She would let him stay on the couch. What else could she do? She had fallen for the pups, knew if he left, as he said, he would “take the dogs with him.” She watched his slow breathing, lying there asleep on the cabin’s plaid colonial sofa, the pups rising on his chest with each inhale, lowering with each exhale, a pile of sweet contentment. What else could she do?
A thin ray of sun tumbled through the cabin’s only window, making a stripe on the knotty pine wall next to the kitchenette before stretching across the floor. Martha loved this time of morning, the only time light from outside directly penetrated the cabin’s brooding interior. The wind had died and all was quiet except for the raucous shrieks of jays. The thunder and lightening of the night before had produced little rain, and searing heat was expected again by afternoon.
She had tried to get him to put his clothes on but he had refused, instead getting in her bed and snuggling under the down quilt she had brought from home. His blonde hair streaked across the pillow like wheat tossed in the wind. He looked nothing like an ax murderer. When he closed his mouth he resembled Jesus, at least the Jesus of her Catholic Sunday school, the thin, fair, blue-eyed man with the benign expression she had gone to sleep dreaming of every night as a child, the one whose presence blocked the tumult outside her bedroom door, the voices of her parents at first merely raised, then so loud and angry as the night progressed they were a kind of thunder in themselves.
Martha had at first continued to sit on the bed, but as the booming of the electrical storm got closer and closer her greater fear of physical annihilation overcame her slightly milder fear of the strangeness of this man who controlled the lives of the pups, and she climbed in bed next to him.
They lay there awhile, then began to talk. “Why did you memorize that passage from Crime and Punishment?” she asked, cringing at the recollection - I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open….I shall tread in the sticky warm blood. “Why that quote?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Appealed to me, I guess.” He was on his side now, studying her face, which was turned toward the ceiling. She wondered whether the mascara she had applied that morning had worn off, whether her small eyes looked round and deep the way she always wanted them to, or like beady marbles, the way she hated.
“Why did you take off your clothes?”
“It was hot,” he said.
It was then that it happened, a soft shuffling of his body toward her, the pups being moved out of the way down toward the bottom of the bed. Martha closed her eyes and just as she had done as a child, pretended it was Jesus lying next to her, only this time he was reaching under her sweatshirt and stroking her breasts. Jesus hadn’t needed dental work, did not have a tattoo of angel wings on his back, had clean hair, had certainly not known anything about Russian literature, but for this moment, with mighty blasts of thunder and lightening raining down upon them, the cabin shaking furiously, the dishes rattling in the cupboards, she allowed herself to believe that none of that mattered, that here was a boy/man who needed her desperately, and when had anyone ever felt that way about her before?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Doing It Alone - Kent Wright
Roger walked slowly up the slight hill from the parking garage towards the office building. Near the entrance two women in blue scrubs stood under an awning hunched against the wind smoking. Roger puffed against the incline. Inside, the lobby had a feeling of efficiency that made Roger wince and was decorated in art he despised. Art meant to sooth, but art that deadened the spirit instead. He wished this time, however, it distracted him from thoughts that had refused to rest since he had given in and called this doctor. He’d tried to avoid that call by reminding himself that a symptom or two didn’t mean anything. It hadn’t worked. He didn’t know why he got so winded every time he went up stairs now or why the cough that used to greet him each morning now stayed with him all day. The symptoms had scared him enough finally to make the appointment in the office four floors above.
The soft ding of the elevator sounded. Roger let a man in a wheelchair pushed by what must be his daughter get on first. There was a pregnant woman holding hands with a man too. What had nagged at the edges of Roger’s thoughts now stepped into full view. He was doing this alone. There was no one to call. No one to tell he was coming here or who might have offered to drive him. He still had names and telephone numbers, but not the courage to use them. The bridges had all been burned. Not by huge conflagrations that could have been seen for miles and drawn hordes of the curious to the spectacle. Roger had burned them with the flame of countless matches struck on the abrasive wall of his sarcasm. He had always managed to convince himself that everyone knew it was harmless wit. Wit no more hurtful than being struck by a Wiffle ball. He was wrong. Those endless bits of razor wire spat from his mouth eventually bloodied and dispersed his friends, his only sister and even her son. Roger had called Pete two days before the appointment. Pete was cold and didn’t say why he couldn’t help. Why hadn’t he even asked why he was going to the doctor Roger had wondered when he hung up. He’d always ribbed Pete, but Hell, Pete was his favorite. He had continued called him Perfect Pete long after everyone else had stopped. Roger had forgotten the last time he had seen his nephew. It was three years ago; the first time Pete had brought his partner to Thanksgiving. He’d forgotten slapping his nephew on the shoulder as they sat down at the table and saying, “Guess I’ll have to call you Perfect Pete the Perfect Homo from now on."
The elevator emptied. Roger stood unsure for a moment as the doors closed behind him figuring out which way to go to find office 420. As he headed towards the doctor’s office he suddenly remembered the expression on Pete’s face. He must have known I was joking for Christ’s sake Roger thought as he pushed on the door marked 420.
The soft ding of the elevator sounded. Roger let a man in a wheelchair pushed by what must be his daughter get on first. There was a pregnant woman holding hands with a man too. What had nagged at the edges of Roger’s thoughts now stepped into full view. He was doing this alone. There was no one to call. No one to tell he was coming here or who might have offered to drive him. He still had names and telephone numbers, but not the courage to use them. The bridges had all been burned. Not by huge conflagrations that could have been seen for miles and drawn hordes of the curious to the spectacle. Roger had burned them with the flame of countless matches struck on the abrasive wall of his sarcasm. He had always managed to convince himself that everyone knew it was harmless wit. Wit no more hurtful than being struck by a Wiffle ball. He was wrong. Those endless bits of razor wire spat from his mouth eventually bloodied and dispersed his friends, his only sister and even her son. Roger had called Pete two days before the appointment. Pete was cold and didn’t say why he couldn’t help. Why hadn’t he even asked why he was going to the doctor Roger had wondered when he hung up. He’d always ribbed Pete, but Hell, Pete was his favorite. He had continued called him Perfect Pete long after everyone else had stopped. Roger had forgotten the last time he had seen his nephew. It was three years ago; the first time Pete had brought his partner to Thanksgiving. He’d forgotten slapping his nephew on the shoulder as they sat down at the table and saying, “Guess I’ll have to call you Perfect Pete the Perfect Homo from now on."
The elevator emptied. Roger stood unsure for a moment as the doors closed behind him figuring out which way to go to find office 420. As he headed towards the doctor’s office he suddenly remembered the expression on Pete’s face. He must have known I was joking for Christ’s sake Roger thought as he pushed on the door marked 420.
This Was The Room Where It All Happened - Elizabeth Weld Nolan
The great room spans the front of the house. The floor to ceiling windows, cut into rectangles, bring the crystal-flecked ocean inside. The walls are streaked with horizontal brushstrokes the color of the water. A great yellow Chinese rug stretches from the grand piano to the fireplace where a huge red and green abstract swirls over the mantel. Peach-colored couches and chairs break the grand space into groups where you want to sink down, have a drink and talk forever. Or nap.
You can feel the bones of the family here. It is not my house.
I was married in it, dancing in circles to the Greek band while fog advanced outside. The damp air gave promise to the saying my mother told me about rain on a wedding day: A wet knot is hard to untie. All the other siblings of my young bridegroom married here too.
Parties, grandchildren, sailing talk. The first death. The second. The family gathered to honor each. Off the great room, in the bedroom, the mistress of the house died. The next generation moved in. Her grandchild was born the next year in that room. A decade later, her daughter died in the same room on the same day. Everything that can happen in human life has happened here.
Soon, it will be sold.
You can feel the bones of the family here. It is not my house.
I was married in it, dancing in circles to the Greek band while fog advanced outside. The damp air gave promise to the saying my mother told me about rain on a wedding day: A wet knot is hard to untie. All the other siblings of my young bridegroom married here too.
Parties, grandchildren, sailing talk. The first death. The second. The family gathered to honor each. Off the great room, in the bedroom, the mistress of the house died. The next generation moved in. Her grandchild was born the next year in that room. A decade later, her daughter died in the same room on the same day. Everything that can happen in human life has happened here.
Soon, it will be sold.
Dog Days - Nancy Cech
Dog days of summer. Let sleeping dogs lie. Work like a dog. Three dog night. A man’s best friend. Doggone it. What is it about all these idioms that revolve around our best friends? And many of them don’t make sense. Work like a dog? They’re not exactly known for their industrious ways. Doggone it? Really when did dogs ever god damm anything. They roll with the punches Let sleeping dogs lie? Only when you’re trying to sneak around the guard dogs. Three dog night? It takes more than three to take the edge off the cold, believe me. So they’ve made their mark on our language as easy as lifting a leg. These four legged creatures that can communicate what they need with the lift of an eyebrow. They have become our teachers of living in the now and finding joy in the small things. They understand forgiveness and love like no other being on the planet. Our own Doggy Lamas.
And we have elevated these teachers to be members of the family. Dogs today have names like Sam, Trixie and Alexandra, the same names we give children. Now their stature has moved up to son and daughter. Our culture has made a celebrity out of a man who likely would have ended up lazing around in a wife-beater drinking beer, a tough jerk who bosses everyone around. Instead he is a millionaire that we revere for whispering to dogs. There’s special bacon flavored bottled water, a pet airlines. Dog hotels. Scented poop bags. Doggy ice cream trucks. How did this happen? How did they reverse the order of things to end up on top? And without us really noticing.
And we have elevated these teachers to be members of the family. Dogs today have names like Sam, Trixie and Alexandra, the same names we give children. Now their stature has moved up to son and daughter. Our culture has made a celebrity out of a man who likely would have ended up lazing around in a wife-beater drinking beer, a tough jerk who bosses everyone around. Instead he is a millionaire that we revere for whispering to dogs. There’s special bacon flavored bottled water, a pet airlines. Dog hotels. Scented poop bags. Doggy ice cream trucks. How did this happen? How did they reverse the order of things to end up on top? And without us really noticing.
Dog Days - Maria Robinson
Summer in New York City deepened into the fierce heat of August. Martha exited the subway near Brooklyn's Prospect Park and could smell the leaves and hear the twitching of irritable insects. Under a wide straw hat in a long linen dress, she walked in wide lazy steps towards the meadow with a wicker basket hooked over her arm.
Perhaps this is how an August day was spent in 1911, she thought. An escape from the tall apartments of the City, rowing on the lake and a picnic even with sweat soaking through undergarments. Perhaps this was what luxury meant to those without the means to travel far or a way to move up in the world.
She spread a muted Indian bedspread under a tree, sat and drank a few swigs from her thermos of iced tea.
Perhaps this is how an August day was spent in 1911, she thought. An escape from the tall apartments of the City, rowing on the lake and a picnic even with sweat soaking through undergarments. Perhaps this was what luxury meant to those without the means to travel far or a way to move up in the world.
She spread a muted Indian bedspread under a tree, sat and drank a few swigs from her thermos of iced tea.
Dog Days - Judy Albietz
He showed up the second day of school during lunch hour. Lily was sitting by herself on the dried-out patchy lawn outside the back door. She dug into her backpack for the sandwich she brought from home. There was no way she’d eat with everyone else at one of those horrible fast food places near the school.
Chewing her peanut butter and banana sandwich, Lily saw the shadow of the dog out of the corner of her eye. When she looked up, he was standing about ten feet away from her. He must have come from around the corner of the building. He sat down and cocked his head to the left. His brown and gold coat shimmered in the hot mid-day sun. He wore a large red collar and looked harmless.
She stood up to get a better look. He was huge, about four feet to the shoulders. She had never seen such a large dog, or had she? He gave a short, friendly bark and she felt a wave of familiar-something go up and down her spine. “Who are you?” Lily asked as she stared at him.
“Hi Lily!” a soft voice called. She turned around to see who had come out the door and called to her. No one was there. Her heart racing, Lily felt dizzy and sat back down, reaching for the comforting blue stone she always wore around her neck. Finally catching her breath, Lily looked back over to the dog who had now laid down and put his head between his paws. The small stone began to vibrate in her hand. Lily jumped to her feet as she felt a flood of recognition and happiness wash over her.
“Sam!” she called out, leaping to throw her arms around him like she had done so many times before. “How could I have forgotten you?”
Chewing her peanut butter and banana sandwich, Lily saw the shadow of the dog out of the corner of her eye. When she looked up, he was standing about ten feet away from her. He must have come from around the corner of the building. He sat down and cocked his head to the left. His brown and gold coat shimmered in the hot mid-day sun. He wore a large red collar and looked harmless.
She stood up to get a better look. He was huge, about four feet to the shoulders. She had never seen such a large dog, or had she? He gave a short, friendly bark and she felt a wave of familiar-something go up and down her spine. “Who are you?” Lily asked as she stared at him.
“Hi Lily!” a soft voice called. She turned around to see who had come out the door and called to her. No one was there. Her heart racing, Lily felt dizzy and sat back down, reaching for the comforting blue stone she always wore around her neck. Finally catching her breath, Lily looked back over to the dog who had now laid down and put his head between his paws. The small stone began to vibrate in her hand. Lily jumped to her feet as she felt a flood of recognition and happiness wash over her.
“Sam!” she called out, leaping to throw her arms around him like she had done so many times before. “How could I have forgotten you?”
Paradise - Lisa Faulkner
Bali. Tahiti. Hawaii. Garden of Eden. Eve. Lilith. Goddesses. Saraswati. Pele. Hula and Ori. I wish I could fly away to Tahiti or even Hawaii now. In need of a break and restoration after the long years of teaching and now sleep and long month of being sick. But I guess I’m getting to go in a small way every Saturday now that I am finally taking hula basics and ori basics. Ori is hard. Really hard. And awkward. The stance doesn’t agree with my body. Touching my feet at the toes and ankles makes it nearly impossible to do the fast hip circles- fa’arapu. I almost skipped ori this week, but since we focused on technique during hula since our teacher - kumu Mahea was back from her travels I decided to stay. Highlight Keaho said I have good hip isolation, just top moving my shoulders. Guess I have to slow down. The prior week she said when we start moving our shoulders it means we’re moving too fast for our hips. It’s funny, but true, our shoulders become like a little motor or something helping to power the hips. I’ve loved Tahitian dance -ori- since I first saw it on Moorea. It drew me in with it’s raw power and sexuality. I knew it was hard. The men, women and girls sweat and glisten when doing it. Partly cuz of the heat and humidity there. Partly cuz it is a damn good cardio workout. The little ones are the most amazing to watch. There hips move as if they came out the womb doing it and never stopped because there moms taught them by practicing while pregnant. There hips move so fast they blur just like a hummingbirds wings. I thought hula was boring by comparison.
Tahitian dance is like classic rock or hip-hop, while hula like a soft rock ballad. Beautiful, but quiet. A gentle rain shower that begins so quietly you’re not even sure it’s raining. Whereas Tahitian is a powerful thunderstorm and downpour. When I had my first taste of learning hula at the Aloha music camp I realized it’s much harder than it looks too. And now that I am three weeks in, I adore it. And want to be like Auntie Irene @ 93 spontaneously & proudly swaying to hehekouaka. But first I need to practice more. The kaholo alone has so much to think about. Smaller steps. Wrist below the knuckles. Arms at breast level. Bent arm not crossing center. Down then up as step. Hips swaying. Shoulders back. Chest up. Look over arms. We haven’t even got to the smiling part. Moana used to chastise me to smile. I hear her as I do it now, knowing I have that stern look of concentration so I try to smile and relax and have fun as I am learning. She’d be proud.
Tahitian dance is like classic rock or hip-hop, while hula like a soft rock ballad. Beautiful, but quiet. A gentle rain shower that begins so quietly you’re not even sure it’s raining. Whereas Tahitian is a powerful thunderstorm and downpour. When I had my first taste of learning hula at the Aloha music camp I realized it’s much harder than it looks too. And now that I am three weeks in, I adore it. And want to be like Auntie Irene @ 93 spontaneously & proudly swaying to hehekouaka. But first I need to practice more. The kaholo alone has so much to think about. Smaller steps. Wrist below the knuckles. Arms at breast level. Bent arm not crossing center. Down then up as step. Hips swaying. Shoulders back. Chest up. Look over arms. We haven’t even got to the smiling part. Moana used to chastise me to smile. I hear her as I do it now, knowing I have that stern look of concentration so I try to smile and relax and have fun as I am learning. She’d be proud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
