Auburn hair, casually tossed, playing with fire
She doesn't know how dangerous she is
Or perhaps she does.
Long, but not too long, red fingernails
Tattoo her intentions on the side of her glass
The amber colored liquid might be all that's left
Of her previous victims
Or it might just be sweet courage.
Wasn't I in love when I walked in here?
Was I not just out to get some cooling air?
Did I not intend to set things right this evening?
Could I not defend myself 'gainst curly auburn hair?
She says her name is Tess
I think of Thomas Hardy
Who gave up writing prose when things got rough
I also think of someone waiting for me
To return although she said she'd had enough
Is what I'm feeling now misplaced desire?
Enchantment, lust, or could I be in love?
For her, it seems inconsequential as she tosses back
Those tresses once more and catches
A glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar.
Yes, she knows she has the power
Yes, she'd like to claim another conquest
Yes, I'd like to...
No, I can't. There's someone waiting for me,
But I copy down her number just in case.
I walk home alone with firm resolve
And find her sleeping on the couch
This is not the first time this has happened
We always have been able to move on
But not tonight.
There was something in the air this evening
That blew away the options of repairing
Something that was always here
Is gone.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
In a Broken Mirror
In shards I see other days,
And then a time of trenchant smiles.
You backed away with graceful gestures
Leaving only these milestones,
Like puzzle pieces.
I will not replace, cannot replace
The shattered mirror
Containing reflections of the past
I cannot, will not otherwise
See, nor touch, nor hear or
Hold.
All lines leading to the point of impact
Just as the currents derive from a single source
Pressing on
Belying the undertow.
Yet, I enter the water.
I cannot deny, will not deny myself
The pleasure of wading
Through our history together.
The glass is broken.
The frame is solid
A very good wood,
It's a matter of containment.
This is unfinished business.
I stand very close to be able to see
Between the lines
The texture of my cheek while shaving and
Behind me it seems something shadowy moves
I turn to catch sight of it before it is gone
But it was never there.
In the broken mirror my many eyes reprimand me
I would apologize
Admit you were right and I not
If I thought it would unbreak the glass.
And then a time of trenchant smiles.
You backed away with graceful gestures
Leaving only these milestones,
Like puzzle pieces.
I will not replace, cannot replace
The shattered mirror
Containing reflections of the past
I cannot, will not otherwise
See, nor touch, nor hear or
Hold.
All lines leading to the point of impact
Just as the currents derive from a single source
Pressing on
Belying the undertow.
Yet, I enter the water.
I cannot deny, will not deny myself
The pleasure of wading
Through our history together.
The glass is broken.
The frame is solid
A very good wood,
It's a matter of containment.
This is unfinished business.
I stand very close to be able to see
Between the lines
The texture of my cheek while shaving and
Behind me it seems something shadowy moves
I turn to catch sight of it before it is gone
But it was never there.
In the broken mirror my many eyes reprimand me
I would apologize
Admit you were right and I not
If I thought it would unbreak the glass.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Wife and Spouse Read NY Times
"When I ask you why you don't try to be more sociable, you ask me, 'Why bother? Everyone out there is the same. It's like a city of clones. Nobody is more interesting than anyone else.' But then you say you really would like to make new friends and no one ever seems responsive. Well, don't you think if everyone is equal there must be others out there who feel as you do? Someone may be hoping you would respond to an overture, but they also may be reluctant to make it."
"That's the real crux, I guess, fear of rejection, more than anything else. If I could do it over again..."
"For the want of a predetermined answer a friendship may be lost?"
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"How do you go about making friends?"
"I don't know. They seem to come to me."
"Hey, where does this fit in? 'The difference between Van Gogh and you and me is, that while we may look at the sky and think it is beautiful, we don't go so far as to show someone else how it looks. One reason may be that we do not care enough about the sky or for other people. But most often I think it is because we have been discouraged into thinking what we think about the sky is not important.' "
"What was that?"
"It comes a little later in the article."
"I thought he was speaking about how children in the third world haven't enough to eat."
"Shall I tell you about my childhood? Did I ever tell you the story of the broken macaroni for twelve cents a pound?"
"Shall I tell you again about cooking spaghetti in an electric coffeepot when I lived in my little room on the upper-Westside?"
"If I could do it over again..."
"Please, don't start with that old alternative reasoning."
"You wouldn't like to take a second shot? Maybe not have to survive lean days?"
"I would then have even less understanding for those without than I do at this point and believe me when I tell you I am not big-hearted. I laughed as loudly as you did when that comedian shouted, 'Move to where the food is!' "
"It was a stock response. All his other material was funny."
"I think experiences like cooking spaghetti in a an electric coffeepot are bizarre enough to put one metaphorically into another man's moccasins."
"Still, if I could do it over again..."
"You'd just fuck up something else further down the line."
"How can you say that?"
"There's always irony involved in those time travel stories."
"Oh, I was thinking of it more in terms of a done deal."
"What's the point? If you could do it all over, you would have to live through it again wouldn’t you? You can't do it over without doing it."
"Oh, I see what you mean. In that case, I guess I'll just take what fate has dealt me."
"Now about those children in the third world who haven't had the beauty of the sky pointed out to them. You know, if you were to offer your services, you could make a lot of friends."
"But you know what they say about friends in need."
"Right. Let me see that TV guide. Are there any good movies on?"
"There’s a good World War Two flick on at two-thirty. How about some Eggs Benedict for a late breakfast?"
"You prepare the hollandaise? I had in mind a romance or a comedy. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon."
"That's the real crux, I guess, fear of rejection, more than anything else. If I could do it over again..."
"For the want of a predetermined answer a friendship may be lost?"
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"How do you go about making friends?"
"I don't know. They seem to come to me."
"Hey, where does this fit in? 'The difference between Van Gogh and you and me is, that while we may look at the sky and think it is beautiful, we don't go so far as to show someone else how it looks. One reason may be that we do not care enough about the sky or for other people. But most often I think it is because we have been discouraged into thinking what we think about the sky is not important.' "
"What was that?"
"It comes a little later in the article."
"I thought he was speaking about how children in the third world haven't enough to eat."
"Shall I tell you about my childhood? Did I ever tell you the story of the broken macaroni for twelve cents a pound?"
"Shall I tell you again about cooking spaghetti in an electric coffeepot when I lived in my little room on the upper-Westside?"
"If I could do it over again..."
"Please, don't start with that old alternative reasoning."
"You wouldn't like to take a second shot? Maybe not have to survive lean days?"
"I would then have even less understanding for those without than I do at this point and believe me when I tell you I am not big-hearted. I laughed as loudly as you did when that comedian shouted, 'Move to where the food is!' "
"It was a stock response. All his other material was funny."
"I think experiences like cooking spaghetti in a an electric coffeepot are bizarre enough to put one metaphorically into another man's moccasins."
"Still, if I could do it over again..."
"You'd just fuck up something else further down the line."
"How can you say that?"
"There's always irony involved in those time travel stories."
"Oh, I was thinking of it more in terms of a done deal."
"What's the point? If you could do it all over, you would have to live through it again wouldn’t you? You can't do it over without doing it."
"Oh, I see what you mean. In that case, I guess I'll just take what fate has dealt me."
"Now about those children in the third world who haven't had the beauty of the sky pointed out to them. You know, if you were to offer your services, you could make a lot of friends."
"But you know what they say about friends in need."
"Right. Let me see that TV guide. Are there any good movies on?"
"There’s a good World War Two flick on at two-thirty. How about some Eggs Benedict for a late breakfast?"
"You prepare the hollandaise? I had in mind a romance or a comedy. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon."
Friday, January 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Views
Two people carry one thing and an argument ensues,
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Vibration
“Teacher, did you feel the earthquake,” one of them asks as they enter the room.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Doubtful
I doubted I could write without telling the stories of my family and having everyone angry with me for giving away secrets.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
One Out of Thousands
One day you'll wake, he had said, and I'll be there. I will take your hand and bring you back with me. Until then you must wait here. You must take care of yourself now and things on this end. I will prepare a place for us there.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day
Len says, I don't get it.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
HP has me furious
All those complaints, and they do little or nothing about making things right with their customers. Compaq always had a reputation for problems with their products, but they were also known to respond very quickly with solutions or replacements.
Ever since HP took over, they've been cutting corners and offering cheaper machines. What savings occur when you run into problems and are ignored by the company you trusted.
Things change, but not always for the better.
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