Sunday, June 7, 2009
My Mother Always Warned Me - John Fetto
Johanna’s mother always told her she’d be sorry about Hawley, and now that he was gone, it wasn’t as if she were wrong about him, but about everything. The way she cooked, the way she cleaned house, how much she stayed in, how much she went out. Hawk eyes watching her from the wheel chair; and watched her, as Johanna withdrew. She’d sit for hours watching t.v., listening to her mother talk without, without speaking. The more she withdrew, the angrier her mother got. The angry her mother got, the more she withdrew. Sometimes, she’d sit watching her mother’s mouth move with a kind of fascination, watching the muscles tighten along her mouth, and her brow wrinkle, liver spotted skin, paper thin. Eventually she would stop. Her mother’s mouth would clamp shut, and she’d just stare at her. Perhaps that was why she didn’t understand her the night her mother told her she was having a heart attack. She sat listening respectfully and then went back to watching television. It was another hour before she called for an ambulance, and when they came, the young men in blue suits, looked at her sadly, saying there was nothing that they could do. She heard what they said, and agreed that it was more appropriate that they call for a hearse, but it was hours before they came and wielded her mother out of the house. Johanna watched the black car go away, and then she made breakfast, and thought her mother was wrong. She didn’t feel sorry at all.
My Mother Always Warned Me - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
My mother always warned me
to talk about sports with boys – she hated sports --
to pluck my eyebrows – hers were black as clouds --
to keep surfaces smooth – no outbursts, no smart mouth.
Her rage seeped sideways into rivulets of wit,
runnels of sarcasm, ripples of silliness,
diverting the flow of conversation.
`Why are you always poking into things?’’
This from a woman who came of age
in the early 20th-century American South
when brilliance in women and smarts in girls
embarassed the family, weakened the men,
requiring courtesy to a fault, a fault line,
even. But the women knew each other
for their shining minds, writing letters
and books, their stars underground
until the times eased, and she went north.
My mother told me some sweetest times
came while sitting, knitting, beside
a husband football-struck,
hearing not a violent game,
but the tick-tock of her happy marriage.
to talk about sports with boys – she hated sports --
to pluck my eyebrows – hers were black as clouds --
to keep surfaces smooth – no outbursts, no smart mouth.
Her rage seeped sideways into rivulets of wit,
runnels of sarcasm, ripples of silliness,
diverting the flow of conversation.
`Why are you always poking into things?’’
This from a woman who came of age
in the early 20th-century American South
when brilliance in women and smarts in girls
embarassed the family, weakened the men,
requiring courtesy to a fault, a fault line,
even. But the women knew each other
for their shining minds, writing letters
and books, their stars underground
until the times eased, and she went north.
My mother told me some sweetest times
came while sitting, knitting, beside
a husband football-struck,
hearing not a violent game,
but the tick-tock of her happy marriage.
Confessing - Camilla Basham
You want to hear me confessing? Is that what you want? I’m not sure where to begin. Do I tell you that I use to fake injuries to get out of gym class in high school, or that I slept with the lights on until I was sixteen; that I secretly ate our dog’s food just to know what it would taste like if we ever had to eat it in an emergency, or that I once cheated on a math exam in sixth grade? Or, do you want to know that once, when I was suppose to be in church I met him in the alleyway? Do you want me to tell you that I lost my virginity that day? Do you really want to know that I set in a cold sterile room alone as the man in the white coat told me I must have been a bad girl? Do you want me to confess to you how cold the table was, how deafening the silence was, how lonely and still the time in space? Shall I tell you how I reached for the nurse’s hand but she ignored me; how I cried but no one seamed to hear me? Would you care to hear how the doctor, with a smile on his face, held up tiny fragments to my face and said, “I think we got it all”? Shall I confess that my legs gave out when I stood and that I was lead to a tiny cold sterile room, and left alone, bloody and shaky? Shall I confess that I watched my childhood innocence disappear like the white of my hospital gown as it changed to deepest red? Shall I confess that I have never recovered?
Confessing - Julie Farrar
A small black rock, polished smooth by the rubbing of the waves on the beach, sits in a small ring box in the drawer next to my bed. It had been placed carefully in my hand, a memento of the favorite place of one I had thought was my soulmate. In another room in a satchel filled with letters from my mother and grandmother, a random assortment of birthday cards, and cryptic news clippings my father sent me at college are one letter that says I’m missed, a handwritten Christmas message on a 3X5 notecard, written by the right one at the wrong time. A scrap of paper with a work schedule scribbled in still-familiar handwriting. The Parker T-ball Jotter (blue ink, burgundy casing) that has been the only pen I’ve used for writing important things. The first I bought lasted ten years because it had more endurance and smooth ways than the man who introduced me to it. I return to it again and again. If I ever make anything of this writing thing, then he’ll have something to do with it because he taught me the sensuous interface of paper and writing implement.
Dorm rooms, apartment to apartment, house to house. They’ve been packed and unpacked, moved from place to place as my life progressed. Insignificant enough, they’ll be casually tossed aside by family when I’m gone. Like the more primal cultures that believe the spirit is stolen when they’re photographed, I keep bits of my history protected from the light of the modern confessional culture. They’re not a trail of breadcrumbs so that I can find my way back to those times and places. These small talismans make me who I am, but I have no compulsion to share their stories with the man I’ve slept next to for 25 years. Something keeps me from peeling back all of my layers and letting him know me like the back of his hand. I preserve a little something for myself.
Dorm rooms, apartment to apartment, house to house. They’ve been packed and unpacked, moved from place to place as my life progressed. Insignificant enough, they’ll be casually tossed aside by family when I’m gone. Like the more primal cultures that believe the spirit is stolen when they’re photographed, I keep bits of my history protected from the light of the modern confessional culture. They’re not a trail of breadcrumbs so that I can find my way back to those times and places. These small talismans make me who I am, but I have no compulsion to share their stories with the man I’ve slept next to for 25 years. Something keeps me from peeling back all of my layers and letting him know me like the back of his hand. I preserve a little something for myself.
As For God - Bonnie Smetts
I’m done yelling at Roy, I’ve just used up every last bit of energy I got with him. I can see something’s changed in him and I got no hold on that change. He’s on that path that I’d seen my momma on. He’s drinking and he’s crazy. Seems like it wasn’t that long ago that he’d been so sweet with me. Now all I gotta do is let him go, I’m mean not like when I said I wasn’t gonna be loving him. That was easy compared to right now.
I’m sitting outside his trailer in my car. I’ve been sitting here long enough that it seems like daylight not the middle of the night. The bugs are chirping and an owl, didn’t know we even had owls right here. I’m surrounded by little animals I can’t see, chirping and hooting and sounds of tiny things moving in the woods. Only light is the one Roy’s got on in his living room. Probably be on until morning, him passed out where I left him.
And I’m surrounded all the tiny, noisy creatures and here I am sitting in my big shiny Curtain’s car. I wish I could cry, but I can’t. Tears are for when you can’t do nothing else. I got lots of things I can do, I guess. But right this minute, everyone’s gone, practically. My momma, Sissy, Roy, and my Baptists, my Curtains. As for god, I’m hoping that tiny bit of what the Curtains told me about god is true, even if a tiny bit. Somebody’s there all the time, bigger than anything you or me can imagine. Something’s that inside of me and outside of me, and even inside that owl hooting away not too far away. And maybe the car’s got a tiny bit of that god too. I’m hoping that god is inside the car and along the road that I’m gonna be driving home.
It’s the only reason I start the car, to see if I can feel god as I’m driving along. I’m creeping through the dark and I don’t turn on the lights and I got my window down to see if I can feel god. The slower I go, the more I think I can. I can hear the tires rolling over the rocks of the road and I smell that summer blooming vine and I think I feel god. I’m breathing in what I’m hoping is god, I’m hanging my head out the window, gulping in god. And all fof a sudden, shitgoddamit, what the fuck, I swerve off the road almost into a ditch. Some crazy hillbilly zoomed past me and almost taking off the back of my car.
Shit, I don’t have my lights on. I sit there, half off the road, trying to get my breath. Rawling, you are so stupid, girl. You’re driving this big car and you almostt get yourself run over because you think you’re feeling god.
I straighten up, sit up, turn the car back on, and the lights, and drive straight on home.
I’m sitting outside his trailer in my car. I’ve been sitting here long enough that it seems like daylight not the middle of the night. The bugs are chirping and an owl, didn’t know we even had owls right here. I’m surrounded by little animals I can’t see, chirping and hooting and sounds of tiny things moving in the woods. Only light is the one Roy’s got on in his living room. Probably be on until morning, him passed out where I left him.
And I’m surrounded all the tiny, noisy creatures and here I am sitting in my big shiny Curtain’s car. I wish I could cry, but I can’t. Tears are for when you can’t do nothing else. I got lots of things I can do, I guess. But right this minute, everyone’s gone, practically. My momma, Sissy, Roy, and my Baptists, my Curtains. As for god, I’m hoping that tiny bit of what the Curtains told me about god is true, even if a tiny bit. Somebody’s there all the time, bigger than anything you or me can imagine. Something’s that inside of me and outside of me, and even inside that owl hooting away not too far away. And maybe the car’s got a tiny bit of that god too. I’m hoping that god is inside the car and along the road that I’m gonna be driving home.
It’s the only reason I start the car, to see if I can feel god as I’m driving along. I’m creeping through the dark and I don’t turn on the lights and I got my window down to see if I can feel god. The slower I go, the more I think I can. I can hear the tires rolling over the rocks of the road and I smell that summer blooming vine and I think I feel god. I’m breathing in what I’m hoping is god, I’m hanging my head out the window, gulping in god. And all fof a sudden, shitgoddamit, what the fuck, I swerve off the road almost into a ditch. Some crazy hillbilly zoomed past me and almost taking off the back of my car.
Shit, I don’t have my lights on. I sit there, half off the road, trying to get my breath. Rawling, you are so stupid, girl. You’re driving this big car and you almostt get yourself run over because you think you’re feeling god.
I straighten up, sit up, turn the car back on, and the lights, and drive straight on home.
As For God - Melody Cryns
It was a frigid, foggy Sunday morning in San Francisco when many people were still snuggled and warm in their beds – except maybe a few who went to early Mass. I was running down the streets of my neighborhood – between Arguello and Fifth Avenue, throwing newspapers on to porches, wearing only a light windbreaker. But the heavy bulky newspapers stuffed into the burlap newspaper bag both in front of me behind kept me warm enough.
This morning as I slowed down and trudged down Hugo Street, I was mad and getting even madder by the minute. I wasn’t supposed to do this paper route alone – ever. Especially on a Sunday morning when the San Francisco Chronicle papers were twice or three times heavier than usual. It wasn’t fair. My brother Michael was supposed to help, but would he? No! He wouldn’t get out of his warm bed at all, and I knew we’d be dead meat and lose our paper route if somebody didn’t show up on Fifth and Irving Streets by 5:30 a.m.
It was still dark when I left the flat – no one was awake yet except me. Michael kept yelling at me to “Leave me alone, go away!” when I attempted to wake him up. I should have poured cold water on him that’s what I should have done. I grabbed one of the papers that I had put together and thrust it on to a porch as hard as I could. The paper didn’t quite make it to the top and some of the advertisements managed to fly out even with the rubber band on it.
“Oh Damn!” I knew I wasn’t supposed to say it, but I didn’t care. This was child abuse – but my mother didn’t force us to have the route or anything. We all wanted it, me my brother and sister. But if I had known this was going to happen, I’m not sure I’d have gone for it.
Finally, smelling like ink and newspaper, I made it back to the corner of Fifth and Irving, with still a couple of papers to spare – hopefully I hadn’t forgotten anybody on the route. Anthony Lee, a slim, kind of short boy who was at least three years older than me stood there and smiled – like a big Cheshire cat.
“Hey you,” he said. “You doing paper route alone today?”
“Yeah, and I wasn’t supposed to!”
“That’s okay – you strong girl, you good girl!” Anthony patted me on the head. Even with the way he stared at me all the time and his weird accent, Anthony Lee was pretty cool. Sometimes we’d talk for an hour or two, standing on that corner, about anything and everything. He always had an opinion about stuff, like about the philosophy of work and life. This morning I wasn’t in the mood for it.
That’s when I heard the music playing – it was guitar strumming, but not quite the same as the guitar strumming I heard in Golden Gate Park and on street corners all the time – where the heck was it coming from?
“Do you hear the music?” I looked at Anthony.”
“You crazy girl, hahaha! Just kidding. Yeah, I hear music – from over there!”
I looked across the street to where Anthony Lee pointed – at St. John of God Church, a small Catholic church that looked more like a chapel – guitar music and loud singing came spilling out. I listened, mesmerized. It sounded so good – but no! They don’t play guitars at church! No way! That was unheard of. All I ever heard in a church was an organ and a bunch of people singing, like real formal, in a choir. This sounded like the kind of music my wonderful music teacher at school played, Miss Evans – like folk music, and I could hear the beat of the tambourine and everyone sounded so happy singing, “It’s a loonnnggg road to freedom winding steep and high!”
“I just can’t believe it! I’ve gotta go in there. C’mon Anthony, let’s go!”
“Oh, I’m not going in there – I’m Buddhist!” Anthony smiled.
I looked at his round, kind face and his dark, almond-shaped eyes. Anthony was pretty cool.
“What difference does it make? Who cares? C’mon!”
“Okay, okay, you win. Hope they don’t kick me out!” he joked as we sauntered across the street and I opened the church door and was greeted by beautiful sounds of guitar music, singing, tambourines playing and the smell of incense. The church was packed with people, and some even stood on the sidelines – I’d never seen any church this crowded before in my life. St. Agnes was a big church and so was St. Anne’s and St. Ignatius, but this was tiny. Everyone sang and the music played and even the priest up on the altar was totally getting into the music. Some people even stomped their feet and clapped.
It was so wonderful and amazing. People actually moved over so Anthony and me could have spots to sit in the very back. I started clapping and singing along to the music too, and I think, just maybe, I could hear Anthony sing too.
This morning as I slowed down and trudged down Hugo Street, I was mad and getting even madder by the minute. I wasn’t supposed to do this paper route alone – ever. Especially on a Sunday morning when the San Francisco Chronicle papers were twice or three times heavier than usual. It wasn’t fair. My brother Michael was supposed to help, but would he? No! He wouldn’t get out of his warm bed at all, and I knew we’d be dead meat and lose our paper route if somebody didn’t show up on Fifth and Irving Streets by 5:30 a.m.
It was still dark when I left the flat – no one was awake yet except me. Michael kept yelling at me to “Leave me alone, go away!” when I attempted to wake him up. I should have poured cold water on him that’s what I should have done. I grabbed one of the papers that I had put together and thrust it on to a porch as hard as I could. The paper didn’t quite make it to the top and some of the advertisements managed to fly out even with the rubber band on it.
“Oh Damn!” I knew I wasn’t supposed to say it, but I didn’t care. This was child abuse – but my mother didn’t force us to have the route or anything. We all wanted it, me my brother and sister. But if I had known this was going to happen, I’m not sure I’d have gone for it.
Finally, smelling like ink and newspaper, I made it back to the corner of Fifth and Irving, with still a couple of papers to spare – hopefully I hadn’t forgotten anybody on the route. Anthony Lee, a slim, kind of short boy who was at least three years older than me stood there and smiled – like a big Cheshire cat.
“Hey you,” he said. “You doing paper route alone today?”
“Yeah, and I wasn’t supposed to!”
“That’s okay – you strong girl, you good girl!” Anthony patted me on the head. Even with the way he stared at me all the time and his weird accent, Anthony Lee was pretty cool. Sometimes we’d talk for an hour or two, standing on that corner, about anything and everything. He always had an opinion about stuff, like about the philosophy of work and life. This morning I wasn’t in the mood for it.
That’s when I heard the music playing – it was guitar strumming, but not quite the same as the guitar strumming I heard in Golden Gate Park and on street corners all the time – where the heck was it coming from?
“Do you hear the music?” I looked at Anthony.”
“You crazy girl, hahaha! Just kidding. Yeah, I hear music – from over there!”
I looked across the street to where Anthony Lee pointed – at St. John of God Church, a small Catholic church that looked more like a chapel – guitar music and loud singing came spilling out. I listened, mesmerized. It sounded so good – but no! They don’t play guitars at church! No way! That was unheard of. All I ever heard in a church was an organ and a bunch of people singing, like real formal, in a choir. This sounded like the kind of music my wonderful music teacher at school played, Miss Evans – like folk music, and I could hear the beat of the tambourine and everyone sounded so happy singing, “It’s a loonnnggg road to freedom winding steep and high!”
“I just can’t believe it! I’ve gotta go in there. C’mon Anthony, let’s go!”
“Oh, I’m not going in there – I’m Buddhist!” Anthony smiled.
I looked at his round, kind face and his dark, almond-shaped eyes. Anthony was pretty cool.
“What difference does it make? Who cares? C’mon!”
“Okay, okay, you win. Hope they don’t kick me out!” he joked as we sauntered across the street and I opened the church door and was greeted by beautiful sounds of guitar music, singing, tambourines playing and the smell of incense. The church was packed with people, and some even stood on the sidelines – I’d never seen any church this crowded before in my life. St. Agnes was a big church and so was St. Anne’s and St. Ignatius, but this was tiny. Everyone sang and the music played and even the priest up on the altar was totally getting into the music. Some people even stomped their feet and clapped.
It was so wonderful and amazing. People actually moved over so Anthony and me could have spots to sit in the very back. I started clapping and singing along to the music too, and I think, just maybe, I could hear Anthony sing too.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Man Once Told Me - Camilla Basham
A man once told me "You know dying is the most embarrassing thing that can ever happen to you, because someone's got to take care of all your details". It was a strange opening line, but at first glance I could tell he was a strange man. I had just run into someone carrying drinks and caused them to go crashing to the ground and the look of embarrassment on my face was obvious. The man who uttered those words stood before me in a smoke filled room in a warehouse in the bowels of Chelsea.
Maybe the smoke caressing my nostrils helped it sound more profound then it really was, or it could have been the martini staring up at me, but I understood exactly what he was saying. "I imagine you're right. I would just die of embarrassment if I died." I said with one of those ridiculous little girl giggles that women seem to resort to when alcohol and men are involved.
Our words were in an audible wrestling match with the pitter and patter rhythms behind the drone of the tune "Venus in Furs" coming from the three men and one woman commanding the dimly lit stage all clad in leather, ripped shirts and blood shot eyes. He laughed wearily at my attempt at humor and then said, "You remind me of someone I once knew, but not in this lifetime; plus she lived inside of a TV." Unsure of what to make of it I just smiled.
He pointed to a painting on the wall near us and I tried to turn to look without bumping into the swaying crowd, but despite my efforts managed to cause a mini title wave in my martini glass that landed down the front of my dress. He didn't seem to notice. The painting was bold, stunning, familiar and strange at the same time. "Oh, wow, it’s fabulous. Who knew a single banana could make such a bold statement." I yelled over the music lifting my now half empty glass to my lips.
Maybe the smoke caressing my nostrils helped it sound more profound then it really was, or it could have been the martini staring up at me, but I understood exactly what he was saying. "I imagine you're right. I would just die of embarrassment if I died." I said with one of those ridiculous little girl giggles that women seem to resort to when alcohol and men are involved.
Our words were in an audible wrestling match with the pitter and patter rhythms behind the drone of the tune "Venus in Furs" coming from the three men and one woman commanding the dimly lit stage all clad in leather, ripped shirts and blood shot eyes. He laughed wearily at my attempt at humor and then said, "You remind me of someone I once knew, but not in this lifetime; plus she lived inside of a TV." Unsure of what to make of it I just smiled.
He pointed to a painting on the wall near us and I tried to turn to look without bumping into the swaying crowd, but despite my efforts managed to cause a mini title wave in my martini glass that landed down the front of my dress. He didn't seem to notice. The painting was bold, stunning, familiar and strange at the same time. "Oh, wow, it’s fabulous. Who knew a single banana could make such a bold statement." I yelled over the music lifting my now half empty glass to my lips.
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