle of the door.
Arch stood and laid his hand on her shoulder, “Wait. I didn’t say I was giving up on dealing with the environmental problem, only that we need to give up on helping Drake and Kotlas keep this oilfield.”
Olivia turned back to look into his eyes. They stood face to face in the close quarters. “Don’t you work for them?”
“I do, but I’m not going down with the ship. This isn’t about what’s happening to the wildlife out there, it never was. Once we give up on that we can work with Semyon and Boris and get them to do what’s right.”
“Now who’s the dreamer? You think we can work with people who make up lies?”
“They are in tough spot, but they’re good people. Once their bosses get what they want, those two will do the right thing.”
“I don’t care who gets the oil. But I don’t trust the Russians.”
“Do you trust me?”
“So what, now you’re just going to fold up and give it to them?” Olivia said as she stood small space in front of his in front of his desk and turned to grab the handle of the door.
Arch stood and laid his hand on her shoulder, “Wait. I didn’t say I was giving up on dealing with the environmental problem, only that we need to give up on helping Drake and Kotlas keep this oilfield.”
Olivia turned back to look into his eyes. They stood face to face in the close quarters. “Don’t you work for them?”
“I do, but I’m not going down with the ship. This isn’t about what’s happening to the wildlife out there, it never was. Once we give up on that we can work with Semyon and Boris and get them to do what’s right.”
“Now who’s the dreamer? You think we can work with people who make up lies?”
“They are in tough spot, but they’re good people. Once their bosses get what they want, those two will do the right thing.”
“I don’t care who gets the oil. But I don’t trust the Russians.”
“Do you trust me?”
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Back in Time - E. D. James
Olivia sat on the steps of the crumbling bunkhouse and looked out over the overgrown yard that had once been the home of the thousands who had inhabited the Arkhara prison camp. She thought about the thirty plus years of human pain and suffering that had been concentrated into the dirt of the yard. She wondered if the plants that grew into the dirt now could feel some residual effect of all that misery. She looked at the leaves and the stems and the trunks of the larch that were taking root to see if she could detect any twisting or deformation that might be a result of the toxic legacy of the place. To her the trees all looked normal.
She stood up and twisted her body so that she could see past the yard and over into where the graveyard sat with its rows of graying wooden crosses marking the ends of so many lives. Lives that were wasted in the end because of the paranoia of one man. A man who wielded power over millions. Trees were beginning to retake the graveyard as well. The roots taking hold in the bones of dead. She hoped the trees would grow stronger and taller than those of the surrounding forest. That in time the old graveyard would become a special place marked by the beauty of the trees who took their nourishment from the remains of these mistreated souls. Then she noticed, for the first time, a large area at the far end of the graveyard nearest the wetlands that was totally devoid of vegetation. She’d never looked at the graveyard from this angle before and now it struck her that something wasn’t right. She picked up her pack, put her floppy hat back on and headed down the stairs.
She stood up and twisted her body so that she could see past the yard and over into where the graveyard sat with its rows of graying wooden crosses marking the ends of so many lives. Lives that were wasted in the end because of the paranoia of one man. A man who wielded power over millions. Trees were beginning to retake the graveyard as well. The roots taking hold in the bones of dead. She hoped the trees would grow stronger and taller than those of the surrounding forest. That in time the old graveyard would become a special place marked by the beauty of the trees who took their nourishment from the remains of these mistreated souls. Then she noticed, for the first time, a large area at the far end of the graveyard nearest the wetlands that was totally devoid of vegetation. She’d never looked at the graveyard from this angle before and now it struck her that something wasn’t right. She picked up her pack, put her floppy hat back on and headed down the stairs.
Back in Time - Barbara Jordan
I stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of Park and Sunol on my way to pick up the kids from school.
I remembered it clearly--of receiving the phone call on my way home from work that day, and making the detour to the accident scene at this same intersection. Of getting out of the car slowly and seeing his crumpled motorcycle lying on its side. Of exploded cans of paint, splayed on the road. I did not see any blood. Of the crowd of spectators standing on the sidewalk--as if watching a sporting event-- and someone commenting that motorcycles were dangerous. Of walking up to the female police officer directing traffic and the slow words making their journey from brain to mouth--who's mouth, who's words were speaking?
The police officer continued to calmly direct traffic. I stood there, now mute, taking in the scene. She told me that the paramedics had already taken him to the hospital and I knew I should be getting back in my car, but I continued to stand there as if waiting for the next clue. I stared at the paint. I heard the words "hit and run".
A flurry of activity caught my eye across the street. I saw the arrest. She hadn't run very far and was drunk. I tried to remember what our disagreement had been about that morning-- something about painting the bathroom.
I remembered it clearly--of receiving the phone call on my way home from work that day, and making the detour to the accident scene at this same intersection. Of getting out of the car slowly and seeing his crumpled motorcycle lying on its side. Of exploded cans of paint, splayed on the road. I did not see any blood. Of the crowd of spectators standing on the sidewalk--as if watching a sporting event-- and someone commenting that motorcycles were dangerous. Of walking up to the female police officer directing traffic and the slow words making their journey from brain to mouth--who's mouth, who's words were speaking?
The police officer continued to calmly direct traffic. I stood there, now mute, taking in the scene. She told me that the paramedics had already taken him to the hospital and I knew I should be getting back in my car, but I continued to stand there as if waiting for the next clue. I stared at the paint. I heard the words "hit and run".
A flurry of activity caught my eye across the street. I saw the arrest. She hadn't run very far and was drunk. I tried to remember what our disagreement had been about that morning-- something about painting the bathroom.
Back in Time - Jennifer Baljko
Years had passed since they were last together. Deeper wrinkles ringed their faces and their hips seemed wider. But their laughs echoed through the living room, out to the terrace, and maybe even down the street. Those same loud belly guffaws made even more contagious with just enough wine or beer. Two friends clinking glasses and eating tapas, halfway around the world from where they started many years ago, reminiscing about times gone by and looking forward to the years to come. Things had changed. Things had remained the same. Picking up the pieces from wherever they had left off, filling in gaps when needed or letting the last words dangle without rhyme or reason.
What It Sounded LIke - John Fetto
Suzanne followed three steps behind Gil until he stopped when they heard it again. A pop, like someone popped a huge balloon, loud enough to echo between the buildings. Gil looked back her, a sacred grin on his face.
“Grenade,” he said, and then he was moving again, and she was rushing to keep up. They scrambled forward another block, shoulder hugging walls, and they heard more: A tapping it sound, in the distance. It grew sharper as they came forward, pounding like metal hammers, a hundred carpenters driving nails, not in turn, but in bursts then stopping, and shouting---she couldn’t hear the words.
“What is it?”
“A-K forty seven,” said Gil.
“What are they saying?”
“Don’t know. This way.” Gil found an alley that brought them close. The hammers pounded harder. They could hear glass and stone shattering, followed by men screaming, not in English, words of another language that needed no translation, strained with hatred and pain.
“Grenade,” he said, and then he was moving again, and she was rushing to keep up. They scrambled forward another block, shoulder hugging walls, and they heard more: A tapping it sound, in the distance. It grew sharper as they came forward, pounding like metal hammers, a hundred carpenters driving nails, not in turn, but in bursts then stopping, and shouting---she couldn’t hear the words.
“What is it?”
“A-K forty seven,” said Gil.
“What are they saying?”
“Don’t know. This way.” Gil found an alley that brought them close. The hammers pounded harder. They could hear glass and stone shattering, followed by men screaming, not in English, words of another language that needed no translation, strained with hatred and pain.
Out of Order - Kent Wright
There are two reasons why I cook meals when I visit my family in rural Indiana. One because it something different that I can offer them. They appreciate it (usually). The second reason is blatantly selfish. It gives my mouth at least some bites of food that is healthier and interesting while I am there. Northern California has spoiled me, soured my taste buds on recipes spiked with CheeseWhiz, Coolwhip or flavored salt. I am also no longer a fan of vegetables whose color has been cooked to grey or whose perky crispness has been boiled to post stroke limpness.
Now that my mother is in a nursing home, and the new owner is renovating the kitchen in my family home, I cook where I stay, at my cousin’s. His wife is a retired home economics teacher. Legions of semi-motivated girls, and the occasional boy learned basic cooking and sewing skills from her. She still sews. There is a line out her door of women who need dresses they weren’t made to fit into altered for this or that wedding, prom or cruise.
I cook in Sue’s kitchen now, and am happy to do it. She and my cousin like what I put on the table. There is pleasure for me in combing the county for good Amish chickens and fresh vegetables. Still, cooking in this former teacher’s kitchen has its challenges. She is neat. Actually neat doesn’t begin to describe it. The kitchen resembles one in a model home more than one from which a live family is being fed. Everything is put away in cabinets with military precision. Nothing is out of order and when it is, General Sue sweeps in like the commandant of a military school to set it right. Nothing wrong with cleanliness and order I heard someone out there peep. It makes life easier, and the person doing the peeping is right. Unless you happen to be trying to cook. Turn your back on the cutting board to stir the stock, and when you turn back, the cutting board has been swept clear of herbs, the chopping knife is back in the drawer, and the faux marble Corion looks like it did when it came from the factory. Spin back and in disbelief you find the stovetop cleaned, the stock in plastic containers headed for the freezer, and have to step out of the way of Sue’s aggressive mop that is after a drop of olive oil cowering on the vinyl.
Now that my mother is in a nursing home, and the new owner is renovating the kitchen in my family home, I cook where I stay, at my cousin’s. His wife is a retired home economics teacher. Legions of semi-motivated girls, and the occasional boy learned basic cooking and sewing skills from her. She still sews. There is a line out her door of women who need dresses they weren’t made to fit into altered for this or that wedding, prom or cruise.
I cook in Sue’s kitchen now, and am happy to do it. She and my cousin like what I put on the table. There is pleasure for me in combing the county for good Amish chickens and fresh vegetables. Still, cooking in this former teacher’s kitchen has its challenges. She is neat. Actually neat doesn’t begin to describe it. The kitchen resembles one in a model home more than one from which a live family is being fed. Everything is put away in cabinets with military precision. Nothing is out of order and when it is, General Sue sweeps in like the commandant of a military school to set it right. Nothing wrong with cleanliness and order I heard someone out there peep. It makes life easier, and the person doing the peeping is right. Unless you happen to be trying to cook. Turn your back on the cutting board to stir the stock, and when you turn back, the cutting board has been swept clear of herbs, the chopping knife is back in the drawer, and the faux marble Corion looks like it did when it came from the factory. Spin back and in disbelief you find the stovetop cleaned, the stock in plastic containers headed for the freezer, and have to step out of the way of Sue’s aggressive mop that is after a drop of olive oil cowering on the vinyl.
Out of Order - Judy Albietz
What’s going on? What’s wrong with my computer? Peter asked himself. He no longer felt like shouting to the empty room. He felt uncomfortable talking out loud to himself anymore. It was as if there was another presence in the room who might hear him. Rationally he knew there was just an image on the screen—a dog, a jackal-looking creature, the Egyptian god Anubis—who was staring straight at him. But when Peter moved over to the left of the screen, the dog’s eyes followed his. He looked away and then back again. The dog was still staring straight at him. The dog looked like it was alive.
Peter wasn’t sure about anything except that he was totally freaking out. In fact nothing had been normal since he had found those files which were time-stamped with a date from the future, the far future, 2000 years from now. Then he had found those ancient files from 3000 years ago. How could the hieroglyphic picture of the dog come alive? Had there been something dormant in those ancient papyrus fragments which had somehow been activated? Did some alien energy break through the pixels in the images?
The source of power can simply be turned off, he thought as he reached around to the on/off switch on his computer. He pushed it down but it was stuck on the “on” position. Then he crawled under his desk and unplugged the machine. But the computer still whirred on. It must be on battery power—on its own.
Had a virus taken over his computer? His virus scanners were set for current-day viruses but here he might be dealing with a virus from the past. Did something happen when the files from the Past were uploaded on the hard drive which contained those files from the Future? Was there some ancient virus in those papyrus fragments? Could something from the Future activate an old virus?
Okay, so maybe this Anubis—this Egyptian god from the past—is here, right here in my room. It’s even is talking to me in some strange language. What’m I supposed to do now?
Peter wasn’t sure about anything except that he was totally freaking out. In fact nothing had been normal since he had found those files which were time-stamped with a date from the future, the far future, 2000 years from now. Then he had found those ancient files from 3000 years ago. How could the hieroglyphic picture of the dog come alive? Had there been something dormant in those ancient papyrus fragments which had somehow been activated? Did some alien energy break through the pixels in the images?
The source of power can simply be turned off, he thought as he reached around to the on/off switch on his computer. He pushed it down but it was stuck on the “on” position. Then he crawled under his desk and unplugged the machine. But the computer still whirred on. It must be on battery power—on its own.
Had a virus taken over his computer? His virus scanners were set for current-day viruses but here he might be dealing with a virus from the past. Did something happen when the files from the Past were uploaded on the hard drive which contained those files from the Future? Was there some ancient virus in those papyrus fragments? Could something from the Future activate an old virus?
Okay, so maybe this Anubis—this Egyptian god from the past—is here, right here in my room. It’s even is talking to me in some strange language. What’m I supposed to do now?
Out of Order - Maria Robinson
You still have fifteen dissectable minutes to go with your shrink Dr. Bergman. When he asks you not to edit your thoughts, you see your life in large jagged puzzle pieces on the floor.
Everything is out of order and there's no way even to match things up into a semblance of a picture. Your mother died young. You traveled to England in Junior High with your ballet troupe.
The abdominal surgery you had to have at thirty nearly killed you. You had the most amazing cuttlefish risotto in Venice. You still miss the toy poodle you had when you were six. It all floods the banks of your mind. There's no way to even talk to the really Austrian doctor whose family came over before the Holocaust. You wish there were a way to believe the put together narrative that you've made of your life.
Then your time is up and you say " Ok. I'll see you Thursday. Maybe I feel that time is running out."
Everything is out of order and there's no way even to match things up into a semblance of a picture. Your mother died young. You traveled to England in Junior High with your ballet troupe.
The abdominal surgery you had to have at thirty nearly killed you. You had the most amazing cuttlefish risotto in Venice. You still miss the toy poodle you had when you were six. It all floods the banks of your mind. There's no way to even talk to the really Austrian doctor whose family came over before the Holocaust. You wish there were a way to believe the put together narrative that you've made of your life.
Then your time is up and you say " Ok. I'll see you Thursday. Maybe I feel that time is running out."
Out of Order - Kate Bueler
Out of order. We live in an out of order world. A world that moves backwards while roller skating forward. Moving out of order through the ending into the beginning of things. And then we wonder why it all doesn’t work out, as it shall. Out of order. There are many a symptoms to show we live in an out of order world. One is missed connections. The concept might have had its place maybe. Me and my friends used to run to get the improper bostanian to read the back. Back before people went to the craigs. Craigs where you can buy a bed, find an apartment, a date, a lay, and a job. Crazy. She me and my friend began to read the missed connections. And laugh. And secretly hope we would be on it one day. Why? I am not sure. Maybe it is the part to be seen from a far. For some to long for you. And care so much not to say hello hello to your face but play some fate roulette spinning around until.
I had a joke that you aren’t anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you. About you. But that was after someone wrote one about me. You can’t really say that unless you have. So the time it happened to me. I was in a café. I spoke to a man. And I realized while I was speaking about sharing the plug I glanced backwards to realize he was actually attractive and been sitting there all along. Out of order. We had a minutes conversation that stretched longer than it should. It sat in the room bubbling above us as he walked away. As he walked away he glanced back. And in his semi smile I knew that he would write a missed connection about me. I just knew. Knew until. I forgot.
The next day as I sat in that same café. I remembered. And on the internet I jumped. And google the café’s name. Que tal. Ready for nothing. And there it was. Brunette woman speaking of acupuncture blah blah blah. It was me. I felt naked. I looked around the room to see if he was there again. I didn’t know what to do. I felt flattered and strangely watched in unison. The out of order of attraction. The out of order of hello. What is your name? What is your number? S
So I replied. Very short. Just to make sure it was me. I asked what we had talked about. And I watched the cursor flick on and off. Until I press send. Let fate run its course backwards, with your eyes closed, in a bad romantic comedy where gestures are not grand. I press send. And checked and checked but nothing. Out of order. The out of order connection. It is out of order way to get to know someone. Someone. I guess if you aren’t willing to put on your big boy pants and say something more before you go on your way in this thing called life, but take the time to write it all down and put it on the internet that might just be your gig. Your game. Your mo. You might just idealize and love from afar. I recant you aren’t anyone until someone missed connects you, you are someone when you know its better for someone just to sit a little longer longer than out of order connecting through a device. The out of order of courting. I want to flip around and go the right away on the track. Still my way. But not backwards. Not with my eyes closed.
I had a joke that you aren’t anyone until someone writes a missed connection about you. About you. But that was after someone wrote one about me. You can’t really say that unless you have. So the time it happened to me. I was in a café. I spoke to a man. And I realized while I was speaking about sharing the plug I glanced backwards to realize he was actually attractive and been sitting there all along. Out of order. We had a minutes conversation that stretched longer than it should. It sat in the room bubbling above us as he walked away. As he walked away he glanced back. And in his semi smile I knew that he would write a missed connection about me. I just knew. Knew until. I forgot.
The next day as I sat in that same café. I remembered. And on the internet I jumped. And google the café’s name. Que tal. Ready for nothing. And there it was. Brunette woman speaking of acupuncture blah blah blah. It was me. I felt naked. I looked around the room to see if he was there again. I didn’t know what to do. I felt flattered and strangely watched in unison. The out of order of attraction. The out of order of hello. What is your name? What is your number? S
So I replied. Very short. Just to make sure it was me. I asked what we had talked about. And I watched the cursor flick on and off. Until I press send. Let fate run its course backwards, with your eyes closed, in a bad romantic comedy where gestures are not grand. I press send. And checked and checked but nothing. Out of order. The out of order connection. It is out of order way to get to know someone. Someone. I guess if you aren’t willing to put on your big boy pants and say something more before you go on your way in this thing called life, but take the time to write it all down and put it on the internet that might just be your gig. Your game. Your mo. You might just idealize and love from afar. I recant you aren’t anyone until someone missed connects you, you are someone when you know its better for someone just to sit a little longer longer than out of order connecting through a device. The out of order of courting. I want to flip around and go the right away on the track. Still my way. But not backwards. Not with my eyes closed.
Reading Books - Melody Cryns
Reading books, writing books – telling the stories – it’s all the same. All summer long I’ve been following the music, with ukulele and songs in tow – the books that surround and envelop me have been cast aside for the music. Now it’s time to return to them, to open up the inviting pages of the books that are like old friends – to relish in them, get lost in them.
It’s time to revisit the books I put aside right after I got my master’s degree in May – after taking classes that required me to read books and stories and analyze them, take them apart, when all I wanted to do was enjoy them – but then I was able to create my own stories, my own book which is simply a recounting of my daily life – my young muse takes me in a certain direction and I follow her willingly – it’s like following the “Muse-ic” as my good friend Floyd calls it – the muse follows the music and helps me to see the stories.
Books surround me everywhere – they’re all over my house in book shelves where I can look at them and regret them as if they’re my friends – I’ve even got a row of books sitting at my desk here at work – literary books, musical books, fiction, nonfiction – you name it.
Perhaps I can somehow hear the music and the rhythm in the books that I love so much.
Reading books is a luxury – it’s delicious and fun and so personal.
It’s time to revisit the books I put aside right after I got my master’s degree in May – after taking classes that required me to read books and stories and analyze them, take them apart, when all I wanted to do was enjoy them – but then I was able to create my own stories, my own book which is simply a recounting of my daily life – my young muse takes me in a certain direction and I follow her willingly – it’s like following the “Muse-ic” as my good friend Floyd calls it – the muse follows the music and helps me to see the stories.
Books surround me everywhere – they’re all over my house in book shelves where I can look at them and regret them as if they’re my friends – I’ve even got a row of books sitting at my desk here at work – literary books, musical books, fiction, nonfiction – you name it.
Perhaps I can somehow hear the music and the rhythm in the books that I love so much.
Reading books is a luxury – it’s delicious and fun and so personal.
Friday, October 1, 2010
An Arrival - Jennifer Baljko
She grabbed her backpack off the conveyor belt and threw her computer bag over her shoulder. Physically tired from the 9-hour overnight flight, but far from exhausted, she walked with purpose towards the waiting area. She was glowing, she knew it. He was there waiting, smiling. He looked different, tanner maybe, or thinner.
Had it really been 18 months since they last saw each other? His smell, his embrace, his love – nothing had changed. She fell into his arms, losing her center of gravity, melding into his strength.
They couldn’t help but stare at each other on the bus ride home – his home, and now maybe hers. They didn’t say much. There would be time for that later. They stared silently mesmerized. Their lives had just changed before their eyes, and they wanted to the freeze frame the moment into memory.
Had it really been 18 months since they last saw each other? His smell, his embrace, his love – nothing had changed. She fell into his arms, losing her center of gravity, melding into his strength.
They couldn’t help but stare at each other on the bus ride home – his home, and now maybe hers. They didn’t say much. There would be time for that later. They stared silently mesmerized. Their lives had just changed before their eyes, and they wanted to the freeze frame the moment into memory.
An Arrival - Kate Bueler
An arrival of a new but brief love affair occurring between the hours of 2:45 and 4 pm on Saturday afternoon. Warm but not too warm. I wore my jeanskirt and v neck American apparel tee. I walked to get exercise. This love affair was short lived. It was over before my departure out the door into the real world. With eyes wide open. Dilated they were. No sunglasses to block out the sun.
The love affair was brief with my new eye doctor. I was pleasantly surprised when he would be the one to look into my eyes and say one or two. One or two- clicking the lenses between good and better. I am going to push you. Can you read this line? Our faces next to one another looking into one another eyes but separated by his contraption to get the look underneath the green coral shell eyes to the surface. Of things. I did the standard look subtle or not for a ring. Nope. I was okay. I was laughing. He was laughing. This was the best first date I had in awhile. He talked me into things like dilating my eyes. And was so sweet when he broke the news- my eyes were finally different and the beginning of the stigmatism. He gave me tissues as I teared up. Back and froth. There was banter of more than a doctor or patient. An arrival of possibility. Growing inside of my chest and my stomach. My eyes opened and closed and glistened. As he looked into my eyes or didn’t. Oh you are a April baby too. Making small talk beyond the typical or so I thought. I kind of have a soft spot for smart man who are bilingual and donates their services. It’s kind of like a gold digger finding out she is panning in an unlimited place on the river.
Dr. Gonzalez wants to see me again and soon. I repeat the words to receptionist. He leans out and says. Call me Jose. I smile. I wave. I skip. Yes it has to be soon. He says the man of fixer of eyes. Before Saturday. Saturday I am getting married. The arrival of the possibility died in the time span of doctor’s appointment. It might be a world record of potential and ending so quick. Of course. Fucking typical. How else could a smart, attractive man, who does charity work not be fucking taken. I am an idiot. Arrival of disappointment. Because all I have in my grasps are potentials. Even if it is a school girl crush where police might sing don’t stand to close. I try not to skip a beat. Congrats. And just to add to it. He is marrying a woman with my name. My name. Come on. I don’t know what to say except. One day if I do it- I am going to get a taco truck at mine. Funny thing- we are doing that and it was my idea. Keep going the arrival of my idiocy now frosted on my own cake. I let him talk me into things like different eye solution and contacts and the dilation of my eyes.
I walked out. With a smile on my face. The light hit my eyes and I couldn’t see. It is what happens normally when I crush on them. I can’t see. See more than I want to. More than the potential of them. More than I should. I couldn’t see. The light squinted my eyes shut the dilation so great of healthy eyes. Healthiness. I couldn’t see so I bought sunglasses even though the tag was blurry. I put them on and could see again. See again. The arrival of potential in the doctor’s office wasn’t so bad. So Jose or Dr. Gonzalez wasn’t my soul mate. But he got me took my eyes and made me blind in the light. Until I could see. See. Again.
The love affair was brief with my new eye doctor. I was pleasantly surprised when he would be the one to look into my eyes and say one or two. One or two- clicking the lenses between good and better. I am going to push you. Can you read this line? Our faces next to one another looking into one another eyes but separated by his contraption to get the look underneath the green coral shell eyes to the surface. Of things. I did the standard look subtle or not for a ring. Nope. I was okay. I was laughing. He was laughing. This was the best first date I had in awhile. He talked me into things like dilating my eyes. And was so sweet when he broke the news- my eyes were finally different and the beginning of the stigmatism. He gave me tissues as I teared up. Back and froth. There was banter of more than a doctor or patient. An arrival of possibility. Growing inside of my chest and my stomach. My eyes opened and closed and glistened. As he looked into my eyes or didn’t. Oh you are a April baby too. Making small talk beyond the typical or so I thought. I kind of have a soft spot for smart man who are bilingual and donates their services. It’s kind of like a gold digger finding out she is panning in an unlimited place on the river.
Dr. Gonzalez wants to see me again and soon. I repeat the words to receptionist. He leans out and says. Call me Jose. I smile. I wave. I skip. Yes it has to be soon. He says the man of fixer of eyes. Before Saturday. Saturday I am getting married. The arrival of the possibility died in the time span of doctor’s appointment. It might be a world record of potential and ending so quick. Of course. Fucking typical. How else could a smart, attractive man, who does charity work not be fucking taken. I am an idiot. Arrival of disappointment. Because all I have in my grasps are potentials. Even if it is a school girl crush where police might sing don’t stand to close. I try not to skip a beat. Congrats. And just to add to it. He is marrying a woman with my name. My name. Come on. I don’t know what to say except. One day if I do it- I am going to get a taco truck at mine. Funny thing- we are doing that and it was my idea. Keep going the arrival of my idiocy now frosted on my own cake. I let him talk me into things like different eye solution and contacts and the dilation of my eyes.
I walked out. With a smile on my face. The light hit my eyes and I couldn’t see. It is what happens normally when I crush on them. I can’t see. See more than I want to. More than the potential of them. More than I should. I couldn’t see. The light squinted my eyes shut the dilation so great of healthy eyes. Healthiness. I couldn’t see so I bought sunglasses even though the tag was blurry. I put them on and could see again. See again. The arrival of potential in the doctor’s office wasn’t so bad. So Jose or Dr. Gonzalez wasn’t my soul mate. But he got me took my eyes and made me blind in the light. Until I could see. See. Again.
What You Heard - Maria Robinson
How can you really trust yourself? Impossible. You heard that people can sleep walk through life for at least a year before realizing that they are at risk for accident couplings and eating bad meals that they had not planned. You wanted to know more about this temporal space where you do know what you're doing but think you do and even that you might be in love.
You heard that the possibility of missing out on your real life is more certain than is normally calculated and you wondered about how you could miss out on something that you had not planned. Even so, you wanted to know who exactly had told you about the contingency of life experience and why they had not made clear that life was more certain. Perhaps, that had not heard about the people who insure that life will be clean and well thought out even though therapy is more expensive than anyone really thought would be possible. You know that you can trust yourself with a shrink because you can sleep on the couch and never realize that you have clarified anything until you see it later.
You heard that the possibility of missing out on your real life is more certain than is normally calculated and you wondered about how you could miss out on something that you had not planned. Even so, you wanted to know who exactly had told you about the contingency of life experience and why they had not made clear that life was more certain. Perhaps, that had not heard about the people who insure that life will be clean and well thought out even though therapy is more expensive than anyone really thought would be possible. You know that you can trust yourself with a shrink because you can sleep on the couch and never realize that you have clarified anything until you see it later.
What I Heard - Melody Cryns
Darkness enveloped us quickly at Plaskett Creek Park down at Big Sur where I’d gone for Burning Uke 8 – it was a Thursday night, so no big community music jammed was planned, just a group of people getting together to sing and play by the campfire. I fumbled around in the tent I got help setting up for stuff – it was so dark and I couldn’t really see anything. I could hear rustling outside and hear the ocean tide, though. I managed to find a flashlight and the special LED light, and the black case that had my purple music stand in it…and of course the Uke and the songbooks.
I just followed the music as I tripped a couple of times on uneven ground and a small hill towards the people playing and singing by a huge roaring fire. As I approached, suddenly a glowing set of lights in the shape of a ukulele high up on a tree lit up and everyone cheered.
“Welcome to Burning Uke!” I could hear someone say. Everyone cheered again – I saw shadows of people, most with ukes. Oh and there was that hyperactive hippie guy, Pat, whom I’d seen at the Santa Cruz Beach jams on Saturday mornings before – I couldn’t miss him even in the darkness with his bright-colored tie-dye on. He had this huge upright bass he’d made and he never stopped moving and dancing while he played. People sat on benches and folding chairs, some stood, music stands with yellow lights shined dully, and then there were the headlights that people wore on their heads that constantly moved. I didn’t feel comfortable with one of those headlights. Somehow my LED light and my books ended up sitting on a wooden picnic table and when it got completely dark, I couldn’t find them again – I hoped they wouldn’t get mixed with others. I finally stood up with my uke strapped on – thankful that I had a shoulder strap for it and looked on with a couple of other people huddled around a music stand, with someone’s head light (literally on people’s heads) guiding us as someone would call out a song number from our Santa Cruz ukulele songbooks.
Amid the campfire smoke blended with sea air, we sang and sang – and I played even when my hands felt too cold to strum or finger the chords, feeling the strings of the uke against me – I could see some of the ladies, two of them called “the Hula girls” whom I thought I recognized from Santa Cruz, dancing close to the campfire as we played song after song – some songs I knew and some I didn’t. I played them all and I didn’t care if my fingers got sore. I thought of my special friend Mike H. This was all because of him – he gave me a ukulele and now here I was surrounded by all these people at a campsite playing music. Who knew this would happen?
Mike H. had showed up at the monthly second Monday ukulele jam that I’d stumbled upon in July at my favorite coffee shop in Mountain View – I was thrilled to see the sign because I was still learning the ukulele chords from diagrams I downloaded from this website – amid having to move from Mountain View to San Jose and all the craziness of my life. Of course he dominated the entire jam of 40 to 50 people when he started to sing in his wonderfully loud booming voice, and he even grabbed my uke and strummed a couple of chords loudly and distinctly – those he could still finger even after the stroke paralyzed the left side of his body.
Dave F., who was running the jam shouted, “Why don’t you lead us on the next song? C’mon up!”
Mike, who had gone through a lot of trouble to wedge in right next to me, between me and this other guy who was trying to look at my songbook, maneuvering his cane, just smiled and waved and said, “It’s a lot of trouble for me to get up there. I’ll just lead from here.”
And so Mike H. led the whole group in the next song – I believe it was Stand by Me, and I strummed the rhythm on the uke as close to the way Mike H. strummed it as I could, thinking of how cool it would be if I could reach behind him and be his left hand and finger the chords while he strummed.
I thought of Mike H. while sitting there at the campsite in the darkness playing and singing – and I wished that he could be there with me. But he said he can’t camp anymore, that it’s too hard, and besides, it’s so hard because it bugs him that he can’t just pick up an instrument and play it.
This guy named Andy, who apparently was one of the founders of Burning Uke, played some really cool stuff on his tiny ukulele – he and his wife had traveled all the way from Hawaii to be here. It was so much fun – I wasn’t a spectator, I was playing right along with everyone else. When everyone finally decided it was time to go back to their tents to get ready for a long, serious weekend of workshops, jams and playing. With the fire going down and people with headlights and flashlights heading down the hill to their tents, I became a little frightened – I didn’t want to say anything to anyone, but how the heck was I going to find my stuff, get down the hill and find my tent? I could feel the dampness in the air as I managed to find my books which had become damp and my LED light. Carrying all of my things, I slowly made my way down the hill, trying to keep hold of my flashlight – towards the tents. I could hear people laughing and talking in the dark.
I just followed the music as I tripped a couple of times on uneven ground and a small hill towards the people playing and singing by a huge roaring fire. As I approached, suddenly a glowing set of lights in the shape of a ukulele high up on a tree lit up and everyone cheered.
“Welcome to Burning Uke!” I could hear someone say. Everyone cheered again – I saw shadows of people, most with ukes. Oh and there was that hyperactive hippie guy, Pat, whom I’d seen at the Santa Cruz Beach jams on Saturday mornings before – I couldn’t miss him even in the darkness with his bright-colored tie-dye on. He had this huge upright bass he’d made and he never stopped moving and dancing while he played. People sat on benches and folding chairs, some stood, music stands with yellow lights shined dully, and then there were the headlights that people wore on their heads that constantly moved. I didn’t feel comfortable with one of those headlights. Somehow my LED light and my books ended up sitting on a wooden picnic table and when it got completely dark, I couldn’t find them again – I hoped they wouldn’t get mixed with others. I finally stood up with my uke strapped on – thankful that I had a shoulder strap for it and looked on with a couple of other people huddled around a music stand, with someone’s head light (literally on people’s heads) guiding us as someone would call out a song number from our Santa Cruz ukulele songbooks.
Amid the campfire smoke blended with sea air, we sang and sang – and I played even when my hands felt too cold to strum or finger the chords, feeling the strings of the uke against me – I could see some of the ladies, two of them called “the Hula girls” whom I thought I recognized from Santa Cruz, dancing close to the campfire as we played song after song – some songs I knew and some I didn’t. I played them all and I didn’t care if my fingers got sore. I thought of my special friend Mike H. This was all because of him – he gave me a ukulele and now here I was surrounded by all these people at a campsite playing music. Who knew this would happen?
Mike H. had showed up at the monthly second Monday ukulele jam that I’d stumbled upon in July at my favorite coffee shop in Mountain View – I was thrilled to see the sign because I was still learning the ukulele chords from diagrams I downloaded from this website – amid having to move from Mountain View to San Jose and all the craziness of my life. Of course he dominated the entire jam of 40 to 50 people when he started to sing in his wonderfully loud booming voice, and he even grabbed my uke and strummed a couple of chords loudly and distinctly – those he could still finger even after the stroke paralyzed the left side of his body.
Dave F., who was running the jam shouted, “Why don’t you lead us on the next song? C’mon up!”
Mike, who had gone through a lot of trouble to wedge in right next to me, between me and this other guy who was trying to look at my songbook, maneuvering his cane, just smiled and waved and said, “It’s a lot of trouble for me to get up there. I’ll just lead from here.”
And so Mike H. led the whole group in the next song – I believe it was Stand by Me, and I strummed the rhythm on the uke as close to the way Mike H. strummed it as I could, thinking of how cool it would be if I could reach behind him and be his left hand and finger the chords while he strummed.
I thought of Mike H. while sitting there at the campsite in the darkness playing and singing – and I wished that he could be there with me. But he said he can’t camp anymore, that it’s too hard, and besides, it’s so hard because it bugs him that he can’t just pick up an instrument and play it.
This guy named Andy, who apparently was one of the founders of Burning Uke, played some really cool stuff on his tiny ukulele – he and his wife had traveled all the way from Hawaii to be here. It was so much fun – I wasn’t a spectator, I was playing right along with everyone else. When everyone finally decided it was time to go back to their tents to get ready for a long, serious weekend of workshops, jams and playing. With the fire going down and people with headlights and flashlights heading down the hill to their tents, I became a little frightened – I didn’t want to say anything to anyone, but how the heck was I going to find my stuff, get down the hill and find my tent? I could feel the dampness in the air as I managed to find my books which had become damp and my LED light. Carrying all of my things, I slowly made my way down the hill, trying to keep hold of my flashlight – towards the tents. I could hear people laughing and talking in the dark.
What She Heard - Kent Wright
-Best thing for a cold is to let it run its course, Alice’s mother told her.
–And, I’m telling you right now missy if you aren’t running a fever, I’m not running up here every five minutes. I’ve got this house to clean.
Alice heard her mother walk away from her door. The floor made its voice heard just before the stairs. Then Alice didn’t hear her mother. She just heard the murmuring like a crowd reciting the Pledge of Allegiance when you are too far away to make out the words. Alice didn’t have a cold. She told her mother that so she could stay in her room. She hadn’t slept except in snatches, but she was not tired. She couldn’t sleep because she had to plan for something and go somewhere to do it. She had to prove that they were there, the things inside.
Before it was anywhere close to light outside Alice fixed her hair nice, and put on make up then took her mother’s black fur coat out of the closet in the spare room. Just like she was told.
She started the car. Her father had left it out front because of the snow. Alice switched on the lights and eased into the street. She had never driven in snow before, and this was not just snow on the road, it was snow in the air too, a storm. They said it would be fine and for her to just do it. She knew she was going south. That was the word she had understood. On the highway south she gripped the steering wheel and stared into the snow storming in the headlights.
It came rushing at the car in a vortex of white faces. They spun towards her and were swept smoothly aside by the sides and top of the car. She could see the snow people screaming but their wind language was a whistling she could not understand. The voices inside were no longer just a murmur. They spoke in a mean, shrill frenzy, stacked on each other commanding, demanding, Alice to drive, to go there. They didn’t say where, but she knew, and she drove through the raging white.
–And, I’m telling you right now missy if you aren’t running a fever, I’m not running up here every five minutes. I’ve got this house to clean.
Alice heard her mother walk away from her door. The floor made its voice heard just before the stairs. Then Alice didn’t hear her mother. She just heard the murmuring like a crowd reciting the Pledge of Allegiance when you are too far away to make out the words. Alice didn’t have a cold. She told her mother that so she could stay in her room. She hadn’t slept except in snatches, but she was not tired. She couldn’t sleep because she had to plan for something and go somewhere to do it. She had to prove that they were there, the things inside.
Before it was anywhere close to light outside Alice fixed her hair nice, and put on make up then took her mother’s black fur coat out of the closet in the spare room. Just like she was told.
She started the car. Her father had left it out front because of the snow. Alice switched on the lights and eased into the street. She had never driven in snow before, and this was not just snow on the road, it was snow in the air too, a storm. They said it would be fine and for her to just do it. She knew she was going south. That was the word she had understood. On the highway south she gripped the steering wheel and stared into the snow storming in the headlights.
It came rushing at the car in a vortex of white faces. They spun towards her and were swept smoothly aside by the sides and top of the car. She could see the snow people screaming but their wind language was a whistling she could not understand. The voices inside were no longer just a murmur. They spoke in a mean, shrill frenzy, stacked on each other commanding, demanding, Alice to drive, to go there. They didn’t say where, but she knew, and she drove through the raging white.
A Secret Life - Barbara Jordan
" I wish I were more incendiary."
"Tell me about the dream, "he replied. His eyes were lazy,
like a southern drawl and the early light played with his grey whiskers. He looked like Grizzly Adams ready to go outside and chop some wood. He smelled like smoke and peat moss.
"I was standing in a parking lot, yelling at these people carrying big signs that said, "Global Warming is a Hoax." I was so mad ! then I noticed I was actually standing there naked. "
"Nice"
"Shut up…. Then I got scared, so I reached in my oversized purse and grabbed a handful of condoms and threw them at the crowd. "
"You've been working at Planned Parenthood to long. " his voice trailed off as he stared at my naked body under the sheet.
"I wish I were more like that Jet Blue Man at JFK recently---ya know-- activate the emergency system, grab two beers, say "FUCK YOU", and jump. But what do I do instead? I posted some lame comment on Facebook, all calm and reasonable, not inflammatory at all. Besides, I'd probably land in the dumpster outside my office anyway. "
"Tell me about the dream, "he replied. His eyes were lazy,
like a southern drawl and the early light played with his grey whiskers. He looked like Grizzly Adams ready to go outside and chop some wood. He smelled like smoke and peat moss.
"I was standing in a parking lot, yelling at these people carrying big signs that said, "Global Warming is a Hoax." I was so mad ! then I noticed I was actually standing there naked. "
"Nice"
"Shut up…. Then I got scared, so I reached in my oversized purse and grabbed a handful of condoms and threw them at the crowd. "
"You've been working at Planned Parenthood to long. " his voice trailed off as he stared at my naked body under the sheet.
"I wish I were more like that Jet Blue Man at JFK recently---ya know-- activate the emergency system, grab two beers, say "FUCK YOU", and jump. But what do I do instead? I posted some lame comment on Facebook, all calm and reasonable, not inflammatory at all. Besides, I'd probably land in the dumpster outside my office anyway. "
Writing it Down - Judy Albietz
Lily hunched her cell phone up on her left shoulder as she looked around for a pen or pencil and a piece of paper. She wanted to write down the hotel contact information. For some reason she didn’t feel comfortable entering the information on her cell phone or even on her new ITouch. What if these devices crashed? Ever since she got the new ITouch last week, she had kept it separate from her Blackberry. As if she didn’t want them to contaminate each other. If one died at least the other would be working. But ever since she saw that the website for the Leadership Conference had gone down, she had a bad feeling about Internet communication. What if none of these things worked? So she would just write down the information. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about an electricity outage or servers being hacked. She found an old envelope on the kitchen table and fished a ballpoint pen out of the corner of the drawer where the phone book was kept. Yes, that was another thing people didn’t use anymore.
Before he left for Chicago, she and Josh made plans to keep up with each other. He loved to text, even better than talking. He complained she didn’t check her incoming texts often enough. She promised to return his texts as soon as she could. But she couldn’t guarantee she would stay glued to her phone like he did.
As Lily jotted down the hotel address on the back of the envelope, she thought how she liked the feel of the pen in her hand—pressing against her fingers. No, she’d probably never get as good a callous on the third finger of her right hand as her mother’s. Her mom had told her how it used to be blue-stained with all those years of fountain pens. Now even her mother was thumb-typing notes to herself on her cell phone.
Before he left for Chicago, she and Josh made plans to keep up with each other. He loved to text, even better than talking. He complained she didn’t check her incoming texts often enough. She promised to return his texts as soon as she could. But she couldn’t guarantee she would stay glued to her phone like he did.
As Lily jotted down the hotel address on the back of the envelope, she thought how she liked the feel of the pen in her hand—pressing against her fingers. No, she’d probably never get as good a callous on the third finger of her right hand as her mother’s. Her mom had told her how it used to be blue-stained with all those years of fountain pens. Now even her mother was thumb-typing notes to herself on her cell phone.
Writing it Down - John Fetto
Hawley wrote in the garage on the table he built from two by fours and topped with half inch ply wood, setting the beaten wire bound school book between the skill saw and the vice. The plywood was unfinished and needed more sanding, but he didn’t touch any of the machinery anymore. He took the notes from his pockets, arranged them on the table, then took out the chipped plastic pen and wrote the dates, the times of every time the van rolled up. He wrote it all in on the wide lines of the school book, trying to write slowly, but his fingers would speed up when he’d think about the men who carried the boxes, the smug looks and grins, his fingers would tighten and the pen would dig into the page. He’d have to stop, cross it and start over. He wanted people to read this, no matter what happened.
Writing it Down - E. D. James
Andrei sat by the flickering light of the candle and took down the story that Maxim whispered through his cracked and bleeding lips.
When I was a child we were taught to never talk. My mother and my grandmother would tell me over and over that anyone could be an informer. When we saw a policeman we crossed to the other side of the street. My father was just quiet. Carefully making his way through his days as if walking through fields planted with bombs. I kept to these lessons throughout my life. My wife was raised the same as me. We worked hard, we are scientists, we wanted only to do the research the State thought important and have a simple life. We had no money. We didn’t care. Then I was assigned to work on breaking codes of the Americans. I didn’t want this work. I knew that anything that had to do with State secrets was dangerous. But I had no choice. I was given the formulas and told to run them on the intercepted messages and report the results no matter what they said, whether they made sense or not. One day last fall a message I translated read, “Beria is plotting against Stalin. The change will come next spring.” I began to tremble. I knew that if I passed this to my supervisor there would be consequences. Beria was the head of the service I was working in after all. He would know everything that went on. My stomach cramped and my head ached. I translated more messages than ever before on that day. I worked as hard and fast as I could hoping that I could bury the message in a tall stack that that my supervisor might miss it in the pile of minutia. At the end of the day I handed him my stack of messages. He asked if there was anything interesting. I told him it was all routine.
That night the door of our apartment was broken in at three in the morning. They grabbed my wife and I and brought us to the Lubyanka. I was put into a room with a one way mirror looking into the room where they held my wife. They showed me the message and asked if I remembered it. I told them no, that I had been translating so quickly that day that I hadn’t really read any of the messages. First they beat me. Then they made me watch as they beat my wife. I told them I had translated the message, that it meant nothing to me. They told me I had translated it incorrectly. That I must have been trying to create anti-Soviet propoganda. They showed me what they thought the true translation should be, “Beria is in full support of Stalin. No anti-Soviet activities are contemplated.” Then they made me watch while several men raped my wife.
I am not afraid to die. I am only unhappy that it has taken so long.
The last sentence seemed to be all that Maxim had the energy to say. He lapsed into silence and his breathing became rapid. Andrei was beginning the end stages of his data point in the experiment. Andrei’s hand was tired. He pulled the sheets up to Maxim’s neck in the only gesture of comfort he could offer. Then he picked up the clipboard and headed towards the office to add the story to the others he kept in the tin in the space he had hollowed out beneath the floorboards.
When I was a child we were taught to never talk. My mother and my grandmother would tell me over and over that anyone could be an informer. When we saw a policeman we crossed to the other side of the street. My father was just quiet. Carefully making his way through his days as if walking through fields planted with bombs. I kept to these lessons throughout my life. My wife was raised the same as me. We worked hard, we are scientists, we wanted only to do the research the State thought important and have a simple life. We had no money. We didn’t care. Then I was assigned to work on breaking codes of the Americans. I didn’t want this work. I knew that anything that had to do with State secrets was dangerous. But I had no choice. I was given the formulas and told to run them on the intercepted messages and report the results no matter what they said, whether they made sense or not. One day last fall a message I translated read, “Beria is plotting against Stalin. The change will come next spring.” I began to tremble. I knew that if I passed this to my supervisor there would be consequences. Beria was the head of the service I was working in after all. He would know everything that went on. My stomach cramped and my head ached. I translated more messages than ever before on that day. I worked as hard and fast as I could hoping that I could bury the message in a tall stack that that my supervisor might miss it in the pile of minutia. At the end of the day I handed him my stack of messages. He asked if there was anything interesting. I told him it was all routine.
That night the door of our apartment was broken in at three in the morning. They grabbed my wife and I and brought us to the Lubyanka. I was put into a room with a one way mirror looking into the room where they held my wife. They showed me the message and asked if I remembered it. I told them no, that I had been translating so quickly that day that I hadn’t really read any of the messages. First they beat me. Then they made me watch as they beat my wife. I told them I had translated the message, that it meant nothing to me. They told me I had translated it incorrectly. That I must have been trying to create anti-Soviet propoganda. They showed me what they thought the true translation should be, “Beria is in full support of Stalin. No anti-Soviet activities are contemplated.” Then they made me watch while several men raped my wife.
I am not afraid to die. I am only unhappy that it has taken so long.
The last sentence seemed to be all that Maxim had the energy to say. He lapsed into silence and his breathing became rapid. Andrei was beginning the end stages of his data point in the experiment. Andrei’s hand was tired. He pulled the sheets up to Maxim’s neck in the only gesture of comfort he could offer. Then he picked up the clipboard and headed towards the office to add the story to the others he kept in the tin in the space he had hollowed out beneath the floorboards.
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