I don’t recall us spending any time with him, really. But we must have, given the amount of time we spent at each other’s homes. Why, by the end of the summer, when you had returned from Australia and I from the U.S., I think we spent two or three straight weeks together – four days at my house, then three days at your house, followed by back to my house, and so on until school started. I remember your brothers – so sophisticated, home from boarding school, with their thick Aussie accents, girls flocking to your home to follow them around town. Whenever Matt asked me, “hey Anne, how’s it hanging?” in his jovial, cool manner, I reddened and clammed up… All I could get out was that I was in a bad mood! How much I had to learn about being appealing, let alone conversation.
Funny how I can’t remember what we did at my house, though the memories from yours are clear snapshots in my mind. We must have gone down to the pool, and showed off our dives and flips off the board. And practiced our dance routines – Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.” The image of cans of Dr. Pepper come to mind to, an American novelty in the middle of Tokyo. Dr. Pepper and mini pepperoni pizzas at the snack bar on the American Embassy Compound.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Coming Home - Judy Albietz
“Did you move anything in my room?” Lily called down the stairs to her mother who was unpacking the cooler in the kitchen.
“What? You know I never go into your room. Anyway, we were all at the cabin together. No one was here at the house. Hey, give me a hand with dinner when you’ve finished unpacking.”
“Okay Mom, but something feels different here,” Lily said as she looked around at her bed, desk, dresser and the pillows piled in the window seat. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something had changed. Through her open closet door she saw the same pile of shoes and junk on the closet floor. The same old stack of books was on the floor next to her bed. She didn’t remember her reading pillow being that shade of purple. What about the ceiling light? Was it always so bright? She turned it off and squinted into the room again. Even though it was still light out, she walked over to the other side of the bed and turned on the floor lamp. The florescent bulb glowed on and off and on again. That’s weird, she thought. The room felt hot and stuffy so she opened a window.
As she sat on the bed and unpacked her backpack, she heard something rustling in her closet. She looked over in time to see a box of gloves tumble off the top shelf. Probably just ready to fall. Probably just the breeze, she thought. But after a minute, she got up and ran out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time.
“What? You know I never go into your room. Anyway, we were all at the cabin together. No one was here at the house. Hey, give me a hand with dinner when you’ve finished unpacking.”
“Okay Mom, but something feels different here,” Lily said as she looked around at her bed, desk, dresser and the pillows piled in the window seat. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something had changed. Through her open closet door she saw the same pile of shoes and junk on the closet floor. The same old stack of books was on the floor next to her bed. She didn’t remember her reading pillow being that shade of purple. What about the ceiling light? Was it always so bright? She turned it off and squinted into the room again. Even though it was still light out, she walked over to the other side of the bed and turned on the floor lamp. The florescent bulb glowed on and off and on again. That’s weird, she thought. The room felt hot and stuffy so she opened a window.
As she sat on the bed and unpacked her backpack, she heard something rustling in her closet. She looked over in time to see a box of gloves tumble off the top shelf. Probably just ready to fall. Probably just the breeze, she thought. But after a minute, she got up and ran out of the room. She took the stairs two at a time.
Coming Home - Maria Robinson
You're in Morocco and it feels like home. The diamond patterned tiles swirl in your head as your sleep on the first night.
In your dream, you wander in and out of shadows and darkness, turning corners to see the blue of the ocean, entering doorways
filled with red carpets and gold oil lamps.
On your first morning, birds soar in the watercolored sky and when you hear the fountain beneath your window, you feel you are in paradise.
In your dream, you wander in and out of shadows and darkness, turning corners to see the blue of the ocean, entering doorways
filled with red carpets and gold oil lamps.
On your first morning, birds soar in the watercolored sky and when you hear the fountain beneath your window, you feel you are in paradise.
Insurance - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
I’ve got your back, you get mine.
Four eyes can roam the circle round.
You can see the gun that shines,
I can see the enemy’s lines.
Our hair alert as we walk,
Four-legged creature: let us stalk.
Four eyes can roam the circle round.
You can see the gun that shines,
I can see the enemy’s lines.
Our hair alert as we walk,
Four-legged creature: let us stalk.
Insurance - Kent Wright
I was preferred. It was my chest he reclined on when he had finished marauding for the evening. The black, faux-fur bag bed was just insurance in case I didn’t come home or wasn’t in bed before his bedtime. It was very, very soft, which he liked, and because it was made like a sack he could either sleep in its inky inside or on top. Still that was clearly not in the same league as the perfect nest he preferred under the comforter between my legs.
Metro, my ocicat had an evening ritual. He dozed first on my chest nose to nose with me. After a few minutes of this (quality time), he rotated 180 degrees, which left my nose alone with his tail end. He assumed this position so that he could slip deeper into his slumbers with his chin on my hands, which he wanted folded across my chest. When the fresh bay breezes slithered in the skylight above the bed and reached Metro’s back, he rose, tapped firmly on the edge of the comforter, which was raised, and disappeared to spend the remainder of the night stretched out between my legs. His own legs extended straight out from his body so that if, and this was not encouraged, I moved during a particularly vivid dream, they could be stiffened automatically to wake and warm me.
In the morning, and he was not an early riser, he would follow along the outline of my body to find his way out from his warm den. He head would pop out with his green eyes still unfocused but purring at full volume. He remained like that for a few moments while he tried to remember where he was, but finding nothing pressing on his calendar he would slowly sink down. His head came to rest in the notch of my arm with his body still hidden under the warm down.
Metro, my ocicat had an evening ritual. He dozed first on my chest nose to nose with me. After a few minutes of this (quality time), he rotated 180 degrees, which left my nose alone with his tail end. He assumed this position so that he could slip deeper into his slumbers with his chin on my hands, which he wanted folded across my chest. When the fresh bay breezes slithered in the skylight above the bed and reached Metro’s back, he rose, tapped firmly on the edge of the comforter, which was raised, and disappeared to spend the remainder of the night stretched out between my legs. His own legs extended straight out from his body so that if, and this was not encouraged, I moved during a particularly vivid dream, they could be stiffened automatically to wake and warm me.
In the morning, and he was not an early riser, he would follow along the outline of my body to find his way out from his warm den. He head would pop out with his green eyes still unfocused but purring at full volume. He remained like that for a few moments while he tried to remember where he was, but finding nothing pressing on his calendar he would slowly sink down. His head came to rest in the notch of my arm with his body still hidden under the warm down.
The Devil You Know - Bonnie Smetts
The devil is in the details, the dust devil, the devil on your shoulder. Devil, Devil, Devil. It’s the devil inside that’s got me. I keep my mouth shut so it doesn’t pop out. It sits inside, red with a long spiked tail. I never know when it might pop out.
“You’re ugly.” Ooops.
“Your drawing’s ugly.” Ooops.
“I hate you.” Ooops.
The devil’s there and I’ve been carrying it around since I was five. That’s when I first met the devil. I pointed to a girl’s ugly Thanksgiving turkey drawing. We’d all made those turkeys where you put your open hand on a sheet of paper and trace your fingers, creating that turkey shape. Ann Baker’s was ugly and I pointed to hers on the wall and somehow I touched it. I must have jumped up to touch it because they were pinned high above the green chalkboards.
The teacher swooped toward me, toward the falling turkey, and in that moment everyone knew I’d said, “Look, it’s ugly.”
I’m ashamed. I said Ann’s drawing was ugly. That isn’t me. The me who encourages everyone to draw, to sing, to write. That was the devil, a devil I hadn’t met until then. After that I didn’t say very much, I didn’t point, I didn’t gossip. I kept quiet just in case that red man inside had something to say.
“You are ugly, your art is ugly.” How awful. That’s not me, not the one I set out to be, even at five years old.
That kindergarten day I started to lie. Lying keeps the devil quiet, lying keeps him satisfied, like a dog who takes a bone from the neighborhood butcher and gnaws it noisily under a picnic table in the park, growling when children come by to look.
That’s my devil. I don’t know much about him because I’ve never given him a chance to dance around in front of me and embarrass me since Mrs. Graves looked at me in shame. Bad girl, you bad girl.
I don’t know if she knew why Ann’s turkey fell, that I’d said something and then the devil had thrown the picture down to reveal my evil, small side.
OK, devil. Devil, be gone, you’ve done your work, you did your work. I don’t need you lurking around anymore.
Maybe that’s why I hate the color red. Deviled eggs, diavolo, Mt. Diablo, diabolico, diva, divine, devotion. Devil be gone and turn into something quite different.
“You’re ugly.” Ooops.
“Your drawing’s ugly.” Ooops.
“I hate you.” Ooops.
The devil’s there and I’ve been carrying it around since I was five. That’s when I first met the devil. I pointed to a girl’s ugly Thanksgiving turkey drawing. We’d all made those turkeys where you put your open hand on a sheet of paper and trace your fingers, creating that turkey shape. Ann Baker’s was ugly and I pointed to hers on the wall and somehow I touched it. I must have jumped up to touch it because they were pinned high above the green chalkboards.
The teacher swooped toward me, toward the falling turkey, and in that moment everyone knew I’d said, “Look, it’s ugly.”
I’m ashamed. I said Ann’s drawing was ugly. That isn’t me. The me who encourages everyone to draw, to sing, to write. That was the devil, a devil I hadn’t met until then. After that I didn’t say very much, I didn’t point, I didn’t gossip. I kept quiet just in case that red man inside had something to say.
“You are ugly, your art is ugly.” How awful. That’s not me, not the one I set out to be, even at five years old.
That kindergarten day I started to lie. Lying keeps the devil quiet, lying keeps him satisfied, like a dog who takes a bone from the neighborhood butcher and gnaws it noisily under a picnic table in the park, growling when children come by to look.
That’s my devil. I don’t know much about him because I’ve never given him a chance to dance around in front of me and embarrass me since Mrs. Graves looked at me in shame. Bad girl, you bad girl.
I don’t know if she knew why Ann’s turkey fell, that I’d said something and then the devil had thrown the picture down to reveal my evil, small side.
OK, devil. Devil, be gone, you’ve done your work, you did your work. I don’t need you lurking around anymore.
Maybe that’s why I hate the color red. Deviled eggs, diavolo, Mt. Diablo, diabolico, diva, divine, devotion. Devil be gone and turn into something quite different.
The Devil You Know - Carol Arnold
The forest was utterly still, not even the caw of a blue jay. Martha stood with her back to the lake, Dr. Grizby smiling at her with his big white teeth. The world must be a pretty good place with teeth like that, Martha thought.
“Beautiful day,” he said.
“Yes. Lovely.”
Then Cede was there, standing nude, next to them. First he wasn’t there, then he was, like the forest had spit him out and this was where he landed. She hadn’t heard him approach. She hadn’t known that about him, his ability to be quiet like an Indian, something she knew how to do also. She remembered her brother telling her, “You have to walk like an Indian, so soft you don’t bend the grass,” the both of them having climbed out the bedroom window to sneak away for the night. “If Dad catches us he’ll kill you.” It was always “you” he would kill, not “me” or “us,” as if her brother was immune. She believed him, learned to walk so softly the grass remained upright under her feet. She could have run away, but never did. Her father was the devil she knew, and at least it was better than the ones she didn’t, which seemed to Martha just about everybody.
“Swimming in the buff, huh?” Dr. Grizby said. “A fine thing to do.”
What was it about this man that made everything so easy? You have horrible teeth, and a week later they’re the envy of all. A man with angel wings on his back creeps out of the woods naked and what he’s doing is a fine thing.
“Beautiful day,” he said.
“Yes. Lovely.”
Then Cede was there, standing nude, next to them. First he wasn’t there, then he was, like the forest had spit him out and this was where he landed. She hadn’t heard him approach. She hadn’t known that about him, his ability to be quiet like an Indian, something she knew how to do also. She remembered her brother telling her, “You have to walk like an Indian, so soft you don’t bend the grass,” the both of them having climbed out the bedroom window to sneak away for the night. “If Dad catches us he’ll kill you.” It was always “you” he would kill, not “me” or “us,” as if her brother was immune. She believed him, learned to walk so softly the grass remained upright under her feet. She could have run away, but never did. Her father was the devil she knew, and at least it was better than the ones she didn’t, which seemed to Martha just about everybody.
“Swimming in the buff, huh?” Dr. Grizby said. “A fine thing to do.”
What was it about this man that made everything so easy? You have horrible teeth, and a week later they’re the envy of all. A man with angel wings on his back creeps out of the woods naked and what he’s doing is a fine thing.
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