Wanderings

Communion: The End is the Start

2009-08-19T23:50:00.001-04:00

So Boy and Girl meet. Everywhere. It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, except there is no choice. Fate, destiny, call it what you will, but every circumstance has led to this:

They meet at the park. Sunday morning and the boy is, of course, on The Bench. The girl walks by with her dog, which strains on its leash and pulls towards him. The boy sets down the crossword and bends down to ruffle the dog’s ears. He looks up into the girl's eyes. She smiles at him. Time freezes for just a second.
"What's his name?" the boy asks.
"Karenin," the girl answers, almost reluctantly.
"Kundera fan then?" the boy asks.
"My favorite," the girl replies.
She is surprised he recognizes the reference. She is surprised at how strong her desire is to sit down next to him, to place her mouth where his mouth had been on the edge of the thermos.
"One of my favorites also," the boy says. How to keep her here, to continue the conversation? He is beginning to panic just a little, ears ringing, trying to think of the perfect thing to say.
Just then, Karenin hops up onto the bench, knocking the thermos over, which the boy had left open, coffee spilling all over the paper.
"No! Bad Karenin!" the girl shouts, tugging at his leash to pull him down from the bench. She quickly wraps the end of his leash around the leg of the bench and knots it, then gets on her knees and proceeds to sop up the mess of newspaper and dark liquid.
"I ruined your paper. I'm so sorry. Let me... I'd pay you for it, but I never bring my wallet with me on Karenin's walk."
"Tell you what," says the boy, all previous panic dissipated, "come with me to the newsstand to pick up another one. There’s a little café a few blocks down. The three of us could sit outside and maybe start the puzzle again? I was having some trouble getting started anyway...
"We'd love to," the girl says.
Both boy and girl are surprised at their own boldness, and at the boldness of the other. Basically strangers, at this point, with a shared love of a certain Czech author, and yet there is much more they recognize in each other: a safe haven, a companion, a lover of words (and animals), a fellow victim of circumstance. Although right now, they are both more than happy to be victimized. Sunday morning, the sun is shining, the coffee is fresh, Karenin is snoring softly on the sidewalk beneath the table, and the crossword is just so much easier with two.

Or maybe they meet at the grocery store, Saturday afternoon. The wine aisle. The girl's on her tiptoes, stretching to grab a bottle of white that’s just out of reach. She can’t quite make it, and curses loudly, "Fuck!" and the boy, a few feet away, has to muffle a laugh. The girl is startled: she thought she was alone in the aisle. She covers her mouth, embarrassed.
"Excuse me, could you..."
He is next to her and effortlessly pulling down the bottle before she can finish asking for his help.
"All that for a Riesling?" the boy says, a teasing look in his eyes.
"What? I like Riesling," the girl says, cradling the bottle close to her, defensively.
The boy raises his eyebrows and shrugs.
The girl glares at him -- but there is a playful twitch around the edges of her lips. He can't stop looking at her lips now.
"Are you a wine snob or something?" the lips ask.
"Not a snob, not at all. I just have a refined palette."
"Uh huh. Well, what does your palette have against Riesling?"
"Nothing personal. Just a bit overwhelming in its sweetness."
"Maybe I like sweet wines."
"They have some great boxed Franzia at the end of the aisle."
She laughs then, a quiet giggle that emanates from deep in the throat, little exhales from the nose.
"Even my palette is too refined for that," the girl says. "But seriously, what do you recommend?"
"There’s this Rosé that still has some sweetness, but gives you a better sense of the fruit. And it's only ten bucks a bottle."
He crouches down to the bottom shelf and hands her a pinkish bottle. Their fingers touch for just a second, with what feels like an actual spark and like a reflex, they both let go. The bottle crashes to the ground, spraying wine and glass all over the floor and the two of them.
There is a moment of silence, where the whole store pauses, like a gasp, and then the two of them, boy and girl, begin to laugh -- eyes tearing up, stomachs aching, laughter that's been stored up for too long, that's bubbled up from beneath the surface. Together, their laughter sounds like a symphony. Other shoppers in the store feel pangs of jealousy and aren't sure why.
He pays for the broken bottle. She gives him her number.
He calls her the next night. She meets him at his place. He is waiting on the front porch when she gets there with two glasses and a bottle of Riesling.

Or maybe they meet at the bar. The lights are dim, but then, that’s the expected ambiance for falling in love. Outside, it is pouring rain. Umbrellas litter the floor and a sense of dampness pervades the room.
"Amber?" Rachelle says, reaching for a glass.
"Actually, do you have coffee? Maybe with a shot of whiskey?" the boy asks.
"You got it."
The door to the bar opens and the girl walks in, hair damp and curling around her face. She makes a beeline for the ladies' room before returning to sit two stools down from the boy, who is sipping his coffee, mug held tightly between both hands.
That's what the girl notices first: his hands. She imagines how warm they must be. They look sturdy, like they do hard work. Skilled, she thinks, and her mind goes somewhere a little naughty for a second. She quickly turns her eyes away before he can notice and looks at the bar's chalkboard list of drafts. Nothing appealing. The waitress approaches.
"What can I get you sweetheart?"
"Do you possibly have coffee... and cream?"
Rachelle nods. "You want some whiskey in that?"
"No thanks." After one fateful St. Patrick's Day, the girl and whiskey had forever become enemies.
She leans down to pick up her bag and pulls it into her lap, takes out a notebook and a pen (already, he is smitten), puts them on the bar, then removes her jacket and hangs it on the back of the stool.
He notices her bare shoulders, the way her hair brushes just at the top of her clavicles, beads of water collecting at the ends. She looks like she could use a towel.
She opens her notebook and puts pen to the page, but does not move. He notices a small tattoo on her inner wrist, the shape of an anchor. After a few seconds of staring at her page, she starts to chew her pen and tap her foot against the underside of the bar to the beat of the jukebox, playing Ryan Adams: Steady my soul and ease my worry/Hold me when I rattle like a hummingbird hummin'...
"He's a writer too," Rachelle says, setting down the cup of coffee and mini pitcher of cream, gesturing to the boy.
The girl turns toward him slightly. He looks over at her, unable to not listen in on the conversation.
"What do you write?" she asks.
"Fiction, mostly." He doesn't like when people ask this question, but with her, he somehow doesn't mind.
"What kind of fiction?"
"Explorations, really... whatever strikes me at the time. No real method to the madness."
"Hmm." She closes her notebook and turns back to him. "Mind if I sit closer? I need some help with something I'm working on."
"My pleasure."
She moves over to the stool next to him. He can vaguely smell her perfume despite all the soggy odors of rain throughout the bar. Vanilla. Sweetness.
He takes another long sip of coffee, eyes closed, swallowing slowly, enjoying the warm feeling as it makes his way down to his stomach.
"How’d you get that scar?" the girl asks when he returns from his warm beverage reverie.
"What scar?" the boy asks, for a second unable to place himself anywhere but his kneecap with its long surgical gash. He was wearing pants, so she wouldn't be able to see that one.
"Your eye."
"Oh," he says, "Funny story."
"I like stories"
"I was about 6, playing on the back porch -- I'm Batman, and my blanket is the Bat Rope, which I'm using to climb up the outside edge of the stairs, on the other side of the railing. Apparently some dastardly villain has tricked me -- the 'rope' comes untied, and I fall, something sticks me and scratches my left eyelid. I remember being in the kitchen holding a white wet washcloth my mom gave me over my eye. I bring it down to take a peek, and it's got blood all over it."
"Great story. I hoped it wasn’t going to be, like, something about golfing. I've never met a real live superhero before." She quickly scribbles something down in her notebook, in a sly way that she thinks he doesn't notice.
"You got a scar story?" the boy asks.
"All internal, I’m afraid." The girl looks away and takes another sip from her mug.
"Looks like the rain may continue on for a while. We've got time. Why don’t you tell me one?"
"They're personal."
"I'm a person."
She rolls her eyes, but smiles a little.
"Fine, so tell me anything. Any story you want."
"If I had a story to tell, I'd be writing it down here! But as you can see," she says, pointing at her notebook, "blank pages."
"I noticed you wrote something there in that corner."
She blushes visibly and closes the notebook again.
"Just... an idea. Nothing really."
"Writing all starts from ideas."
"I disagree -- I think it starts from characters. People."
"Maybe it's a combination."
She nods. "Balance is important."
"Symmetry," the boy says, also nodding.
The girl starts to laugh.
"What's so funny?" the boy asks.
The girl just shakes her head, pauses for a minute, then slides her notebook over to him.
"Go ahead. Read it."
Scar eliminates symmetry from his face, but brings a different intensity. A sense that he knows what you’re thinking.
"I don't believe mindreading was one of Batman's superpowers," the boy says.
"Maybe you were just trying to be the wrong superhero."
"Maybe I was just smitten with the wrong heroine."
"Oh yeah, tell me about the one your thinking of now?"
"Let me think of where to start."

Communion Interlude: A Pantoum

2009-08-17T09:05:00.003-04:00

The night is young and there is nowhere else to go,

So the girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive."

The boy sits in his car, stuck in traffic, with the radio way up loud,

Existing between the words of old love songs.

The girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive,"

Feeling a sense of urgency she can't pinpoint: the last chance?

Existing between the words of old love songs,

She's been losing herself.

She feels a sense of urgency she can’t pinpoint -- her last chance.

She's been losing herself,

And he's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.

If only they could touch, this boy and girl might ignite the whole world.

He's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.

Now he's sitting in his car again, stuck in traffic, radio way up loud.

Soon, with just one touch, boy and girl are going to ignite the whole world.

Because the night is young and there's nowhere else for them to go but

Toward.

Communion, Part I

2009-08-17T00:49:00.003-04:00

[Note from Ulysses: At the moment I find myself washed up on another shore, watching the dolphins swim by, letting the sun deepen the tone of my skin, building in the sand, longing for Home. And writing, yes, but nothing you will see this week. This week it is Penelope telling the stories. Don't like them too much better; soon enough you have to put up with mine again. I present for you this week: Communion, three parts that form a single whole]

The boy.

At the bar, the lights are dim, but then, that's the expected ambiance. As soon as he sits down, notebook in hand, shoulders slumped, Rachelle grabs a fresh glass and says, "Amber Ale?" with a wink. She doesn't even wait for his nod before she starts the tap. He’s torn in his thoughts (as he often is): should I feel good to be in a place where I'm familiar enough that they know my order, or should I feel embarrassed to be that guy who's a little too familiar with the bar? He really wasn’t an alcoholic. He just needed to get out of the house, to escape the four too-familiar walls of his room, the suitcase he’d been living out of since he left, the unmade single bed.
He sips his beer and sighs quietly with relief, or perhaps exasperation. He'd started writing a story that morning. Before that, he hadn't written in a month. When he re-reads what he had written just ten hours ago, he thinks: well, maybe there's a reason for that, U. This is crap. More of the same crap. The boy. The girl. The disconnect. He's tired of showing up on his own page. He wants to write himself out of these stories. Because he isn't sure he believes anymore that they are worthwhile. Whatever he is searching for -- no, whoever -- is still distant, unformed, indistinct.
He takes another cold sip and swallows slowly. Removing his pen from his pocket (where its leaky ink had already left an unfortunate stain on his pants), he continues the work:
"Is there any more room on that bench?"
It should work for two. I believe it was made for two.
"I brought the paper, we could do the puzzle."
This is early to be up for you isn’t it?
"Every once in a while for a special occasion."
Welcome aboard -- just let that bike fall. I grab a thermos out of the side bag and push the bike over to get the handlebars off your side of the back of the bench. Would you like some coffee? I hand you the thermos and you start to pour.
"It’s got cream in it."
Yes, yes it does.
"You don’t put cream in it."
No, but you do.
"I was hoping I’d surprised you."
You might not always show up, but that doesn’t keep me from anticipating it.
He jots down a few more notes and finds a good stopping place. He's feeling a little less discouraged. He pulls his credit card out of his wallet and slides it across the bar toward Rachelle. A slip of paper flutters to the ground. He gets up off the stool and bends down to pick it up. It's an old fortune cookie fortune (he likes to keep the meaningful ones in his wallet), which reads: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it.
"In bed," Rachelle says as she hands back his card and receipt.
He looks up for a second, startled. He hadn’t heard her. "What?"
"You never heard that? You add the words 'in bed' to the end of your fortune and it makes it better. So what’s your bedroom fortune?"
He grins a little sheepishly. "Your dreams will come true when you least expect it... in bed."
"Lucky you!" Rachelle says with a laugh.
He signs the receipt and gives it back to her, closing his notebook and packing up to leave. He is avoiding the naturally self-deprecating response, "I haven’t been feeling too lucky these days," avoiding becoming that guy at the bar who not only has his drink in his hand before he even asks, but who also uses the bartenders as therapists. He isn't that desperate for someone to talk to (is he?).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes him long, for a brief moment, to be held, to be cradled like a child. To say silly things and be adored. His ex's favorite comeback had always been, "Oh, grow up!" accompanied by a slamming door in his face. He hated that they argued in clichés. He hated being loved piecemeal: she wanted a gentleman in the bedroom, an overachiever in the workplace, a saint in church, an unwavering asshole when she was wronged. But confuse any of these identities (a saint when she was wronged?) and her love was gone. Was it love at all if it was only doled out in fragments? If it was held out, like a piece of too-sugary candy, as a reward for good behavior and snatched away so easily when mistakes were made?

The girl.

Had she made a huge mistake? He hasn't called in a week. Now it's Friday night again, and here she is, doing the embarrassing single-girl-in-sweats shopping spree. Another more conspicuous walk of shame for the twenty-something woman, her arm strains under the weight of her basket: Ben & Jerry's ice cream, four microwave meals, a bag of lettuce (which she purchased every week, and every week remained unopened and turned brown), a weekly gossip magazine from the checkout aisle, and a six-pack of Amber Ale. Yes, she is spending Friday night alone in her room, overanalyzing her life and filling her body with toxins (almost forgot to mention the pack of Marlboro Reds she asks the cashier for on an impulse).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes her long for someone to sit in the dark and look up at it with her. The smell of fried food from The Golden Dragon wafts through the night air, and she realizes, as her stomach growls angrily at her, that she hasn't eaten dinner. She tosses her grocery bags in the car and runs in to order some General Tso's and crab Rangoon. She knows she will regret both decisions later, like most decisions she's made lately, decisions which she can easily see will be harmful in the long run, but in the moment, feel better than being empty and alone.
She only has to wait five minutes for her food, and then she's back out to the car. She sits down and turns the ignition so the stereo starts (Ray LaMontagne singing something sweet and low). Often, she gets in the car and thinks, before turning the key, Whatever song comes on when it starts up is the song that says how fill-in-the-blank feels about me. Her own little game of fortune telling.
Oh -- fortunes! She almost forgot. She rustles in the brown bag and feels to the bottom for the plastic-wrapped cookie and cracks it open. Tonight's fortune is a tiny bit hopeful, at least, better than others she’d gotten recently ("Friendship is important to you" and "The crow always finds the apple in the grass" -- wtf?). It says: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it. She folds the little slip of paper in half and sticks it in her wallet. Even though she doesn't really like the lemony stale taste, she has a superstition that if you don't eat the cookie, the fortune won't come true. So she partakes of it like a communion wafer, eyes closed, believing.

The Dragon

2009-08-08T07:52:00.004-04:00

"Hey, I thought I saw your notebook out by the bed there."
Yeah, that's it.
"I wasn’t sure you were still writing."
I did take some time off. I was having trouble following through with the ideas.
"How so?"
I don’t know exactly, I struggled to find any direction. Maybe that Red Cross piece really took something out of me.
"Haha, very funny. Don’t try to joke your way out of this."
I don't need to joke my way out of it, I happen to be out of it. I’ve got about 6 things working their way onto paper.
"Oh? Inter-esting. Got any teasers for me?"
I'll tell you them right out if you want. Anything in particular of interest?
"Whatever happened to the Princess?"
And the Captain?
"Sure, yeah, what’s happened to them?"
They’re still around, in the margins of the notebooks, on the slim edges of the pages, in the strew that comes off when I tear the pages out of the spiral.
"Do they ever make in onto the lines? In ink?"
Oh sure, all the time. Maybe not on the lines exactly, but between them certainly, living stories parallel to the written ones, or in the minds of the characters.
"So you always know what they're doing?"
Well, that's kind of a tall order -- sometimes I do have my story to play, and I can't say I even always know what I'm doing -- sometimes that's enough for me to work on.
"And sometimes too much, I know, I'm not even going out there today. Keep the curtains drawn."
It's raining anyhow.
"Like a poem, I'm sure."
Shhh, it's early yet, let the sound of the rain send us back dozing...

"Hey, are you sleeping?"
About halfway, were you?
"Just coming up out of a short dream. How about you?"
Coming out of, or dropping in to. On a day like this, there's no need to distinguish.
"So then, how about P and C right now, do you know what they're doing?"
Right now? On a stolen Sunday with you? Yes, I think I know how it is with them right now.
"Would you tell it to me?"
Let me see, I'll try to picture it:

The Dragon, a short play for Sunday afternoon

Dramatis Personae:
The Captain: We've met him before and know him well
The Princess: We've met her before also, and know as much about her -- but she runs deeper than he
The Dragon: Making its first clear appearance to give P and C the opportunity to catch what often eludes them

Scene I
[We find the Captain waiting, leaning heavily on a column beside the throne. He's daydreaming, staring off into space, rehearsing something to say. The Princess hurries in, not quite together, frazzled.] ("Did you say frazzled? What's that supposed to mean? And 'not quite together'? What's the standard going to be?"
You've never had a moment when your portion of the world was too heavy? How does that leave you?
"I can handle it."
I know you can, but that doesn't mean I can't see it.)
P: I can't today, too busy.
C: [not quite listening, he starts with what he's been rehearsing...] I've been meaning to tell you,... What's that? Not today? Have I got the wrong day?
P: It's the correct day, but I’m afraid I can't all the same.
C: But, the report from beyond the walls...
P: We both know perfectly well if there was anything to say about anything beyond the walls you wouldn't wait for an assigned day. If there was anything that needed attention you would be tending to it, and if I needed you for anything you would always come. This is just an excuse for us to chat about our things. And today, I don’t have time for anything except Important Things proper.
C: I see, well no reason I should expect, that is, if you're busy, just, I thought this was important to you.
P: It is important to me that you be understanding. I like to think of you as understanding.
C: I understand
P: And you -- aren't you the one so driven by responsibility?
C: Maybe we're not thinking broadly enough about what we're responsible for. Not just what we need to get done, but the way that we do it.
P: I know that look. What are you up to? You’re planning something.
C: I do have important business to bring before you today. Something has gone awry in the dračí půda
P: [her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea, and she whistles for an attendant] Okay, you're on.
("Whoa, the Princess, she whistles for an attendant? Is that very Princess-y"
'Princess-y'? that’s good, I'll have to put that one in the story at least twice.
"Just answer the question."
You get that she's just a character? a representation of someone else with a similar outlook?
"Do I know this someone else?"
I think you'd find them recognizable... What are you doing?
"Peeking over your shoulder into the mirror to look at you looking at me. Did you know I can't whistle like that?"
Hmm,... how about...
[her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea and she blows a whistle for an attendant]
...but probably not a train whistle.
"You...")
C: [starting in mid-sentence as two attendants rush in] ...consequences could be severe if circumstances cannot be returned to their proper symmetry. We risk chaos and destruction if we don't move quickly. This is something that must be taken care of immediately, for it has the capacity to ruin anything else. It is a devious and pervasive threat to the effect and value of every other endeavor. I recommend we move quickly, but carefully. Direct conflict is not going to be effective, and a large force will only tip our hand...
P: You, Captain, have my every confidence, I place us entirely in your hands. [pointing to the first attendant] Prepare my horse.
C: [feigning surprise, with a wink to the audience] Your horse? Princess, you must stay in a safe place.
P: You have made it clear that no place is safe. You prepare yourself, and I will ride out to examine the threat myself -- I will return in one hour.
C: I would prefer to go with you, but you are right. One hour then.

"So what is it? What’s the danger?"
Well, at some point in every Princess saga there has to be a Dragon.
"Right, I remember from the cast list. So the Dragon is the conflict, rising up and bringing asymmetry and dissonance? Then they have to bring everything back into concordance?"
I'm not sure that's exactly what the Dragon's role is. It's close to that. Maybe it'll become clearer when I try to tell that part of the story.
"I was reminded by an asymmetry here, an inequality I think we should deal with."
I like it when you take the stories personally.
"Why would you think they’re any less personal for me than they are for you? Stop leaning heavily on that column for a while and take a break."
I’m going to make some coffee, do you want any?
"Not right now, and neither do you. Stop finding work to do and relax for a bit. Pretend you're not a morning person."
Well I don't know how that goes. What do the not-morning people do at this time of the day?
"First of all, they don't think of this as a time of the day. Day doesn’t start until much later. And you don't do anything, you just are. Just drift. Relax. Let your eyes close and let your dreams have you."
Hmmm, I'm starting to see what you mean.
"Shhh, there's no talking..."

I'm sitting by the open window quietly sipping coffee and watching the rain come down, letting the mist wash my face, breathing deeply, and listening to the tapping on the leaves.
"You should come and relax before you get into trouble."
Trouble?
"It's against the rules to try and sneak off without permission."
I didn't sneak off, I just went to make some coffee while you were sleeping. It did occur to me that I oughtta try to get some more sleep too, busy work week ahead, but went with coffee instead. When I got back, I didn't want to bother you there.
"How is it that you can be so very wrong about some things?"
Too much thinking, I'm pretty sure. You want some coffee? I also brought you some water.
"Water's good, thanks. Whatcha thinking about now?"
I've been wondering about whether it matters what happened on the Princess' ride, or if we have to go through the Captain's pretending to be surprised and concerned when she doesn’t return after an hour. I was also noticing that you got the Sunday puzzle finished. Did you decide on what your reward would be? Looks like at least 150 letters total.
"I have decided on the reward, but I’m not quite finished, there’s still a few blank sections."
Looks all done to me...
"Huh, so it does. How do you suppose these letters got here in the answers I was having trouble with?"
They must've just come to you.
"Yeah, that’s funny how the rest of the puzzle's done with a regular ballpoint, but the mystery letters all seem to have been filled in with a splotchier pen."
Hmmm, I hadn't noticed that.
"We'll have to submit that to the rules committee for a decision."
I'm willing to grant you the victory right now.
"Uh-huh. How about jumping ahead in the story? I know the next part: of course she does not return in an hour, of course he pretends he didn't know all along that's what would happen, of course he thunders out the gate on his way to "rescue" her, fully aware she doesn't need saving. And then?"
Well, he rides to the meeting place.
"What meeting place?"
There are places that are special to them. Places where they have found each other before.
"I know one."
This one is past the vineyards, upstream, approachable only on foot, at the spill pool of a small waterfall that’s been cutting this little nook out of the mountain forever...

[The Princess sits on a large stone at the edge of the pool, watching her reflection waver in the ripples. The sound of the waterfall overwhelms any other ambient noises. She's resting her head on her fingertips. In the pool, the image of the Captain appears next to hers. She smiles and lifts her head, offering the hand to the Captain. He takes it and they walk together away toward the back of the pool, approaching the waterfall. It is too loud to speak without yelling. They pause at the edge of the falls. The Princess has a question on her face, is about to say something. The Captain puts his finger up to his lips and steps behind the falls, leading her by the hand. She offers no resistance and follows.]

"That’s going to be a whole scene? It can’t be more than 3 minutes. And almost nothing happens."
Hmmm, I guess I was more focused on the story than on the Mise-en-scène. I’ll have to rely on somebody to help me let this scene continue on the same stage. Maybe have the entrance on one side of the stage and let the rest of the scene proceed across it...
"Well, that could help you communicate a transition..."
I'll let you work on that, if it can't work out, I guess I'll just have the two of them shrug their shoulders and go on back to the beginning.
"Okay, okay, stop pretending to be dramatic and tell me what happens next."

[Behind the waterfall is the entrance to a cave. They step into it, emerging cold, wet, shivering.]

"Speaking of which, I think the window's been open too long in here."
I'll get it.
"No, don't bother, just pull the comforter up over. You can tell the rest of this story to me in the dark."
There you go.

[He lets go of her hand at the entrance, and leaves to arrange something. She waits for a moment and follows him into the dark. The sound of the waterfall recedes as they enter the cave. We lose sight of them as they leave the light at the entrance. There's a spark, and we see that they’ve found each other in the dark. The Captain is kneeling over something, and the Princess stands tentatively with a hand on his shoulder. Another spark shows him still at work, and her more at ease, hand between his shoulders. The third spark catches tinder, which lets off a small light. She lifts a torch off the wall and catches it in his flame.]

P: It is warm in here. Comfortable.
C: Feels about body temperature.
P: And there’s a fullness in the air...
C: Like breath.
P: How long have you known about this place?
C: Only as long as I’ve known you.
P: It seems familiar, I knew we'd be here somehow. All the times we’d been at the waterfall, how come we never found our way here before?
C: I don't know, I don't think I ever really saw the waterfall until I saw you looking at it.
P: Well, let's look more. You can take this now.
[She hands him the torch and he leads her into the next chamber. Fierce eyes open onto them as they enter. He hands the torch back and steps forward as the light reveals the Dragon. He looks it right in the eyes -- there's a deadly seriousness in the way they regard each other -- they've met before. The Captain maintains his gaze, removes his hand from the hilt of his sword and slowly turns his arms out.]
C: Not today.
[The Dragon gives an overconfident snort, letting the Captain knows that when that day comes, neither of them will be holding anything back. The Captain then steps aside and gestures an introduction of the Dragon to the Princess. The Dragon's gaze softens, and he drops his head to bow to her. As the Dragon moves aside to welcome her and withdraws to leave the space to them, the cave lights up with the riches of its treasure.]
P: This place is certainly cluttered.
C: Let's see if I can make something of it. [He gets to work throwing some of it aside to clear a space to sit.] I believe this is what we were wanting today.
P: Exactly. Now sit here beside me, and share your treasure. What did you have to tell me this week?
C: Well, let me think a second. I have a few stories...

"So. No big showdown with the Dragon?"
No, it's not ever the Dragon that is the problem, though it is often mistaken for it. The conflict comes from the rest of the world pulling on them. The Dragon is a guardian, and it guards a place where no guardedness is needed.
"Why so many tales of going out to battle Dragons then."
It's always easier to tell yourself that the conflicts are external, and the Dragon is a ready scapegoat, since it always appears to stop you if you come with a misunderstanding of what treasure is. It requires you to approach it with a reverence for how its power and repose are informed by an understanding of when each are to be displayed. It is temperance that is the password.
"The Dragon is here. I was going to tell you."
Here now, under the comforter? I'd think it’d seem more crowded?
"The Dragon is always here between us, waiting to be recognized. It welcomes us into what we have together, where we can get our inspiration, power, and confidence."
I do treasure this time together.
"Tell me another story?"
Of course,... I might nap a little bit first.
"Then, maybe I’ll tell you one..."

The Still Point

2009-07-16T23:44:00.000-04:00

10:45 PM She: "Physics, really? I never would have guessed it."
10:45 PM He: What’s that supposed to mean?
10:45 PM She: "I don't know, it’s just I couldn't stand Physics."
10:46 PM He: You loved Physics.
10:46 PM She: "No, no I did not."
10:46 PM He: In fact, you still do.
10:46 PM She: "I was awful at it, and it was so unrealistic."
10:47 PM He: You are spectacular at it, and there is nothing real that is not Physics.
10:47 PM She: "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
10:47 PM He: Like what?
10:48 PM She: "Like this: look at me, look right into my eyes, and let me look at you without looking away."
10:49 PM He: Furthest thing from my mind, looking away. Lean in a little closer even. Let me wonder what that scent is today.
10:49 PM She: "I dare you to tell me about that with physics."
10:49 PM He: I accept.

It is impossible to say where it starts, there is only an infinite chaos of movement influencing movements, distances attenuating interactions by their square. Without enough separation in our perspective to always appreciate the resulting trajectories following one another rather than their seeming wandering from horizon to horizon.

It begins at a critical point, and we open our eyes to find ourselves face to face. Close enough for an appreciation of the gravity. There’s a closeness that continues to intensify even without movement, and the surroundings begin to collapse. The threshold is crossed to where we become aware of the effort needed not to move together. The contraction of the space around us is accompanied by a reciprocal expansion of time, and the complexity of causation simplifies and resolves into its component parts. With less to abstract from, the focus and awareness becomes more acute. And the foremost sensation is that of acceleration, of falling out of the world.

10:52 PM He: How's that so far?
10:53 PM She: "You're cheating."
10:53 PM He: Oh, well then, I'll stop.
10:54 PM She: "I didn't say I wanted you to stop..."
10:54 PM He: As you wish...

It begins at the limit of the acceleration of the fall, where there is an endless moment in infinitesimal space. Xeno's fractional distance just before touching. Where the probability of the potential veers rapidly in towards unity. Where the anticipation of touch is so intense as to ignore the distance and create the sensation of touch, and force the reality of touch into being. And then, the last remnant of the universe between collapses.

It begins with my hand on your shoulder blade -- summer style and weather leave it bare. I had noticed, but that detail got lost with all the others in the depth of your gaze. Your skin surprises my fingers and they panic a moment before softening and adapting to the contour. You lean back into my hand just enough for it to make full contact and guide us both together. You raise your hands; they land with fingertips on my clavicles. A dynamism develops through us to the points of contact, transmitting pressures and tensions with their equal opposites, and we have established a single center and adopt a single trajectory. A sway shifts the pressure under our feet, registering our inertia as the universe halts its turning for us. The end of external movement leaves our internal movements genuine and true.

10:59 PM She: "You just added that part about my gaze."
11:00 PM He: And I'm not going to be turning away.
11:00 PM She: "Do you still have the power of speech?"
11:00 PM He: I might stammer a bit, but it'd be worth it to inspire your love,... of physics.
11:01 PM She: "Do."

11:01 PM He: It begins with the movements between us. The balance of pressures is maintained as my hand slides down over your ribs, which meet it on their rise, and then fall to let it pass below them. There is a trail of warm contact followed by a relative chill down your back finally ending on your waist. My other hand rises across from the first to hold before the residual sensation of spinning creates actual spinning. The final response of the external world allows for a release of the whole mechanism of resistance. Fingers and pollux release, allowing the forearm to relax. Relaxation spreading upwards to shoulder and neck and scalp and eyebrows, spreading downwards to back and hip and calf and arch. The tightness of the chest unwinds and the breath enters freely. The pulse calms, no longer palpable in the palms or neck, no longer visible in the metronomic rocking of the torso. The resolution of forces, the cancellation of vectors of resistance, interrelated magnitudes dropping to zero, can be represented as a flux of release in the field of opposition. All the physiological movements and efforts recede until even that subliminal quiver of the lip stops.

11:05 PM She: "Were you looking at my lips? I thought we were gazing into each other's eyes."
11:05 PM He: When you look at me like that, I can sometimes intuit the quiver.
11:05 PM She: "And right now?"
11:06 PM He: Right now it's gone beyond that.

It begins with the movement of self. Finally having been let go by the distractions of the world, there is only the need to decide, an urgency to decide, to become the decision, to will. Once the decision is made to set aside the illusion of separation and falling and relaxing and understanding, it is possible to be real. "Where will it end?" is discarded as an excuse, and it only remains to be seen where it will continuously begin. And then to truly touch and relax and fall. And to set in motion the renewal of the world without noticing. Indeed the whole world may have sprung anew, but gone unnoticed from our Still Point.

11:09 PM He: Would you close your eyes d'you think?
11:09 PM She: "I’m not sure. I'm never sure until that very moment. You?"
11:10 PM He: No, no, not me.
11:10 PM She: "Is there more?"
11:10 PM He: Much more than's been dreamt of in my notebook.
11:11 PM She: "Tell me?"
11:11 PM He: In a moment. I was about to decide something. Lean in close.
11:11 PM She: "MMmmm"
11:11 PM He: How was that for some Physics?
11:11 PM She: Stop talking with those lips.

11:12 PM 'She' has signed out of chat
11:12 PM 'He' has signed out of chat

Red Cross, Fairfax

2008-12-10T17:45:00.000-05:00

"You sure you don’t need me to come along?"
I thought you had a bunch of errands you were going to do. It’s fine. I usually drive myself.
"We could do errands together. Does it have to be today?"
It’s been planned for today for a long time. I started getting called as soon as I was about to be eligible. It’s better to get it done according to a plan, that way I’m less likely to back out -- makes it seem like everything’s been prepared in advance for me, and it feels more natural to go through with it.
"You’ve got your phone?"
Yeah, I’ll get in touch with you when it’s over and I’m ready to get back together.
("Whoa! You mean you’re writing me out of this one?"
You’re in this part aren’t you? Even though it seems a little forced? We can still have our little commentary to the side as it goes along.
"You’re not thinking about minimizing my role permanently?"
I hadn’t thought about it,... but now that you mention it,... hmmm,...
"You’d better be teasing"
Look Silly, how could you be minimized, you’re much too fascinating. I mean, really, have you ever met you before. I don’t know why I don’t write just about you.
"Because you’re writing about us."
Maybe, just maybe.)
"Or if you need me for something."
Yeah, I’ll call
"Okay, just whenever, I won’t be far."

The automatic door slides open as I approach, the '1 800 GIVE LIFE' part of the poster gliding in front of my eyes. I sign in, take my number, and pick up the notebook of material to review about the particulars of the donation and the testing that’s done as a part of it. They always seem excited to see me when I show up. The seeming excited always gets a bit more genuine when I tell them my type. They like to get that universal donor blood. Not that there’s a big surplus of any of the types...
("Universal donor?"
Well, nearly, O positive. No A antigens, no B antigens, so if you’re not particular about Rh... It’s the most common type actually.
"Wasn’t there some kind of joke you told about that and heredity?"
That joke? That joke stunk. I’m leaving it out.)
There’s an informational packet to peruse to help you answer the questionnaire. I wish they could just let you know whether it’s been changed or not. Doesn’t seem to have anything new in it. The questionnaire tries to determine your blood’s suitability to be offered. It makes sense, to make sure that none of your past experiences would keep your blood from being usable.
"No 'babesiosis' pun? You’re passing that up?"
Um, I’m not sure what you mean.)
I sit down in the waiting area to look through the notebook. This is all pretty familiar, the requirements are all what I expected. It’s difficult to focus on: Oprah is shouting loudly from the television, and the hundreds of paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling keep fluttering in front of the vents and catching my eye.
("Hundreds?"
Yeah, I thought that might be exaggeration too, but I stopped counting when I got to 45, and that was only about 8 ceiling tiles in a grid bigger than 18 by 40...
"Okay, okay, I get it...")
I get taken into a room and my identification gets checked and rechecked. I’m left in the room by myself for a few minutes to go through the questionnaire on the computer -- making sure I know that I’m eligible to donate. When I’m done, I open the door back up and switch back to the seat beside the desk. The tech ducks her head back in to double check that I’m doing double reds today. I will if I can: it lets me give twice as much. They take the blood out, run it in a centrifuge to spin the cells out, then put the serum back in. Because you don’t lose as much volume, they can take two units of cells that way. Still only one needle stick: they put it back in through the same line that you bleed out through. For me it takes about the same amount of time, and doesn’t feel different after.
("I thought you said last time you could tell."
Well, usually I’m not stupid and try to play the same day as donating. But the team was going to be short players so I gave it a try. It was okay for about 10 minutes.
What happened then?I actually got on the field. Not only was I more dyspneic...
"Was?"
Uhh, short of breath,... but my legs just wouldn’t go. The ball would go by, I would intend to run after it, but my legs would only jog. I tried for about 5 minutes, then volunteered to play goalie.)
Now we get to the final level of excitement when it’s clear I’m going to be donating double reds, like I’m making a bigger commitment. I really do it so that I don’t have to give as often: when you give two units, you’re not eligible again for twice as long.
There’re still some test items left to go through, tesing my body this time, not my history. Most are standard physical exam type things: temperature, heart rate, blood pressure. For the hemoglobin, they need to get a blood sample. Which hand do I want to use to get the sample to test my platelets? That’s a tough one. I use both of them all the time outside of here, and it’s inconvenient to have a sore finger on one. Any way you can prick the side of my finger, or maybe use the ring finger? Yeah? Thanks. I couldn’t sit still if I watched, so even though I’m expecting it, it’s a surprise when the stick comes. Then I have to look. The small scarlet spot swells into a bulging drop being milked out of my finger. It’s just about to break free, when it’s captured by the pipette. Not captured exactly, it seems to happily spring into the pipette. Released into the test beaker of copper sulfate, it lazily spreads and falls to the bottom.

Everything is in order, and I’m handed a set of bags and tubes, and a sheet with a number on it to call if I decide they shouldn’t use my blood. Now just to wait until my place opens up. This is always the moment for second thoughts, maybe it’s not too late to reschedule. I remember the first time I tried to donate, that was a lot of pain and with no donation to redeem it...
I’m interrupted by one last thing, almost forgotten. There’s an extra consent sheet to sign for donating double reds. It mostly describes the procedure and it’s possible consequences. Two sentences stand out to me, and send me back into pondering: It is clear to me that there is no advantage or benefit to me accompanying this procedure, and I desire to participate of my own free will. Such big concepts to be buried in the middle of a whole page of other things. I expect these are the two that get the least attention when this is signed. But this evening, they stick in my mind, leave me seeking parallels, considering the rest of what I do, of what we do...
My reveries are interrupted by someone just come in. He signs in, and then comes over to stand in front of me. With a threatening look on his face, he keeps posing in front of me, flexing his muscles and grimacing over my shoulder. Maybe I’m supposed to feel threatened, but gauging him, he seems unlikely to be able to match his postures with actions. In any case, he makes me laugh. A laugh that surprises me in its honesty.
("What do you mean?"
I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t planning to laugh, but the situation was laughable, and all of a sudden this laugh just came through me.
"Came through you?"
Yeah, it wasn’t reserved or contained like mine would have been, it just was, and it burst onto the scene through me. Like the feeling was there and I was just it’s instrument.
"I know what you mean, I’ve had moments like that -- honest, yeah, like you said, honest.")
He doesn’t seem to know what to do next after that, and it turns out not to matter, as Otto arrives to bring me into the back. He going to be the one running the procedure and looking after me. The first thing he does is hands me another copy of the release. He wants to make sure I have a chance to ask any questions before I sign it. I decide he probably doesn’t mean my questions about free will or what motivates our actions, so I say no and sign the page again.

The seat is awkward to sit in, though I can appreciate how it’s functional. I can’t sit in it in a cool or nonchalant way, I have to fall into it. I can sort of scoot back into it, but there’s nothing really to hold on to. The leg and foot rest encourages your legs to fall together in the middle. The arm boards on either side come out from the center of the seat rather than lying parallel to it. The machine is free on either side of me today, so I can choose which arm to use. I’m not sure it’d matter to me, so I shrug. Otto slaps the front of each elbow and watches some reaction of the veins. Seems like he feels he could get a needle easily in either. So the decision is back to me ultimately, and for some reason I always consider my hands, holding them up.
("Let me see those... What’s this on the back of your hand?"
That’s gotta be either 5th or 6th grade. I’d gone over to David’s house after school. We’d gone sledding first, then ended up over there. I’d left a note at home about where I was, and that I’d be home before dinner. Well, when I first noticed the time I was already going to be late. I took off running for home, not even putting my gloves on. The warmth of the day had gone, and it had dropped below freezing again. The snow that had melted had refrozen on top, making a crust that gave way under each footfall as I ran across the schoolyard. Gave way to each foot fall, but not to one of the foot lifts. It caught my foot and I fell forward, hands outstretched. My little finger and ring finger went under the crust, the rest of my hand stayed above, and I got that slice on the back of my hand. There was blood running between my fingers and dripping in high contrast on the surface of the snow. I thought I’d split my hand in two, and hid it through dinner. It turned out to not be that bad.
"Show me the other side of that one... what is this from?"
I don’t remember. I wonder about it myself sometimes. It reminds me of a staple.
"This one’s got a bump on it"
I broke it. I don’t really know how. I mean, it was during a match in college, but I didn’t realize it until after the match, shaking hands. Then it hurt like crazy. But not when it got broken, doing whatever it was I was asking it to do. It waited until I was done.
"One more at the base of your palm here..."
Yeah, you can still see where there were stitches. That one I didn’t feel at the time either. It was cold and wet, I slid in the mud and must’ve caught on something. When I got up again someone was pointing out what I thought was blood from my thigh. I tried to wipe it off with my hand, but new blood got left behind. I was still trying to find the cut on my thigh when I felt the trickle in my palm. Then turned it over to see the blood and got panicked and nauseous.
"And this here, on your other thumb?"
Ah, yes, cigarette. No bleeding with that one, though my heart was still involved.
"Oh... really? That sounds like a long story in itself."
Some other time, okay? Let me get back...)
I run a small lottery in my head, and choose my left arm. He puts the blood pressure cuff on it. No, I’m not allergic to iodine, though it does really tickle when he circles the swab around like that. Feels so cold too, though I’m sure it’s really room temperature. When he’s done cleaning the area, it’s time to inflate the cuff and squeeze the handlebar handle. I accidentally see the needle come out of it’s cover. Yikes! I look away. I hear him telling me to squeeze and hold, and that it’s just a little bee sting...
A little bee sting?!
("Did you really say that to him?"
No, not out loud, just in my head. But really, who has ever been stung by a bee who could say 'Just a little bee sting' like that’s supposed to be comforting?
"Maybe getting you to anticipate it being worse is supposed to make it better in comparison."
Maybe. Still it bugs me every time.
"'Bugs' you? Come on now, bee serious."
Ooo, Good one.)
The needle goes in, and he releases the pressure on the cuff. My body panics, and I swear I can feel the blood going out. The life of the body is in its blood. I know it’s going to be okay, everything is going the way it should, and the fear doesn’t overtake my mind, but still my body feels frightened. My feet go cold and clammy in my shoes, my right palm sweats, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, I can feel my pulse in my arms and chest, and I look around for something to focus my sight on to distract me. Otto remarks on what a vibrant dark red the color is. Like the petals of the poinsettia on the desk across from us. I look down at the bright red fluid flowing away into the machine, thinking, 'there I go'. I wonder where that blood will end up.
(You ever get one of those dollar bills that somebody’s marked something personal on? Some sort of message in a bottle?
"Yeah, all the time. Did you ever get one back a second time?"
I don’t think so. How about a quarter that’s been painted red, ever get one of those?
"Yeah, what’s that from?"
Beats me.)
There goes my life, out into the world. I see a lot of people right after their surgeries. I wonder if any of them ever had my blood in them? Who was it, Susan? Told me last week that her sister-in-law was preparing for surgery and donated a unit of her own blood to have on hand. Asked me if she should ask to do that before her surgery. Asked me in a way that made it clear she wasn’t excited about the possibility. I asked her what her blood type was: O positive. I told her I had it covered, that I’d be giving two units today. I wonder what other people have done using the oxygen my blood carried for them. How bizarre it would be if I could feel my blood, feel it running through someone else’s capillaries. It’s about the only thing I can’t feel. Everything else creates sensations in its function or dysfunction, but not the blood. You can’t identify individually with the blood, only as a group. Maybe not being able to feel my blood means it doesn’t belong only to me in the first place. Like our blood is meant to be shared. Like...
("Incoming message from Earth: Are you still there?"
Ha! Too much to consider, the initial rush of adrenaline is wearing off and my mind is wandering weirdly in the drop off. Let me get back into the moment...)
The first place the blood goes is into vacuum-filled test tubes. The blood itself has to be tested too before it is used. Each time a tube is attached to a port, the blood spurts in and splashes against the upper end of the tube and roils as it fills the tube. How fast my blood can come out... I remind myself that they’re vacuum tubes pulling it in, but still I’m left in awe... I think about trying to distract myself. The machine goes into it’s first draw cycle, the blood pressure cuff inflating with what might be a reassuring clasp on my arm. Now there’s mostly waiting. I always bring a book, but can only manage to read in the waiting room. Kind of hard to read here using only one hand, the other hand is still busy squeezing every few seconds. I like to roll the handle in my palm between squeezes too, feel the bumps on it, keep the muscles pushing the blood back out towards the needle. Of course I’ve also got a notebook, but writing is even more impossible than reading here. I’ve got a bunch of ideas for that dragon piece too...
I always bring my iPod also, but sometimes it seems rude to be tuning everyone else out --especially when the Otto comes by to ask if I’m okay. Fortunately, the music they’re playing on the CD player here’s pretty good. I should remember to put some holiday CD’s in the car, think about putting some on my iPod, and that Messiah recording wasn’t where I thought it was...
Just as I start listening, the machine changes its sound, and the cuff loosens up. The crimson filling the line starts to lighten, retreating back towards my arm before a pink, then a nearly clear color. It’s not warm like it was going out, and when it gets to my arm I can feel the coolness spreading. It’s a wild feeling, feeling cold without your skin feeling cold, and it raises bumps along my arm. The cold starts in my forearm, moves to my arm, then runs down the sides of my torso before getting to the other arm. Otto notices and offers me a blanket. No, thanks.
Then the most interesting thing. The taste. The menthol metallic taste that appears in my mouth. It’s from the citrate anticoagulant they use while separating the blood in the centrifuge. And it’s a weird sensation like the cold is -- tasting the taste without having the taste in my mouth. It starts in the floor of my mouth, spreads to my tongue, then finally to my lips.
The cuff starts to inflate again, and the process starts over.
("Again?"
Well, without the panic. You can only have one unit of plasma out at a time, so they have to put that back before they can get the second unit of cells out. There’s nothing serious to talk about this time, except maybe the lack of panic. I don’t know why I’m able to be calm the second time the blood goes out... Maybe I should save that for another story, this one’s starting to stretch my endurance.
"Okay, but don’t forget.")
The second time the draw is about over, I look over to the machine, and the bag of frothy amber fluid hanging in front of it. Hey Otto, what is that bag hanging in front of the machine? My plasma? Why is it in two layers? I mean: Why does my plasma seem to have a head on it?
("Now, when they suggest you increase your fluid intake on donation days, I don’t think you’re supposed to be having a beer."
As it turns out, that’s what everybody’s plasma looks like. It gets a little frothy from being spun in the centrifuge. I am going to have to try and keep that image from coming up the next time I have a beer though...
"What about the next time you have a cabernet, that dark red color..."
That is not helpful)
So, I get all that plasma back, I make a conscious decision not to look at what the plasma bag looks like afterwards. Otto takes the needle out, and I hold a sponge on it with my hand raised overhead. As it happens, a number of us put our hands up at about the same time. As if to be counted. We all get to the canteen at about the same time, hand each other sodas or juice, cookies or pretzels. There’s a gift also: a tote bag. Not sure what I’d do with that, but okay. I wait until the background shakiness recedes and head for the door. Otto catches up to me with a sticker. 'Be nice to me', it says, and that reminds me of somebody I was supposed to call when I was done. I’m pecking out a text as I go out the door, a little lightheaded, the light seeming a little prismatic, everything with a slight aura around it, a sensation I’ve learned to appreciate since it soon fades again, and I sit down on the stairs to wait to be picked up.
("What were you saying about a dragon story?"
Just something that’s been forming. It’s got a structure, something like a central idea, a couple of devices...
"You’ll tell it to me when you’re done?"
Well, sure...
"And..."
Yes, you’re in it.)

Mortlake Terrace

2008-11-17T20:44:00.000-05:00

I’d only closed my eyes for a moment. I’d found a place to sit in the shade, driven by the heat of the day off the sunny lawn and closer to the trees. I took a quick return trip back to the table to fix another drink to retreat with back into the shade. It wasn’t that I was particularly thirsty. Partly it was to stall, hope for inspiration out of the jam I’d gotten into -- needing some subtle metaphor to help me slip into the next passage. It didn’t help that I had no idea what this one was about yet. I had a clear scene in my head, a few details in mind, but that was it. Getting another drink hadn’t helped yet; neither had wiping the condensation of the glass on my forehead. So I closed my eyes and listened to the stream, trying to hear it further and further down its course. And my previous drink had left me drowsy, and the heat had sunk in, and I was gone.
Some commotion out there started to bring me back awake. I started to open my eyes, but the sun was now below the trees and shone right in my face, so I chose to ignore the sound and go back to thinking, casting about for a theme. It was noticeably cooler, but sweat still hid in the hair above my ears -- revealed by the appearance of an evening breeze. A bead made a break for it across my temple and toward my cheek. I let it sit for a moment -- feeling an idea just about to strike and not wanting to be distracted.
A linen kerchief dabs my cheek dry, and I open my eyes to a moment of both incomprehension and recognition. The abruptness of the sensation gives me a start, and my lap desk goes flying, strewing pages into the breeze. Backlit, the high-waisted muslin dress seems to radiate standing above me. My attention is drawn initially to the ivory broach at the center of the low square neckline. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice more detail. The sash tied in a large bow just below your shoulder blades as matched by a diaphanous burgundy shawl over the short lace sleeves. One white glove covers the forearm and hand holding the kerchief, the other is raised, fingers toying with a garnet bead choker. The hair is pulled up in tight ringlets and held back by braided tresses wrapped around and held in place by a wreath tiara. The light coming through the eyes is unmistakable to me in any context (What are you doing all made up like that? I thought I might be getting accosted by some re-enactment. "Me? Look at you."), and the voice dispels all the remaining shock of arrival. "What are you looking at me like that for?" You switch hands with the kerchief, push back my hair, then reach back down inside my high collar to straighten the ascot. When you’re done, you pat the chest of my waistcoat. "Come on, wake up, I want to go watch the boats go by."
Just a moment. I sit up and re-lace and tie my boots at the calf and jump up, rolling the cuffs of my sleeves down and grabbing my coat from where it hangs on the back of my chair. "If you’d let me, I’d get that shoulder fixed up on that." It is a little worn, I hadn’t noticed before. You brush the shoulders of my coat off, and take my arm to walk to the water’s edge. The Lord Mayor’s barge is going by with a retinue of other boats, everyone making a great deal of noise trying to talk over one another. You step up on the parapet and slide over to lean back against a tree. I stand close beside next to the tree. "If I were boating today, I would endeavor to be quiet and listen." (Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies... "Lime." Eh? "Lime trees." Yeah, I know, but it needs two more syllables. You could still be the girl. "With kaleidoscope eyes?" Look at me for a moment... oh yeah.) It does seem like there’s something they must be missing with all that talk; some meaning that could only be expressed as... "As what?" I open my arms wide to the scene in front of us. You put a hand on my shoulder and we watch as the boats recede and the sense of the sublime intensifies...
"So, tomorrow?" Tomorrow, yes, and tomorrow, and tomorrow yet again. "No, I mean, when the sun next reappears to outshine the stars. Are you working for Master Moffatt?" No, he invited us here just for our pleasure. "Then you’re still in agreement with the plan?" I’m sorry, you’ll have to remind me. The plan didn’t survive my nap. "Would you still want to go to the Gardens with me?" Of course, I’d love the Gardens. So much so, they’re nearly named after me. "And..." What? Yes, anything. "Bring those pages to read to me in the Secluded Garden?" Only if you promise to take my arm the length of the Broad Walk. "Agreed." I might also have some brand new story from this evening. "That I’d also like to hear..."

The Mount

2008-11-13T22:00:00.000-05:00

I get up early to go fishing.
("Fishing? You don’t go fishing."
I didn’t go fishing, he went fishing. It has to be something. What did I get up early for then?
"I don’t know why you ever get up early, you just always do."
Oh, sure, that’s a great way to get the story started: I got up early, 'cause, well, I don’t know why, I just always do -- what’s that emblematic of? And how’s that going to get me to the stream?
"The stream?"
Yeah, I need to get to the stream almost immediately, I think I need that image to set this up.
"Well, then, maybe you got up early to go,... fishing? I’m not getting up early to go fishing though."
In that case, maybe there’s a chance for a moment of quiet contemplation, so...)
I got up early to go fishing. I’d gotten everything out and ready the night before, and I had a picture in my head of where I’d go, but that was as far as my plans went. The stream is not that far of a walk, it’s just over a hill. I don’t even know if it has a name, but it’s about like every stream you think of. Its bed is wide -- it’s been running here for a long time. Tall old shade trees shelter the wide spot here, and there’s a rock made just right for sitting, placed as if according to a plan. The stream widens and gets quiet here in the hollow. The sounds of my footfalls and the shifting of the stepping stones echoes among the trees, and for a moment I get the sensation that I’m following myself. Walking along the edge of the embankment trying to get to the sitting place, the sandbar shifts under me and I make a misstep, soaking my foot in the stream.
("This part drags on too long."
What do you mean?
"I mean this 'quiet contemplation'; it’s too solitary, too overwrought, plus I never like the prolonged inner monologue."
Hah! You’re just pushing for her to show up.
"She always makes it more interesting -- maybe he was being watched instead of followed."
You mean they’re always more interesting together, 'art imitates' and all that.
"Yeah,... or that."
Okay,... here you go... )
There’s a splish, could be a fish
("You’re a poet, and you don’t know it."
Shhh!!)
Look for the ripples, try to figure out where they come from. Another splash,... and another. What’s that fish doing all over the place?
("The fish? What are you thinking? Look up!")
"What do I have to do? Hit you in the head with one of these pebbles?"
I thought it was the fish I was trying to catch.
"Oh, sorry, if it’s only fish for you, I won’t interrupt."
No wait, I can get back to the fish later. What brings you here?
"Feet. I’m taking a walk, you wanna come along?"
Where?
"Wherever I’m led, does it make a difference to you?"
("See, that’s why it’s better when she shows up -- you’re not stuck in one place just thinking about it."
She doesn’t think about it, is that what you’re saying?
"No, she doesn’t just think about it."
Ahh... )
I’d be glad to go wherever you’re going.
"Since when are you a fisherman?"
Um,... trying something new?
"Interesting. Nice day."
For?... nice day for?
"I’m not sure exactly, just that it has,... promise."
Like the company.
"Agreed."
The path runs along the stream for a while, then rises away out of the woods to the edge of a large clearing. We’re not the only ones arriving at the clearing. From all sides, people are happening to gather on it, filling it. They’re arriving from work in the fields, from home with their children, out of the town, making a detour from their travel. All taking a seat at the foot of the rise.
"Let’s go up and find a place to sit."
Uhh, group activity is not my favorite.
("We should talk about that sometime."
Talk about what?
"Wow. You get defensive about it fast. What is it about groups?"
Almost nothing else can be as de-personalizing as groups -- like each person’s assumptions and prejudice takes a little away until there’s nothing left of me to act.
"I still see you in groups a lot,... I’ve seen you light up in a group..."
Sure, if it’s a group that takes me as I am, let’s me be myself, that’s when I can give myself away. When it comes from inside me, it’s uplifting; when it’s imposed from the outside, it’s disheartening.
"What about me? Do I free you?"
Don’t you see how I light up?)
"Hey, isn’t that Dawson?"
Yeah, that’s him. Let’s not sit over there.
"Oh, right, still controversy about the fence."
Yeah, that was a disappointment, especially after all that time he strung it along.
"So we’re going to sit way back here? Even in this large of a crowd?"
We can try to move up, but it’s already crowded up close, we’re going to have to make do with sitting towards the back. We find a small rise that works as a bench to sit on. One of the girls from Capernaum recognizes you and runs up to you to show you her dog. She’s just about to tell you something when everyone’s attention is drawn up.
When He begins to speak, even though He seems to be far away, I can hear him as clear as if He were close at hand. His voice is compelling, and the crowd goes silent with attention. I lean my head in my hand and focus. There’s no irony in his voice as he proclaims favor and satisfaction on those usually afforded only shame. I struggle with trying to feel the triumph in the feelings I associate with defeat in the world. Humbled, mourning, unambitious, these are not the qualities of the world’s heroes. These are feelings I try to hide, bluff my way past, or deny.
("But, you also felt the nearness of God at those moments?"
In the best of them, when my denial didn’t run that far, when my frustration didn’t drive me further into my self.
"Even then, wasn’t that evidence of your 'thirst for righteousness'?"
Wait, that’s next.)
You glance back over your shoulder at me as He continues, and whisper back the lawgiver’s words from the edge of the wilderness.
"'For the LORD your God proveth you, to know whether ye love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul.'"
And it’s true that difficult times do drive me to seek the right way more directly and more critically, to reevaluate my heart and soul, struggle to find where I am empty, trust in the anonymous psalmist’s promise that 'He satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.'
("That seems pretty sincere."
It’s good to have it recognized -- too much I get suspicion and doubt.
"You really don’t like getting underestimated. Maybe you could use a little more meekness?"
Maybe I should speak better with my actions. I’m too good at overlooking controversy, more concerned with eliminating the argument than eliminating the cause of it, content to be right and stopping short of struggling to make it right.)
At the end of His opening, I bring my hands down in front of me, and count off on the fingers. Left thumb, left index, left ring, left pinky, right pinky, maybe right thumb? Looks like at my best moments I’m only meeting a single handful. Think what I could do if I ever used both hands.
(I didn’t want to leave this point without mentioning how I’ve always like the way you look wearing your pearls.
"Then for the next section, I should be sure to tell you how your light can dispel the darkness."
And that sparkle in your eye, is that the salt of your tears?
"Perhaps, they’re both there, and both indicate my heart’s true purposes."
Oh, that’s good, and right on time, they have to struggle with that right now...
He’s speaking to us now about the law, but in a new way. It is not meant as a limitation on our behavior, but as a guide for our hearts. Not to restrict our actions, but to expand our compassion. Not to make ourselves better actors, but to let God work on our hearts. The fence comes immediately back to mind when He speaks of reconciliation. I have to face that I made the mistake of assuming I was in the right just because I did nothing wrong outwardly. Inwardly, I’m still angry, and still feel like something is owed me, that I was justified in my hard feelings. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ve been looking outside for affirmation, worried about not getting caught tripping up, worried about keeping up appearances under the eye of the in crowd. I need to look inward more, open myself up to possibility rather than trying to manage every threat.
("What’re you going to do about verses 27-30?"
I don’t know. Accept my guilt and my limitations? Offer it up and trust that there’s a plan for me? Try to end up a better man? Accept that it may make me among the least in the kingdom of heaven, but knowing even the least still gets to participate in the kingdom?
"Clearly, you don’t know."
Like I said...)
In a moment, I grasp the full meaning of David’s words, 'I desire to do your will O my God, your law is within my heart.'
("We’re back talking about what’s 'underneath'."
Yeah, and I think that’s a part of what’s meant in having a pure heart -- eliminating deception, even self-deception, maybe especially self-deception: to reject your own rationalizations and excuses and to allow yourself the freedom to be inspired, to act honestly.
"To let your underneath come to the surface."
Yeah, or to let go of the false dichotomy of surface and underneath, to let the two be one.)
"Could we get back to the story? I haven’t had anything to do but react for almost a whole page."
(Does she remind you of anyone?)
"Our Father in heaven, may your name be kept holy. May your Kingdom come soon. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our sustenance, and forgive us our sins, as we have forgiven those who sin against us. And don’t let us yield to temptation, but deliver us from evil."
Amen.
"It’s all in there. We should be sure to include all those pieces in prayer."
And again, it is also a guide for our actions. But how? How can I be sure that what I do today will prepare me for tomorrow?
"As He says, 'Today’s trouble is enough for today.' Focus on your steps, the path is there already. The right way is always in front of us, we only have to choose to follow it."
And the consequences for taking the wrong path are already included in that choice. I should be more careful in allowing myself to forgive as freely as I accept forgiveness.
("I wasn’t aware that you even accept forgiveness that freely."
I do want there to be consequences, which means there have to be some even for me. And I don’t want to move on from anything until I’ve given myself a chance to learn from it. The second lesson has a tendency to be, uh, stricter than the first.)
By now, I should have learned to allow enough room for others to make mistakes, to hold people responsible while still maintaining a relationship.
"For some things, that seems humanly impossible."
Which is why we should entrust justice to the heart and hand of God.
(But even still, how do I look to find His justice, His peace? How do I find my way?
"Go back to the story, I think it comes up next.")
Then He promised, 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,' and I realized I was not separated in any true way from God, that any separation came from me.
When He finished speaking, we sat still and quiet. Everything felt different, for we had been changed for having been given the chance to share in the truth directly. It never occurred to anyone to applaud or cheer, in the same way it never occurs when you see the sun rise, or the full moon appear from behind a curtain of clouds.
"I’m glad our walk brought us here."
Thank you for inviting me along.
"Shall we head home?"
Give me just a minute. I wonder if I can still find...
"Dawson? He’s heading out just over there."
I’ll be right back.

"What did you say?"
I just told him it was good to see him today. Shook his hand.
"Did he say anything about the fence?"
No, but it wasn’t important anymore.
("Isn’t it? I thought that was a big deal. He kind of used you, and he didn’t have anything to say about it?"
Nope. It’s cool, I just wanted to say hey all the same.
"You haven’t got anything else written. How’s the rest of it go?"
Well, the two of them head back to the stream, sit on the rock, talk about what they might seek, what they might ask for. Maybe he even tells her a story.
"I’d like to hear that one too.")

The Bench

2008-07-07T00:30:00.000-04:00

I’m not feeling especially good this morning, but no serious complaints, and at least it’s all from my own choices. My legs and arms are sore from carting those piles of slate, but not my back. All in all, totally worth it for the way it turned out looking all spread out under the eaves. My back is aware of where it’s pressing into the crisp edges of the boards of the back of the seat. The front edge of the bench is scoring into the backs of my thighs. It’s still chilly this early in the morning -- helping me stay wakeful. I’m working on rubbing the soreness out of my palms and each finger in turn. That one still tries to rotate across when I grip the bars tight -- I’ve tried to work on it from time to time since the break, but if that’s the only lasting consequence...
I should be letting myself settle in to the bench. Did sprints and hills this morning. Always better to get those done early before the trail gets crowded and the heat sets in. A few sighs, sink in, take helmet off, cool air runs through my spiky hair, and I start to settle: sides of ankles stiffening, thighs feeling acidic and leadening, that sensation just slightly different, and combining with the slate-work soreness. Feels good; isn’t that funny how that feels good today and it would be a hassle if it was a workday. Reach over back of bench to unfasten the notebook from the bike rack, taking an extra moment or two to stretch -- stretch turns into a yawn and a bigger stretch and almost a cramp. Feet wet, cold feet at the ends of burning steaming legs. The chill keeping me from dropping back in the spreading power outage throughout my body.
Sitting now with the notebook closed on the bench and my arms/hands slack at my sides. Closing my eyes and concentrating on feeling the bench. Mentally tired, not sleeping much recently. Doing too much probably, it’s such an temptation when the days get long. ("Not sleeping? Then how can you be dreaming?" Is this? "Well, did it actually happen?" Each part did... "Why are you keeping me out?" I’m keeping you out? I don’t see how I could be doing that. "Open up why don't you.")
An idea comes to me. I take the pen from my lips, open my eyes, and pick up the notebook. I skip through the first few pages at the rough starts and fragments, none of which are part of today’s. The top of a tall shadow moves in from the left and crosses the tips of my shoes. I look up and squint to make you out coming towards me barefoot across the grass, holding your shoes in your hand ("I don’t mind getting my feet wet." You don’t like getting your shoes wet though. "Well, not these shoes."). Your feet hold my attention. The way the nail color catches the eye. The gentle transition as the contour of your arch turns in to your ankle then the hollow of the side of your leg and blending up into your calf. The little bit of grass caught between your toes.
"Hey, I’m up here."
What? A guy can like looking at those feet approaching.
"Oh, really? You like this?" You start to exaggerate your foot movements with little kicks and points in your approach.
Slow down a bit, make it last.
"You don’t want me to get over there quicker?"
We’re not in a rush are we?
"Well, try this then..." Stretching out the length of each step, and exaggerating the reach with your toes, showing off your nail color. Toe extensors lift up under smooth skin. Contours of veins caress along the side of your ankle bone. Slight jumps and flexes of your leg muscles. Drops of dew run down your shin and kick up into the air.
"Is there any more room on that bench?"
It should work for two. I believe it was made for two.
"I brought the paper, we could do the puzzle."
This is early to be up for you isn’t it?
"Every once in a while for a special occasion."
Welcome aboard -- just let that bike fall. I grab a thermos out of the side bag and push the bike over to get the handlebars off your side of the back of the bench. Would you like some coffee? I hand you the thermos and you start to pour.
"It’s got cream in it."
Yes, yes it does.
"You don’t put cream in it."
No, but you do.
"I was hoping I’d surprised you."
You might not always show up, but that doesn’t keep me from anticipating it.
You finish pouring the coffee and look for a place to put it down. I start to scoot over to make room, but stop suddenly and suck a quick breath in through my teeth and let part of it out in a short snort. My leg pulls under the bench, and I close my eyes tightly. After that first moment, I go back to trying to scoot over, lifting myself up and pulling myself over with my hands, eyes still closed, lips tight.
"What? What’s going on?"
Nothing, just a little cramp, it’ll pass in a second. I hook my other foot under the first and try to pull it out.
"I’ll get that."
No, no, I’ll be okay in a --whoooahhh. Yikes.
"Yeah, you’ll 'be okay', right, now let me get that." I brush your hand away from my leg.
Just ignore it. It’ll stop. It’ll have to. Any second. Really. But I’m wrong, now my calf is joining in with my hamstring, and my eyes are watering. You look me straight in the eye, and I have no answer to the resolve there, and I let you take my leg to pull my foot out. It’s a bit of a tug-o-war initially, but the cramps finally start to melt.
"You can be so stupid, you really thought I’d just sit here and not help? When do you ever get to get helped?"
That seems like a silly question coming from you.
"How so?" (You have a mirror handy? "Maybe a magic mirror?" Yeah, that one’d work well.
Just needs a little more self-awareness that’s all. You give me a squinty look and we both size each other up seriously for a few moments until the smiles return.

I think my leg's gonna be okay now. You can quit working on it.
You'd been holding it absent-mindedly, but now snap back to awareness of it and let go of it, giving me a quick slap on the thigh. "You're impossible sometimes. See what happens next time you cramp."
No, wait, it might be happening again.
"Yeah, nice try. You got anything good going in there?"
How’s that? Oh this: I lift the notebook from where it fell off the bench. Knocking a few ideas around, not quite sure how they fit together yet.
"Where is it?"
No place this morning, trying some poetry -- it’s still just a big mess of pictures/feelings/thoughts waiting for a metaphor to fit them all into.
"Let me see?"
You know the rules: 'No Peeking'.
"I’m not peeking, I’m asking, and holding my hand out, and saying please."
Well, now and again you know I do like to know what you think. Here you go...
"I recognize this, this seems like you." ("Which reminds me, was there something else that reminded me of you?" Could be, it's been a busy time ghostwriting-wise. "Anybody interesting?" Now that brings up another rule... "Oh, come on." Was it something good? Did you like it? "Oh, yes, I liked it." That one was definitely me then.)
And what is it that I seem like to you?
"Now that would be some poem."
Ah, good answer -- you need some paper?
"You got another notebook?"
I’m a little blocked right now anyway, I need to get away from it a bit, let it percolate. You can use the notebook if you let me have the newspaper. You didn’t start the puzzle yet, did you?
"Please, I’m still barely awake."
Pen?
"You got anything less blotchy?"
Here you go, simple ballpoint stick.
"I like this little thing you scribbled in here, can I work off of that?"
Only 'cause you said you liked it. Best of luck with it, I think it could be something good if I could just figure out where to go with it.

Damn Post puzzles -- good thing there's two of them. The first one's not even a half a cup of coffee long. I go to put my coffee down on the bench between us, and you pick it up and hand it back to me. I give you a puzzled look and switch hands between paper and cup and go to put the paper down on the bench. You pick the paper up and swat me on the forehead with it. Then turning to the side, you sit lengthwise on the bench and scoot into the space to lean back against my side. I grin at my own unawareness and slide over to give you enough room for your legs to stretch out on the bench.
"Thanks."
You got it, just try not to wiggle around too much. I balance my coffee cup on my thigh and go back to the second puzzle. Oh great, lots of stupid puns. ("That's a problem for you?" Look here Smarty, would you just let me be crabby about the puzzle without taking a cheap shot? As it happens, it's not a problem...) That didn't take very long either, and not satisfying when they ask you play dumb. Still, changing gears has given me enough free synapses to see something of the connection..., hmmm,... might work. Wow, look at you going to town there in the notebook. Let me put a few notes down around the edges of the comics, close my eyes and just think for a minute...

"Hey Dreamer, it's getting a little warm out here. I'm ready to head for some shade."
You done with the notebook?
"For a while now. And then I've been listening to you deep breathing over there. Watching them mow the fields..."
What time is it?
"Why? You have to be somewhere today?"
Nope.
"Then it might be time to find some shade, quit with the coffee, find something cool to drink.
Juice + June, eh? I like the sound of that.
"July?"
Yikes, how long was I asleep? I better get started on another story.
"Why don't you tell it to me as we walk?"
Okay, let me start with what you put down there...

Las Vegas

2008-05-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

It’s the cramped feeling that comes to you first, a little achy and tight, as consciousness starts to reveal itself to you. Next is the brightness, the sun seems too bright through your eyelids. Have the curtains fallen down? You try to roll over and cover your face, but there’s no room to turn. You pull the covers up instead, which uncovers your feet. Good thing you’ve got socks on. Wait, socks on? Why do you have your socks on? You’ve reached the threshold of too many things to ignore, and open your eyes.
Lying in the back seat; now you have a context to start ordering your sensations to make sense. You face the ceiling for a few seconds, blinking your usual morning expectations out of your eyes. Then, fully present, you start to see. The back of the driver’s seat on your left. Snack wrappers and empty bottles on the floor behind it. Books, map case, and backpack all wedged in on the floor behind the passenger seat which has been pushed back into and leaned over them. The red blanket clutched in your fist pulled tight under your chin contrasts with the grey of the back seat upholstery on your right. You shift to turn to the right a bit more to uncurl and lie facing straight up. What a weird shape to the dome light. Still a little unfocussed, you take a few moments just staring and wondering at it. Your eyes are still tired, and you blink hard, trying to wipe the soreness off them. When you open up again, you look down towards your feet. The passenger seat is all the way back and leaning over them, and a familiar shape turned away from you with a hood up inhales and exhales deeply, shoulders rising and falling, just barely on the right side of snoring. You start to reach out with a foot to tickle, but pause when a red bird flies by the window to land on the branch just outside the window, ducking it’s head around scattered drops of last night’s rain still on the window. It looks in at you, or at it’s own reflection, and hops further up the branch, towards the back of the car. Now it’s mostly occluded by the sticker on the triangular window, which pushes itself into clarity as you switch your focus to foreground from background.
White rectangle centered in the frame of a triangular window. A big round blue palm with five short, clawed teardrop fingers all coming straight up. A paw, not a hand, but still almost a hand. Counterclockwise white spiral radiates out of the center of the palm. You wonder why you’ve never noticed that before. It’s odd up close, doesn’t provide a context for itself, and floats separate and enigmatic. Your attention is drawn back to where I’m shifting a bit, trying (apparently unsuccessfully) to get comfortable in my sleep, stretching my upper back a bit and trying to settle back in.
"Hey Driver, why are we stopped? Driver?" I feel the ball of your foot in the middle of my back, toes grabbing at the sweatshirt. A nudge, a second nudge with the toe, and I reach back and catch your foot, turning around under it to bring it into my lap. "I’m up before you today." Yeah, don’t think it counts when I have to 'sleep' sitting up. "Where are we? Not sure exactly. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Well, I know what’s up the road thataway, and I know what’s on the road back there, but I don’t know what this place is. ("Wait, the title said ‘Las Vegas’. I got all excited for some adventure." So, now I’m supposed to tell what happens in Vegas? "It didn’t seem natural to me, but it’s your title." I’ll have to get back to that, give me a cue later...) The rain got too heavy to drive, I was getting sleepy, you were already sleeping. "Sorry about that." No, I didn’t mean it that way, just that having a conversation with just myself made it harder to stay awake. Wipers, sound of water splashing in the wheel well, white dash, white dash, white dash, and the repeating mile markers, all too hypnotic to ignore after a while of staring out the windshield. Plus, I was tired to begin with. I thought, we don’t seem to have a fixed itinerary ("Is that why it takes forever to get to each stop?" Touché, guilty as charged), it seemed best, if I was going to fall asleep in the car, that it not be while I was driving. So, I found a place to pull off where the truckers were unlikely to wake us. "You were singing along to a CD?" Yeah, why? "I had a weird dream I kept dropping in and out of. The dream kept getting mixed in to the car, and the car kept getting mixed into the dream." What was the dream? ("Isn’t this it?" You know, I’m never sure -- even when I feel sure, I don’t feel it’s my place to decide for you.) "I can’t recall anything in detail, but there’s a feeling left over from it, the envelope of the dream." Ah, a dream of clarification. "What you say?" Not a dream where you’re trying to take in new objects from the recent past, but one where the familiar objects change their meaning for you. The details don’t stand out, ‘cause they’re not the issue... "Where’d you get that from?" Just made it up, take it for what it’s worth to you. "I’ll have to test that out on a few of my dreams and get back to you on it." Or you can filter mine with it. I’m going to see how it works on my everyday experience, try to appreciate how the meanings change, and how the change gets passed down through the related ideas. ("Too early." Too early in the story for that? "No, too early in the morning to be firing that many neurons." It should probably work better with fewer...) Sometimes realizing how one thing changed every other thing almost immediately. You’re testing out the fewer neurons technique, glazing over and staring through the window out into space. Your focus pulls back to the window on its own. "Wait, there was one constant image as I passed back and forth to and from dream." Something you remember? "More than that, something that earlier I thought I’d never seen before this morning: what is that anyway?" I look back over my shoulder out my window. What do you mean? "No, not out there, right there?" Oh, you mean the sticker? "Yeah, I thought you had a thing about stickers and labels." You’re right, that one’s part of a bigger story though. "Where’d you get it?" Vegas. ("Oh, okay, so here we go." Right, here it is. "Are you allowed to talk about it?" That part, yeah, I guess so, since technically it happened outside of Vegas. Don’t ask me about the porch at the VooDoo Lounge though. "No?" No. "Okay, I wont for now. I’ll start with the sticker, then see if I can wheedle details of the other thing out." I’ll try to make this one interesting enough for you to forget the rest.)
I roll the window down to let some cool morning air in, smack my lips and reach for a piece of gum...
Okay, so it was February, a couple of years back. Actually, it was right after 9/11. The annual meeting was coming up, everybody who’d met their goals ("There are company goals? Some kind of quality goals?" Oh, no, just financial goals. There were always two camps at the annual meeting, the larger one who was less committed to being good but talented at making money, and the smaller group of us who wouldn’t be satisfied not being good and just happened to make money as a result.) was invited to spend the money that’d been taken out of their budget every month. A lot of people were anxious about even going, about flying out there. In my mind, I was hell-bent to go spend that money they’d taken out of my bonus for 12 months. I was going, and I was gonna take advantage of every company function, squeeze some money out of them for one long weekend the way they squeeze it out of me the rest of the year. But, I had no interest in the golf tournament, and the other option that day was a spa day ("I can see you now, lying under the sun lamp, towel on your head, cucumber slices on your eyes..." Yeah, so you can see why I didn’t take that option either.). Nothing else in Vegas was much interest to me either. The whole place is designed to keep you from hanging out with more than 2 or 3 people at once. It separates you, isolates you, then starts to take your money. A lot of people sure seem to get a kick out of that, but if I’m gonna part with that much money, I’m gonna have a story about more than how I watched it go. I did a little research before going out, and scheduled a bike rental from the northern edge of the city, from where I could ride up to Red Rocks, where there was supposed to be a decent ride.
It was cool that afternoon, not like here in February, but therefore warmer that I expected. I started out with long sleeves, tights over shorts, midweight fleece pullover and a wind shell ("That bright yellow fleece?" Yeah. "The one that makes you look like Tweety on steroids?" That wouldn’t be so bad, it makes me look like Tweety after eating the whole bag of birdseed. It works great at the right temperatures though, and if I wear a windbreaker over it...). I looked a little ridiculous at the cab stand at the Bellagio, dressed like that holding my gloves and helmet in my hand. Not more ridiculous than some of the people there, but definitely in a different way. I got to the shop, and they actually had my reservation ready for me. Well, almost, they had to switch the pedals, since they didn’t believe me when I asked for clipless over the phone.
Now I thought the whole area was flat. I don’t know, desert, flat, it seems right. But riding north was a constant slight climb, into a head wind. The bike was geared different than mine, so I had a hard time finding a comfortable effort and cadence. It didn’t help that it was February, and probably the last long ride I’d taken around here was like in December. That, and also the ride out is just along the side of the road, and it seemed like I’d get caught having to stop for traffic at each of the lights. The sun was warm, and I ended up taking off the jacket and fleece and cramming them into the belt pack I’d brought ("You mean fanny pack." Yeah, okay, the fanny pack, that really entertains you, doesn’t it? "I think it’s funny how you go out of your way to call it something else." Fanny pack just sounds like something your great-aunt put together to push for more favorable legislation for multiple-cat owners. "Hey. You lay off my great-aunt Fanny." Yes, you’re right, she’s harmless, as long as she never learns how to make those cats into her great feline army. "She’d only use her powers for Good." I don’t know if the robins are confident about that.). Still, I’m sweating more than I thought I would in February. Usually, around here, it’s trying to make sure my toes and fingers don’t freeze. It ends up taking me over 90 minutes to get to the entrance to the park, and it’s become a real ride instead of just a little jaunt to see some sights. I’d lost sight of it as fun and taken it on as a challenge. I’m trying to keep track of my time, since I’m supposed to be back to the Bellagio for dinner at Picasso at a certain time. If it takes the same time coming and going, I still have about another 90 minutes before I have to turn back. The entrance to the park has a steep uphill to the beginning of the loop around. There’s a gift shop there, of course, and I stop to use the bathroom and get something to drink.
While I’m in the gift shop, I also get a bandanna, as the sweat keeps threatening to get in my eyes. Poisonous snakes of North America. Should be able to keep me out of trouble as long as all of these snakes are actually white on navy blue like the bandanna is. While waiting in line to pay for my bandanna and drink, a display of stickers catches my eye. I’m not really looking for one, just browsing through. I absent-mindedly stop at one, I don’t even remember which. At that very moment, some random man in the store approaches me. [That’s not the one for you.] I’m sorry, what? [This one, this one has chosen you.] Actually, I was kind of interested in Coyote, it’s got something cool about it. [Which one you choose doesn’t matter. You don’t choose them, they choose you.] This sticker has chosen me? In my periph, I’m trying to look to see if anybody’s in on the joke. [No, not the sticker, the Bear. Great Bear.] Okay, thanks. [Got any spare change?] As it turned out I did, after I bought the sticker and the other things I’d picked out.
As I started out riding again, the weird exchange at the gift shop stuck in my mind ("You always get caught up by those random happenings." I’m not sure which I find most disturbing, when they seem to mean something, or when they don’t seem to mean something.). My father was an Arthur. My G’pa was an Arthur ("Arthur?" Arthur = bear man). My favorite thing to do at the zoo had always been to stand by the bear enclosure. Smokey would sometimes come down to the front and watch me. Sometimes he’d dare me to come jump in the pool with him to cool off. ("How’d he do that, exactly?" Keep in mind I was still in my single digits; he would go to the edge of the pool, look back over at me, then drop in.) Later there was that time in Yellowstone when my G’pa and I went fishing out in the lake and the bears came to visit my G’ma as she was cooking dinner in the trailer. I thought she must’ve been pretty scared, but she deflected it so that I wouldn’t be scared, saying that she knew I’d be back soon and that the bears wouldn’t go against me. One very influential person once stood up in front of class in High School to describe how she had misjudged me, how she’d been afraid of my quietness like one would be of a brooding bear. But that she’d come to know that I was just listening, like a big teddy bear ("Not to mention warm, and gentle" For some, yes, and also a little worn. "You mean Well-loved." Okay, sure, I guess).
The rest of the ride was a task -- so many steep hills, and no real bike trail, just trying to share the one way road with the Suburbans and Campers and Minivans roaring along trying to get to the next scenic overlook or the next spot to head in to see the cave paintings. By the time I reach the highest point of the ride, I’ve just about had it. A car full of friendly people offered me a Coke, I suppose I must’ve looked like I needed one ("These friendly people, were they women?" Uh, could have been, I don’t clearly recall, it’s not important to this story. "Is it important to the VooDoo Lounge story?" I said I wasn’t going to tell that story. "You’ll tell me eventually..."). Overheated, a little crampy, pretty sure I’m going to be late for the first course of that dinner, I had a Coke and a Smile and took some time to look around at the rocks and the colors as the sun started going down. The ride back was completely different. The gradual downhill made it easy to keep up a fast pace, the wind was at my back now, and the lights weren’t a problem. I did have to stop once just to put my fleece and jacket back on, as it was getting cold fast with the sun dropping and at that speed. I got back to the shop in half the time it’d taken me going out. I get back to the shop, and the kid asks me how the ride was. I tell him it was fine. He asks if I was able to bear up against that headwind, and I had to laugh.
No problem catching a cab back, and as odd as I must’ve looked leaving, I must’ve seemed a little more out of place arriving at the Bellagio in the evening, stepping out of the cab all sweat-caked and dragging. Helmet-hair and helmet and gloves in hand. The cab stand guy opens the door and pauses a second and blinks before he gets out his [Welcome to the Bellagio, Sir]. I step out in tights and fleece ("Like a big canary?" Maybe like a big golden bear.) saying thank you very much Anton ("Name tag?" Yep, name tag), and slipping a ten in his hand just ‘cause it seemed so ridiculous ("A ten?!" Yeah, I was saving it to blow on slots, but this was much better), clearly overcompensating. Anton plays along though, [may I get someone to bring your helmet in sir?]. Yes, thank you, and my gloves, up to my room if you would Anton. And then my cleats clicking my way across the bricks to the door. ("Did you make it in time for dinner?" Easily, even had time for a long hot shower and a nap. "How was it?" Oh the meal was spectacular, I had to switch seats to really enjoy the dinner though. I started out between a pair of grinds that wanted to talk all about monthly revenue and run rates and P&L’s. Holy crap guys, give it a rest, you’re in Las Vegas. The I went to sit next to Ellen, who’s a VP, but still seems to remember the point. I started to re-introduce myself, but she cut me off, saying she knew perfectly well who I was. It startled me for a minute, but it turned out she did not remember dancing in Memphis. She said she’d laughed hard at the note I’d attached to my RSVP. Seems I have a rep for being sarcastic too "No! People can be so unfair." Yeah, I know, right? I guess some of those people I worked with wrote at length to Division about me, in a good way. I told her there has to be some upside to working with pushy opinionated people. That was the last we talked about work for the rest of the evening, even when grind #1 tried to suck up, asking one of those questions. I stopped talking to be polite so she could answer. She paused, looked at grind #1, then looked back at me and asked [So, then what happened?]. Did I mention that the wine was terrific? It always tastes so much better when the company pays for it. Of course, my damn internal clock still woke me up at 4 AM Las Vegas time. Gave me enough time to go down to the gym and pool and work out the hangover sweats.)
When I got back from Vegas (that was a huge cluster, the end of spring break that year and those first attempts at airport security), I stopped unpacking when I got to the sticker again. I went and looked and was struck by how much it fit me. Some things I knew about myself but didn’t know I knew. The whole thing was damn spooky. "So you put the sticker up." Right, just to keep me mindful of the power of coincidences and how they can reveal things about yourself. To remind me to keep my eyes and mind open. "And the VooDoo Lounge story, what would that reveal about you?" I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on up front in this seat. I’ll get back in the driver’s seat and we can go find a place to get some coffee and breakfast. "We’ll probably have time for another story then." Maybe, maybe it’s your turn to tell one. "I know a Red Pathway story about The Bear and The Porcupine." Oh? That sounds interesting...

Spring Fever, DC

2008-04-26T02:00:00.000-04:00

I get off the train at the Pentagon City stop, manila envelope in my hand. I’ve taken the day off to wander and was able to finish up something for us while having coffee earlier and was inspired to drop it in the mail for you before getting to the rest of my non-plans for the day. Never gotten off at this station before, there must be a post office around here somewhere, and I’m trying to get my bearings on the escalator. I’m looking past the people for the most part, but some detail pulls my eye towards it. That’s funny, it’s just like yours. Don’t see many of those. In fact it must be yours, since it’s with you and heading down the escalator opposite. Didn’t recognize you at first with your hair up like that ("What’s that supposed to mean?" No, it’s not like that, it looks comfortable and casual. "And awful." You’re quite expert at this game where you talk yourself down in order to fish a compliment out of me you know. Your hair looks good and you with it. "Well, if you insist,... you look 'comfortable and casual' too.' How would you know? You haven’t seen me yet...). I call across to you, but I may as well just mouth your name, 'cause I’m drowned out by your train arriving. I’m too far behind your view for waving to work... maybe if I headed back onto my platform I could catch your eye. The commuters are not as forgiving as they might be as I head back down the up escalator. Geez, nice language. I skitch over the railing to avoid the next wave trying to get on the escalator.
You’ve boarded your train, and stand in the left-side doorway window still not seeing me flailing away (it is a bit early for you to be out and about). Okay, that’s not working, what else?... Fumble for my change purse... the nickel hits the window just as the train starts to move. You look up only barely, but not across. The penny’s got some weird spin on it and misses, arcing wildly. Last chance, jogging on my platform to keep up, let the quarter go and it’s right on target (didn’t think I could do that accurately running to my left: maybe there’s room for me as a backup on your powder puff team). The quarter hits the window hard. You squint, recognize ("Now can I say it? You look 'comfortable and casual'." That’s nice of you to say: I wasn’t expecting to see anybody today. At least I shaved, but I left my hair to my cap -- which fell off somewhere as I ran down the platform: hat head! The outfit’s pretty random too. But let’s get back... "Weren’t you fishing for a compliment?" Thanks, I’ll pick it up.), smile (which I recognize as a compliment, and return), and wave. Wait up! I’m sure you couldn’t hear that, but I tried to exaggerate and maybe you were able to read my lips...
Your waving hand gives the "okay" sign just as you disappear in the tunnel, leaving me with a platform of strangers wondering what my damage is. I retrieve my cap and try not to make eye contact with anyone as I go across to the inbound platform. 3 minutes till the next train. Shrug at the couple people still looking warily at me, which seems to put them off; doubt they’ll sit next to me. Stare down at the platform lights humming what I can remember of 'Downtown Train', interrupted by the track lights finally starting to flash. Linger a moment or two to let everyone else on so I don’t get stuck in the middle of the car.
[Doors closing] and then the train’s starting. Staring at the tunnel walls, I wonder where you’re going this morning. What are you even doing here?... okay, next station: I step out and scan the platform, but I don’t see you anywhere among the crowd of uniforms. Maybe you thought I meant wait for me at your final stop, if you could even understand what I was saying ("I really couldn’t tell. From the moment I went into the tunnel I was trying to figure that out. A stop name? A question? Maybe just a greeting? Maybe not even in English,..."). I guess I’ll just go a few more stops and check. This time I do get caught up with the boarders and end up in the middle of the train. On the opposite track, the outbound train is boarding. Somebody’s waving, so I look up: there you are ("Well, when I couldn’t figure out what you said I decided to try and go back and ask you.") but my train’s announcing [Doors closing] and I’m trapped. Just enough time to scribble on the envelope. I lean over the people sitting to press it to the window: L’Enfant Plaza? You lean over the seat on your side to read it, then laughing with a nod of your head and pointing to the envelope. I wave and wink as my train’s pulling off. I exhale a chuckle of relief, and finally noticing the riders in the seat, offer an embarrassed smile and an apology. They don’t bother to respond and revert to their normal commuting mode as the conductor announces: [Next stop, Arlington Cemetery]. What?! Damn, I ‘m on the Blue Line train. (Is that why you were laughing? "No, that’s nervous laughter that snuck out, rejoicing spotting you on the opposite train -- though if I’d known you were on the Blue Line train..." Yeah, it is a little funny given how the rest of the morning had gone.)
I get off again at Arlington Cemetery -- the sky looks like it’s gonna be clear today and I find a place to wait in the sun. I put my earbuds in to listen to an old playlist. The combination of late night writing, the early start, and the bright sun off the granite makes me pull the brim of my hat further down over my eyes and I lean and doze. What am I even doing? Clearly you’re up early to go somewhere important. I better try and think of something interesting to say while we share a train ride -- if we even manage to catch each other ("Do you really plan out what you’re going to say?" Never successfully. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Either a) I draw a blank, unable to anticipate which of the infinite topics will come up, or, b) I have things I want to say, but they seem to dissolve when we’re together, lost in whatever we’re sharing in the moment. Either way, I don’t seem to find my voice or the words until you arrive. Whatever happens in my head when you’re absent is always less interesting than being present with you in the moments we’re together. "Okay, that’s enough of that. You’re starting to exaggerate." Belabor maybe, but not exaggerate. "No, I meant exaggerate." Yeah, okay. Not much though.) I’ve got today’s story of course, but I’m not sure I’ve got the courage to sit with you when you read it. We’ll think of something to say...
I peek an eye open: one of the two students standing next to me is dancing slightly -- I didn’t realize I had my music turned up so loud. I close my eye again before she can notice me noticing. The train’s here anyway, and it’s back to the Pentagon stop again.
I switch over, again, to the other track and take care to get on the next yellow line train. The seats are all taken now that it’s the height of the morning rush hour, so I lean in the free space next to the doors. I hang on to the pole, close my eyes again and let the train toss me around a bit. Somebody keeps bumping me, but I’m in no mood to care, so I leave my eyes closed and ignore them. Now they’re squeezing in to my space and as the train gets a little rough as it starts under the river they grab the elbow of the arm I’m holding on with. I let out an exasperated breath and open my eyes to you grinning at me, which lights me right up. "You know, you probably shouldn’t fall asleep on the train like that." Hey, maybe I was focusing my psychic powers to make you appear. "It didn’t look very focused." Well, that’s part of the secret isn’t it? Allowing yourself to focus without focusing. "Anyway, you didn’t make me appear, I saw you get on the train and came over on my own. In fact, I think it might have been my powers making you appear. I was just thinking how I was going to find you again when you stepped on the train." ("By the way, earlier just before you were throwing things at me I was wondering what you were doing with your day off." Well, I appreciate your summoning me.) Yeah, it seemed improbable, but I was pretty sure we could figure it out. "How’d you know where I was going?" What d’ya mean? "L’Enfant Plaza. How’d you know I was going to L’Enfant Plaza?" I didn’t know, that’s just where I was thinking of going. Why are you going? "No reason, I was just going to hang around and ignore the work I had planned. Why are you going?" The same, just bumming around. "Want some company?" That seems like you’re looking for a way out: you summoned me remember. "Just trying to make you feel like you had a choice." Well, I don’t want to risk the disdain you save for people who deny themselves the pleasure of your company. Here’s our stop, you’re welcome to keep a hold of my arm... "Oh, sorry, I forgot. You can have it back." Don’t be sorry, either way. Here we are.
Everybody else is in a hurry to get out and off to work in their suits and with their work bags. Our more casual speed makes us stand out like a movie camera trick: everyone else sped up to a near blur in comparison. They fade to sepia tones as our colors brighten. Their expressions unrecognizable, our easy comfortable smiles clearly visible.
The wind blowing down the escalator smells sunny and green with small hints of warmness in its cool. We pause wordless arriving at the top in the sunshine from out of the shade. We stand, stretching a bit, taking a first full breath, and letting each other arrive in the moment with a second, deeper awakening of the day. I open my eyes first; your eyes are still fluttering closed with the sun on your face and dancing in your hair. Then, it’s your turn to open your eyes and turn to me grinning.
Ready? "Yeah. Ready for what?" I was letting you decide. ("You mean you were pretending to let me decide. You gonna give me the pen now, are you?" Okay, so I’ll decide, but if you think you’re ready to hold the pen again I’d happily oblige. "Not right now, okay?" That’s cool, I’ve got plenty ideas of my own for today. "Let me pretend to be surprised.") "I’m taking the day off from being in charge." I hear that. Stick with me today and I’ll make sure you don’t have to be responsible for anything. Come on then: let’s head for the mall, I know about a thousand different ways to futz a day away there.
To start, we can drift around the sculpture garden at the Hirshorn. Let’s play 'Name that Piece'. "I’m not going to know any of them." Me either, and totally not the point. Pick a piece and decide what it ought to be named, then if we can figure out what the name really is we see if we came close at all. Here’s a cheat: if you can’t come up with anything, Untitled #5 is often a good guess. How about that one first? "Great Big Cube?" Hard to sell that, how about 'The Eight Sides of Chance'? "Hard to swallow that." Well, look here, it’s actually called Great Big Cube. "Get out!" (April Fools! "What are you talking about, that was weeks ago." You mean, when this was supposed to be done and up? "Yeah, you seem to be missing the mark each time." I think I might finally be shaking off the winter sluggishness and back in the rhythm again. So anyway, April Fools! "That’s just fine.") I always liked the big sphere with the chunk taken out of it, and the dog in the piece with the guy walking thru the door always makes me laugh. Plus who is that anyway, Han Solo. "Now you’re just geeking it." Yep. "This one looks like the wind." We should bring your kite back and add it. "What makes you think the Hirshorn can afford to buy that kite from me?" Well, that’d end your money worries for a while. "Okay, here’s a rule for the rest of today -- no bringing up sources of real world anxiety, I’m supposed to be escaping those today. Otherwise I might as well go back home and work on my place." Sorry, I should’ve been more careful: forgive me? "I’ll take it under advisement." Come on around here to the garden’s own reflecting pool; we can use the bench to practice sitting quietly. "Did you empty your change purse throwing coins at me in the subway?" No, I’ve got some change left. "Got a penny for me?" At least: here. "Got another one for you?" Yeah, what’re you up to? "Make a wish." You close your eyes for a moment and toss your penny way up in the air to fall near the center of the pool. I close mine to seek a wish, find one easily, and try to skip my penny on the pool. It manages 3 or 4 skips and dives in the far end. You’ll let me know if your wish comes true won’t you? "Sure, if you promise to let me know about yours." It’s a promise.
Got any notepaper or post-it’s in your bag? Anything square? "These." Perfect, let’s go sailing --you know how to make a paper boat? "Sure, you?" I used to, I’m sure you could coach me through it. "Here’s your paper." What happens first? "Just do as I do." Yeah, this is feeling familiar. We make a dozen or so boats and let the regatta set off on the pool. "Did I ever tell you my sailing story?" No, only alluded to being seasick and your unwillingness to go without me in water where you can’t see the bottom. "I don’t know about that last bit." Okay then, tell me your sailing story...
Our fleet is quite waterlogged and ready to be rounded up when you’re done telling your story. Maybe we should move on to the next item of the day? "What’s that?" Not completely sure, but let’s start walking. You’ll have to let me bring snowman back out here and take his picture in the middle of 'Conversation Piece'. Do something silly with me? "Maybe. What?" Lie down in the grass with me and look up through the blue Calder. Even with the occasional breeze, the mobile doesn’t move as much as we’d wish. I pluck a few dandelion heads and we make up for our disappointment by watching the blown seeds float and dance on the wind.
Come on then, I need your help with the next thing. We climb the stairs out of the sculpture garden and cut across the mall toward the East Wing of the National Gallery. Once inside, we take a second to wonder if the Calder in the main hall there wouldn’t rather be out in the wind. I doubt we could blow enough to stir it in here. That’s not what we’re here for anyway -- right downstairs for us, and into the tunnel toward the West Wing. A playful mood catches us there and we can’t help playing on the moving walkways: moonwalk, eastbound versus westbound race, moving walkway versus floor race, walking fast off the end of the moving walkway to feel that sudden deceleration and pitch forward when your feet hit the floor, you gliding by aloof on one side while I walk backwards on the other playing for your attention. A few chaperones are torn between feeling we’re a bad influence on their school group and wanting to join in.
Hey, you want a coffee? "That’d be good about now." You find us a good place to sit (where we can watch the fountain spilling from the plaza upstairs down to the underground). I’ll be right back with coffee from the coffee bar here... Latte for you, Americano for me (Sorry, no toffee nut option here. "Did you ask?" Um, no. "Fine." Wait, I’ll go ask... "Stop it, I’m just teasing."), and a fistful of biscotti -- selection of chocolate, almond, and hazelnut. You were right it was a good time for a coffee -- I was starting to drag a bit, and without the coffee the sound of the water would’ve put me right to sleep.
"What was it you needed my help for?" Well, I’ve finally used up all the postcards I had from MOMA, and I’ve got an idea about trying to send a few little notes now and again, I think I need to resupply. ("You could just pick up some of the free postcards from that random rack. Where’d we see that again?" Yeah, those were some headscratchers, I can’t remember where that was. Next time we’re there, I’ll pick some of those up too) I thought you could help me pick out some of your favorites, and I’ll try to help you see what I see in my favorites. "You mean, like what you did with 'The Boating Party'?" Something like that. They’ve got almost every major work of the gallery in postcard form in the gift shop down here. "You want to split that last hazelnut?" Yeah, here.
After we finish our coffees, we split up to wander the card displays separately. "How many were you thinking about getting?" How many were you thinking about receiving? "I’m not sure there are enough here for that." How about for now you find about a dozen, and the rest I’ll pick. Our paths wander apart, and recross, sometimes circling each other, sometimes calling each other to look at a particular card, sometimes one looking up just to spot the other -- catching each other’s eye nearly every time. The one staff person ask each of us twice if they can help us find anything. We both decline each time, you being more friendly; since today we’re managing to find just what we were hoping for. We end up with enough postcards to be able to send little surprises for a while. They need three card-protecting envelopes for the whole batch, even when we’ve eliminated all the duplicates we picked. Which one do you want to get first? "Try to surprise me." I’ll see what I can manage.
We go out through the West Wing so we can wander through some of the main floor galleries, coming downstairs through the Matisse cutouts and finally through the Degas sculptures, particularly the studies of horses and riders. That gives me an idea: you want to go for a horseback ride before lunch? "Yeah, that’d be fun." We go back up to the main level and out the mall entrance of the gallery, heading across the mall towards the castle. "Where are the horseback rides down here?" They start over in front of the castle. "Really?" Yeah.
Calliope music is ringing in the air now. There’s horses, and a zebra, an ostrich, elephant, dragon, plenty of choices. The ride pretty much goes nowhere, and it’s only a few minutes long, but there’s probably no line yet. "Okay, very funny carousel boy." Best I could do, and I thought as my Kalliope of sorts you might not completely hate it. I get a mess of tickets and we ride until we’ve tried each of our favorite animals, have a baseline dizziness, and have the music echoing in our brains ("I liked the lyrics you were coming up with." Well, sure, a little silly maybe... "Can’t help it with that music, and it was a little sweet."), and slightly giddy. That’s enough for me now. Let’s,... I don’t know,... let me get you lunch somewhere? "Not till I let the dizziness fade. Got another idea? Maybe we could just sit somewhere. Didn’t I see a manila envelope in your hand earlier?" Yeah, there’s a story in there. "Where’d you put it?" Snuck it in your bag while we were on the train. Come on, we’ll go sit in the garden by the castle.
We find a comfy bench in the shade, scented by the flowers, and you open your envelope and start to read...

Masquerade

2008-03-30T02:20:00.000-04:00

I hope this works. I think I made it pretty clear, but sometimes I have to go and layer it, make it a game. Just passing along a strained open invitation couldn’t be the best way. Why couldn't I just come right out and ask? Because it wouldn't be as much fun for either of us that way; always has to be some trick to it. Here's the door: what the hell am I doing here? This is gonna be a huge disaster. On the other hand, if it works,... there might be a chance,... and what else'm I going to do this evening, rest up for the course tomorrow?

The doorman’s in a Cerberus costume, I’m not sure that’s a good portent. He’s giving everyone a half mask to go with their costume if their face isn’t covered. He has to turn away one guy and another couple who haven’t come in costume. They protest, but to no avail. Rules are rules, I suppose. He hands me a mask and stamps my hand to enter. I catch my reflection approaching me as I walk up to the glass door, an image of my costume superimposed on the others in costume inside. This Captain of the Guard outfit doesn’t fit great. Seems like it’s been left out in the rain a bit. I brush a bit of sand off the sleeve, still able to laugh at this little inside joke with myself. The mask seems superfluous – I’m not likely to be recognized even without it. Still I pull it on and line up the eye holes as I pull the door open. Maybe at least the band will be good.

There are a lot of especially good costumes here tonight. The Pharaoh bumps me as he shambles by, searching for Cleopatra. Drunk already, or maybe already left his senses in a clay jar. I thought I also saw Carse float by, still in his wrap at this point. Edward Scissorhands is struggling with his drink at the bar, no problem with the olive though. Robin Hood and Peter Pan are having a animated conversation about their tights riding up (really didn’t need to be there for that). The King of Clubs and the Queen of Diamonds have found each other, shuffling on the dance floor. Eros is standing leaning against the wall, seems nobody wants to talk to that guy. Hmm, Spiderman? Uh, okay... Here’s a mime... Maybe the costumes aren’t all that great after all.
I’m misidentified repeatedly. Musketeer, Zorro, Captain Morgan, Jack Black, Scarlet Pumpernickel, Sora (which panics me for a moment and I quick glance at my shoes)
Wow, it's more crowded than I'd imagined, maybe I'll be able to just float around unnoticed for a while, then disappear if I have to. There's a seat at the bar, I better get there fast. What's on tap? No Red Nectar? The hummingbird tap handle’s a little misleading then, wouldn’t you agree? Okay then, the Chimay; might as well be something with a kick. Two, please? No, don't think I'll run a tab, might only trip up my escape if I have to wait for my credit card. Thanks, here. No, the change is yours, try to remember me if I need something later.

Some chicky turns towards me from the next seat. Yeah, I'm having a blast. No, not waiting for someone exactly, just got two. Uh, well, since you're already drinking it, I guess so, sure. No? don't like it? give it back then. What? The band just started to crank it, which made the volume of the conversations go up, and I'm left just trying to make what I think might be the appropriate facial expressions for whatever she might be saying -- seems likely it might be something about herself. Oops, I guess that wasn't something I was supposed to laugh at. She shuts down and excuses herself to find someone else to talk at. This might be a good time for me to go float around. Finish one of these first,... having two apparently seems like an open invitation.

I shove off from the bar. There's already a new group moving into the space vacated. They seem to all be associated with the two women dressed as cats. They’ve got no need to stalk prey, mousy men hover in a loose crowd following them across the floor. One's costume made out of a soft fleecy fabric and the other out of leather, with studs? Yikes. The first throws a punch out of the group to land on my shoulder: Hey boss lady. "None of your sarcasm around here mister." Wouldn't dream of it. Do I do that? But she's gone back to her studied indifference in her own group, except for another quick glance that I return with a wink. She's a good kid, hope she doesn't draw too much trouble tonight.

Floating around the room, it's the same DC bar talk: what do you do? what's important about your work? what's your highest hit total? did you see the funny bit I wrote? I don't seem to ever have the right answer to these questions. Somebody identifies me: "Dude! When're we gonna see some sex?! I know those two gotta be doing it. What's he waiting for? Is he gay or something? Broken?" Broken, eh? When you say that it sounds to me like you're volunteering. Shouldn't give me any ideas. Even when I’m identified, it seems I can’t be recognized.

Over his shoulder, I see a Mrs. C. in her poodle skirt, waving. I wave back. Where's Mr. C.? Oh, there he is: I don't remember the original Mr. C. having a beard. Whew, I missed my guess: I was starting to think everybody else here was a 20-something. Are those two really having fun? I'd go over and say hey, but my glass is empty. I better take care of that before I get too far away from the bar. Get in line right behind a guy who's just paying for his drinks. While he's waiting for his change, some girl rushes in close to say something. He pulls away with his drinks saying, "I don't care." She cuts in front of me to the bar. I roll my eyes, but I can wait. She keeps stepping away, then stepping back up, jabbing me with her elbow each time. I must be invisible again. She's about to do it a fourth time when I decide that three is enough, and grab her elbow. She turns on me with what she must think is fierceness. "That is so rude!" What is? Oh, do you mean your elbowing in front of me to the bar? She tries to glower, but it makes me laugh, unfortunately out loud. "Where are you from? Don't you know how rude that is? You don't grab the arm of some strange woman. That's rude!” I pass on making a comment on her "strange”-ness, don't argue whether she's old enough to refer to herself as a "woman". I'm sorry I grabbed your arm, it seemed the only way to get you to stop hitting me with it. 'Glowering' again, which again makes me chuckle. Listen? If that's all you're going to do, could you step over there and do it so's I could get to the bar? "That's so rude. You're so rude." Right, I believe we've covered this already. The bartender saves me by pointing at me and raising two fingers as a question. I nod back with a wink and a thumb up. Yes, please. "What did you say?" Not talking to you, talking to her – the bartender. Here, keep the change again. Thanks again. "You seemed to need some help," she says rolling her eyes at Rude. We share a smile for a moment. I turn back to my accuser, touching the brim of my hat with the rim of one glass. Have a good evening Rude. She’s still saying things at me as I walk away, but they get washed out in the crowd noise.

Didn't really want two more, but it would've taken forever to work it out around Rude. Hey, there's a woman dressed as an A&W rootbeer. That has to be,... Yeah it is, maybe she'll take one. But she's not drinking, maybe she's afraid it'd cause her to break her self-imposed moratorium on writing. We need to talk about that. "Not tonight, I'm here with someone. It'd be unfair to him to bring you into the conversation. He's a little self-conscious here, and I know you'd tend to magnify that." Okay, but soon? Oh, here he is now; hey buddy. Having a good time? I brought this beer over for you, we like the new guy to feel welcome. A&W gives me a look to say, "Would you get the hell out of here?" and I'm gone.

There're a lot of people talking with stage voices to try and add drama to their name-dropping. The heavy hitters hold court with receiving lines of admirers. I cut in on a few small groups to add a few opinions or push a few people to sharpen theirs up. I'm mostly playing at pointing out the counter-idea within each idea – poor guy got a little flustered when he realized he’d ended up arguing the opposite of his original premise. Somebody blurts out "A gorilla junkyard! A junkyard,… with gorillas!," like the gorillas were the ones intruding. I'm thinking the gorillas were probably always there and that it was probably the junkyard that was unusual. Geez, what am I doing here? Here's somebody else I know from the actual world. He just looks at me and says "Don't start U. Buzz off." Right at that moment there was a lull in the room, and "Don't start U" was the only sound. There's a flash of hair from the back corner of the room as you whip around searchingly -- then a big smile of recognition.

You stand up and start over, our smiles getting bigger as we filter more and more of the rest out. Details of the room drop away, leaving more room to focus on details of each other. For me it's: the way you're trying to raise an eyebrow back at me, the bounce of your hair, the panther-like (yeah, makes me lick the back of my teeth and bite my top lip) grace you prowl me with, the color on your lips, the neckline of your top, the depth of focus in those eyes (sea-grey this evening) seeing me, the way you bring your hand up to your chest as you approach, drink in a tumbler with a lime twist in your other hand, your nails on the glass, your finger pads on your skin just above the neckline, the pearl necklace (how many pearls on it now -- 8 or 9 I can see, there might be 1 or 2 under your hand (the special ones?). (“So, that’s really how I looked that evening?” Words fail, darlin’. “I don’t know, you seem to be doing a pretty good job with ‘em. You’ll let me return the favor?” Sure, as soon as you’re close enough to tell me. “Could turn out to be a quite an evening...”)

Then they all disappear from view, someone's stepped in your path. You hadn't noticed him, and bumped into him. He mistakes it for an advance and starts to try and chat you up. Now you'll see how a bear prowls. Over his shoulder you see it. Direct, un-nuanced, side-stepping larger groups, pushing off potential obstacles, a quick snarl at one that tries to push back. You lean to look around from behind him, he shifts over to try and keep your gaze on him. You lean back the other way as he's saying "What I'm really doing is writing a screenplay" He tries to follow your lean again, and a paw appears on his shoulder and takes advantage of his momentum to knock him aside as you come back to the original side and step in, putting your hand on my shoulder. See if you can use this for your screenplay Junior: my hand goes to the small of your back and pulls you in for the kiss. For a second time the room goes silent, and everyone looks up. (“Wow, where’d that come from? That “broken” comment got to you didn’t it?” Are you complaining? “Oh, no. No. Does this feel like complaining?” I might not be sure yet, let me take a bigger sample. “Really? Here?” Right, you’re right...). Come on, I gotta get out of this crowd. "I know, me too." I hand Junior my beer (here you go, consolation prize). Now you're pulling me away from my joke and off the floor. The crowd returns to their conversations. Those who are capable of it now aware of something missing in them.

“I wanted to find someplace where we could talk for a while. I stopped suddenly, and your momentum caused you to pivot around my waist – hand still firmly planted (“I’m impressed, that was very smooth.” I have my moments.) and now you are facing me. Your other hand rises up and gently you brush back the hair from my forehead. You run your finger lightly down that line on my cheekbone, hidden just under the edge of my mask. I’m wishing there was a place we could sit.”

Come sit in a booth with me, just a sec. I'm claiming this booth tonight, you youngsters go on out there and meetngreet why don't ya. Blank stares look back at us. Did I stutter? Speak too fast for you? Go on now! Oh look,... here’s a place we can sit opening up. You slide in, and I take the opposite side, which initially gets a puzzled look from you, but the only way I’m going to be able to follow what you say in here is by watching you say it.

"Thanks for rescuing for me. I'd been waiting for you to show all evening! Wasn't sure I'd find you in that crowd. Geesh! they treat me like I’m ancient. Except for Mrs. C. -- she just made me feel welcomed." (“Now I’ve got you where I can tell you, it’s my turn to say how I see you. You're just watching me talk, eyes taking all of me in -- drinking me in. I can feel it physically. It doesn't make me feel self-conscious. It makes feel 'aware' of myself, of you.”) “Hey U,... Earth to U ....." No, no -- sorry, I'm listening. I am hearing everything you are saying. (“Your response makes me blush. Because I'm having a number of thoughts running parallel to my jabbering... remembering that hand spread on my lower back, and watching your mouth move as you talk. And no, not because of your wise cracks.” Really? not even a little bit? “Don’t pretend to be so dense, it’s a compliment.” I know.) “I turn my head, knowing and not knowing, confident and nervous, and I toy with the lime twist I’ve fished out of my drink, absentmindedly liking the juice off of my finger (You didn’t do that on purpose? “No, should I have?” I’m gonna keep quiet about that one.). I’m thinking this is not the place. I decide to voice that one: "Hey U, know of someplace quiet we can go? I want to listen, too. I don't want to miss a single moment. You heard a few other things I thought to also say, but left to thoughts only.”
You’re right, we really should just get out of here, somewhere we could use our words. How about, I'll take you for a drive out along the river, see the city at night, stop at a park near the water, leave the windows open and the CD player on and dance together in the headlights. On second thought, no headlights.
"’So,’ I say, stealing a peek at you from underneath my eyelashes. You are grinning at me. ‘What ?? what did I do? why are you smiling like that at me ?’ I ask half seriously, half jokingly. My nerves are getting the best of me at the moment. Geesh. I’m starting to sound like some twenty - something nitwit... I follow up with a softer, ‘Yeah. A drive by the river and a slow dance sounds good... really good. Hope you have our playlist handy...’"
Anything else?
“Just one.”
What’s that?
“Would you tell me another story?”
Of course, come on...

Mendoza

2008-02-16T14:30:00.000-05:00

I throw my bag across into the passenger seat and let myself drop behind the wheel, pulling the door shut right behind me to escape the wind. It’s not really any warmer inside the car. The cold seat sucks heat from me. I’m still trying to shake off the urge to run back inside and hibernate. I slip the key in the ignition. There’s never a moment this cold when I bike in -- never just sitting still letting the cold get into me. The car starts fine. Low on gas though, the warning light lets me know I’ll have to get back outside to fill up the tank. I shiver and look through my breath at fronds of frost covering the windshield. Cold air finds a way past my glove and up my sleeve when I reach over to click on the defroster. The initial blast of cold air reflecting back at me off the windshield makes me retract my neck into my coat and zip the collar all the way closed. I grip my toes in my shoes and flex my fingers, trying to encourage some warmth to flow in. While I wait for the frost to clear, I stare at the patterns spread across the glass, generating branch after branch, each generation multiplying and reiterating like the items on my to-do list: joinery for the window frame, bird feeder stands for mom, organize tax forms, car inspection (which’ll probably mean brake work), administrative paperwork backed up, preparing to move the office, ordering the new equipment, tuning my derailleurs, putting new tires on my road bike, returning those books to the library, those Netflix DVD’s that have been waiting for weeks, letters to write and send, ordering seeds, garden clean-up, refinish those doors, install dad’s water filter, take care of my hip if I’m gonna play in this weekend’s game, mail to sort out, pile of books I’ve wanted to get to, refurbishing that lectern into a bar at church, reply to those e-mails, no way I’m working on those shutters outside -- maybe take them into the workshop, build that workshop shelf to get that place organized, laundry to deal with (fold the clean stuff that’s out, wash that pile of dirty, put my summer stuff into storage so there’ll be room for the winter stuff, go through and donate some of the extra) out of coffee at work, need to get birthday presents for the Aquarians, register for that course in March, start getting organized for coaching in the spring, figure out what Caps game to take advantage of the free tickets at...
The defroster’s not working: the frost is spreading and thickening on the windows. A sheet of ice is forming and creeping out over the dashboard. Tinkly crackling sounds fill the air as the car is surrounded by ice, icicles forcing through the top edge of the door windows. Breath clouding around me. I can’t feel my foot. I flex my fingers inside of my gloves to try and generate some warmth. My gloves squeeze back, again they squeeze.
"I knew you’d fall asleep if I left you on the bench." The grey ice shatters and falls away as I open my eyes.
A quick breath in of hot, dry air takes me my surprise and catches in my throat, forcing a cough.
"You’d better not be sick -- you’re not allowed to get sick on your time off."
Sick? How could I get sick? The germs that end up with me soon get tired of trying to keep up with me and head off to find more hospitable hosts who have time for them.
"Make room for me." I give you a puzzled look, trying to gauge your intent.
"On the bench, make room for me on the bench." I sit up and scoot over, uncrossing my leg and shaking my sleeping foot on the grass. Ah, grass. And trees full and leafed out. So much green making it even look warm here under the,... elms?
"Yep, they’re elms."
So, you ready to go now?
"Just about. It just takes me a little longer to get going first thing in the morning, especially after a late night. How about you?"
I just need... some... cof... fee. Yee -- argh.
"Wasn’t that a big stretch -- I wasn’t sure your t-shirt was going to make it."
Something about lounging in the sun makes me want to stretch out like a big cat.
"Here then, I’ll scratch behind your ears."
Rrrr, rrrr, rrr.
"What was that supposed to be?"
Purring? Practicing rolling my R’s?
"You might want to stick to English until you’ve done a bit more practicing. So, what’s the plan?" Maybe just sit here all day, try to fully thaw out. Melt even. I don’t think I’ve been truly warm for months.
"Summer is definitely the place to be then."
I’m sure I could be warm in Spring.
"I thought you said we’d be going out? Or can I talk you into another night sitting on the patio with a pitcher of clérico?"
Tonight, tonight we’ll go to catch some music at Joe’s.
"Joe’s? Doubtful."
El Bar del José then (you were the one who suggested I stick to English) -- that place was rockin’ last night.
"So, a late night of drinks and music?"
I like the way you think -- you’ve talked me into it.
"Well, you better let me sleep in late tomorrow then -- and I’ll be more fun tonight if we can have a lazy day today."
That’s what I wanted to do too, do a little shopping for provisions, walk among the canals and fountains, head for someplace quiet.
"No cabalgatas or hikes in the mountains?" (I been through the desert on a horse with no name. "Will we remember our names?" Well, there won’t be anyone for to give us no pain...)
Nah, maybe tomorrow -- let’s stay in town today.
"Tomorrow? Are we going to stick around here? Are you training for the bike race?"
Bike race?
"On that poster, La Vuelta Ciclista de Mendoza."
We’ll do some biking later this year, but not racing -- something slower, touring.
"Okay then, where to today? Cachueta? Soak in the hot springs?"
Too far, I was kind of interested in seeing what a 63,000 liter wine barrel looks like.
"I like the way you’re thinking now. We should make a list of what we need to get first -- lend me your pen."
(Now, you’re not going to Shanghai us off to someplace else are you?
"I said I liked your idea, just chill."
Funny you should say that...)
Here you go -- still cold, from the car, I guess.
"And empty,... or,... looks like the ink is,... frozen?"
Let me try something. I take the pen back and dip it in the canal for a minute. When I take it out, a drop of water freezes on the tip. I guess we’ll just have to remember the list then, wait, here, I’ve also got some scratchy ballpoints in the backpack.
"While you’re in there, what else do we have in the bag?"
Some reading, notebooks, the newspaper, last Sunday’s Magazine, big thermos, water bottle,... there’s room for plenty else.
"Notebooks are not gonna be much use with a frozen pen."
I’m not worried about it, I’ll figure something out. Let’s get a thermos-full of coffee and some breakfast, fill the water bottle (the day's already pretty warm), everything else we’ll get as needed.

A wrought iron arch spans the gate in the stone wall. We turn in and head along a gravel road, walking past a few token rows of vines. At the end of each row, a rose bush is blooming. The grapes are still tiny on the vines. The road leads past a service building up to the main building. The service building is quiet, no production in process just now, it’s time to wait. It’s busy near the main building as the employees get set up for the day: sweeping the patio, setting out tables and chairs, unloading -- or trying to -- from a pick-up some steel barrels cut in half lengthwise. (That guy’s gonna hurt himself lifting it by himself like that. Hold the backpack a minute will you, I’ll be right back.
"Look at you -- I see a bead of sweat on your forehead..." You pull my cap off and wipe it away.
I’ve gotten unused to working in the heat lately.
"What were those things?"
They look like they might be barbecues.
"Hmm, I wonder what’s for lunch.")
It’s too busy and distracting up here -- let’s walk down from the main house off under the biggest tree there. We can move two of those concrete benches into the shade.
"You can have a bench. I’m going to stretch out -- I feel a mid-morning nap might be catching up with me here in the warmth."
Take the backpack again will you? I’ll need both hands to move the bench.
("Lift with your legs."
You don’t have to tell me. Besides, they only look heavy...
"Yeah, watching you strain like that does make them look heavy."
Cute. It’s just awkward -- it’d be easier with two people lifting.
"Maybe I’m hoping you’ll give up and have to also sit on the blanket."
Or maybe you just like watching me struggle.
"More like watching you work. Is it that heavy? Your ears are turning red."
No, that’s something else...)
Once I get the bench positioned so that it won’t rock, you spread the blanket out next to it and unpack breakfast. I start by pouring coffees from the thermos, straddle the bench and spread sandwich, pear, coffee, and water out in front of me, leaving room to work on the puzzle between my knees. You finish straightening out the blanket and sit leaning against my left leg next to the bench.
"Did you bring anything interesting to read that you could lend me? Got anything good in that backpack?"
Um, let’s see: The Sun, A Short History of Myth, an anthology, the rest of the paper, Dialogues,...
Down the slope bounds a little scrap of a dog. Despite his limp, his stride clearly says that he owns this place. He’s got a routine, checking each section of the grounds in turn. He pauses for a few moments where the bench was and pauses his panting to sniff the ground. He looks up at me and tilts his head expectantly with what sounds like some muttered command. Yeah buddy, I’ll put it back when I’m done. That seems to satisfy him and he lets his tongue hang back out and comes over to greet us. He’s got a few minutes to spare to sit by you and my foot to get petted, but then he’s back off on his rounds again.
The first puzzle is full of bad puns -- not difficult in an interesting way, just irritating. The Sunday Magazine one is better -- mostly challenging words. This middle grouping has got me stymied. Too many possible answers for the short ones, one of the long ones is a name, part three of the quotation goes through, the key seems to be 25 down, 7 letters, "Quiet best friend". Might start with a "B", might have a "J" as the second to last letter?
The little dude is back, sniffing at the puzzle, standing up with his front paws on the bench. He looks at me, gives a muffled chortle, and smiles at me. Yeah, you’re right little buddy, that is you. Thanks -- you deserve a reward for that. You want a bit of egg from my sandwich? No? Maybe a bit of cheese then? Ah, yeah, that’s the stuff. A bit more? Nope, off he goes again...
You turn to look at the bench top. "Are you still doing puzzles? What’s wrong?"
What do you mean?
You take the paper and Magazine away from me and drop my notebook on the bench. "Write something."
Oh, sure, as soon as some story occurs to me.
("What’s wrong with this story?"
You might have something there, let’s see -- nope, pen’s still frozen. Maybe I’ll read for a while...)
This thing's still useless -- the ink’s still not running. I take it over into the sunlight and stick it in the ground with a grimace. Out little buddy reappears from around the tree. He comes over to check out the pen, sniffing at it and letting out a small whimper, looking up at me. I tousle his ears -- it’s okay little dude, it’ll be okay.
You gonna read the paperback?
"Not right now, I’m checking out The Sun."
You know, momma always told me not to look into the light of the sun.
"But, momma, that’s where the fun is, yeah. Lame, maybe it’s good you’re not writing."
("Wait, were you writing when I said that?"
Yeah.
"No fair, you make me take that back."
No, I know you meant it in fun -- look, I’m shaking my head and grinning.
"Well, as long as you took it the right way."
It’s cool, I deserved it. I shoulda known better’n to try and borrow from the Boss.
"Sounded good..."
Stop patronizing me and hand me the book...)
"This one? The title’s not very exciting."
It does seem that way, inaccessible, like, say, TheTrireme, but it’s got some good bits in it... Here, let’s see,... how about:

An experience of transcendence has always been part of the human experience. We seek out moments of ecstasy when we feel deeply touched within and lifted momentarily beyond ourselves. At such times, it seems we are living more intensely than usual, firing on all cylinders, and inhabiting the whole of out humanity.

"Well,... yeah,... maybe I will take a look at that later."
What’re you going to do now?
"Just close my eyes for a bit."
If you dream, I might show up and tag along, looking for some flame of inspiration to use on my pen.
"How will I recognize you?"
How do you ever?
"Hmm,... there’s something,... I’m not quite sure what..."
When you figure it out, let me know. I could use some way to always recognize myself. Preferably some positive characteristic, or at least neutral, that I could use. Maybe I should seek out a signature scent -- seaweed and saltwater? No? Hmm? But you’ve dozed off, so I go back to reading...

A breeze stirs the leaves and lets some sunlight through the leaves, passing back and forth across your eyelids, drawing you out of sleep. You shift and turn to lean your forearm on the bench next to the closed book and look over them at me. I turn from staring over the treetops at the mountains to look down back at you.
"Hey. What’re you thinking? Any luck with that?" You nod at the pen I’m rolling between my palms.
I’m having luck using it to keep cool -- it's still frozen. It’s starting to get warm even here in the shade of this... uh,... what is this one?
"Sycamore."
Thanks. I’ll make sure I include that if this ink ever gets running again.
You stretch out. "Oooo, I feel logy."
(Do you have to feel that? I’m not sure I know how to spell it.
"I can’t help it, I feel like that coming out of a nap."
Here, this might help...)
I sneak my hand around just as your stretching with your eyes closed and touch the pen to the back of your neck.
"Hey! Watch it! Give me that." I let you have the pen. "Let’s see how you like it," as you slip it under the tail of my shirt to the small of my back.
Yikes! That puts a shiver all the way up my spine. And we’re both laughing, relaxed enough in the warmth to laugh about our shivers. An idea occurs to me in the feeling, maybe a key, but it’s gone again before I can grasp it. Still, there was something there. I think it would’ve worked...
You hungry? The barbecue smells great.
"I’ll go up and take a look. I’m definitely ready to move around some."
How about we go in for a tasting first then, as an aperitif. Maybe pick something out to go with lunch?
"Okay."
We pack everything back into the backpack and head up, swinging around wide to toss the breakfast remnants in a trash can. When we get up to the main building, we split up for a few minutes to freshen up. The air conditioning makes it chilly inside, which is actually welcome after sitting out in the heat. I take an extra minute at the sink to take of my cap and glasses and wash my face. The splash of water on my face really is refreshing, and I take a few extra seconds to rub it in across bristly cheeks and tired eyes still adjusting to coming in out of the bright sunlight. I get to the bar first and save you a place next to me.
"So, what’re we gonna taste?"
Looks like there are some options from a couple different groupings. Let’s get the flight of six from any available.
"Okay, but which six?"
Well, maybe we’ll forget about everything in the Pinar Del Rio, we didn’t come all the way here to drink from the low end -- though, I do wonder what a Borgoña is. Maybe I’ll look it up later. I stretch down into the backpack to grab a notecard, and when I come back up, you’re talking to the pourer ("Is she the pourer? She was walking by and I started to ask her your question before I noticed she didn’t have an apron on. The she waved off that man with the apron and came over with his pad." I’m not sure, but she seems interested in our order. When we introduce ourselves, she asks that we call her Estela, and everyone else behind the bar seems deferential towards her...)
Okay, Estela, we’ll taste all five in from the Gascon label,... and let’s see, that’s four reds and one white,...
"And the sauvignon blanc from the Carcassone label."
She starts us with the whites. They’re both good, I think I like the Viognier better. ("I’m shocked, you always like the Viognier." What can I say? It makes me think of Summertime.) The reds come in what seems like their order of popularity: Cab Sav, then a Syrah. The Syrah is interesting, and begs for something. Wait a minute Estela, would you? She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, but is focused on our response. I go over to the display near the register and pick out a box of thin chocolates. "Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, I’ll bet that’d be especially good." Alright, we each take a chocolate as Estela watches. She reached under the bar to bring up another glass and pours herself a half-full glass of the Syrah. You hand her your chocolate and take out another for yourself. Three glasses touch together and we take a drink, following it up with a bite of chocolate, then another sip. "Wow, that does more than taste good, that feels good." Estela looks at the bottle in her hand and smiles before putting it up. Malbecs finish up the tasting, first a straight Malbec, then the Don Miguel blend. Both pretty good. Anything we want to try a second time? "The Syrah." Oh, yeah. She laughs and tells us we got the right answer, pours us each another glass of it, and starts to walk off with hers, turning right back around, and is about to ask when I just give her another chocolate. She thanks us and walks out the back of the bar. It’s getting busier for the pourers, a couple of tours have shown up. When we’re finally able to get the attention of a pourer to pay for our tasting we’re waived off -- it’s been taken care of.
You want to get something to take with us. "What do you think? We better get a bottle of that Syrah." Yeah, and we shouldn’t come back from here without a Malbec. I get those two and also a bottle of Viognier. ("So predictable." I just thought it’d be good to sit out on the patio and enjoy a cool bottle of wine. "Yeah, that’d be good, but that one’s not chilled." I grin, oh yeah, check this: I drop the pen inside the bag with the bottle. That should chill it before long, damn pen oughtta be good for something.)
A table and two chairs are open on the patio, so we drop our stuff and you sit. I’ll head over to the barbeque and pick up a selection for lunch. They’ve got everything going. Four of the six barbecues have what seems like a complete selection of every kind of way to cook beef outdoors. The last two are loaded with beans and vegetables. I get back with two plates full of a wide selection. "Napkins? Silverware?" Uh, no, I was going to go back for that. "I’ll go, I’ve got an idea." You take the Viognier out of it’s bag -- it’s cold and condensation starts to form on the bottle. You turn the bag over and drop the pen out in to your hand. Any luck? "Nope, still ice cold. I’ll be right back." You head over to the barbecues and fix it on the end of a skewer and stick the pen into the coals.
When you come back you toss the pen to me. "Here you go." It’s still frozen. "They told me not to worry, that they’d be able to get the coals relit no problem. I think they were a little put out themselves, but I turned on the charm and they forgave me."
Good thing it was you and not me then.
Lunch is terrific. Some other Americans are sitting nearby, they seem to be serious collectors. One of them is loudly lecturing about how one of the necessary components of an expensive wine is the predictability. That doesn’t seem to be quite right. I look at you -- you’ve heard it too ("How could I not? He’s trying to show off what he’s read."). We pass an understanding in a glance and raise out glasses to one another.
As we eat, the light clouds moving across the sky are getting chased by a darker front. Every once in a while a gust cuts across the table, threatening to take the napkins. We spend the midday under the patio, reading and emptying the bottle. I’m getting a little unfocussed and stop reading to watch the play of shadows across the clouds as they roll in. I spin the pen on the table, the frozen ink holding fast to the top of the clear barrel. You glance up at me.
"You getting an idea?"
Maybe, part of one anyway.
"A story idea?"
Probably too big for me to pull off in a single story. I’m not quite sure what it is yet, gotta let it work on me awhile. I might just be a little drunk.
A light rain starts to fall, and you put your book down, stand up and pull at my hand. "Come on."
But, it’s raining.
You roll your eyes, step off the porch and start walking backward into the rain, looking back at me.
As I stand up, I see the ink flow to the bottom of the barrel. I snatch the pen up and stick it in my pocket as I speed up to catch up with you.

Christmas Card

2007-12-25T03:05:00.000-05:00

Hello?

"Hey. Did you leave this?"

Prob'ly. If it's what I think it is, then yeah.

"When? How?"

Last night. I just let it happen.

"Huh?"

I couldn't sleep (part of me still wants to wait up for Santa), went out for a walk, a little buzzed on holiday ale, a bit of sugar highfrom holiday cookies, generally keyed up from the year's-end rush, humming to the tune of bells in my head, hot chocolate to warm my ungloved hand.

It was windy, cold: cold air, cold wind, cold mercury streetlights, clouds, scuttling stray leaves. Cheekbones cold/tight, ears cold, cold denim chilling thighs, shivers under my knotted scarf running down my sides and arms.

I found myself stopped next to a garden of multicolor lights. Held the cup up, blew steam up over my face, took a sip to warm my lips and teeth, took a drink, looked down to see the cup half full.

Felt a cold spark on my nose, looked up to a swirl of flakes as the warmth spread out from my belly, and I let go of my self and was able to make and deliver my gift to you.

"Can I open it now?"

It doesn't matter when.

"Wow, it's beautiful..."

Sending my Holiday Wishes for You

Peace - Love - Bliss - Joy - Wisdom

Munich

2007-12-22T18:20:00.000-05:00

Let’s go to Munich... if I can get us there, will you guide me and translate? I’ve got most of the day -- as good as I can anyway -- I’ll do a few general items and try to add the interior life as best I can. As to what we do the rest of our time there..., well I’m sure you had things in mind. It’s a weak trick, but not all of my magic survives the look behind the curtain.

The day starts slowly, as is often the case when the day drops out of a dream. A few blinks to try and sort out whether we’re still asleep and dreaming,... then giving in to it without trying to question it further.
Outside, someone is announcing "halp acht" to no one in particular, and some bird sings an unrecognized song of morning.
The room is frankly cold, and it dares us to leave the warmth beneath the covers. Maybe another hour wrapped up until the room warms up, but neither of us knows how long we’ll be able to be here, and we didn’t come all the way here to risk falling back asleep and reawakening in our usual places.
So, it’s up and at ‘em. ("Are you sure? I can see my breath." No, not sure at all, but I'm going to give it a try. "Good luck, let me know how it goes. I'll be hiding here under this pile of comforters.") When my feet hit the floor, I’m glad I decided to sleep with those wool socks on. A quick cold water dunk just to wash my hair and face. Once to get my hair wet,... WOW! That’s an eye opener. I turn to look, expecting you to laugh, but all I see are the comforters piled up. Maybe, if I don’t shampoo, I won’t have to do that again; but then my hair’ll be standing up all day,... so here goes,... phew! You might just want to put your hair up in something today. Hey sleepyhead, you are getting up aren’t you? ‘Cause I’d just be lost here without you -- though I could probably get someone to show me how to find the ol’ Bahnhoff, I don’t know where I’d go. ("You go on ahead and scout it out, I need a few minutes to get ready." You're not just going back to sleep are you? "Go! five minutes...")
There’s coffee, and a fire going in the common room. That, and a roll, and a quick second coffee (small cups), and I’m ready to set out. Let me just take a little extra time with this second cup, just to hold it in my hands an extra minute to shake that background morning stiffness and ache out of my fingers -- that’s weird, I don’t usually have that in my dreams. Here you are now, ready to go, tossing your coffee back and standing there with hands on hips. (How is it you can manage to look like you belong here in just five minutes? "Confidence mostly, and lots of practice. Did you want beauty tips, or are we going somewhere?") Oh, so now you’re the impatient one? One more swirl of the cup to catch a few lingering sugar crystals, then down the hatch and to the door.
Outside the light is still that hazy prismatic glow that comes from the sun peeking around clouds that are blowing in. For the first moment, I’m both too hot and too cold, between the heat on my back from sitting near the fire and that first gust catching my face as we pass through the doorway. The morning air has a crystalline quality -- there’s nothing falling from the clouds yet, but you can feel the expectancy when you breathe in or move through the air.
A town crier appears and announces acht uhr, and for a moment it seems we’ve traveled in time as well as space. This is clearly not Munich, and the crier in his cape seems jarringly out of place as he approaches. He’s happy to tell you where we are in modern German and some English. Seems I missed Munich by a few dozen kilometers to the north and we stand in an old walled city untouched by either the disasters or the advances of the twentieth century. The stones of the current wall have been adopted from previous walls and buildings. They are, or they know, all this town has been. They share little today, except reflecting the chill of the wind.
I leave it to you to find us a way down to Munich... ("How am I going to do that?" People just seem more willing to communicate with you than with me.)
Munich is a welcome sight as it appears before us. So much of the old sections of the city makes you think of gingerbread and hot cocoa, even with the light dusting of snow. This late into advent, everyone is making an extra effort to be friendly.
I know you’ve got a lot you’re thinking of sharing with me, but I’ve got an idea I hope you’ll indulge. Walk with me along the river won’t you? There’s got to be a RosenBuschStraße around here somewhere. Here's EnglischerGarten, maybe it's near here? No, further down... If we can find that sign, you and Snowman can pose and I’ll take the picture for you. Just lean up against it,... nice smile.
I’m glad we were able to track that down, but tramping around with that wind coming off the river has started to chill us through. Another shiver like that and you might pull my arm right off. Let’s find us a place to step into. I vaguely remember something about a Hofbrauhaus staht’ing in München somewheres. Once we get inside we can thaw out with a hot early lunch. Order for me please, whatever sounds good. Could I get a Schlenkerla Rauchbier with that? I know it’s a big Späten town, but that smokiness tastes warm.
After lunch, I’m relying on you to lead us through your own story. ("Um, my story? Which would that be?" I'm not sure, something snowy though, with old stone architecture. "Yeah, I get you, when did you see that?" I listen...) It’d be the perfect time to take me to your favorite spots and share or re-create some memories. Otherwise, we’ll just have to wander in a fog for a while ‘cause I don’t have enough to fill a whole day. You’ve probably got more than a day for us, and that’s good -- we need to keep moving to stay warm. Maybe next time wait until Mai to drop a suggestion to come back.
Yeah, by midafternoon I’m chilled through too. I think my feet may just be blocks of ice inside my boots. Let’s find something to duck into -- Hansel and Gretel is playing, shall we take in a holiday production? I’ll have to rely on you again to get us tickets: it’s sold out, but somebody’s got to not show at the will-call window. Mid-Balcony? Sounds good to me. The orchestra’s already tuning up, so we’d better try to get to our seats. Is it "entschuldigen Sie, bitte"? I’d like to excuse myself as we step in without insulting anyone. Sure, the northern Virginia accent doesn’t help my pronunciation, but I’m trying. Every child in this row gets a smile from seeing Snowman peeking out from your pocket. Maybe after the show we can get a shot of him sitting in your seat.
The director, or maybe the producer, comes out to make some opening remarks, to thank somebody (I think in the production), to mention (I think mostly to the children) something about not talking, and I’m almost positive the last thing was wishing us a happy holiday. Then, the orchestra jumps into the overture and the curtain rises as the lights go down.
It’s good that the story is familiar to us, ‘cause I’m not getting much of what’s being spoken. I try to translate some parts, but mostly it goes by to quickly, so we decide to just let it wash over us. Warming up, slightly tired, in a dark theater, with the orchestra and show going all starts to zone me out a bit. Give my hand an extra squeeze now and again to keep me awake. I’m going to lean your way a bit to keep from slumping into the stranger on my other side. Go ahead with the elbow into the ribs if you need to -- I don’t want to risk falling asleep fully: no guarantees of waking here again. ("No, not the elbow, maybe I could lean my head on your shoulder though?" Sure, go ahead, but one of us has to be sure to stay awake)
As we leave the theater, flurries have started to fall, blowing in clouds and swirls. The sun must be setting, as the sky keeps turning darker shades of grey. Lights are winking on throughout the city -- especially down in the Platz where the kiosks and stands are set up for Kristkindl Markt. It’s already starting to get crowded as the Saturday evening bells announce the final week of Advent. The offerings are mixed. We find a great stall with ornaments for sale. You pick out a glass Engel. I’m looking at the various Saint Nicholas carvings, passing over the Santa Banana for a more bottom heavy ovoid and jolly one -- Pear Noel (I can’t resist the pun even if it clashes with his German roots). Snowman, of course, gets an ornament that looks just like him. Right next door we pick up a woolen scarf and hat set that we’ll need now that night’s fallen. Hat for you, scarf for me. Now let’s try to find someone selling Wurstchen and Gluhwine. Yeah, it’s a bit dry, so toss a few spoons of Zucker into it. It’s an all-purpose warmer-upper: you can hold the cup in your hands, hold your face over the steam, and as you drink it it gives you a warm feeling in the pit of your stomach.
Hurry up and finish that, and we’ll catch up with the carolers that just went by. A fabulous opportunity for you to laugh at me butchering the Deutsch. Stille Nacht, Heidigger Nacht? I didn’t know that it was an existential treatise in song. I remember a little bit of O Tannenbaum, at least the "Du kannst mir sehr gefallen". I can at least hum along with Rudolf das kleine Renteir. Know what? Maybe I ought to just hum all of ‘em. (Come on now, it sounded okay to me." That's kind, thank you. "Don't be like that, I like it when you sing along.")
The whole group is heading into the park to decorate trees. Brush the snow off first. One more picture of Snowman as he puts up his ornament between the two of ours. Somehow, no matter how careful I intend to be, I end up burning my thumb when I light candles with a lighter. Now, that’s a Christmas tree to truly be admired,... but,... why is it beeping? That’s an odd kind of sound,... it keeps repeating,... almost familiar,... sounds like,...

My alarm? Dag, lost the thread...

Ah, well, off to work.

Catch up with you later, hope you had a good time.

Silence 2 (Ocracoke)

2007-12-18T03:25:00.000-05:00

You wake me when it’s time to check in for the ferry -- the woman at the window is insistent in asking, /I.D.? I.D. Sir?/. I’m having a hard time clearing my head, but it starts to sink in... the reservation! my license! I bridge up to fish my wallet out and lean across you to hand my license over to confirm our reservation. She looks at it briefly, then peers down into the car to see it’s really me -- I wave back. She hands the license back down to you, saying, /You’re set for the 10 o’clock. It’ll start boarding in about 10 minutes./ I check my watch and reach to get my license back. You hold it up to look at it in front of me, looking back and forth between it and me, finally raising an index finger at your conclusion and then reaching over to try and smooth my hair down. It’s no use -- you head for plan B, reaching into the back seat for my cap and pulling it onto my head. You hold the license up again, give a thumbs up, and hand it back.
The next two hours find me mostly asleep still. I drag myself up to the cabin of the ferry. You push me in to the inside end of the booth bench against the wall, and slide in alongside to keep me from slouching over. Handing you my notebook, I put my head down on the table to sleep. You’ve finished what’s there of the next couple pieces when I stir, trying to reach up my back. Reaching for, but missing. Trying to reach higher. Switching to try to reach over my shoulder and down instead, but still not getting there. You put the notebook down to put your hand between my shoulder blades and scratch. I shift and squirm under your nails to get you to just the right spot. Mmmm. I thump my foot on the floor and we grin at the joke.
You open the notebook up to a page and circle a passage ("It wasn’t a circle, it was a heart." You like that one, eh? "Yeah, but the beginning doesn’t fit right with it." I know, I should split those two ideas up and use them in separate pieces. "The beginning should wait for a spring piece -- pull that circled..." Hearted. "...right, hearted part to put in something for now." Hmm, yeah, that’s good, as soon as I get some time...). The air horn of the ferry snaps me wide awake for a second, but I start to sink back until you’re snapping your fingers in front of my face. I blink myself awake, wiping some condensation off the outside of my ice water glass to rub on my face. While I rub my eyes, I get an impression of your making a quick move with your fingers into the glass. Turning to reach back into the seat for my cap, there’s a tug at the back of my collar and the sudden rush of ice cubes down my back. I jump up and wiggle, grabbing at my shirt tail to shake the cubes out ("You owed me from skipping the touchdown dance." You can say that, but that won’t help you escape from the payback. "What might that be?" All I can say is, when you least expect it,... expect it. "OOOoo, now I’m so scared."). Now I’m awake, spinning around to face you. You reach your hand out with the keys. I wag a finger at you with eyes narrowed, then snatch them from you, tossing them up slightly and snatching them again out of the air.
Almost arrived now. After disembarking, it’s only a few minutes before we’re pulling up the drive of unit NP32. You fish the envelope out of the glove compartment and drop the keys out. The envelope says Minnow (We may end up castaways. "I’m not the Skipper then." I’m not Gilligan either. "No, maybe the professor..." Maybe we’re the Howells. "Not in this car, I don’t think.") I pop the trunk and open the back door. You grab two bags out, one yours and one mine, hop up the steps and let yourself in. I get to the trunk, shaking my head as I notice you took the two lightest bags ("Whatsa matter? Which ones would you have given me?" Well, the lightest ones. "So are you upset about getting your way?" Yeah, I’m stupid like that sometimes. "Did you need me to make some show of appreciation for your work?" Maybe? "Okay, I’ll put something together for you..."). I get to the top of the steps with the cooler and the big duffel and the backpack. You skip out onto the porch, rapidly clapping your hands together, then clasping them together next to your cheek, batting your eyelashes with an exaggerated my-hero look ("Something like that?" From now on, let’s just agree, you get the little bags and I’ll get the big ones and then you won’t have to ridicule me like that. "Aww, don’t get mad." Yeah, how’d that happen: now I’m mad about getting my way -- I really do need this vacation. "You certainly slept like it." Okay, I know what the next important step is...). Overacting anger as much as you did gratitude, I take your hands from your cheek. Holding your hand still, I take your watch off and march into the kitchen with it to drop in a drawer, followed soon by my own watch. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my cell phone, turn it off and drop it in too. You quick grab yours out of your purse to turn it off and toss it in. Drawer slammed shut.

The silence as we let relaxation settle in leaves room for the sound of gulls.

Most of the afternoon is left. We’d better get busy frittering it away. The porch is already shaded though. We try taking the rockers out onto the grass, but it just doesn’t work; mine sinks in too much. I wave you back up out of yours, place my books et cetera in your hands and start dragging both rockers down into the sand. You’re just shaking your head: no way is that going to work. The pier out to the dock has got like a gazebo in the middle of it though, just big enough for two rockers with a small table in between them. Once I get the furniture all arranged, you plop down and hand me my book and notebook, and toss the pens at me. I leave the pens where they land in my lap and rock back to start reading from where the bookmark keeps my place about halfway through. You do the same. I get about three pages in: something’s not quite right, the story’s taken a slight turn, and the female character seems to have become more prominent, and something else... I turn to you to see you looking at me and holding up,... my book? I check the cover of the one I’m reading: similar cover design, similar main characters, similar plot, similar style, but different book. I trade you what must be your book for mine. Before you open your book you hold my gaze with a mysterious look and hold your book up before me. You slip your thumb and forefinger inside the back cover, wait two beats for the suspense to build, then pull them back out holding... the puzzle from Sunday, which you present to me with a flourish. It’s blank, but the two longest across answers spaces are highlighted. You point to them, then to each of us, then back to them. Okay, I’ll play -- I start on the puzzle while you start reading...

The silence leaves room for the sound of the rockers creaking.

It takes me a while to get the second highlighted answer -- have to work all the way up to it from the bottom. I’ve got both now, but still don’t get it... oh! heh heh, that’s cute. I turn to show you I’ve worked it out, but you’ve fallen asleep.
I go back in the cabin to bring out snowman and two glasses of water. I pose snowman in my rocker like he’s reading from the notebook and take a few pictures -- just one of you sleeping ( "You didn’t. " Uh, no, you’re right, I just made that part up... "You better not have." Would I do that? "Where’s the camera? Have you loaded it on the computer yet?" I don’t know what you’re talking about... "It could be bad for you if I find out you’re hiding it." Okay, sorry, here. "Hey, I look good." Of course.). I give you snowman to cuddle and sit back down with the notebook to work on splitting up those two ideas and building out of the second one.

The silence leaves room for the lapping of the waves against the pier.

I go back inside to start to organize fixing dinner. The creak of the screen door alerts me to your return. You’ve brought the water glasses back in with you. You come to put them in the dishwasher and stand next to me at the counter just in time for my stomach to let out a growl. You step back in mock terror, interrupted by your stomach growling back. You shrug with hands held up, and surrender to helping me work preparing. You get out tomatoes, onions, peppers, chiles, cilantro, and a start chopping. I finish making the marinade and am digging around in the drawers looking for a basting brush. Maybe I’ll have to use a paper towel. I turn from the counter to go check on the grill when I feel a poke in my back. I turn back to catch another light jab from you with the handle of the brush. I touch my lips with the pads of the fingers of my right hand, then move my hand away from my smile, palm upward. You respond by touching your forehead with the index finger of your flat right hand, then bringing it down in a semicircle to touch your chest with your wrist. I leave you to your chopping to go check on the grill.
Hmm, gas grill, I guess it’ll have to do. The tank reads plenty of pressure, the valve opens well enough, the ignition button,... nada. Again,... nothing. Dag, I hate having to light these things with a match. I get the box of safety matches out of the kitchen, looking back to you over my shoulder with Wallace’s uncertain smile. Okay,... turn the valve to Light,... wait for a second or two of flow,... strike the match,... move it closer,... closer,... slowly closer,... ow, damn, burnt my finger, dropped the match in, which lit the grill. I trudge back into the kitchen to get an ice cube out of the freezer. You pretend not to notice, but you’re lightly shaking your head in disbelief and shaking a bit with the laughter you’re holding back. You finally compose yourself and turn toward me, taking my hand to check on my finger. It’s fine, just needs another minute on an ice cube before I put the tuna on. You’ve finished the pico and are slicing pears when I head back out to the grill. I’m working on the tuna over the grill while I hear the clinking of flatware and dishes as you set the table. You come out to check on me when you’re done. A bead of sweat is heading down my forehead, but my hands are both busy turning and basting right now, so you move in to catch it before it can sneak past my eyebrow and I lean my head towards you as you do. The tuna’s still a bit clear, another couple minutes before it’s done.
While the tuna’s cooling, there’s time to fix that big salad. A big bowl out of the cupboard is placed between us on the counter. Each of us has a knife and a selection of vegetables, chopping and adding in. It turns out balanced well between crisps, colors, and flavors. I start to pick at it (I guess sleeping through lunch left me extra hungry. "Yeah, me too, but you don’t see me putting my hands in the food."), but my hand is chased away by snapping salad tongs. Next, the pointing of tongs directs me to the table before they serve salad unto our plates.
Dinner’s light but filling. I might have made too much tuna. I’ll put that in some foil, it’ll be good for picking at in the middle of the night. You’ve got half a bottle of beer left that you lift by the neck and wave towards me. Yeah, I could find some room for that.

After dinner, the silence leaves room for the blowing of the wind in off the sound.

Dishes clatter into the sink. I wash, then hand off to you to dry as we’re serenaded by the whooshing of the espresso maker finishing up, and the hiss of the overflow spilling out of the spout onto the burner. ("You mean you still don’t know how much water to put into that thing?" It’s not science, it’s more of a guesstimate how much water, how much coffee. "Your guesstimate might be what makes it a gamble to drink." Well, I’m not usually in a scientific frame of mind pre-coffee.) You go back out on the porch, and I pour it into two cups for us, and try to get them fixed up right. You take yours with both hands, take a sip then put one hand to your throat to fake a gag. I just roll my eyes and sit to sip my coffee, which tastes just fine to me, not that you’re asking. You sit next to me on the stairs and take a extra long sip, rubbing your tummy to show your appreciation for it. (Was it okay? I think I’m getting better at making it how you like it. "Relax, I’m really not that picky about it.")
The breeze in off the sound is cool and brings the promise of night falling. The sky’s already got some purple to it, might be a good time to take that walk along the beach. I leave my coffee cup on the stairs, stand up, and turn back to offer you a hand. Your cup gets placed beside mine, and you take my hand and stand up. Our steps fall right in together without any need for holding tight, still there’s an extra squeeze for me that makes me grin and return one to you.
Darkness moves in quickly, and it gets chilly, but we’re in no hurry, walking close together and enjoying the quiet understanding we’ve come to appreciate better today. ("I’d play this game again -- maybe without having to get upset with each other first?" Yeah, I’d like it better that way too.) The quarter moon goes down over the horizon as we’re getting back to the cabin. You leave go of my arm, pick up the cups and head inside. I hear the cups clank in the sink as I check to make sure I turned the gas off on the grill. When I get inside, it’s pitch black. I feel my way around the room to the couch and plop down. You’re there already, leaning back, and now, over.

The silence leaves room for the sound of breathing.

Then, words again.
"What was it I was mad about again? I can’t recall."
Something I did.
"And you, what were you mad about?"
I don’t remember, nothing important compared to the rest.
"We okay now?"
Always were.
"Will you tell me a story?"
Of course, of course...

Silence, Part I

2007-11-25T04:25:00.000-05:00

We’re on the way to a quiet destination and carrying another one with us. We’re not talking. I don’t remember how it started (“I remember, I think you just pretend not to remember” Maybe I just can’t believe that something so small could’ve set us off like this. “It looks like one small thing, but maybe it’s one more small thing.” Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten past it. “You might still say you’re sorry.” I am sorry, I’ve said it already. You might apologize for your part in it. “You say you, ‘said it already’, but when are you going to mean it?” I do mean it, haven’t I shown that? “Fine” Yeah, fine.), but now it’s become a contest of wills – a dare. Try to see who needs to talk first. Who will break down and break the silence?
We’ve just passed the last of anything like a big town we’d be passing through, and 70 is veering north to keep from dropping us either on Carrot Island or in the water (Carrot Island, that reminds me of the left turn we shoulda took at Albuquerque. “Yeah, yeah, you’re such a rascally rabbit, but I’m not laughing.” Nyah, what’s up doc? “Still not laughing, you might as well keep on driving. We’ve only got about an hour and a half until our reservation.”)
The radio’s no help – it just plays one neutral song after another. The classical station’s playing an opera today, not one I’ve heard before. Hard to believe everyone could have so much to say that they repeatedly burst out into song about it. I can’t think of any of the CD’s in the visor I’d want to play, so I leave the opera on – that dude sounds like he’s having a bad day, I wonder what he’s actually saying.
You start to roll your window up. It is getting hot isn’t it? Or is it just me? Anyway, I put my window up too and click on the A/C. That’s not enough. I’d better turn up the fan too. I reach over to put the center vent on you, but you put your hand up and wave it off. Two vents are enough I guess. A few stray hairs catch the flow and try to blow across your face. I glance over to try and catch your eye as you turn towards me to brush them back into place, but you’re not having it – eyes closed.
After the car’s cooled off, you’ve fallen into a nap in the sun coming in through your side window. In your sleep you draw your arms in close as the hairs rise on them, catching a chill from the vents even there in the morning sun. I better turn the fan back down. Glance further up the road – all clear – gives me an opportunity to stab at my sweatshirt in the back seat. Not quite. Second try: there, got it. Now if I can get it to spread out as I toss it over… Argh, disaster. It’s just bunched up between you and the door: only the sleeve stayed on you. Maybe if I pull carefully enough it will drape back over without waking you. Wow, it’s working. Didn’t really think I could manage it. It’s almost perfect, just a bit more,… when a somnambulant hand grabs the shoulder and wraps it and the hood up close. That sigh of contentment eases my tension a bit. Or was that resignation? Exasperation?
(“You should have trusted your first impression. You usually get it right.”
So how’d I get us in this predicament?
“Maybe sometimes it’s just the something said at the wrong time. Or maybe you create tension out of nothing just to carry a story, like contentment becomes resignation becomes exasperation – I don’t always have to be like that.”
Almost sounds like you might forgive me yet.
“Don’t be stupid; it just hasn’t happened yet. Why don’t you get back to focusing on your driving? This place up ahead looks promising…)
The signs have been showing up in intervals of about every tenth of a mile. Each one shaped like a produce item with a pun in a speech balloon to grab your attention. Corn – ‘Ear’s the place to go’, his smaller buddy is blushing ‘Aw, shucks.’ Watermelon – ‘Water you waiting for?’ Apples – ‘Giving you in-cider information.’ Pears – ‘If you thought one was good, try a pear.’ Onion – ‘You’ll cry if you don’t cut in here.’ Tomato – ‘Everything is the vinest.’ Peach – ‘It’s just peachy here.’ Lettuce – ‘Lettuce fill you up with natural goodness.’ Beets – ‘Beets all the other stands.’ Carrots and Potatoes – ‘We’ve been rooting for you.’ Beans – ‘We’ve bean waiting to serve you.’ Peas – ‘At least stop in to take a pea.’ You spot the final sign first and point to it. It’s shaped like a wine bottle and says, ‘You didn’t think we wrote these sober did you?’
(“Who wrote them?”
Listen, let’s be careful not to disrupt too many of the illusions…
“I just want to know, are these drawn from life, or did you come up with them? Sober?”
Hmm, yeah, that sounds good. Answer A – drawn from life, final answer.
“Still, something seems fishy…”
Nope, no seafood sign for the purposes of this one.)
You reach into the back seat and flip up the lid of the cooler – empty except for the tuna steaks: you weren’t sleeping that soundly. The only other thing we’ve brought is the beer in the trunk. This might be our best chance to get supplies. The entrance is coming up quickly. You look over at me and notice my pretending not to notice. Getting closer. I’m fiddling with the turn signal lever, waiting. A few moments away. You open your mouth and take a breath in, but I’m already slowing down and starting to turn in with a smirk. (Thought you were going to say something there. “You did, did you? Why didn’t you wait for it then?” ‘Cause it’s started to turn into something else and I didn’t want to spoil it. “Still, the smirk was a bit much, don’t you think?” I just thought it was getting funny is all. “Well, I was still mad.” Oh, come on, not entirely. “You’re impossible.”)
The car vibrates and drifts as it moves over the gravel parking lot. I’m heading for a spot close in to the building door, but the wheel turns away to the right, following the sweeping gesture you make with your open palm across the dashboard to indicate the shaded spot opening up under the tree there. (I’ve been meaning to ask you – you ever get any formal training or professional work as a spokesmodel? Well? Oh, I see, I’m back to the silent treatment… “Let’s just say that I know how to be convincing when it matters.” I’ll vouch for that.)
I turn my window the rest of the way down before getting out. You’ve got your hand on the handle of your window, and lean your head forward so’s I can see you raise your eyebrows at me. I wave off your worry with a quick flick. You roll your window down too, but before you get out you pick my notebook up from where I left it on the seat. With a crook of my head and a thumb I ask you to stash it in the back, ‘cause it would be a drag to lose that again. It’s got like three projects in various states of coming into being. (“Really? Let me just peek?...” Come on, put it back, maybe you can look later.) You stash it behind my seat and jump out of the car. I wait for you to come around so we can walk together to the door. Once inside, we split up to consider the possibilities.
Seems like it must’ve been a good year around here. Every bin and bushel is chock-full, and every item looks premier in the locally-grown section. Let’s see what we might make a meal out of. Big salad seems natural. I start to pick up a head of lettuce, when you appear at my side to wave it off, and point me to the leaf lettuce, and to drop some cukes and carrots in the basket. Then you’re off again. Okay, you were right about the lettuce. I know I can pick out tomatoes on my own though. You’re back with celery, and with a get-a-move-on look, tapping at my watch with your nail. 8:45, 75 minutes left. Yeah, don’t want to miss the ferry and have to get in late in the afternoon. I catch your wrist as you withdraw from my watch. You start to step in, but are stopped by my turning your palm up and hand you a tomato to double-check. I place them one by one in your hand, you check them with a squeeze, then drop each into a paper bag that I hold ready. Only one veto: you turn it over to show me the soft spot – yeah, okay – I grab a substitute and offer it – into the bag it goes, and then you push off my arm to head around to the other side of the table. I hold up broccoli and cauliflower, waiting for your nod before putting them in the basket. You turn away to investigate jars on the shelf, so, unable to get your attention, I pick up just a half pint of mushrooms to go with two pints of snap peas. You turn back towards me holding an acorn squash. I shrug and nod, that should be good. You knock on it and listen with a question in your eyes. Don’t look at me, sounds fine I think.
I squat down to organize the basket, and your shoes appear beside me. I look up and check out the two jars in your hand held out in my face: strawberry jam and raspberry-apple butter. I purse my lips and glance up apologetically – those look good, but I forgot to bring any bread. Your other hand comes from behind your back with two bagged loaves of bread. I guess they have baked goods here? You point to the counter under the shelf. Oh yeah, well then, they’ve gotta have… You’ve got a basket now, and you tip it forward to show me the pumpkin bread; yes!
We circle the next table, to the table full of apple bushels. We’re at opposite sides of the table. You hold two up. They look good; I shrug why not? You draw your arm back with mischief in your eye. I look at your face, then back at your arm, then back to your eyes, and let out a grin, and you throw. I’m just able to stab that one out of the air when you throw the other to my other side. I drop the first into the basket as I reach across it to grab the second. You’re trying to stifle your laughter, but it sneaks through as little puffs out your nose. Well, if you want to play, maybe you’d like a pear – I lead you with it, and you leave your basket on the table for the full arms’ reach catch. You straighten up, pretend to spike it, and go into your touchdown dance. Okay then, I’ll lead you with the next one too – one handed fingertip grab, then, nothing. I put my hands on my hips and pout about the lack of dancing. You pick up two Ambrosia apples next and toss the first one high up. I short-arm it at the peak of it’s arc with an expression of anxiety on my face as I flail that one arm overhead, taking a half step back – and you hear the slap of an apple landing, and I wait a beat before showing it in the hand from behind my back (“No way, in a million years, did you really think you were gonna catch that.” I almost didn’t, it hit my hand before I expected and I mostly trapped it against my back. “Bet you couldn’t do that again.” Well, we don’t have to find out, ‘cause you have a different idea…). You were fooled for a second, but squint at me with an ‘Oh Yeah’ look in your eyes. I shoot an ‘I dare you’ look back at you, accenting it with the eyebrow. You wind up and let it loose, flying far over my head. I turn, almost plowing into the table behind me, side-step, accelerate, big step, bigger step, leap, reach,… and catch it right under the nose of another customer. I look at them sheepishly, then turn and show you the apple triumphantly (“You didn’t do your touchdown dance. I really got cheated.” I already made a spectacle of myself with the catch, I didn’t want to then make a nuisance of myself. “Always Mr. Respectable – nobody was even looking: the kid at the register’s too busy listening to his earphones. You coulda done a little dance for me.” Maybe I don’t know how to do a little dance.).
Approaching the register, you remind me – touching the side of your finger to your lips. I nod in agreement. The kid at the register seems well suited to playing the game with us, like he already knows it. He doesn’t even make eye contact as he wordlessly rings us up, then holds his palm out for the total. Wow, that’s more than I thought. I open my wallet, empty it, start counting the ones,… close, I wonder how much change I’ve got… I’m reaching into my pocket for it when you step in front of me and snap a twenty in my face. Oh, great – I hand you what I’ve got, and you hand the bills to the kid. He drops the change on the counter for you to pick up. I pick up the boxes and as I turn away from the register I flash my eyes at you with a quick glance back towards the kid. You bring a hand to your mouth just in time to stop the laugh from coming out.
You hurry ahead to get the door for me, and I tip my head down as a thank you. At the car, I put the boxes down on the trunk and turn to you with my arms down, palms forward, repentant look on my face. I take a deep breath in, weighing my words. You step in quickly to put your hand over my mouth, shaking your head. When you take your hand away, there’s a smile on my mouth that is mirrored by yours as both grow into grins.
I remember meeting you at the Metro: the random man there, yelling things at passers by, he receiving no response and needing none. He teaches us how easily spoken words can lose their value, how volume and quantity alone can’t make understanding, how they are perhaps irrelevant to understanding, that at times the words only make explicit an understanding that preceded them. Right as I get to that thought, you touch my forearm, bringing my eyes into present focus to see you nod to me and wink. I knew you’d understand (“Wait, did we talk about that?” Talk about what? “Words. The value of words.” No, we’re not talking about anything. “I was just saying something like that today.” Of course, that’s how it is with us, snappy.).
I disappear into the trunk, shifting some things around to fit the boxes in. I’ve just about got it worked out when your cell phone rings. You reach into your purse and fish around for it with your hand, after the third ring you stop it without looking. I look up at you and you shrug with a tip of your head to the side. Reaching up to close the trunk sets off an involuntary stretch and yawn from me which I use as cover to rub my eyes and forehead and grab at the base of my head (“Don’t you ever sleep?” I’m an adherent to the W. Zevon school of thought related to that – there’ll be time later. “I think it might be time now.” In a bit, let me finish this, it’s only going to keep me up anyway. “Well you should at least try to catch a nap.” Alright, can you help me out with that? “I’ll think of something…”). You’re leaning against my door when I get there (“Your door? You might want to rethink that.” Oh, okay, thanks). You’re leaning against the driver’s side door when I get there, and don’t move except to hold your hand out. I’m puzzled, but you clarify by mimicking the stretch/yawn I just had, then holding your hand out again. I nod, give you the keys, and walk around to the other side to get in. I take my sweatshirt off the seat and pull it on, pulling the hood down over my eyes as I sit. Your hand reaches in to pull the left side back far enough to peek in and see me. I give you a sleepy half-lidded look and smile and a long sigh, and you tug the hood back down over my eyes. I leave it down and point in the direction we should be going as you start the car and put it into gear. (Make sure you head North on 12 right before you get to Sealevel. “I know how to get there, this was my idea remember?” Right, but still, make sure you… “Hush, you’re supposed to be asleep now.” Oh, okay then…) By the time we’re out of the lot, I’ve fallen asleep...

The Forest

2007-11-08T23:00:00.000-05:00

Nel nezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selve oscura
Ché la diritta via era smarrita…

In the middle of the journey of our life
I found myself in a dark wood
For I had lost the right path…

“Where are you going? I don’t think this is even a road. You’re going to make me spill my coffee on myself.”
Just wait, I’m pretty sure this is right.
“I knew letting you drive could be a mistake. Doesn’t this seem a bit reckless?”
It is a good thing we’re in the truck rather than the cavalier – just a bit further on, then I’ll stop.
“Stop where? There’s nothing here, unless you count dead ends.”
Sorry, I know I could’ve given you more warning, but just go along with it and see if we don’t end up alright. Try to trust me?
The moment is longer than I could be comfortable with, as you look at me, then look out the window, then finally back to me. Your face is unreadable, and no matter how I try to listen I can’t hear, for those seconds, what you’re thinking.
(“You can write it like that, but you shouldn’t do that to yourself. You know it wouldn’t be like that – I mean, we’re already in the car. I did get in the car on purpose.”
I know, hang in there for a moment while I work through the awkwardness. There has to be some awkwardness, even in our pen and paper world.
“Just don’t try to make me hurt you with it – that’s not what I’d do.”
I know, that and not picking your nose – anything else you want to avoid?
“I’ll keep you informed.”
If I overstep, feel free to retaliate.
“Could we get back now please?”)
“Yes, I trust you, but do you know why we’re here?”
You mean as a species? individually? or here as opposed to earlier or later in time?
“That’s been enough time driving: there’s something making you weird.”
Anxious I think you mean, ever since you brought it up I’ve been anxious about long car rides with you, knowing it accentuates your inner critic.
“Not with you, so long as you’re careful about the whistling.”
I’ve been trying to catch myself, I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.
“And I’ve been noticing you catching yourself and wishing you’d feel more comfortable about it.”
Okay, deal.
“So that brings us back to: why did you pull off the road here?”
Well, we weren’t going anywhere near the coast, but I thought this might be similar enough to substitute.
“Why? What’s supposed to happen again?”
No, no, I’m sorry, no – you’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.
(You might consider some of your own good advice.
“What do you mean?”
About a page and a half ago, when you asked/said: ‘You shouldn’t do that to yourself. You know it wouldn’t be like that.’ By now you’d think one of us would have enough understanding of the both of us to trust the other’s feelings.
“Yeah, well, I do most of the time, but you’re the one with the pen.”
You know as well as I do that holding the pen, while it provides the illusion of control usually undermines the confidence.
“Maybe with people in general, but not for you with me it shouldn’t.”I’ll hang on to that, maybe by the end of this one my heart’ll understand.)
Come on to the back and help me unload and it’ll all become clear.
“A tent? Is that what that is? How’d you sneak that and this backpack in here without me noticing?” [wink]
I thought for sure you had noticed. Wait, what’s this backpack?
“That’s the one the wink was for – you’re not the only one with surprises. Something tipped me off that you might be planning something, and I wanted to play along.”
Ahh, you’re a sly one.
“I do what I can.”
We strap our packs on, lace and tie our boots carefully, and double check that the truck is locked. (“And the windows are all the way closed – I’m not gonna let that happen again.”)
Better make sure we take jackets and hats with us (I for sure am gonna need one in the morning).
“So, what’s the plan?”
Well, I just thought we’d head right in and see what we could see. When we found the right spot, set up camp and tape over another old rough spot.
“You,…”
What?
“Nothing, never mind.”
I take a breath as if to say something, but peer and smile at you instead. One last tug on the strap of my pack, run through the mental checklist, and we’re off, turning away from the road to head into the trees.
Away from the road It’s cool, moist and piney – in contrast to the warm front seat with it’s aura of coffee and cigarettes.
(“You smoked in my truck? Did I say I would let you smoke in my truck?”
Let me? You helped – thanks by the way, I’ll get the next pack, though it’s probably outta my system for a long time now. Not only does it go well with a long drive and coffee, I also needed something to fight the tendency I have to whistle and gum doesn’t always do that.
“I like your whistling, so long as you hit the right notes like you do, and I don’t have to worry about getting a gum smell out of the truck.”
I hit more right notes with you, and don’t worry about the truck, we’ve got enough driving to do that it’ll have a chance to air out.)
There’s no true path down away from the truck, but we try to find our way through the branches and brush further into the trees. More than once, what looks like an easy path turns out to be a dead end. Once, as we try to push on through some briars, your sleeve gets caught. I work my way over to you to help out. I manage to get you untangled and unscratched, but one particularly stiff branch releases sharply and catches me on the cheek. We slow down and take turns holding them aside as we let each other through.
(“Wait a minute – are you okay? Aren’t you going to do something about that?”
What? It’s just a little scratch, it stings a bit is all.
“Well, it’s bleeding. Put the pen down a second and lean over here so I can take care of that… here, hold this on tightly… now let me see it again… okay, it’s stopped.”
Thanks.
“Sure, anytime, now try to be more careful.”)
Within minutes, we’ve lost sight of the road. The spaces are starting to open up ahead of us, and it’s getting easier to move. The downhill slope is getting steeper and more uncertain in footing. Old leaves and fallen twigs shift and slide over the underlying stones and roots. You take the lead, trying to keep to mossy paths where it’s softer and less slippery. I keep closer on the steeper descents, where I can be near enough to put a hand on your backpack and grab hold to keep you up when you slip. After the third time, you turn to look at me with a slight smile. I wait, but you say nothing.
I’ll let you choose the path, and I’ll let you slip, but I won’t let you fall.
“I know, but I don’t always know when you’re there to catch me.”
Well, if you look for me, you’ll find I’m there with you.
“You should remember to look too – you’re not alone either.”
A stream appears through the trees – we’ve reached the lowest point of our descent as we decide to turn and follow it upstream. The trees on either side overhang the stream and keep it shaded. We take our time picking our way along, hopscotching along the creek rocks from sandbar to bank and back. There’s a gradual upslope punctuated by occasional small falls requiring a scramble up the exposed rock on the waterside. For some, I provide you with a foothold or boost, then hand my pack up to you so I can pull myself up. My knee’s giving me an occasional complaint, and your ankle’s starting to get tired. I make the mistake of rubbing an itch on my cheek, and the scratch starts to bleed again. I don’t notice it until you turn at the top of the next rise and your eyes fill with concern.
“Sit down here, you’re bleeding again – there’s a tear of blood running down to your jaw.”
You take a bandanna out of your pack and dip it in the stream.
Oh! That stings.
“Just try to sit like a big boy won’t you? This time I’m putting a bandage on it so you don’t scratch it again. Yeah, here’s a nice neon pink band-aid for ya.”
Great, I’ll bet that looks cool.
“Uh, yeah, just don’t risk too much on that bet.”
Next time I’ll have to make sure I pack some cool band-aids – spiderman maybe.
“Yeah, that’d be awesome. Where’re we going anyway? You have any idea?
Not really, what do you think?
(“That doesn’t really inspire confidence, that the person with the pen doesn’t know where we end up.”
I don’t like to pretend it’s totally up to me.
“Fine”
It will be, just be patient with it.)
“Nope, I’m only sure that this can’t be it.”
Yeah, I think we’ve still got a ways to go. I’m not sure how to get there, but I know we’ll recognize it when we see it.
“It’s starting to get warm. What time is it?”
Almost noon. Let’s say we go on until 1, then take a break for lunch if we haven’t found a good campsite by then.
“That’s fine, I’m not really that hungry.”
I haven’t been either recently, but maybe we’ll find an appetite for lunch somewhere in our walk together.
“-----. I’ve gotta slow down some before my foot falls off.”
Yeah, I could do with a little less climbing myself. Maybe if we wandered woodward and came back to the stream further up. It looks like things have opened up a bit and we won’t have to fight through the brush much.
Slowing down has it’s own benefits. It gives us time to notice more as we go. Even under the trees, spring has arrived. Right at the edge of the stream bed we wade through a stand of fairy bells, waist-high with yellow bell-shaped flowers.
(You’re probably familiar, they’re a variety of lily.
“They must’ve been waiting for you here then.”)
Further on, we stop to admire the scent of the witch hazel, nearly done blooming, and the summersweet, just starting.
The mountain laurel catch our eye with their candy-striped flowers. We arrange a bouquet and pose snowman holding them.
While you’re working on taking his picture, I’m snipping a small spray off a jetbead – their flowers look like wild rose – to fix on the back of your pack.
(Put the camera down though.
“What?”
No pictures allowed with the neon band-aid.
“Would I do that?”
I just don’t want to take any chances.)
A trio of deer startle and rush off deeper into the woods.
Did you see that?
“Yeah, that was cool. Too bad I didn’t have a chance for a picture, but somebody made me put the camera away.”
Sor-ry, me and my constant vanity…
“Hmm…”
Pushing on, we pass among Dogwoods, (um, what’s that one again? “Persimmon”) Persimmon, and Wild Plums. White petals are sprinkled across the path. A breath of wind brings a new flurry down over your hair and shoulders as you pirouette among them.
Circling back to the stream, we come to a big clearing at the top of a rise. The sun is shining right down into it, and it takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust. In this big treeless field a wildflower meadow has sprung up. A rainbow of colors covers the ground, interrupted by a few boulders pushing through. We wade through, eyes mostly closed, shoulder against shoulder as we enjoy the perfume. At the far end of the field there’s a big old willow tree whose roots are exposed where they emerge into the stream bed. At the base of the tree, the large roots are just right for a bench seat and we take our packs off and sit down.
“My ankle’s gonna kill me.”
Maybe this’d be a good place to stop for lunch then. After lunch I’ll take a look at that ankle, what-say?
“We’ll see how it feels then. I’ll take care of lunch if you manage dinner ‘kay?”
Sure, whatcha got?
The first thing out of your pack is a bottle of Riesling.
You didn’t bring wine glasses did you?
“I’ve got these Styrofoam cups – very classy, they’re quite the ‘in’ thing.”
Oh yes, all the finest establishments and all. I suppose you also have some stinky cheese?
“Cheese, yes; stinky, no. And some bread, and apricots, and crackers and some other snacky stuff. And some cookies too, I’m sure.”
That looks perfect, here. I hand you my knife so you can use the opener.
Lunch is just right, then the warmth, and the fullness, and the contentment, and the fatigue from the hike all conspire to make it nap time.
(“Yeah, I was gonna say, we did start out a bit early for me.”
Worth it though?
“Still a toss-up.”)
This blanket’s lost it’s brand-new look, but it is good and soft, so we spread it out in the dappled sunlight right at the edge of the wildflowers. I roll my sweatshirt up and push it inside it’s sleeve for a pillow for you. I myself just kick my boots off – argh, my legs are sore – and lace my fingers behind my head, push my cap forward over my eyes and lie down on my back.
Lunch was good, thanks.
“Mm Hmm”
There was something else I wanted to say, but first we both nod off. I wake up briefly when your hand takes my elbow, but you’re not saying anything ‘cause you’re still asleep, so I let a smile out, take hold of your forearm with my free hand and go back to sleep.
When you wake up, I’m sitting on the willow root again with a notebook on my lap. You pretend to still be asleep and you watch for a few minutes.
(You know, you’re not fooling anyone, I noticed you wake up.
“Well that was a funny way of showing it, not looking up, or pausing, or saying anything.”
You seemed to not want to be noticed…
“Well if that’s how it is, I’ll be the one to say something.”)
“Whatcha doin’?”
I don’t have any idea what these wildflowers are, so I’m making some drawings and descriptions so I can look them up before I write this part of the story down. How’s your ankle doing?
“A little stiff and sore; the nap helped.”
Maybe we’ll just make camp here? I’m not sure we could find a better place, and I don’t want to climb any further just to find that out.
“Me either. Especially after that nap I just want to laze around in our stillness and quiet.”
Contemplative and tired, eh? Come on then, I’ve got an idea for us. I reach out both hands to help you up, and you surprise me by letting me do it. I crouch down to pick up the blanket and ‘pillow’, but there’s a long moment of pause letting my legs gather themselves to come back up again: oof, that nap really put me in laze-around mode too. I get all the way up finally, and take another moment to let the sunlight fill me and shake out the inertia. Bring the rest of that bottle and our cups and follow me. I lead you over to the edge of the stream bank and jump back down onto the shaded edge – a little bit of a shaky landing there. Then I help you down since your hands are full. The stream is pretty deep and quiet here. About 30 yards upstream there’s a tree trunk that’s fallen across the stream and is resting on some larger boulders. (The bottom is clearly visible, so you needn’t fear.
“Thanks for being clear about that.”)
We leave our socks in our boots at the water’s edge, roll up our pant legs and wade in. The cold water feels good on our tired legs and feet (not quite as extreme as that ice water bath, just a relief) as we head out to sit on the tree trunk and let our feet dangle into the stream. I reach in and grab a handful of pebbles (Look, here’s this one again. “Oh, keep it this time.”) for a stone skipping contest, which I let you win.
(“Excuse me? Let me win? You didn’t even come close, so don’t try passing off that ‘let you win’ stuff – I’ll take you on any time.”
Okay, then I’m blaming it on the sun getting in my eyes.
“We were sitting in the shade.”
Uh, yeah, well,… you got all the best rocks.
“Whatever.”
Okay, so maybe I wasn’t the most gracious…)
I reach in as if to pick out some more pebbles, but instead flick the water off my hand at you. It quickly escalates as you pour a handful of water down the back of my neck, then it’s splashing at each other and kicking water at each other. Our feigned fighting has turned to laughter. I’ve gotten the worst of it, and am splashed all over my torso but laughing out loud. The heat of the day quickly dries the water away, but the smile remains.
We take turns getting pairs of sticks or leaves to release down the stream. Each time we let go simultaneously, our respective offerings take their own paths around eddies, to either side of the rocks, through small rapids, but every time meeting up again further downstream.
“Tie. Again.”
I didn’t know it was a race.
“Well, I guess not… I think the goal might be to get there in the greatest amount of time together.”
Wow, that was a good one.
The rest of the afternoon slips slowly away with the current.
We better set up camp before it gets dark. I toss some larger creek rocks up to use forming a circle for the fire. Can I let you set out the tarp and tent while I get some wood?
“Why? You think I can’t?”
No, I have every confidence.
By the time I get back, the tent is all set up and the sky over our meadow is starting to turn purple. I get the kindling set out with the wood arranged beside and kneel into the circle to light it.
“You might let me do that so you don’t burn a finger.”
Yeah, that’s prob’ly a good idea.
The fire gets started and built on our first try, and before long there’s bottled water boiling pasta in a pot while I’m working on cutting up the vegetables for pasta salad. That, and bread, and apples, and a cabernet make for dinner. Our entertainment is the sun going down and evening bird song. As the sun sets, we scoot a bit closer to the fire as the air develops a chill in a breeze. I get the espresso maker out of my pack, set it up, and put it on the fire. Then I go back to my pack to look for my sweatshirt. I look everywhere for it, give up, put on a long sleeve shirt and come back to the fire, where I find you wearing it.
Make yourself comfortable.
“I am, now sit over here with me and watch the fireflies rise out of the meadow.”
The espresso maker runs through its gurgling and I pour us each a cup.
“Look up.”
The fireflies, and the cinders, and the stars are putting on a swirling light show overhead. The stars are packed in thick here: the sky is clear and the moon is not yet risen.
I know Leo is up there, but I never remember.
“Look up there: you see the Big Dipper?”
Ursa Major? Yeah.
“Follow the back edge down…”
The front paw you mean.
“…okay, the front paw points right at it down here.”
Oh yeah, there it is, nice.
We spend the early evening between skywatching and tending the fire. I make us each a second espresso, but the caffeine is no match for the fatigue overtaking us. By the time the moon starts to rise – hey look! Shooting star! – we’re ready to turn in. You go on in, I’m gonna tamp down the fire. I’m only minutes behind, but when I get in you’re already fast asleep. (I see you took the comfiest spot there. “Don’t look at me, you’re the one who put the sleeping bags out. You did that on purpose.” Well, yeah, I did. “Thanks.”)

You wake up alone in the tent. Minutes pass, and still I don’t reappear. You step out into the starlit meadow (the moon hides behind a cloud). There’s splashing in the stream, then rustling in the brush at the edge of the meadow.
“Is that you?” You retreat back to the remains of the fire. A branch snaps behind you – you turn around to face into the trees, trying to look hard enough to penetrate the darkness. A shadow moves toward you, barely discernable. It’s before you faster than you can react to get away. You’re frozen in place. The bear rises to his full height and bellows, but he doesn’t scare you. You look up into the bear’s face to notice a scratch on it’s cheek. You reach up to put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He returns to all fours and accepts a hug. Warmth, comfort, support, with a slight bristle come to you in their essence and you feel them from the inside out. The moon breaks free from the clouds and you find yourself looking back into a pair of blue eyes looking back into yours. For a moment everything is still, then in a flash the bear has turned and disappeared back into the darkness.
“Wait! Come back! Wait!
You’re back in the tent, and I’m waking you up. I wipe the tear from your cheek, and take hold of you. What do you mean, ‘Come back’? I’m right here now, and always carry youwith me. I shiver slightly as I give you a hug, warm and supportive, if unshaven… Relax, it’s alright, here, I’ll tell you a story…

…E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stele

…And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars

Dante -- Inferno

Diner Stop

2007-10-29T17:00:00.000-04:00

Hey,…Hey wake up won’t you? There’s a hand on your arm that provides a stationary point keeping you still in the disorientation as the world you thought you were in falls away and dissolves into the world you might be in now. The transition is gradual and less than complete; the darkness and the lateness of the hour hold back full realization at first. Still, you have a vague recollection of a destination.
“Are we there? I thought it’d take longer.”
No, we’re still on the way, but I’m starting to lose focus. I thought maybe a quick stop just to refresh…
“And get your bearings? I know what you mean. You okay? I could do some driving now.”
No, thanks; it’s cool. Let me just get out and take a break here and I’ll be okay for the few more hours until morning.
“You just don’t want to listen to my CD’s.”
Tsk, tsk, always underestimating my interest in you.
Unfolding from the seat is a process; a few shrugs to pull my shoulders back, lean my neck back and side to side, push the heels of my hands into the small of my back. Yawn in a big breath of fresh air and let the chill get to the back of my neck. Now a big stretch grabs hold of me from shoulders down. One second, two seconds, three,… Yeee-argh! Pull my cap off with my left hand to vigorously rub through my hair with my right.
“Hey that’s an interesting look for you. You better put the hat back on.”
I don’t doubt it, and don’t worry. I slip the hat back on with a quick one-handed adjustment as I look up to check on the stars. Nothing, all washed out by the electric glare of the mercury lights of the parking lot. The neon at the edge says, “Chinese 24 Hour Diner” in English with those incongruous serifs meant to make it look like asian printing. Somebody put a lot of effort into making that work out in neon tubes.
The place is completely empty except for some insomniac in a paper hat leaning over from behind the counter working on the crossword puzzle from yesterday’s paper.
I’m not very good at this brother: can we just cut through the game-playing and you just tell me how much I have to tip you to end up at the best table in the house?
/The choicest are always reserved for friends and celebrities./
Well, won’t you let us be celebrities tonight, then?
/Oh yeah. I thought I recognized you coming in: she’s the teacher and you’re that guy on the radio. You look different with a hat on./
Writer, actually.
/No, that’s not it. You’re in that ad for motor oil, cereal maybe./
No, really, it’s words. Written words.
/Maybe we should just switch to “friends” instead of “celebrities” and not fight about it./
Done. We take the choice seat: window booth with neon lighting, jukebox, and view of the empty lot next door. Our new friend comes by with water, menus, and the folded-over newspaper he now holds his pen up to.
/Okay mister “written words”, how about a nine-letter word for “fondness”./
Starts with?
/”A”, I think./
Affection.
/Hmm, let’s just see,… Okay, you win, you can be the writer. That was a good one./ Then to you: /That was fast./
“Yeah, he’s quick on his feet.”
When I’m with the teacher here, certain things are constantly in the front of my mind. Any clues in there about ‘allure’, or ‘beauty’, or ‘cleverness’, or ‘delightful’, or ‘exuberant’? Just give me the letter and I’m on it.
“He’s not always like this, honest, I think maybe he’s a little over-tired.”
/No problem, I get hyper like that in the middle of the night too. Anyway, too much talk is better than dead quiet for me around here. You both want coffee?/
Yes, please, and two more waters.
/Alright, here’s your menus. I’ll be back with your drinks in a minute. I just gotta brew some fresh coffee./
So’s it gonna be breakfast, or just coffee?
“I thought we were going someplace,…”
This is someplace.
“Yeah, this is some place alright. What do you think, this place was put up in what, the 70’s, and maybe supposed to last 20 years?”
It’s really the company that matters – aren’t you always the one telling me to enjoy the ride?
“You, you’re devious”
/Why don’t you let my coffee help you decide?/ The voice rings out from behind the counter.
Excuse me?
/It’s a big place, but empty; voices carry. You guys are still talking in your we’re-alone-in-the-car voices./
“Sorry about,…um,…”
/It’s cool, I like the retro look, but you don’t have to./
Sounds like a good way to decide. Let’s have those coffees.
/And your waters. Here you go./
I can already tell from the smell and look of this coffee that it’s going to be right. I can taste it off the smell of it, and it looks like you could stand the stirrer up in it.
“Coffee Ritual?”
What’s that you say?
“Coffee Ritual. You’ve mentioned the coffee ritual, but never explained it.”
Oh, right, some of the origins are unrecoverable. I was there, and it all had a purpose, but some of the details have faded in memory. There’s a mystique to it that might not translate in a quick demo…
“Try me.”
Okay. You set your coffee cup up just so: you need to be able to see straight in, the handle needs to be out of the way, either straight at you or straight away – it becomes important later. Stir, preferably with a spoon. You need to create a vortex, center it in the cup as well as you can. Now open a creamer.
“You don’t take cream”
I know, but the ritual requires you to bend to it, even, maybe especially, if that involves some sacrifice. Non-coffee drinkers are probably the ideal candidates to perform it.
“Can it be non-dairy creamer.”
No, but I know something else that’s good for, put ‘em in your pocket for later. Now, while I’m stirring, pop that creamer open. Then I take the spoon out, observe the vortex a moment for suitability, then take the cream and pour it in the center of the vortex. Watch, don’t miss a detail, as the clouds spread and contract, then spread again, and contract again, eventually filling the cup. If you’re going to go all out, you tap the side of the ceramic cup with the handle of the spoon, listening to the pitch change.
“Why would the pitch change?”
You must learn to accept the ritual for what it is, do not question it.
“And what is it exactly, the ritual?”
It explains itself.
“You’ve been up too long. I’m driving after we’re done with ‘breakfast’.”
You neophytes, all the same. You do it, I’ll pop the creamer for you. Ready?
“Yeah, hand it to me… Huh, look at that… that’s kinda cool.”
Tap.
“Okay, but I still don’t see why the pitch,… would,… The pitch is changing.”
Now do you get it?
“A little, maybe, wait a moment. It’s simple,… yet,… “
Intricate, irreproducibly intricate.
“Yeah, the same four steps, always with a different result.”
Five steps, sorry, now that the tone has stopped changing, you put your hands on either side of the cup and let the warmth radiate into your hands. Don’t just watch it, feel it. Then I guess there’s a sixth step: drinking the coffee is implied.
“Right, feel it, then take it into you. Marvel at it, make yourself a part of it, make it a part of you.”
Wow, that’s good. The student has become the teacher. Don’t leave out the ‘different result’ part though; every moment, every cup of coffee, is unique.
(“Where do you come up with this stuff anyway?”
Killed a lot of time drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in my misspent youth, hanging out with people who can’t help interpreting every little thing. The humanities folks, always looking for Meaning.
“And you? You weren’t a humanities major.”
Maybe I just liked the coffee and cigarettes. Now it’s just coffee.
“Better keep it that way, I’m not gonna put up with ashtray floors, dirty clothes and filthy jokes on these trips.”
If it were that way, we’d have to find ‘Someone [to] Take the Wheel’.
“Nice pickup.”
You should know better than to try to sneak that one past me.)
/What’ll it be for you two, more than just coffee?/
I’ll have the number 5, over easy, wheat toast, homefries, extra egg, and regular coffee, of course.
/How’s that again? Did you even look at the menu?/
Well, it used to be my usual at the Salonika, though no matter how many times I ordered it, there was always some detail I’d leave out. The Greek waitress always needed one more thing. Now that I’ve finally got my order down, I hate not having the chance to use it.
/Translate for me, what’s the number 5?/
Two eggs, any style, sausage, toast or muffin, grits or potatoes.
/And you want an extra egg, so that’s three, over easy./
I said that.
/And that’s patties, or link sausage?/
Augh! You don’t look Greek to me.
/You shouldn’t assume…/
I’d like links please, thanks for asking.
/It’s really no problem. And for the lady?/
“Maybe just an omelet, white toast.”
/Okay, coming right up./
Wait a minute? Aren’t you gonna ask what kind of omelet? Aren’t you gonna ask what starch?
/Well, it’s a feta omelet of course, and no starch. Right?/
“Exactly. I wasn’t sure, but that sounds good to me.”
/Lucky guess./
You can do that, but you couldn’t guess what type of sausage I was having?
He shrugs as he walks off.
(You have a way of getting into men’s heads you know.
“See, now I was afraid you’d be all jealous.”
Who says I’m not? Maybe I’m hiding it.
“You do understand that it’s better that you’re not jealous?”
In that case, totally not jealous, confident in fact…
“Now you’ve gone too far in the other direction.”
Okay then. Honestly? I’m still trying to figure it all out.
“I’ll try to help you make up your mind.”
Oh. Yes please.)
We take our time with ‘breakfast’, and it’s good, every bite of it.
“You’ve got a bit of yolk on your lip there.”
Mmm, thanks, I got it, still tastes good. I’m wide awake again, you ready to go?
“I’m gonna quick head to the ladies’ room before we start out again.”
I’ll just finish my coffee, I’ll get our check, and I’ll meet you out at the car.
Thanks chief, that was good. Here sit across the counter from Snowman, I‘ll put a coffee cup in front of him, you make like you’re showing him the puzzle.
>click<
/You two stop in whenever you’re back in the area, I’ll get you right into the ‘friends and celebrities’ table./

Out at the car, it’s still chilly, and I’m leaning against the hood turning something between thumb and index and middle finger.
“Whatcha got there?”
Book of matches. You still got those non-dairy creamers?
“Yeah, here.”
Okay then, here’s the ‘non-dairy creamer trick’.
At the moment, I mistake the light in your eye as a reflection of the trick. But it doesn’t fade afterwards.
“There’s got to be a story behind that.”
Well, sure, get back in the car and I’ll tell you more as we go…

Charleston

2007-10-15T17:10:00.000-04:00

The power went out over an hour ago. The shutters are closed up over the windows, rattling their clasps and hinges, banging the frames. The wind pulls at the walls and howls through the trees. Lightning flashes in long multiple-stroke strobes followed close by the thought-stopping percussion of thunder that rattles the china in the cabinets and vibrates the floor from beneath your feet. The rain pounds the tin roof of the veranda and sends up a spray off the porch deck. The gutters overflow and the drive is awash with its own rapids.
It’s been getting noticeably worse by the quarter hour. You’re dreading sitting this one out in the dark. You still don’t know what led you to this miscalculation. You waved off the last ride inland so confidently. It seems just the thing you used to think you could count on me for – maybe it is over finally.
Still, you’ve been leaning up against the door frame, keeping watch through the screen door at an empty road. The trees thrash about as if wildly waving their arms to get someone’s attention for you. The air draws a voice from the siding now and again that seems to call out, “Hey!” then pauses, expecting an answer. You wipe the wetness from your cheeks, most of it rainspray off the screen door.
There was some thing in that last book that showed up that made you try Charleston. Made you dream of old world charm and craftsmanship, the scent of the mandevilla, the taste of bourbon in the afternoon, the methodical pace of the bay, unhurried casual drawls, gentlemen and ladies and parasols. Maybe you read too much into it. It came without a note, not even a smiley, maybe it wasn’t even from me,… and now you’re stuck in the path of the storm.
Maybe you’ve made too much of being able to trust your intuition with me. Maybe it was a moment of weakness that you should have turned away from quicker. Maybe you were hoping to let yourself be wrong just to show yourself it was over. Maybe I misled you on purpose – would I be spiteful like that? The thoughts chase themselves around an impenetrable funnel cloud in your head. It always seemed like it was too easy before; the let down was bound to follow, wasn’t it? You wipe your cheek again, and the coolness of the damp focuses you back on the present, and you look beyond the drips collecting in the spaces of the screen. Still no movement out on the road, there’d at least be lights visible. The tree branches are starting to protest from the continuous strain. Was that a gunshot? No, a tree trunk popping as it starts to split. There’s another one, then another in a lower register, and the old tree by the drive has given in; accelerating down, dragging its roots up out of the ground as it makes impact. Insurmountable forces have blocked the way – no use waiting or watching now, may as well finish closing up.
You step back away from the threshold and into the dark and throw yourself into closing the door, keeping your hand on the bolt handle so you can find it to turn it. Blindly, you turn it and feel it latch. The you let your hand fall away from the handle and pivot to lean your back against the door. As you’re realizing that it is not going to work out like in the stories, you let your weight fall fully back on the door, trying to take support from it. Close your eyes from the darkness to try and find the next image for this story, but only seeing brief flashes of the others. Too few and too short to string them together. You drop back into the present, feeling your weight against the door, the pressure of the unseen in the dark, your pulse (you’ve always tried to control it before) in every artery, the shallowness of your breath like when you cannot gauge the depth you’re in.
A barrage of thunder shakes the house. It is nearly constant now, only brief pauses between. An aftershock shakes the door against your back, and the floor under you, and a chandelier somewhere in the darkness. The door shakes again. Then again, more forcefully as if the door were trying to match the pounding of your heart with a pounding of its own. Now again, almost purposefully, like the thunder means to bring the door down on you,… like someone’s pounding on it,… like someone pounding on it? Something reckless in you convinces you to risk it. Turn the bolt handle, feel it click in the open position. Brush your hand down the edge of the frame to find the knob. Take a breath, stop yourself from wishing, turn the knob.
The door flies open and shoves you back as it and I are thrown inward by the wind. I give you a hand up and try to hand you a flashlight. Instead of reaching out to take it, you’re hitting me with the heels of your hands on my arms and chest, each impact splashing on my clothes waterlogged mostly by the rain. I put up no defense, leaving my hands at my sides and waiting it out, and dripping in the doorway.
When you’re done, you look down at the circle of light on the floor from the flashlight. An occasional sparkle gets thrown from the drops falling from my eyebrows and chin. They draw your gaze up to my face. It’s too loud to try and speak: we stand in the wind coming though the door and regard each other. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better, but it’s clear that I did all that I could. You still won’t take the flashlight from me, so I lay it on the ground and head back out on the porch. Returning, I distribute and light some candle lamps, set a battery lantern down in the beam of the flashlight, and put a picnic basket down in the next room.
I take your elbow and bend forward to speak into your ear:
You’ll be okay now? Stay in until it’s all over: it’s real mean out there.
I pause, considering what I’d planned to say next, but instead swallow it with pursed lips and straighten back up, letting go of your elbow. I turn back to the door with my head down and my eyes closed. I wipe at least the rain off my nose and pull my cap down tighter. It’s going to take a good grip on the door handle to get it pulled closed, but that doesn’t explain all the extra tension in my forearm as I pause in the threshold to gather myself. You move just in time to stop me, stepping into the door (“wait, it’s a big house, I’m sure there’s room for you somewhere”). Still, I keep my grip on the outer doorknob (but, there’s only one picnic basket), until you put your hand over mine and lift it off (“then you’ll have to be happy with what I can share of it. You can have any stinky cheese or anchovies there might be in it for starters…”).
In the morning, I wake from where I was sleeping on the floor propped up against the end of the couch. I'm cold all over except my hand, extended over the edge of the couch and held in yours. For a long time, I close my eyes and focus on that point of contact. Rain patters against the shutters still. I climb up to my feet slowly, crawling over to the bookcase to pull myself up on. Still damp, I shiver briefly as I slog across to open the window and the shutters. I put my hand on my chin and try to push the crick out of my neck as I look out. The rain’s still pretty heavy, and falling out of a dark sky. Now and again the wind kicks up a bit and blows some drops through the window.
Haven’t been able to get any writing done for weeks. Don’t remember how it came to this. I might try some now, but no notebook, no pen, and no reason to think there’d be any more stories. You’re stirring on the couch now, turning over and wrapping up in the blanket, then opening your eyes to catch me watching you.
Hey, the worst of it seems to be over. Want to take a walk around, see if there’s anyplace with power we can get a coffee from?
“Yeah, I’d do that with you. You okay?”
I think so, a little sore, pretty tired. A hot beverage might just do the trick.
“I’ve got some things for you.”
Yeah, what?
You reach over to the coffee table to grab them, and toss me a pen and notebook.
(How’d you know?
“I’d been reading along.”
I thought you’d gone.
“I thought you’d quit.”
Yeah, because you’d gone.
“Yeah, because you’d quit.”
Pause.
Nervous laughter, hesitant at first, then breaking into a full laugh out loud.)
That’s perfect. Just what I needed.
“So, you got a story for me or what?”
Let’s go see if we can find that coffee first.

Thomas II

2007-10-13T17:00:00.000-04:00

“Are you all done with the water filter already?’
Yeah, the thing took about 15 minutes, went exactly according to plan this time.
“What are you doing now?”
Finally getting to the second half of that piece at the falls.
“You’ll be careful? I don’t want any of that spilling over and manifesting in the plumbing you just finished.”
Good point. It’s cool though, we’re leaving the park at this point and going into town.
“Leaving? I thought it had just gotten good.”
I don’t make the news, I just report it -- Hey! What do you mean, “just gotten good”?
“Oh stop it, you know perfectly well what I mean. I’m going to go get a drink of water from the new filter, you want anything?”
Not right now, I gotta get this thing down while I’ve got a bit of time.

We almost miss the town. That is we saw the sign, and drove down the street thinking there had to be more of it than that. Got to the other side of town within a few blocks. Still hadn’t seen the place, so we turned around and headed back on the other street, finally spotting the sign at the end. We circle around the entire town again, and 3 minutes later we’re parking at the far end of the street the place is on. The town has seen better days -- most of the shops seem shuttered. There is one woodshop with big windows in the front so you can see in to the works in progress.
Wow. Look at that. And smell that? Mmm, sawdust.
“If I could get that scent in a bottle…”
I’d be all yours, baby.
“But then would you be tempted to work on me?”
Is there something about me that doesn’t work now?
“You. You’re a silver-tongued one you are.”
See, now this is the kind of place I’m gonna have when I retire. Nice little shop, fully equipped, take a few jobs now and again… only without the big windows. Sometimes I’m just gonna close the door, put on a recording of power tools running, and see what I’ve got left in the mini-fridge. Then it'd be: Don’t come in just yet dear, it’s dangerous in here right now.
“Dangerous, right, sounds dangerous. So, what are you waiting for?”
What do you mean?
“You like doing that handyman stuff, why not use your current workshop and take on a few small jobs now? Why wait for retirement? You could find as much work as you could handle, maybe even make some money at it, use it to build toward that dream workshop of yours.”
I don’t know, I guess that’s just the way I started thinking about it… that’s a good idea, yeah, I might just start doing that.
(“Plus, then you’ll be ready to do things like put in water filters for me.”
See, you were way ahead of me on that one. I guess now I’ll have to come up with something else to do in my retirement. I’ve got a little time, the way my investments are working out I should be ready to retire when I’m about 100.
“I’ve got other ideas for what you’ll do in your retirement. If you get stuck, let me know.”)
I’m getting hungry, let’s get down there so we have plenty of time to eat before the show.

The Purple Fiddle used to be the town’s general store. The walls are still decorated with things that were useful once. Half of the inside has tables and chairs, booths in the middle up against the central posts, and a deli counter. The other half has rows of benches and stairs facing a stage. The entrance to the bathroom is behind the stage, and a waist high banister separates the hall way from the back of the stage.
There aren’t many people here tonight, the staff outnumbers the patrons by about 2 to 1.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Well, let’s a least get something to eat while we’re here, and we’ll see what happens.”
The menu is unexpected, it’s not just ham sandwich and barbecue. You get the sesame chicken wrap and water, I get the Beau Thai Chicken wrap, though I was within an inch of trying the smoked trout sushi, and a Rogue Honey Cream Ale. We go have a seat in a booth while our wraps are getting made. You look puzzled and a little concerned when yours shows up with an empty Mason canning jar.
It’s for your water. Go fill it at the cooler there with the big (that’s gotta be what, 10 gallons?) glass water bottle. Actually here, I’ll go get it, I’m gonna get one for myself too. I better hydrate before I start on that beer, gotta drive back tonight still.
When I go up to the counter, the woman behind it smiles at me and offers me a couple slices of lemon for the jars, which I accept. Thanks.
/”Sure, you let me know if you guys need anything else”/
When I get back with the waters, you’ve been playing with the wooden peg puzzle at the table. You’ve also been looking at the brochures.
“We don’t have to drive back tonight. They have a bed-n-breakfast here.”
I know, I checked it out already when I was planning this. It’s all full up tonight.
“Oh, sorry, maybe next time? I can do some of the driving.”
Okay. We’ll see how it goes.
The band is setting up and warming up. The place is starting to get crowded. The two of us having a booth all to ourselves is getting more and more conspicuous. By the time we’re through eating the place is packed. The whole town must be here, and another whole town’s worth has driven in. Hospitable hosts and hostesses, and gracious appreciative guests. When I get back from the counter with an ice cream to split for dessert, you have a question on your face.
“I hope this is okay, but I did something.”
I’m sure it’s okay, what is it?
You point to the couple with a small child across the rail from us in the performance section. The three of them have only been able to find two seats.
“I asked them if they’d want to swap those two seats up front for our booth. They didn’t look very comfortable like that.”
That sounds like a great idea. It’ll be fun to sit near the front too. And nobody has to worry about my standing up and blocking their view, my legs are tired.
The band is simple: stand-up bass, acoustic guitar, and a percussionist with an accessorized washboard and deep pockets (kazoo, harmonica, bike bell, toy cymbal, wood block, cowbell, spoons,…). The lead’s got a steady deep voice that he occasionally allows to crack or climb into a squeezed higher pitch. It’s a musical trip through Appalachia and through time, roots blues and updated Americana classics.
“We will with patience bide the time, with blood, brick, and wine.”
There’s an occasional joke or gimmick in most of the songs, that you can catch if you’re paying attention. Each one is good for a laugh. They try to offer them deadpan, but they’re having too much fun and occasionally a grin forces out at their own joke.
“Blue drag, you got my soul on fire. Oh I’ll never tire of that slow drag.”
The place is really rockin’, or hootin’, or ananny’n, or whatever the term would be. I’ll bet it’s kicking up the sawdust down the street. The Wiyos are giving it all and working up a sweat. The waitresses have all lined up along the rail behind the stage, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, swaying and dancing and smiling as one (there’s a melancholy in their joy though, I wonder if the end of the summer doesn’t mean some of them leaving for school, maybe not coming back). The crowd claps to the up beat though, and gets it right, and keeps it tight, and the band races in the spaces singing about Strawberry Wine (if it was on the menu, I’m sure it’d sell out). You bump me to get my attention, bringing up thumb and finger tips pinched together to gesture. Yeah, I have a pen, and some bits of note card, here.
At the end of the show, we make our way out to the door, waiting for everyone else who was sitting behind us. Didn’t manage to get a disc – one of the disadvantages to sitting up front is that sometimes they’re all sold out by the time you get to the table. The bands you’d most want to sit up front for are the ones most likely to be sold out when you get to the door. I’m going to have to come up with a better plan for that. It had gotten so warm inside with everybody packed in; it really makes it a shock to find how cold its gotten outside. I put my arm around you on the way to the car, wishing we’d parked closer.
“You’re always so warm.”
…Check it and see, I got a fever of a hundred and three, come on baby you can do more than dance,…
“Awful, just awful.”
Alright, I’ll scratch that one off the list then.
The car’s kept some heat in it. After I let you in, I go to the trunk and get out my sweatshirt for you. The windows start to fog up on the inside.
“Too bad about the B-n-B, you sure you’re going to be okay? How many beers did you have?”
Two, thanks for asking. I’m okay, a little tired, but I think I’ll make it. If I start to fade, I’ll ask you to drive. I look for something peppy to put on to keep us alert, and decide on my Best Of CD of Brett and his Old 97’s. At one point, it occurs to me that the road we’re on must be called Oppenheimer. Any coffee left in that thermos?
“A little, you want me to pour it for you?”
Bitter!
“Please what?”
No, not bitte, bitter
“It’s hard to tell the difference with your Northern Virginia accent.”
The coffee turns out to not be enough to keep me awake enough. I’d better pull over.
“Smooth. Too tired? We’ll have to pull over here. Maybe the car won’t start again and we’ll have to huddle together against the cold.”
No, really, you stay in here and stay warm, I just gotta breathe in some cold air and move around a bit and wake up.
You still get out, and look up, “Totally clear sky, crisp air, aren’t you going to point out any stars or constellations or nothing? It’s cold though, even in your sweatshirt, why don’t you come sit on the hood with me and wrap me up?”
Now who’s the smooth one? What? No, I’m not complaining. Hey! What? Truck pulling over right behind us. Dude, you could at least put your lights off, have a little understanding. Fine (“That was a good one, I think you’re starting to get the hang of it.” Thanks, I study with a master of the art.), if that’s how they’re going to be, let’s get going again.
About a half an hour later, there’s a sign for an overlook at the top of the next crest. We pull over again. It’s still going to be cold out.
“I’m counting on it – you’ll make sure I’m okay.”
I can’t believe it, another truck. Or is it the same truck? You didn’t used to date a trucker did you?
“Are we gonna start prying into who’s dated whom?”
Um ,no, probably not. Maybe we look like we’re trying to read. Everyone seems to think shining a light on us is necessary. This is ridiculous, let’s just keep going. They’re not following are they?
Here, this was to be the place, a little pull off from the road, a small dirt road. Pull along a few dozen feet and park at the base of a tree. Try again?
“Yeah, let’s”
Getting out this time, I reach across the roof to grab on and let myself stretch. I can see my breath. I press my forehead against the cold roof to try to relieve the dryness of my eyes. Another late night. Turn around to lean back over the edge of the roof and crack my upper back. You come aroung the car to stand next to me and lean back also.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to crack it like that?”
Who said that?
“I think I read it somewhere.”
It’s okay, I know what I’m doing.
You do, do you? Then why park under a tree for stargazing?”
Thought we might walk around a bit first, stretching my legs might help.
“It’s cold though, you want the sweatshirt back?”
I want to be cold, maybe even catch a shiver or two, shake me awake.
“It’s too cold to walk though, plus, here’s another truck to shine it’s brights on us.”
This is stupid, I’m gonna go talk to this driver.
“No, you’re not, let’s just get in and drive. We can come back out here again to see the stars.”
You’re right, if we go straight through from here, we should get back at about 2.
“Maybe I could set the coffee pot back again, you’d have time to come up and chat for a while.”
That’s a plan that just might fly, if I can keep this story together until then. I’m getting sleepy, and it’s starting to get a little choppy (“and repetitive, and surreal, what’s the thing with the trucks?” I don’t know, they just keep showing up.).
“I’m sorry the stargazing didn’t work out, I like doing that with you.”
Hmmm, Early AM, first Sunday of September, heading south, I might be able to conjure up a consolation or two.
About a half hour later, there they are. Unlit highway, dark sky, and the Aurigids (or are they the September Perseids?) streaking across the sky behind the windshield. Those are good for a wish. We get a good half hour of viewing as we continue heading in, getting more suburban and lit until we can’t tell which are meteors and which are glints from the streetlights. In Manassas, I almost run a red light, and pull over.
I can’t keep going any longer. Struggling to even keep my head up. Eyelids impossibly heavy. You better take over from here. I can’t finish, tried to fit in too much in one day.
“Not coming up then.”
Maybe next time (“You gonna give me that pen before you fall asleep? I can take it from here.” Okay, here you go, let’s see what you got.), or maybe I’ll dream it presently. (Hey, nice one. “Thanks, now lean up against the passenger window and drop off to sleep. I’ll take care of a few dreams for you, make sure I leave the pen with you after you drop off. Okay? Ulysses? Oh,…”)

DC Rooftop

2007-09-25T16:30:00.000-04:00

You can already tell this morning that it’s going to be a hot day. Seems silly to start with a hot coffee, but habits are habits and there’s some comfort in a routine. Starbucks is too full – there’s no place to sit either inside or out. I put the bag with the lemon pound cake in my clenched teeth and pick up my music, and notebook, and coffee and head to the park. I find a wall to sit on, with my back to the playground and a hill of clover falling away from me into the trees. A breeze shifts through the deep dappled shade carrying with it a fresh green sensation that’s certain to burn off as the day arrives, so I’d better enjoy it now. I lay the pound cake out and take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth of the cup work on the fatigue in my hands. The notebook can wait a minute, I’ll just close my eyes and listen to the insects’ chattering rise and fall. The gnats are already on me, but I shut them out and take a cleansing breath.
You come to me and rouse me with a gentle touch, tickling the hair sticking out of the back of my hat.
“You look tired, how was your week?”
Hey you – how’d you find me here?
“I don’t think it’d be good to look too hard into that: it might break the spell.”
Yeah, you’re right… Generally it was a tough week without much to recommend it. It had two truly bright spots though, three now. The other two were musical in nature.
“Well you can talk to me more about the third bright spot later, but what were the two musical ones?”
First, I got those CD’s in the mail. We’d been talking about them so long that the anticipation had really built, and high expectations can be tricky. They really blew me away – not even high expectations were enough to match their reality. I’ve got Bebo cued up right now in my earphones.
“I hoped you’d like them. I do.”
They made me think of some stuff for you.
“Yeah, what?”
Soon enough, be patient a couple days.
“Okay then, don’t tell me. I know you already know… Anyway, what was the other musical moment?”
Hugh’s band show at that benefit downtown.
“Oh yeah; that was good? I wish I’d gone.”
Yeah? I wished you were there.
“Well, I think we deserve a wish to come true, and even if neither of us do alone, you’d think that both wishing together would count for some extra credit.”We are due, aren’t we? Put your forehead up against mine, and we’ll wish again. Got it? on 3,… 1,…2,… 3,… wish. Done?
“In a sec. MmmHmm.”
Now hand me the pen and sit here next to me. Let me think of something to start with…

I’m hurrying out of the office; it’s already 5:45, and the show’s flier says it starts at 6:00. I’m barely keeping a hold on my bag, which in turn is barely keeping in the paperwork I jammed into it on the way out. My balled up shirt, t-shirt, and tie are under me other arm (I wanted to at least put on a fresh shirt… “Looks nice”). As I turn into the back elevator lobby you’re hurrying the other way, and I have to jump to keep from running you over (“How do you know you wouldn’t have been the one run over?” Well, I guess now we’ll never know.”) and I lose the handle on everything – at least my glasses stayed on, barely.
Well this is obviously a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you.
“Well (“as you say”), it turns out I’m in town of a sudden and was trying to catch you before you left for that show. Here, here’s your papers and phone.”
You should’ve just called.
“My phone’s died.”
Right, I get it, we’ve got to hurry to get there, do you mind if I drive?
“Can you be safe?”
We’ll see. Grab that water, would you?
“A water and a cereal bar? What’s this?”
Dinner?
“Nice, that seems very nutritious.”
Well, I better have something: I didn’t get to my lunch today and we don’t have time to stop for dinner on the way, and it’s an open bar – I think tonight that might mean all the cola I can drink…
“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”
Yikes, don’t remind me right now. Yeah, that’s the other thing, gotta be up early.
“You still riding your bike in?”
Generally yes, but tomorrow no. Not because of the show, but because I want to replace the pulleys.
“Oh yeah, of course, the pulleys.”
Okay, sorry, not tomorrow ‘cause I need to do some work on it first.
“It’s just easier to follow when you speak English.”
Wait, give me a second before you get in to get rid of the CD’s out of the seat and get rid of the garbage bag, plus I gotta toss my work stuff in the trunk.
“You just put your ‘dinner’ in the trunk.”
Thanks, still a little off balance with you showing up.
“Well, if I’m spoiling your plans…”
I’m sure you shouldn’t be like that. Come on, jump in. You can pick the CD after you buckle up. It’s not that hot or humid this evening, would you rather drive with the windows down or use the A/C?
“Whatever you like better is fine.”
Neither’s gonna do anything to my hair is why I ask…
“I’ve got a brush, I’ll be fine.”
The lights favor us, and it feels good to feel the air move after being caught indoors all day, and there’s a good driving song on (you mind if I play that one again? “I picked it, why would I mind?” You know, this one might work its way onto that set list. “It’s getting to be a long list.” Well, push something into an encore list then.), and it’s looking good for not being too late. Then, just as I’m finishing my ‘dinner’, at the end of Whitehurst: K street gridlock (“Should’ve taken the E street expressway.” Oh sure, now you say something. Why didn’t you tell me then? “Thought you knew what you were doing.” Hello? ‘off balance’, remember? “I think you might be exaggerating a bit.”) (Hey! You don’t get to close the parentheses after a remark like that: give yourself a little more credit won’t you? “Maybe I’ll try to listen a bit more.”).
Now we’re going to be late for sure, if we make it at all. Hey! Look out! Didn’t know we were allowed to turn left from the right lane in the District. What’s this guy doing parking? He could at least get into the service lanes: look, he’s just going in to Starbucks. The buses don’t make it any easier either, or the jaywalkers. Okay, definitely too warm now, would you roll your window up and I’ll put on the A/C – let me know if it gets too cold for you. Now we’re moving a bit; I’m going to go down 13th now, should get there at about 6:20, so even if they start right on time we won’t miss much. Doesn’t look like we can park on the street ‘til 6:30 anyway. Let’s just circle and enjoy the CD then. This one’s pretty mellow; the rest of the evening won’t be.
“That reminds me, what is the musical selection going to be like tonight?”
Well, all of it would get filed under ‘play it loud’: Pixies, White Stripes, AC/DC, Modern English, Cars, Wheezer – all party music 80’s and onward. We could find a parking spot now. How about that one?
“No, don’t settle too early, I’ll find a better one.”
That’s pretty confident. There’s another.
“No, trust me, I feel things are in my favor tonight.”Alright, you’re the fortune teller.
“There it is – up there on the right.”
Wow, right across the street. What else does the future hold tonight?
“I don’t want to get too far ahead and spoil it for you.”
Hmm. Good answer.
“And look at you all parallel parking.”Well, sometimes when you’re on…
“Mind your language, there’s a lady present.”
Jenny’s a lady, why doesn’t she have to watch her language?
“Something about a woman’s prerogative.”
Ah. You ready to go in?
“Not sure, who are you going to know here?”
Hugh and Pete primarily, the rest of the band I recognize but don’t know, then there’s usually someone else at the show that I know but didn’t expect. Look, I tell you what, if it’s bad-weird we’ll leave and go get dinner somewhere – deal?
“You’re on.”
Cross the street to the Homer building (Doh!) and cut through the Metro Center exit to get to the front door (didn’t know you could find Caribou coffee here in town) which is still unlocked. The doorman can tell we’re not here for work and he just winks and nods to the sign on the easel pointing us toward the North Elevators. The lobby is wide open with severe geometric Wright-like marble architecture. In the elevator lobby the next sign points to the right-most elevator and tells us to take it to ‘PHR’. I push the ‘up’ button on the wall that the sign seems to point to, but the building engineer waiting for the service elevator steps over and points inside the doorframe to a different button: /“There’s the one you want buddy”/
Thanks.
/“S’nothin’, have a good evening”/
You too, Chief. I wonder if there’s a secret password or handshake also?
“‘PHR’? I wonder what that stands for.”
Maybe it doesn’t stand for anything, maybe you just pronounce it: fîr.
“Maybe it’s Party Holding Region.”Uh, well,…
“It’s a better idea than ‘fîr’”
True, but not as good as PentHouse Roof.
“Why didn’t you just say that first?”
Where’s the fun in that? Finally, here’s the elevator. It’s relatively unassuming for a penthouse elevator – the fan and plywood ceiling are exposed above and the walls are draped with a beat up moving pad. Rises fine though, and soon the back door opens up to a little stairwell with restroom doors on either side. The next sign points us up the stairs and out the door onto the roof walkway along the north side of the building. The walkway turns the corner to the west side of the building, and now we can see the roof patio. The band’s stuff is set up at the southwest corner, and the bar at the north side. Pause for a minute to pay to achieve ‘supporter’ status (no, really, put your money away, I got it – you can buy the drinks. “I thought you said it was open bar.” Exactly.). I don’t see any of the band – no wait, there’s Hugh talking to that woman. It’s okay, he’s waving us over. He introduces us to Sarah, and when I introduce you he says how he’s glad to see you made it and how he’s wanted to meet you (he’s a good brother, isn’t he?). He also says he wants to show me something about his drum kit. He needs to let me know out of earshot that this is not the Sara he’s giving my State Theatre ticket to, it’s a different Sarah so I should not bring it up since it may cause unrest. I don’t tell him that I had forgotten about that.
When Hugh and I get back, Buffy and Pete have joined you (Buffy – yes her real name – does vocals and tambourine, Pete plays lead guitar and is a good friend of Hugh’s). Buffy knows me, but I’ve never met her so it’s a little strange. She tells me how it’s cool I’m able to come out and see Hugh’s band. Hugh’s band? Geez Buffy, Pete’s standing right there. Well sure, she says, but I’m Hugh’s brother. That’s when it dawns on me that the only reason she knows me is that Hugh’s said something. Or maybe I need to be on my guard,… maybe a bit of explanation is in order, let’s excuse ourselves to get a drink, eh?
“So? What?”
Wait a minute – Hey Colin – okay so the band keeps in flux over John needing to be able to sing better. Maybe three weeks ago Hugh and Pete were talking like they were done with it. That’s about how it would split: Hugh and Pete on one side, John and Buffy on another (they might be a couple, I can’t quite tell), and Colin I’m not sure about. John’s definitely the best showman: he’s out front and is responsible for most of the style details of the band, and when he relaxes into a song he can sound good. Pete is probably the best musician (Colin’s good too, they just don’t ask much out of the bass line). Anyway, this spring, Hugh and Guy (my other brother – plays bass) started kicking around an idea of doing some music together whenever Guy’s around, and we started passing music around to get an idea of what we’d like to do. I think that might’ve planted a seed in Hugh’s head that he had an alternative to playing behind John and Buffy. I realized I was just being selfish, trying to do things the easy way: if I really want to do that I should get the people together myself instead, so I dropped the idea (well, I still like the idea, I just don’t talk to Hugh about it). There’s still tension around it though, and a suspicion. The band practices in my mom’s attic (yeah, my mom is cool), so I see everybody from time to time (actually, I’ve never met Buffy before), but only Hugh and Pete actually speak to me beyond pleasantries. John actually looks through me mostly (which is tough: I’m fairly dense) – or maybe I just project that on him. It’s hard to say, since we don’t really talk (“So, you could decide to talk to him.” Funny you should mention that – Hugh and Pete and I went to a birthday party in Adams Morgan the next Saturday and the rest of the band showed up, and we hung around at the Blue Room for hours and got to know/trust/relax around each other – but for the purposes of this story you should forget about that.).
Somebody’s on a mic making remarks now about how great it is we could all be here to support the next Miss USA. And here’s Natalie – who’s certainly attractive, but will probably not be the next Miss USA. In fact, she ought not spend too much time around you this evening: it’d hurt her confidence I think. This guy could’ve worked on his remarks a bit. First of all, it’s always off-putting when Mr. White Suburbia (Is there a contest for that? What would the talent portion consist of?) tries to be ghetto. He keeps saying, ‘Let’s put it up’ for this person or that, when I’m sure he means ‘give it up’ (Shoot, even Mr. Middle Aged White Guy – I was asked to enter, but couldn’t raise the money – knows that), and when he tells Natalie, ‘Girl. You got it going on,’ it’s just painful. Then when you think he’s done all the damage he can do, he introduces ‘E.B.’, the ‘Special Guest’, by making a point of saying he doesn’t listen to his radio show and so he doesn’t have any idea who ‘E.B.’ is, but that he’s sure that he’s welcome anyway. Nice.
Finally, the band looks like they’re going to start. I’m going to sit for now, would you sit with me? It was kind of a long day and I just need to chill for a while, listen, and sip soda and check out the scene. I’ll start with the atmospherics: the sun is accelerating its descent, giving dramatic lighting to the monuments and throwing the architecture of the nearby buildings into sharper relief. The sky seems brighter and deeper behind the shadowed buildings. A light breeze is shifting around the light clouds and jet contrails, darker low clouds give a grey underline for the bright white wisps above. A purple line of clouds on the horizon looks menacing, but nothing’s in the forecast. The bright blue open intervals seem very deep with a hazy volume.
The people are also very dramatic – is it because we’re in downtown D.C. or because we’re at a benefit? That dress is very extreme between the bright background and sharp pattern. That hat really grabs your eye with all the stripes. There are a lot of severe color combinations. That man in the striped shirt and patterned bowtie is trying to make some kind of statement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many scarves in July before.
“How about that woman in the floral print – she’s really moving. Or those glasses she’s wearing. And why are any of the men wearing jackets?”
Wait, turn around for a second: 3 people on their cell phones and 2 with their crackberry’s…
/“Excuse me, but you look really familiar to me, and I’ve been trying to decide if it’s that we went to school together”/
This dude just came right up between our chairs and squatted down between us, facing you, in the middle of our conversation. You lean forward to look around him and catch my eye.
Yeah, I was thinking you looked familiar too. Was that you I was just speaking to?
“Come to think of it, I recognize you Uly, but not him.”
Me neither, but wait, let me see your profile man,… nope, I got nothing.
/“Look, I just wanted to talk to the lady”/
Can’t blame you, oh wait, don’t go away mad,… it was just getting fun…
“That was weird.”
Were we too rough? I feel a little guilty.
“If it’ll make you fell better about it, I’ll leave you here and go back to talk to him.”You’re very devilish you know.
“I don’t know what you could be referring to.”
The band’s dedicating this song to the ladies (for about the third time already), proclaiming it the greatest song of the eighties (Any guesses? Yeah, I had a few too, all wrong): Modern English, I’ll Stop the World (and Melt with You). That gives me an idea, and I peck out a text message to Hugh: [I think I just heard Sarah say she’d stop the world and melt with Hugh].
“You’re a bit devilish yourself.”
Hey, it’s what big brothers do. Plus look – she’s barely aware of her date as she watches the band.
The next song’s a dedication too. John says, /“This one goes out to…”/, and the crowd guesses, /“the ladies?”/. Nope, fooled us, this one’s for Natalie, Psychadelic Furs, Pretty in Pink (which is ironic, ‘cause I understand the song to be about a woman who’s attractive but sad and desperate – nice dedication, eh?). Next up, AC/DC’s Rocked Me (All Night Long), which prompts another text to Hugh: [Now I could swear I heard Sarah say, Hugh rocked me all night long].
“That might’ve gone too far.”
I guarantee he’ll laugh out loud. And look, she and her date are both dancing, and they’re within 3 feet of each other, but I wouldn’t call that ‘together’ would you?
“No, you’re right about that.”
We’ve reached the end of the first set, and I signal Hugh to check his phone. After a few seconds, he bursts out laughing. A few more seconds and he’s laughing louder, and his ears turn red, and he points at me and mouths, “I’m gonna get you, bro’”. I’m going back to the bar – think I’ll have this evening’s beer this time – you want me to get you anything?
“Just get me whatever you’re getting; I’m going to go powder my nose.”
Okay, I’ll meet you back here.
At the bar, I realize what I’ve set myself up for: I don’t have any idea what you’d get, so I actually do have to order what I’d get instead of being able to get two of what you’d get (Yeah, what would you get ordinarily? “Tell you what, here’s a way to find out: take me out somewhere again and watch.” Note to self: pay more attention to this one, she likes to cultivate a sense of mystery. “Is it not captivating?” That might be a part of it.)
I get back to the table and sit down, placing your drink in front of your chair. A quick scan around doesn’t reveal anybody I’d rather be talking with, so I let my eyes close lightly and try to rub some of the week’s tension out of my eyelids (“Was it that bad of a week?” This week let me know early that it meant to take me down. “But it hasn’t…” I’ve been sure to conquer this week in every possible fashion so as not to give it any hope of beating me, just Friday left to go.).
/“Excuse me, are you here for the hostess, or are you here with the band?”/
I open my eyes – yes she’s talking to me, standing leaning in from in front of the table, holding something with a lemon twist in it.
I’m here with the band.
/“Do you work with one of them?”/
No, I’m related to one of them.
/“Which one?”/
My brother, guess which.
/“Colin?”/
No, geez no (I do not think I look like Colin), Hugh, the drummer.
/“Oh yeah, of course – say, would you want to come sit with me and my friend? She and I both work with John.”/
I think that’s likely to seem awkward when my friend returns from the restroom.
/“Oh, okay, maybe we’ll talk later.”/
Enjoy the rest of the show.
“What was that about?”
Something along the lines of: did I go to school around here – we must be looking especially fun to be with tonight.
“Happens all the time to me…”
Not me, must be something you do to me.
“I see it, it works well for you.”
The band kicks into its second set, saving us from a conversation we wanted to save for later (“How much later?” I’m not sure, probably not even this story. “Don’t wait forever.” Yeah, like Neil sings, ‘I could go anytime’, I know; still there’s a time for the chorus and a time for the bridge.). John’s got an a satin shirt with no buttons, and he’s dedicating another song to the ladies. Later, there’s another dedication to Natalie. This time it’s J. Geils Band: Centerfold, which is quite tasteless as a dedication I think. Hell, the girl’s parents are here. The crowd’s loosened up more, and the dance space is starting to fill up. I’m sorry, I know you want to, but I don’t tonight – maybe catch up with me this weekend in Adams Morgan.
In the second break, Buffy and John are signaling me up front like they’ve got a secret. I look for Hugh, but he’s nowhere to be spotted. John comes over to me and says, /“Come up front, we need your help with something.”/ This doesn’t seem right, since John’s never said three words to me before, but I go up…
When I get up there, the lights come back up and Hugh’s in the back with a wireless mic: ‘Tonight, we’ve got a special introduction for you, my brother’s agreed to sing us a song!’ Yeah, funny Hugh, now I’ll go back and sit and try to sink into my chair… but the crowd’s interested, and Buffy and Pete won’t let me leave the front (Why? Why did I send those text messages?). I’m going to bomb this one, I need help – you’re not where you were sitting, so I guess it’s just me. No. You’ve come up to the front of the stage – clapping and urging me on. Come on, this is our open mic, do this with me.
You borrow John’s guitar and we set up a mic stand in the center. Turn to me a moment, we need a plan. The crowd’s pushed in up front, and they’re chanting and clapping rhythmically, building in volume and frequency. Forehead to forehead now; we should play somethings from the stuff we just shared. I tell you my favorite from what you sent me (“Good, I’ve been playing that one already”), and you choose the obvious one from what I put together for you. Simultaneously, we both suggest the same third song – that’s more than enough (More than that, and we’ll have to get paid.). We turn back to the mic and the band’s just grinning at us: ‘gotcha’ it says. The crowd up front waits, their chanting broken open, also grinning at the spectacle. Back at the bar is a constant drone of conversation oblivious to what’s going on at the stage. We get the opening timing mixed up, but keep going until I confuse the words, getting ahead. We stop to start over, and there is a smattering of giggles. I use the mic to ask for a beer – Natalie’s sister was bringing one up from the bar for somebody, but re-routes it up to me. I take a drink, bring it down to look at the bottle, wipe it on my flop-sweaty forehead, and take another swig. You wave it over to you and do the same. You ready? You shake your head ‘no’ and shrug your shoulders. Yeah, me neither, but it’s time… and the opening comes together right, and I remember the words in the right order, and we’re passing off the vocals very naturally, and we’re nailing it. It’s just flowing, and it feels right, and it’s just you and me. Even the self-important talking at the bar stops to listen. Pete picks up and lays in a few hooks, and Hugh sits to drop a quiet rhythm line in with one stick. We trade verses and come together for the chorus, and soon everyone’s coming in on the chorus. Our second choice is more personal, so I wave off Hugh and you do the same to Pete. A couple stools get pulled up for us and we keep the feeling rolling; sharing the stanzas trading lead and back up, and leaning over each other’s shoulder for the chorus. When we’re done, we fade out and all we hear for the first moments is silent attention, then the applause breaks over us. We better get quit while we’re ahead, two songs and out. You give John his guitar back while I shout out: Now let’s get back to some kick-ass Rock-n-Roll! as the band launches into their next set.
Everyone’s got something to say to us now, but I just gotta get out. We wave a goodbye to Hugh and he points a stick at us saying, ‘Be good.’ You’ve got a hold of my arm as we work our way out the back, nodding or offering a quick thank you to people who say things to us as we step around them, moving steadily to the walkway. I turn back to you after stepping down the first step, surprising you as I stop.
You were awesome – thanks for coming up to bail me out.
“I couldn’t believe I did it, but you looked like you could use a hand.”
And how do I look now?
You quickly run your palm over the top of my head, where my hair’s all spiky and wet, “Sweaty.”
Not exactly what I was hoping to hear.
“I’m unpredictable; it’s part of the mystery I’m cultivating.”
Give me a chance to work on solving some of it: come have dinner with me.
“Now? It’s after 10 on Thursday.”
I know a great Chinese restaurant that’s open until 2 AM every night, so we’ve got time to get there, eat, talk, and still have time to go back when we get hungry again.
“Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow?”
If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I’ll gladly be tired tomorrow for the chance to pick up a few clues.
“You know, we didn’t get a chance to do that third song either.”
Maybe we’re not ready to share that with anyone else yet – I’ll play it in the car for us…

“You’re starting to get that spiky hair now.”
Yeah, it’s getting hot even here in the shade – maybe we better put the notebook down for now.
“But I want to know how the night turned out – how was the Chinese place?”
We can go back sometime.
“Promise?”
Absolutely. Right now, how about we go check out what 31 flavors are out this week, get a cold drink, and sit in the air conditioning?
“And maybe you’ll tell me more about that third bright spot in your week?”
Well of course, what else could I do?...

Thomas, Part One

2007-09-09T02:15:00.000-04:00

The entry system buzzer sounds again. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake.
“Hello?”
What’re you doing right now?
“Just got up, what do you think I’m doing? I’m lounging, reading, making coffee.”
How much?
“Half a pot — don’t like to waste it.”
And what’re you doing later?
“I don’t really know, I was leaving today open for doing some creative work. You?"
I was thinking of a story. Your work, could that be anywhere?
“Well, it’s supposed to be a great day, I thought I’d be outside,… look, what’re you driving at? And why don’t you take a walk around the block to give me a minute or two to straighten up, then I’ll buzz you in and we can talk like normal people.”
Okay, but while you’re straightening, make that half pot a full one and set the clock on the coffeemaker back to 6.
Good thing you hadn’t started it brewing it yet – just enough grounds for a full pot and some more water from the tap.
(“Didn’t you say you were going to install a water filter?”
I still have to go get that hole saw.
“You sure that this isn’t just an excuse to buy another tool you don’t really need?”
Need is such a slippery concept when it comes to the workshop…
“I see. Well, maybe you could go do that today?”
I’ll come over right after I’m done writing this.
“You’re going to write the whole thing first? How about if you did it in two parts?”
Never done that before,… though it is sort of a serial anyway,… I guess I could. Why? How soon do you need that filter?
“Hmm, well, need is such a slippery concept when it comes to the kitchen…”
I see. Well, the sooner we get started… you set the clock back yet?
“Just getting to that…”)
You push the HR- button and the LED skips back to 9. Another push and it skips back again. The third push must’ve coincided with a cloud moving across the sun by the way the light has changed. The forth push leaves it just barely light out, and the birds seem to be waking again. Distracted, you give an extra push, and it’s dark out again. You decide to leave well enough alone and leave the coffeemaker to its usual brewing work and go to watch for me from the window. The car is gone. Where? In that case, time to finish that article in the paper. Then check the coffeemaker again, says it’s 5:30 now. It’s done brewing, enough for two travel cups and the extra goes in a thermos. If it was supposed to be 6, there’s enough time to run some more water through to fill the room left in the thermos, pick out clothes for today, toss stuff in a cooler…

You’re waiting outside on the bench as I pull up at 5:55, surprising me as I get out. How’d you get ready already?
“It was nothing, just threw some stuff together, I found I had an extra hour – by the way, would you take a peek at my coffeemaker whenever you come by to do the water filter? The clock’s acting funny.”
Funny, like it displays timely puns?
“No such thing.”
Oh, come on. You don’t have any hiking shoes do you?
“Yeah, they’re upstairs.”
Well, why don’t you go get them, and I’ll get this stuff put in the car.

I get the car steered out onto the highway. There’s much to discuss: September always seems like the start of another year. The conversation starts out quick and is full of activity and business, it roils like our lives seem to. There’s planning new projects, and anticipated changes, and sharing struggles and controversies from work and the neighborhood. Outlines and lists get scribbled out. Dates get entered into the calendar. Positions get clarified, then muddied, then clarified again as the conversation trundles along like the car on these mountain roads: rising, leveling off, cutting back, circling the center, occasionally switching back, descending again, spanning some gaps, overlooking what seem quieter places, sometimes overshadowed by the terrain, sometimes breaking into the light, reaching one peak only on the way to the next. Occasional pauses to take stock of the sky and clouds. (“It’s going to be an awesome day, isn’t it?” You mean the weather? “I was talking about the weather, yes, but now that you mention it, the whole thing seems to be setting up right.” It is going good, isn’t it? “So, where are we going?” Oh, yeah, about 3 hours up the Northwestern Pike into the mountains of West Virginia; do some hiking, check out the natural world. We’ll be ending up near the Pennsylvania border, so, if you want, we could head up to Fallingwater later. “Been there, let’s try not to rush around today, sounds like we’ll be doing enough of that when we get back.” Yeah, it would be good to find some stillness; be on the lookout.)
Our first stop is just inside the park – pull over in the lot at the head of the trail that leads down to the falls. The “trail” is really more of a boardwalk. Stair after stair of descent to the base of the falls. It’s dark under the trees, and smells like the outdoors (or does it just smell like sawdust? Looks like they’ve been doing some repairs). The falls themselves are a bit of a disappointment – not much rain recently, and there’s water, to be sure, but not much of it. The size of the rocks around the spill imply a usually loud and violent falls when there’s water available. This is not what we were looking for – not merely a lack of action. Going back up the stairs only serves to reinforce both the tameness and our disappointment -- that was not worth the climb.
We head on to the parking lot at the main lodge. “Maybe we should check out what the other trails are like. What do you think?”
I was really interested in what was in that cooler. I’m hungry.
“Well, I only brought a small lunch.”
No worries, I know what we can do for dinner.
“Secrets?”
No, just alternatives, potentials.
Searching for a perfect picnic spot, we circle the grounds of the lodge and stumble upon a shuffleboard court (Court? Board? “What, are you asking me?” Seems out of place in WV. “How’s that?” Not sure exactly, it’s just so much not FL). Also out of place seem the perfect green lawn bordered by a tightly clipped boxwood hedge. Here and there on the lawn, wrought iron furniture arranged in small circles wait for a tea party to break out. Shall we, mademoiselle? “Oh, it would be tres lovely.” We adopt an attitude that is as incongruous to the setting as the tea party arrangement. The artificiality thwarts us again – this is not the place. (Although the lunch was quite good. "Thanks, just a little something I threw together")

At the lodge overlook, there’s a placard to help you identify the birds expected to be here (Dag, I should’ve brought the binoculars). Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to be the right time of day for it. The ones that are here are circling high. Sometimes they pause, letting themselves go either to the wind coming up the valley or to the thermals, and they hover.
“Uh oh.”
What?
“I think I’m stuck.”
Leaning on the rail to watch the birds, you’d let your knee slip between the balusters. They’re just tight enough to let you in and are unwilling to let your knee go. (“Don’t do it. What? “Don’t take any time drawing a parallel, don’t make an analogy or clever comment.” Would I do that? “Yes, but don’t, just get right to helping me get unstuck.”
Okay)
A little trickier than a finger trap, but with a bit of struggle and abrasion you’re able to get your knee back out.
“Good thing we didn’t both lean in.”
Yeah, being stuck is not quite the same as keeping still.
“You okay?”
Huh?
“You’re rubbing your hand there.”
Oh. Wasn’t really aware of that – I think I might have caught a splinter trying to pull the balusters apart.
“Need me to pull it out? I’ve got fingernails.”
It’s gone under the surface. Let me see if I can dig it out a bit first.
“Okay, Mr. Pocketknife.”
Who was it, Mark Twain? Something about the start of adulthood coming with the carrying of a pocketknife? I’m not sure if the prohibition on it is infantilizing, but more and more I’ve been surprised to be asked to surrender it. There, can you get a hold of the end of that with your nails? The tweezers on this thing aren’t good for much.
“Maybe, almost, stop flinching and keep still.”
It’s not easy. Ahhh, that feels better, thanks.

We head back in to the lodge for a necessary stop. I catch up with you talking to the ranger. She’s done for the day, but has stayed behind to help us pick a trail. /“Something inspiring? Well, if it was me I’d go on down to the valley view. It’s the most difficult trail, but there’s a great overlook at the end of it. Just drive down the park road and pull over on the side just before it becomes a private road.”/
We follow her directions and park behind another car on the shoulder. The entrance to the trail is not very clearly marked, but we find what must be it. It is a difficult trail too: exposed roots, rocks, sharp drops, and lots of overgrowth. We arrive at an overlook constructed similarly to the one at the lodge. Two people, sisters probably, are already here, leaning out and enjoying the view. One of them approaches with a question on her face, probably wants someone to take their picture. /“Can you help us please? My sister is stuck in the railing, we’ve been trying to get her out, but she’s just stuck.”/ We hurry over. She is really stuck, and her knee’s swollen a bit, making it impossible to work her knee back out. She’s starting to bug out about it some now too. I try to pull the balusters apart enough to make room for escape, but they’re not budging, which doesn’t do anything to calm her down. Torx screws – I’ve got a driver for that in the trunk. (“You do?” By way of coincidence, yes, I do.) I could run back up the trail and get it, be back in 30 minutes or so. Doesn’t look like I’m gonna find that perfect calm today. Maybe first, I could just try to force the screws with the Phillips head in my knife. I’d really only have to take out this one, and I bet there’d be enough give then. It makes a quarter turn about every third try, but it starts getting easier after 5 or 6 full turns, finally coming out after I’ve called it a few bad names under my breath (you don’t want to know). She’s free, and finally she relaxes. The two of them thank us about a dozen times while I’m working the screw back in, and then they head back up the trail.
The overlook is nice enough, but the railing, in addition to being dangerous, blocks too much of the view. We climb over the rail to set up on the outcropping of rock that the overlook is built on. It extends about 40 feet further out from the rail and is about 6 feet below the height of the observation deck. We share a soda, and we spread out to work sitting on the rock. I get a notebook out, but I’m too keyed up still, and easily distracted when other people show up on the deck. One of them starts to lecture us about the obvious drawbacks of falling off the rock to our deaths, but our failure to respond finally halts them. I put the notebook back in the backpack, take another drink from the soda, and lie back on the rock.
The rock feels solid and cool under me. There’s a regular light breeze sneaking through to my scalp. With my eyes closed, it’s still easy to discern where your shadow falls across me: slight chill in the shade, slight warmth in the sun. I’m drowsy – just couldn’t seem to find enough sleep this week. I’m in a lassitude – the driving and hiking have left me lax. I just realized how relaxed I could be at this moment, and let myself go, and fully exhale, and open my eyes. Cumulus, right? Dozens of ‘em spread out across a deep, light-blue sky. Dramatically lit from the side, they carry strong contrasts and shadow their neighbors as they creep across the sky.
It’s quiet, other than the fragments of conversation that float over from the observation deck. We keep an unspoken understanding: at this moment, your mere presence says more than words could carry. When I first thought of this day it seemed a gamble. There was a chance it could’ve been self-conscious and effortful. Those doubts have been put aside as the whole day has turned out calm, easy, and natural. Just like this very moment, when we are just ourselves with each other. We’ve created a spot to share our solitude intimately beyond the recognition of others passing by.
I shift a little left and right, trying to find a comfortable spot for my head on the rock. Every place I try seems to have some pointed edge. That one small detail heightens the awareness of how every other piece has fit just right today. Could it be that I only imagined you? I reach up over my head and find your shoulder. Your neck thrills and you purr to yourself as you lean slightly into the pressure. Your reaction surprises me, and the sense of surprise you bring lets me know you’re truly there.
You’re checking on me, too. You make brief illustrative comments on the work you’re doing, how the clouds keep changing the light, which keeps changing the look of the valley below. Up here, between us, there’s an intensity and a constancy that resists even the movement of the earth and the dimming of the setting sunlight. The only noticeable change up here is the coolness of the chill that shifts you closer to my warmth (no, keep working on that, I’ll get your sweater for you).
And then I finally find it, am in it, the source of stillness. Overlapping the physical space where our hands and eyes meet, and where our bodies gravitate and attract – just beyond the seen and touched, yet still within the grasp of sensation – there is a space where our complete selves intersect to define a place of stillness and peace.

“It is only when two people forget themselves in each other’s presence, that they can recognize each other.” -- Adam Phillips, Freud and the Uses of Forgetting

Sandcastle

2007-08-21T02:15:00.000-04:00

“I thought I might find you here.”
What do you mean? You brought me this time, didn’t you?
“I didn’t really want to go along on this one, but when I realized I wasn’t staring at the ceiling anymore, I discovered I was standing on the beach. I was hoping to not dream at all tonight, my dreams just keep repeating old broken wishes.”
Then, you should take advantage of getting stuck in what must be one of mine.
“Not really the loveliest day you’ve chosen.”
I didn’t get to choose that: the storm wasn’t because of me. I'm pretty sure this is you.
Pause. "Sigh."
Want to talk about it?
“I’m going to take a walk, see what’s washed up on the waves, by myself. I’ll meet you back here later. Don’t look at me like that, I just need to sort myself out. Here, I’ll need to come back for these.” You pull off your shoes and hand them to me.
(“Wait, looking at me like what? You weren’t using the eyebrow on me were you?”
Actually, I wasn’t aware of looking at you in a particular way, I thought I was just listening. Anyway, you’ve turned to head along the beach now, so the expression you can’t see seems like an unnecessary detail.)
Okay, I’ll stay here. I’ve got another project to work on. If you need anything out there, send me a message in a bottle, and I’ll write it in for you.
(“You’re going to let me go all windblown like that? How about something to keep the hair out of my eyes?”
Good call. Let me take care of that now before you get too far.)
Hey wait! Take my cap.
“Thanks.”
I watch you head down the waterline, waiting a bit to see if you turn to take a look back. When you’ve gotten small enough for me to hold in my palm, I head up toward the dunes where there’s a place to sit, and I pull my notebook out of the backpack. I chew on my pen cap for a minute sorting the ideas while looking out over the whitecaps. Then start scribbling…

·······
The Sandcastle

Dramatis Personæ
Princess, sovereign of the land
Captain, master of the Old Guard

Act I.
Scene I. The Walls. The outer edge of the castle defenses. The sky is filled with dark, fast-moving clouds. Many of the structures are damaged, the flora bent and tattered by the wind, and the streets full of washed-up debris. The CAPTAIN walks the wall looking out over the sea. His uniform is soaked, and it’s clear that he has been busy during the storm. He leans heavily on the wall and takes a deep breath.

Captain The storm seems to have passed, though that sky still threatens rain. At least the tide has turned back. He turns to look inside the walls. Nothing seems to be ruined, but there’s much damaged and broken. That was quite a storm, and struck by surprise. It would sure feel good to turn in now, hope nothing else happens. The storm’s efforts to sap these outer walls has sapped me as well. Too much of what needs to be done seems pressing: some portions need to be propped up, the cracks need to be quickly patched, communications need to be restored. He motions to the people coming out onto the street. They are scared and anxious murmurs run through the crowd. Things will only return to normal if the protectors can provide an image of steadiness and ability. The castle would not stand long without some cohesiveness. And the castle must stand.

The CAPTAIN walks heavily down the stairs off the wall. He pulls off his gauntlets to clasp his hands together to warm them and squeeze the fatigue out. Then he rubs the sand out of his whiskers, and rolls his head around over his shoulders. He stretches his arms out to the sides, but his mail doesn’t give enough for a full stretch. He closes one eye, closes the other, closes both. He starts to sway, nearly floating,…and suddenly he shakes both eyes open and he stands stock still.

Captain Something’s not right, something nagging me about this moment. A shiver pulls me back to now. I need to keep my center and stay sharp. Maybe it’s nothing, just the warm sweat meeting the cold mist at the base of my neck. He goes to wipe it off. As he does, his eyes are drawn up to the heights, where they are drawn into focus by a flicker of movement. A white feather flag flies from the upper tower. That can’t be right: why surrender now, after surviving the worst? Something is wrong up there. Snap to legs, be tired later. The princess doubts, so that flag is where I must be. He tucks his gloves into his belt and starts running. He takes the shortest route, going over rather than around obstacles. People in the street step back into the doorway or jump aside to avoid being run down as he passes without pause. His legs falter where the pavement shifts, but he either survives on his momentum or throws himself back up from his knees.

Scene II. The Parapet. The wind rushes across here, at the highest point in the realm. The PRINCESS stands facing the sea. Her head is bowed, her hair blowing wild behind her. Her eyes are shut tightly to the wind, though it drives sand-crusted trails of tears from their corners.

Princess The castle has become a prison of memories. Every view looks backward. I give it up and would have it destroyed before I have to look on it again.

The CAPTAIN enters. He winces as he takes a knee. He is out of breath and unable to speak. The princess’ eyes remain closed, and she does not notice his arrival.

Princess I will seek my freedom by destroying my prison. I will leave nothing standing. She circles the top of the tower blindly, swinging her fists and destroying each crenellation in turn. Sprays of sand fill the air. She nearly stumbles over the CAPTAIN. Be gone. I release all of my subjects – flee this cursed place before I bring it down upon you. Go now, every one of you must go. She pushes his shoulders. He offers no effort of resistance, but she cannot overcome his inertia. She turns back away to begin again at tearing down the walls. The CAPTAIN reaches up and catches her wrist when she draws it back for the next swing. He does not resist as she pulls free and swings through, bringing down the next portion of the wall, but the rage leaves her face. She reaches back again and pauses, and hesitantly he again catches her wrist. They remain motionless, without struggle. She turns to face him, eyes still closed, and he releases her wrist. This time, it is she that catches him, by his withdrawing hand. Recognition is reflected in her features. Captain,… how did you get here?
C. It doesn’t matter, I am here now.
P. It was good of you to come, but you find me at the end of my reign. My very domain has been turned against me in every piece.
C. Impossible. It is all here for you – look at it.
P. I can’t look – every view pours in symbols and reminders of what I’ve lost. Everything has become loss for me. I leave sight behind, and by adding that to the roll of what’s lost I can lessen my sense of it.
C. All is loss?
P. Everything. I have become estranged to everything.
C. Even me? How can my arrival signify loss?
P. I’ve never been able to see you clearly – you may be my lone exception.
C. Then use your exception as a sea-glass talisman: show it to your loss and reintroduce your self.
P. No. It’s too soon. I can’t look – the memories’ claims on me overwhelm my claim on them.
C. Then look at them through my glass: let it filter your loss and magnify your power.
The CAPTAIN releases the PRINCESS’ wrist and stands. Her hands drop to her sides.
C. Offer me your hand and I will guide you where I know how to go.
Long pause. The two figures stand still as the wind picks up.
·······

“Hey you”
Hey yourself. Have a good walk?
“It was okay, it’s a relief to lose myself in searching the sand rather than sifting through my own doubts.”
Yikes. Must not’ve distracted you enough. Find anything interesting?
“Some shells, some empty seed cases, a beer fossil.”
A what?
“Nothing, just a piece of sea-glass. I was trying to make it sound interesting.”
D’you come back to talk?
“Don’t push. My feet are tired, that’s all. Thought I might sit a while.”
(You want a chair or a blanket?
“What do you mean?”
Couldn’t decide if you’d rather sit and read or lie down and read.
“Blanket probably. I might doze off – I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping recently. You going to let me read what you’re working on?”
Now you don’t push…)
Here, I brought a blanket if you want it.
“I should’ve brought that book you lent me at the beach.”
(“Or, again, you could let me see what you’ve got right there in the notebook.”
Just wait till it’s finished, I’ll give me something else for you.)
I just finished a short one, easy to read. It’s still in my bag here. And a sweatshirt, you want that too?
“Yeah, it is chilly. How’s that piece coming along?”
Flawed, of course. Really unsure about what happens next.
“Sounds like something I know – lend me that book? Is it something cheerful?”
Hopeful at least. Here you go. I’m gonna get back to work. Feel free to interrupt.

·······
Act II.
Scene I. The Parapet. The PRINCESS and the CAPTAIN stand apart, inert. Their hands hang at their sides. The PRINCESS’ head is down. The CAPTAIN is attentive. This pause goes on a beat too long. Finally, her head and arm slowly raise, and he catches her hand in his. Her eyes remain closed.
C. Your hand is cold from being out here. Take these. With his free hand, he takes his gloves out and puts them to her free hand.
P. Pushing the gloves away. No, I don’t wear gloves now – my hands will get used to being cold.
C. Be cold when you must, but here are gloves for you. They’re not cardinal, nor trimmed with bright clean fur, but they know how to be useful.
P. You misunderstand me, these gloves are fit for any princess. Sometimes it’s the princess that does not fit.
C. The only true test of that is for her to put them on. He puts a glove on each of her hands. They are much too big, and their worn and marked leather sharply contrasts with her fine linen and brocade.
P. These are just right. My hands and I thank you Captain.
C. All of you are welcome, now take my arm and we shall tour. He places her hand on his arm and guides her to the stair. The wind whistles at the doorway.
P. This weather is to spite me. Sand bites at me, blown by a cold wind out of a cloudy sky. A harsh contrast to days so recent of sun on my face.
C. When the smile returns to your face, a warm sun will be back to admire it and leave a kiss upon your cheek. Circumstances are as changeable as the weather. The smile will always be at your command.
P. The smile is as imprisoned as I by the past. Hearing the whistling sound of the wind used to remind me of departures to joyful meetings and arrivals of a fond friend. These reminders are now painful in the same measure in which they were treasured.
C. When you told of them before, they were untarnished treasures – have they lost all their luster?
P. Before now, the travel of the past held the promise of future travel together. Where shall I go now? And who will arrive for me?
C. The wind could carry your fancy where you will, the happiness you have to take with you. For now, travel with me close to home.
P. For now, then. Lead on.
They descend the circular stair. He switches sides to give her the wider end of the tread. On the final steps, his knee protests and he missteps and has to let go. The princess carefully descends the rest of the way alone, and holds her hand out, seeking.
P. Captain? Are you alright?
He straightens himself up and retakes her hand.
C. Yes, fine thank you, pay it no mind. Let us continue.
P. First you must find a place to sit. I won’t go any further until you do.
C. Well, since you insist – here, let’s take this bench.
He guides her back up against the bench and she takes a seat. He leans forward and rests, hands leaning on his thighs.
C. You look thoughtful and distant.
P. One of the happiest moments of my life was being carefully observed on a bench such as this. The same height, the same contour, the same temperature, the same feel of the edge. Even the conversation is still in my ear. I remember it, but as if it were someone else’s memory. And I feel like I have faded now those eyes are gone.
C. My eyes see you now, and you are not faded. You are genuine, and because of that, your presence exceeds your silhouette and fills the room.
P. Still, I feel my spirit detached from the room and drawn toward that other, phantom bench. Sit with me Captain, and secure me to this present bench. She makes room, and he sits. She reaches, and he takes her hand once more. They sit quietly in the present, but now and again a tear escapes as the past intrudes. He notices, wipes the first tear with his free hand, and adds it to clasp hers.
·······

“Psst – Can I get the backpack from you? Sorry.”
Yeah, sure. You done with the book already?
“No, just too restless to read anymore. You got a shovel somewhere in that pack of yours?”
Why? Re-entrenching?
“Cute. But way too early for you to try to make jokes out of it.”
I know, sorry. That one slipped out before I could catch it.
“Yeah, well now I’ve got the shovel, you might want to be more careful or you might ‘catch it’”
Lo! She is woman with tools. Hear her – Fear her.
(“’Lo’? What’s that all about?”
Wow, I really said that? The dialogue of my characters is bad enough, now I’m starting to do it.
“Yeah, and can I use that ‘Hear her – Fear her’ as my new slogan? That’s sure to bring them running from every corner.”
You know what? You leave that here with me in the shop for a while. I’ll polish it up a bit, make it shine, maybe take the sharper edges off…
“Could I get a trade-in instead?”
I’ll have to talk to my manager…)
You need any help with that shovel? I could come along.
“Don’t worry, li’l ol’ me can handle digging some sand. You get back to the notebook, and I better not come back and read anything like ‘Lo’ in it. I’ll be right down near the waves. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of the backpack.”
You’d better, I’m still holding your shoes as collateral.
You walk out, and, after a dozen steps, look back to make sure I’m watching. Not a smile there exactly, but at least your eyes seemed playful.

·······
Act II.
Scene II. Interior Castle. The PRINCESS and the CAPTAIN still sitting on the bench.
C. There’s still much to recover.
P. You’ve won me back the bench.
C. At least some small part of Bench, whatever part this moment is worth.
P. Maybe we should be content to have Bench. Isn’t Bench enough?
C. I admit that a part of me rebels; it would be so much easier to stand down. I could be content with this bench alone and find it a happy kingdom if you could open your eyes to all of it.
P. I cannot, I am marooned on this island kingdom of Bench with you. My cruel jailer has surrounded me with a sea of painful reminders in every direction.
C. Then I renounce this throne and set out on an expedition across the threatening sea. I’ll trade this grand kingdom for the return of your freedom.
P. I’m ready then. She stands and pulls his hand for him to rise.
C. A moment. Just a moment.
P. Are you hurt?
C. No, quite the opposite. Just wanted a moment more to enjoy my brief small empire of rest. He stands, and they set off down the hall. The first door they come to is the library. They enter.
C. Rows upon rows of stories. Some of them must still be happy.
P. So Much writing back and forth. In some ways we had become writing to each other.
C. Show me your favorite line.
P. Show me some way to know when they are sincere.
C. I know a great deal about words, but I’ve never found a formula with which to measure their truth.
P. If there is no way to know, how am I to return to words?
C. You can’t calculate the truth, but you can know it.
P. How do I know?
C. Read them, the words harmonize with you according to their truth.
P. I don’t understand – find me a true line and read it to me.
C. Here are some at the very first page of this one:
When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT. I'm surprised I haven't been buried alive. The place isn't big. I have to struggle to keep a path clear...
P. Must you use fiction as an example?
C. From memory:
Something begins, and already it is no longer the beginning, but something else, propelling us into the heart of the thing that is happening. If we were to suddenly stop and ask ourselves, "Where are we going?", or "Where are we now?", we would be lost, for at each moment we are no longer where we were, but have left ourselves behind, irrevocably, in a past that has no memory, a past endlessly obliterated by a motion that carries us into the present.
P. I can find no surety in that, find me work by another writer.
C. Here is an obscure one:
When I arrived, it was clear I had overestimated the formality of the occasion. I was looking forward to meeting Maupassant – I had been told he was interested in sharing ideas about the short form. Pierre-August, who had invited me, had also promised to share his thoughts on the strength of brevity in description and depiction.
P. I remember,... perhaps there’s some possibility for words…
C. Come now, we’ve should build on that with our next advance.
At the end of the hall, they stop at the door to the kitchen. Sounds of meal preparation come through the door.
C. It’s been a long day for you – you should eat.
P. I can’t. I haven’t been hungry.
C. Smell that, and see if it doesn’t return your appetite.
P. I sense only the aroma of other meals. The first one, the one prepared together, choosing the ingredients, the one at the favorite place, the stove and the oven, the flowers or candles, the smoke off the pan when I got distracted.
C. Let me open the door then , and give today’s kitchen a chance: today’s ripe produce, the freshly baked bread, the newly started fire… From within the kitchen, he pulls out a loaf of bread and a small bottle. He breaks the bread and the steam rises up to her. She breathes it in. He breaks a piece off, and she lets him put it in her mouth. He opens the bottle and puts it in her hand. She holds it uncertainly.
C. In an apologetic tone. The kitchen may be accustomed to keeping a bottle handy for me, just not a glass.
P. Take care not to admit too much. She takes a drink from the bottle and hands it back to him. This is yours I believe. He takes it and takes a longer drink. She leans against the wall. No more, there’s no escape for me there either. This wine only tastes like that evening, and that outing, and that visit, and,… that toast together. She pulls away and feels along the wall until she finds another door, and pushes out into the courtyard. He starts out after her, dropping the bottle, it breaks when it lands.

Scene III. The Courtyard. The PRINCESS enters. She runs blinly across the courtyard to the opposite wall and leans against it. The CAPTAIN follows, slower, stopping at arm’s length from her.
C. Princess,…
P. Still, it’s every moment. The sand under my feet is a distant sand. This wall is another distant wall. How can I ever escape? The prison holds me on the outside, and binds me also within. It constricts my breathing, it stings my eyes, it muffles my voice. My movements are strained under spectral chains. My neck and shoulders ache from hammering rocks seen only by me. I can’t hold up against it. She trembles, the wall is not enough to hold her. Her hands drop, the gloves fall off her hands to the ground. The CAPTAIN steps in to catch her by her elbow and waist.
P. Let me fall.
C. If you think I could let you fall, you must not understand what it is to be the Captain.
P. This prison is enormous and complete. Who could build such a thing. The Builder must have such power at their command. How can I hope to ever change it or break free?
C. Come with me and I will show you that the Builder is indeed powerful. She leans heavily on him, and he helps her towards the base of the tower. Lend me your hand. She lifts a hand to him, and he holds the back of her hand in his palm and draws it across the wall where it has been smoothed out. Her fingertips fit exactly in the channels as they walk along the wall. At the base of the tower he takes her other hand as well. At the base, where it has been patted solid to stand, he places her hands into each pair of hand prints. Here,…and here,…and here,…and here,…and here,…and here. This is your castle. It draws the attention of all who pass. Everything that’s good about it came from you. Everything else is within your power to re-make as you would like. He releases her hands steps back and kneels. She remains standing with her hands in a set of imprints. She scoops a handful of sand out of the tower and squeezes it into a ball in her hand. She passes the ball from one hand to the other back and forth several times before smoothing it back into the wall.
P. I may need some help.
C. Opening his arms wide. There are many people willing to provide it.
P. Captain, please take me back up to my tower.

Act III.
Atop the tower again. The wind still blowing, but now snapping a red banner in the place of the feather flag. The PRINCESS stands by herself at the crumbled edge of the wall she brought down. The CAPTAIN enters carrying two large buckets of sand.
C. Here they are, as you requested.
P. She turns and looks at him. Place them over here by me, then leave me to my work.
C. I look forward to gazing up at the results.
P. I had this idea for adding something new…
·······

Raindrops begin to strike the page, making the handwriting even blotchier. Damn, guess that’s that for today. I fold up the notebook, grab up the odds and ends and head down to find you. You’re brushing your hands off and pulling the umbrella out of the backpack.
You’ve been busy. That’s quite the sandcastle you’ve got there. Let me get a picture before it washes away.
“You like it?”
I do, but do you?
“Some parts of it”
What’s that at the front gate.
“Just a figure of a knight I found in the sand. He stands at the gate in case the castle gets threatened.”
Looks like this rain’s gonna bring your castle down.
“That’s fine. I’ll just use what’s left as the foundation for the next one. It’s really starting to rain hard though. Why don’t you get yourself under the umbrella here and let’s walk. Just a sec’, let me grab the Captain there, he’s coming along.”
The Captain?
“Just what I decided to call him. Maybe we could see if there’s someplace to sit down out of the rain.”
Good idea. I think there should be a coffee shop or a pizza place on the boardwalk down there.
“Well, let’s get going”
You’ve got something there, a concept in your sandcastle I wish I could capture. Some sort of hybrid between ‘life being in the living of it’ and ‘the process of becoming’.
“Or,…the Transitory? – the part of sandcastling that is knowing that it’s temporary?”
Yeah, that’s part of it too. Each castle may be temporary. Then what you said about building another one – the builder’s Continuity that transcends each individual castle. The Builder builds a temporary castle in the sand, but the better the castle, the more permanent effect it makes within the Builder.
“Even the Builders are temporary though, so even the ‘permanent effect’ is temporary”
How about: Once you realize you live in a castle made of sand, the importance of living well in this moment becomes clear.
“That’s close to being something, not sure you’re quite done working on it though.”
Yeah, well, that’s just it, isn’t it?
“Speaking of ‘working on it’, did your story in the notebook work out alright?”
Some of the meanings escaped me, or were too ponderous. I don’t think I controlled the themes like I wanted. And, I’m pretty sure I overemphasized the male lead.
“Men usually do”
Ouch. Maybe I oughtta do some pre-editing before I let you read it then?
“Selfish, and so rude, drag me along for this one and then you don’t even share it.”
You seemed like you needed some alone time.
“Yeah, maybe I do, but I’ve come to expect a story.”
(You mean, ‘look forward’ to a story?
“Don’t get to ahead of yourself putting words in my mouth.”
So, you don’t look forward to them?
“Didn’t I just ask for a story. Sheesh. You might talk to the Captain about being a bit less wishy-washy.”
Alright, next time he’s around, I’ll have a talk with him.)
The ideas for the next one are pretty well formed.
“What’s the next one?”
Let’s go in here to warm up and dry out, and I’ll tell you over some tea.

Cape May

2007-08-08T03:05:00.000-04:00

Something’s been tugging at you around the edges tonight, and the sleeping’s been difficult. The glow of the clock seems too bright (and probably cutting into your serotonin level), the vents seem to be blowing too hard, and you can’t seem to get the comforter to cover you no matter what you do. A song has crept into your head now, or did you leave the music on? For some reason your pillow keeps trying to fall apart. You’re tired, but wakeful, and you’ve dropped in and out of sleep so many times you’re not sure this time whether you’re opening your eyes into reality or dream…
The clock light glow has been replaced by the dashboard light. The breeze coming in through the window pushes your hair across your face. You turn, and the beach towel you’ve been snuggling up in falls away again. I reach over to pull it back up on you, and you startle with the recognition, jarring loose my balled-up sweatshirt that you’ve been using as a pillow.
“It’s a little loud, isn’t it?”
Sorry, it’s one of my favorite preludes, and in order to catch the softer notes,…
[“Where’re you taking me this time?”
The intersection of science and myth, right between predictability and chance, where wishes can be made.
“Again? What I meant was, in what setting?”
I’m going out to the beach to look to the Perseids, you still want to come along?
“Isn’t that pretty late?”
Yeah, that’s why I’m driving – otherwise I’da probably had to carry you there.
“What time?”
Two-thirty to four AM?
“You know, if it was anybody else asking,…”
Look, almost all of it’s just on paper, so you can get to it later when you’re more awake. I’ll go by myself, just close your eyes again and you’ll be right back in bed.
“I want to go with you, but I need some coffee or something.”
Alright, I’ve got it covered,…]
The smell of coffee rises to your consciousness from the travel cup in the center console
“Did you make this?”
Yeah, so cross your fingers. With milk, right? Plus, there’s more in the Thermos.
“Also with milk in it? But you don’t put milk in yours.”
If you’re coming along, I can’t be bothered to notice what’s in the coffee.
[“A little early in the story for getting all sappy, isn’t it?”
Yeah, that just slipped out, I’ll get right back to business…
“Wait, you’ve got a little drop of sweat on your forehead,… there, that’s better.”
Now who’s getting sappy? What’s that mean anyway, ‘sappy’?
“We better get back to ‘back to business’”
Right, right, here goes…]
We pull right up to the wall and park below the promenade. Grab that Thermos and your blanket from the back seat.
[“If you had my blanket, what’d you have me struggling with the beach towel for?”
Um, sorry, I didn’t think to have brought the blanket until I realized we’d be sitting in the sand within a few lines of here.
“Next time, will you let me help with the planning?”
I’ll see what I can do.]
I’ll bring the backpack and the picnic basket.
At the top of the ramp, the promenade is clearly marked with a prohibition on rollerblading and bicycle riding until 4 AM. Just a couple hours to go, they’ll probably be lining up soon for that prime 4 o’clock moment. It always makes me wonder, why 4? Why not 3? It’s no more farfetched. I mean, is there really anyone up who’s going to…
“You mean anyone other than us?”
Good point, but this is different, I’m sure you’ll agree when you see.
“It’s what I’ve come to expect from you.”
Well, I couldn’t stand to disappoint.
“You couldn’t”
The sound of the waves is calling us, inviting us to come over and relax, starting to dilate our time and slow down our movements. The crickets along the sea wall add a quicker counterpoint.
[“I like those two sounds”
Some coincidence that I put ‘em both in then isn’t it?
“Hmmm”]
Even at this hour it’s warm, and humid, but with a constant breeze. Just enough to take the sweat off your brow before it can bead. Away from the road, the breeze sometimes brings a chill and goosebumps on your forearms: maybe you ought to have brought that sweatshirt with you.
“What makes you think I didn’t? It’s right here: did you want it?”
Only to offer to you – you hang on to it, I’ll be warm enough.
We kick our shoes off at the end of the wooden walkway and set out across the newly sifted sand out toward the ocean to get away from the light of the street. Extra light shouldn’t be a problem tonight. We’ll be looking over the ocean past the darker part of the Cape – maybe it’d be better if we walked further east up the beach. The moon’ll be no trouble: the quarter moon set down the other end of the beach a couple hours ago.
“I think walking further would be good, could we?”
Sure, let me carry the blanket.
“No, I can get it.”
I know you can, but how’re you gonna do that and take my arm?
Oh,… here you go.”
How far up you want to go?
“I don’t know, but I’m still trying to wake up, and the sand feels good – soft and cool,… and now that I’ve got an arm to hang on to…”
I’m a little dopey myself – look back at our tracks weaving back and forth as we lean and pull on each other reeling up the beach. You pull a bit more and I yield to it, and we drift over to where we’ve crossed the wet sand and are strolling in the foam. You tug again, but couldn’t mean to go further out, so I pull you back to me. You stop suddenly and I jerk to a stop too and wait for you to continue. Still you pause, and when I turn to find your intent, I find you looking up at me. What? What is it?
“I just wanted to be sure I was really here.”
As much as I can manage at this time of the morning. I think it’s best we don’t question it too closely.
“Raise an eyebrow.”
Left,… or right? I brush your hair out of your face so you can clearly see, and leave my hand on your shoulder until you reach up and take it in yours.
“You’re right, no reason to question it too closely.”
Come on then, and walk with me.
We go beyond the end of the promenade and just past the end of Beach Avenue. We spread the blanket out and weight the corners down with our shoes with the picnic basket on one side and the backpack on the other. I fish around in the small pocket to find the flashlight and use it to help me find the guidebook and compass. I have a hard enough time picking out the constellations in the city where they’re maybe hundreds of visible stars. Here, where it seems you can find a star no matter where you look, and another star behind that, I’m lost without a guide. Even then, really. The guide speaks to the predictability of the skies, but misses a lot of what the sky is like. It speaks of star names and classifications, wavelengths, projections of orbits, sizes and compositions, calculus, wheels within wheels. All of that is fine during the day or through a telescope, but at night on the beach the stars are all pictures and stories and the bright sparkling eyes of the firmament. Looking for the Perseids means first finding Perseus.
His own quest took him throughout the known world and the underworld. He beheaded the gorgon Medusea, spawning Pegasus. Fleeing her sister gorgons, he found Cepheus’ daughter chained to the rock. He saved Andromeda by cutting off the serpent’s head. The hero of his time, and Zeus’ son (Per + Zeus = Perseus), Athena placed his constellation in the sky.
He should be in the Northeast right now – and there he is. Right next to him is Andromeda. Just above her is Pegasus. On the other side (we’ll call it the left side) is Casseopeia and beyond her is Cepheus. Just above Cepheus is the Dragon, but I’m not sure if it’s the same one.
Right about now should be the peak for tonight and we should be able to see a meteor about every minute if this is a good year. So, if we just shift over we should be able to just lie this way and gaze up. Then,… just,… wait,…
“Was that one?”
I missed it, my blinks are taking a little longer. There’s one.
“Yeah.”
They’re not much more than quick thin streaks that barely last the time it takes to see them. At most, they leave behind an afterimage on your retina for a moment of two. Nearly illusory, the next arrives only when you’re sure you’ve seen the last, and never where you expect. About half of them you might attribute to imagination or tricks of the light.
“There’s a big one!”
Wow! I guess that’s the exception that proves the rule. You gotta wish on that one.
“I did already.”
What for?
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell.”
Hmm, you may be right about that.
“What’d you wish for?”
For your wish to come true.
Perseus is no disappointment, radiating meteors regularly over the next hour, despite our waning attention. The breeze picks up, and you put the sweatshirt on and sit up against me. I wrap my arms around you and peek around the hood to see you smile.
“You missed one.”
Wish for me will you?
You close your eyes to consider a wish, and you let yourself relax into me, and you see the track of the meteor, and Perseus on his travels, and feel my arms around you, and Athena whispers into your ear, just barely audible above the waves, and the sand shifts slightly beneath you, and you drop off to sleep…

Hey, wake up. Hey in there.
Not sure what you’ll wake to this time, you open your eyes slowly and cautiously. We’re still on the blanket on the beach. I’ve managed to just get a hold of the Thermos and poured a cup of coffee with one hand to keep from shifting too much and waking you. You take a deep breath in with a shrug and slight shiver, then hum into my shoulder with a grin, glad to still be here.
I whisper to you with my temple up against yours: Hey sleepy one, look up. There’s a show about to start.
The stars have all gone from the sky. Only Venus remains, watching us with interest. To the east, from within orange clouds, a red sun coalesces and rises through the spectrum to yellow. It steals its color from the clouds, which fade to a pale haze. The sky counters the sun’s ascendance by deepening its blue to provide a vivid border to contain the sun’s brilliance before it ignites everything. The water and the waves try to keep up, increasing their contrasts and mirroring both sun and sky as a dazzling golden swath in a rippled blue field.
A dragonfly zips up. It pauses over us, hovering and zagging, taking our measure before continuing on.
“Nice hair.”
What? Oh, good thing I’ve got my cap in the bag. Come on, we’ll pick up here and head back to a bench on the promenade for our picnic breakfast.
“That was a big yawn, aren’t you sleepy?”
A little dull, yeah – I’ll let you pick the bench and imagine what we’ve got for breakfast. Please include a muffin for me, okay?
“Sure, what kind?”
Blueberry maybe, or lemon poppyseed.
We stop for a minute to watch two butterflies dancing among the pink-edged white morning glories growing wild in the scrub by the sea wall. We sit at a bench, and you start getting the basket unpacked while I rub my forehead and eyes.
“What’d you do while I was sleeping?”
Kicked around an idea for a story.
“Will you tell me?”
Of course. Pour me some more coffee would you? It starts out with us traveling.
“Good, I like those.”…

Barcelona

2007-07-27T01:50:00.000-04:00

Finally, Barcelona. I can’t believe it took us so long to get here.
“Yeah, what happened? You first started talking about going during the flight to Billings.”
Yeah, right, I dunno, it was supposed to just be calm, quiet, and warm. It was supposed to be easy. It still feels a little weird. Are you sure we didn’t already go?
“Now that you mention it, I am having kind of a echoey feeling like a déjà vu.”
Maybe with all the jumping around, we got this one out of order?
“You know, I’ll go anywhere; so if you want to pick someplace else…”
No, it’s cool, it’s all ready now and should go smooth if the shadow of dizziness wears off. But just to make sure, let’s start at the top of the hill.
“The hill?...”

From the top of the hill, Barcelona spills out towards the coast. The rooftops all about level, punctuated by a few taller ones and capped off near the beach by two clearly out of proportion: the Torres Maphre. Those would work well for a place to meet if we get separated – you can see them from just about anywhere in the city.
“That’s not foreshadowing is it?"
Oh, no, I’m just saying,… I’m always careful to stick right with you on these trips you know… (Anyway, if anything this piece seems to be full of aftshadowing. "Is that even a word?" If not, I get dibs.)
“Just checking.”
Ahh, you feel that? Warm morning sun. Let’s just take a second to stand face on to it and feel warm.
“Yeah, we’ve had enough snow and rain for a bit.”
("Didn't you remember my having said that when we were in Melbourne?"
Yeah, I knew I'd had you say that somewheres.
"How'd you know before I said it though?"
Trying to understand that starts to get me dizzy.)
I totally agree, nice to be someplace where we can just do, without worrying about being prepared – look, I’ve still got carrots in my pocket.
“Hey, hang on to those, I’ve got an idea…”
("Didn't we use those in Port Townsend?"
Geez, I hope I'd've washed my pants by now, at least tossed out the old produce...)
I open my eyes back up and take your hand to lead you down the hill, but you keep your eyes closed and pull me back.
“Wait, don’t worry about getting to work on this in a hurry. Stay here in the sun for a second. We could use a warm moment methinks.”
You are so right. Let my eyes close again, appreciate the warmth where the sun’s on me and from your hand. Deep breath in, another, let my shoulders and forearms slacken, switch to lacing my fingers with yours, another deep breath, and Whoa! Snap out of it in response to the tug on my arm.
“You’re relaxed enough, let’s get down there and see what’s the big deal here.”
First thing, we gotta find Las Ramblas – the main avenue through town to the beach. Barcelona is primarily for walkers – everyone walks. There’s a wide promenade down the middle of the road lined with large palm trees. The city’s just coming to life for the da and people are starting to fill up the promenade. The language sounds like French, but with all the edges rubbed off it like Spanish. We’re clearly visitors here: everyone says ‘Good Morning’ to us in accented English. The smell of fresh bread pulls us to a bakery window to pick out a handful of rolls and some fruit salad for breakfast. There’s a bench handy – go ahead and sit, I’ll see if I can scout us out some coffee. Sitting back in the bench, you get a chuckle out of my trying to get the coffee fixed right for us by the vendor who doesn’t speak any English (It’s hard enough getting them to do it right at Dunkin’ Donuts), and I have to laugh too seeing you smirk at me as I bring it back. You might not laugh until you taste your coffee, I’m still not 100% sure that was cream that he put in.
“It’s fine (and not your sharp, tight-lipped fine), how’s yours?”
It’s good, but I’ve got a wide range of ‘good’.
“Well, the rolls are good without question, you want a few grapes?”
Yes, please.
The simplicity of our breakfast is matched by the leisurely pace we take with it – nobody seems to be in any kind of hurry, and we just naturally fall into rhythm with them, people-watching, imagining stories for them; by the time I stand up and brush the crumbs off me it’s midmorning.
“I can’t believe you were able to get me up early enough that it’s only now midmorning.”
Well, just because I’m starting slow doesn’t mean there aren’t things to do. Come on.
“Do you think you’d fall for the relax in the sun thing again? How about if we held hands?”
I mumble something to myself and roll my eyes up.
“Okay, I’m ready, where do we go?”
I’m still considering the previous offer…
“Nope, too late.”
Fine… Pause. Grin. How’s that?
“Did you mean Fine?”
Yeah, mine’s still missing something, it needs work. I think I still smile too much when I do it.
A little further down, Las Ramblas opens up into Plaza Catalunia. The architecture and public art around the plaza match the language – stylized and unusual, hard to place. By this time of day, the plaza is a bustling open-air market. Can’t beat the convenience, we can easily pick up what we need for the rest of the day. A picnic lunch to take to the beach (bottled drinks, oranges, why do there have to be so many seafood places?, a couple of sandwiches, a bit of chocolate). I try to keep an eye open for something unusual to surprise you with later (without being too obvious about it, and you pretend not to notice) as a keepsake. Nothing jumps out at me, but I do pick up a couple of notecards (I never know when I’ll need a nice card for you), and we take some nice pictures of Snowman modeling some cool-looking alien jewelry. I can’t make up my mind about finding something and we’ve made our way all through the plaza, so we continue our way down toward the beach of Costa Brava.
Twenty or thirty minutes later and we’ve made it to the beach. The Mediterranean lolls lazily up onto the fine sand. We find a large boundary rock apart from anyone else, and sit to lean against its sunny side. It’s bright, and I put my sunglasses on and get out my cap to pull down to shade my eyes. The sandwiches get eaten – ham and something, I think mine might’ve had something apricotty – and we split one of the waters. Just a sip or two for me thanks. The oranges are a surprise – more red inside than I’d expected, but their tartness sets off the smooth sweetness of the chocolate and vice versa.
After lunch, we’ve each brought along a book. I’m using mine mostly as a surface to work the crossword on. What’d you bring? You’re still working on those Calvino short stories?
“I like to reread some of them. You said I could hold on to it until I was done, and this way I might not ever be done.”
Do you have a favorite?
“On different days it’s different ones.”
Well, then you might not ever be done with it.
“How’s the puzzle going?”
Don’t know yet, just getting started…

…”You doing that in your head?”
What do you mean?
“The puzzle – you’ve been sitting there with your pen in the same box for about a half hour. Does that mean it’s too easy or too hard?”
Mostly it means I’d dozed off there under the brim of my hat – it feels so good just to be sitting in the sun, and the sun off the water dazzled me a bit, so I closed my eyes just for a second. I didn’t snore did I?
“I don’t know: somebody got me out of bed early this morning, so I think I might’ve nodded off first.”
I think I remember wondering why you had leaned up against my shoulder.”
“I wasn’t asleep yet then, just getting comfortable.”
Well, slide back this way and be comfortable – we can just sit quietly this afternoon. After I finish the puzzle, I’ll read to you if you want and we’ll just let each other drop in and out – hopefully we can keep ahead of that post-nap crankiness.
The afternoon slides by: I have to guess a few letters for the puzzle (proper names intersecting – always problematic), we read some stories, we tell some stories, we wordlessly watch the sailboats, clouds, and sun pass over the water, we take a stroll along the surf as the day comes to a close, we watch the stars appear over the sea.
We’ve still got some time to kill before looking for a place to go for dinner – dinner happens late here. It’s going to take us a while to walk back up the hill though.
“We’ve got to walk back up?”
Um, well, here’s the thing: I’m not looking forward to going back up (I’m always surprised how relaxing all day can make me tired), but every place down here by the water is all about seafood (gotta get better at thinking about that – couldn’t get much worse).
“How about carrying me up then?”
That’s something, let me save that idea, ‘cause I just had another.
("Do you mean save it for last month's Vancouver piece?"
I guess so, yeah.
"Maybe it's time to start putting an outline together for these."
I keep trying to tell you how much I need an editor.)
When we get to the rental place, you’re giving me an ‘are you sure you know what you’re doing’ look.
Everybody else’s running around town on a scooter – I’ll keep it safe, you focus on making us look cool (like, you know, Bradgelina cool. “Hmm, something about a sow’s ear…”). Fest dich halten, Liebchen.
The night’s just cool enough to wake us up again. All the art of the city that seemed odd in the daylight looks otherworldly in the spotlights at night. We make a point of passing the most popular Gaudí-designed buildings and neighborhoods, the Cathedral Barcelona, and finish up at the still-unfinished Temple Sagrada Familia. The scooter doesn’t really go fast enough for you to need to hold tight for safety, but it’s starting to get chilly so you lean in for the last few blocks (at least, that's how I explained it to myself). Still too early to sit down to dinner, so we each get a clara (it’s like a shandy) from a curbside café and wander around the temple – here, you should pull on my sweatshirt.
The Temple looks like it’s been stretched out, or, alternately, like it’s melting. The ornamentation is spooky in places, and at times the Temple seems to be some weird alien skeleton. The whole effect is magnified by both the sharp lighting and the construction cranes over the top of it all.
“Well, that’s certainly, um,…”
Imaginative?
“Yeah, okay.”
So much of this place in unreal, you think it’d been easier to conjure up. Though it does help to explain why it’s hard to place.
“Maybe you were trying to hard?”
One good way to find out – let’s find a good tapas restaurant to hang around in, and while we’re hanging around for courses to show up, I’ll tell you another one.
“Or, I could tell one…”
I would absolutely enjoy that. Let’s go.

Behind the 8 Ball

2007-07-17T03:35:00.000-04:00

Few men can keep alive through a big surf to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind

Finally my name got to the top of the board, and I got to challenge for the table. Well, not my name exactly, but the name I use for these kinds of things. I put my quarters in and the balls came thundering out with a crack and a rumble, sounded to me like a bad omen, though who could say what of; my opponent seemed straight forward enough not to raise any worries. I went over to rack ‘em up, same way I always do, it’s completely equitable, but it sometimes raises a complaint, so I pause and wait for a look of agreement before I lift the triangle. It’s what I get initially, but then something else like surprise or a question, but then you continue on and break, dropping a solid – 5-ball. You try for the 3 next, but they’re packed in too close still. You do manage to open it up a bit. I try to pick up a stick that’s heavy enough for my preferences (heavier’s usually better for me if I’ve been drinking), and that doesn’t deviate much. After chalking up, the cigarette smoke gets ahead of me (when did that start?), and I pause to wipe my eyes. You spot the scar on my eyelid.
“I thought that was you. You indeed are Ulysses”
Eurycleia?
“What?”
Nothing. 9-ball in the side.
“Hold up a minute. Don’t you write under the name of Ulysses?”
Yeah, but not at the moment. The swift ship is hauled up on the shore, haven’t written in a few weeks. So,… 9-ball in the side.
“Last I remember, you were tagged for a meme to tell 8 things about yourself.”
Uh-huh.
“So why not write about that? That seems easy enough.”
Seems easy does it? Thing is, anybody who really wants to know 8 things about me already does. I’m not sure I know 8 things about myself with any certainty. Maybe 8 things about the writing though – that way I can be sure to reveal only what is expected.
“Yeah, I could probably think of 8 questions about the writing.”
Okay, shoot. Much have I suffered, labored long and hard by now in the waves and wars. Add this to the total—bring the trial on! No, wait a minute, let me shoot finally. You know, 9-ball, in the side? Gotcha. Now 10-ball, far corner, one bank.
“How did it start?” Pass.
“How does it end?” The butler did it of course. Who am I, freakin’ J.K. Rowling? No, sorry, pass. If I knew how it ended, what reason would I have in writing it?
“Alright then, why those places?”
Have you read City of Glass by Paul Auster?
“No.”
Well, when you have, you may have found and understood the answer to that question. I’m counting that 10-ball as a scratch by the way – didn’t plan on that second bank.
“I’ve got an obvious one, why ‘Ulysses’?”
Well, you’re going for a combo on that question, why don’t you take a shot while I plan which angle to take on that.
“1-ball in the corner. Yes!”
You gonna take that 2 also, though you played off it and didn’t call it?
“I got the 1 in didn’t I?”
I see. Well, back to the combo you actually called, beaten off our true course by winds from every direction across the great gulf of the open sea, making for home, by the wrong way, on the wrong courses. I feel adrift like that in part, and part of my hope for the stories is to help me make sense of the travels, to tell east from west, the dawn from the dusk or where the sun that lights our lives goes under earth or where it rises. The meaning of my stories might only become apparent as they play themselves out, or it may never show its meaning but only its general orientation. I’m as anxious to draw the meaning out of it as you, maybe more so.
Les Étoiles, les étoiles, lights of white and blue, tell me stars why I look to you?
“Pardon”
Just a Melody in my head, you gonna take another shot?
“6-ball in the corner”
Lotta green there
“Eww”
Aw come on, that was pretty close. Part two of your answer lies in the fundamental ambiguity of his essential qualities. Like Ulysses, I can sometimes be unnamed and unrecognized within my own story, though I may be at your very table. Often I’m purposefully misleading, as he was a man of many devices, and known to the world for every kind of craft, a hero defined more for his ability to use words than for his ability to apply physical force. My first instinct is to try to influence rather than lecture you, to try to leave enough undefined space in the story that you can put yourself in it, or let it through your defenses.
“Then how do I know if I can be sure of these answers, how can I tell the true parts from the fictions?”
Well, they’re, Falsehoods all, but he gave his falsehoods all the ring of truth. More than that, the falsehoods were used only to illuminate a deeper truth. The stories are absolutely true at their core. The truths are carried by devices whose basis is inconsequential next to the heart of the stories. Did we ever meet? Did we ever speak? Did you ever see me sink this combination of 11-ball in the side, followed by two banks to put in this 12-ball back here in this corner? Get in there,… fall! Now, there’s a shot I could never hit sober. Sometimes you have to remind them who’s in charge.
“Are you usually in charge?”
I’ve led before. I’ve been gained leadership through consensus, accepted it by rank, taken it by individual challenge, been given it by seniority, earned it through excellence, been sought for it according to my skills and knowledge. Sometimes it’s been like:
They swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke. Other times, more like:
I forced them, hauled them under the rowing benches, lashed them fast and shouted out commands to my other, steady comrades.
I think if you were to check, you would find all would say I did my best for them, though we were not always fully successful. Still, when others break and rush back to the ships, you’d do well to have me near to restore their resolve. At times, in certain circumstances, it is possible to give your best effort for each other and still not succeed. And at the crucial moment, sometimes in book 12, whether you make it or not comes down to self control more than command control. Nowadays, if I’m leading at all, it’s an effort to get others to the point where they can lead themselves. Though I do find myself leading in this game again. And with that lucky 13 sitting right in front of the side pocket like that too.
“You sure you don’t want to leave it there blocking the pocket?”
Good advice, but since I already feel a bit exposed I don’t see any reason why I should seeking safety now. Besides, it would mess up the little game-within-the-game I got going on with myself.
“Hey, I’ve seen you before, and you were writing—you were out at Pearmund with earbuds in scribbling in a notebook”
Is there a question in there?
“What were you listening to?”
Right now, I’m going to close my eyes and wait to hear that 13 falling in the side pocket. I’m always listening to something, the reader with a varied-enough taste in music should be able to determine what I was listening to while writing each piece – there’s usually an obvious clue – a line, circumstance, emotion or tempo dropped in out of what I was listening to. They all have a soundtrack when they get delivered – that’s part of what’s in the manila envelope. Chatou, for example, has got Iron and Wine in it. And I don’t mean train bridges and cabernet.
“What were you drinking at Pearmund?”
The Redmund’s Reserve – the little guy’d hung out with me earlier in the morning, and he kinda sold me on it. That’s 6 questions by the way.
“Yeah, so why wasn’t the answer in bold then? That’d be pretty cheap.”
If you’re going to talk like that, maybe we should revisit your 2-ball. But you’re close to being right, I’ll give you that one for nothing.
“Then why don’t you stop pacing?”
I’m not pacing, I just don’t see how to get a decent shot at the 14. You know, you could help out a bit by putting some of those in and getting them out of the way. Okay, so I’m going to hit the 14, off the end bumper, and towards the far corner. Towards that is, not to be confused with in, nicht wahr?
“Okay, I guess. Since you bring it up, what’s with the languages? The English speakers lapse into it, but the foreign speakers are always translated.
Those people just do that, often the foreign word they use captures the meaning better than the English equivalent, sometimes they just come out that way ‘cause it sounds better. That ‘nicht wahr’ is a good example. How could you get that meaning across in English and still manage to slur it out like that, ya know? There’s another important rule about the languages that is too interesting to get out of me when I’m just drinking beer. It’s more of a martini or green label kind of secret. I will tell you that I’ve broken it in this one. And there goes the 14, towards, but not in, the far corner pocket.
You want another drink? You better get it from me now, ‘cause this game’s not going to last much longer. Yeah? Okay. Hey Julie! Get me 2 more would you, and 1 over here, and put them on my tab?
“You know the waitress? How do you know the waitress?”
Those your final two questions? No, I’m just kidding, of course we’ll only count the questions that relate to the stories. But, to answer those two anyway, I know the waitress’ name – when she introduces herself, she tells it to you, probably because that’s what she prefers to be called.
“I’m sure she didn’t actually introduce herself by name to me.”
Must just be me then. Speaking of just me, I’m going to take a little personal time. I’ll be back directly. You take as much time as you need to set up your next shot.
When I get back, you give me a sheepish look and a shrug. You’ve put together the best run of the game to sink the 3, 4, and 7-balls. That pesky 6 still resisting you though. You’ve really put the pressure on me, and I grab my cap off to rub the hair on the top of my head.
“Is this the cap?”
Just a moment, I have to punch that 14-ball in before I lose my nerve. Maybe a quick sip of my drink first. You get yours? Good.
“Lotta green there”
Couldn’t be so pretty a shot otherwise, plus you’ll get to watch the cue keep on traveling right back here for the 15. Ahh, so nice. What were you saying? oh yeah, the cap? The cap is actually a stand in for several. It’s a little stupid actually: I’ve got a knocking-around cap, a work cap, coaching cap, winter cap, spare cap in the car just cause you never know – this one is the went-out-for-a-drink-didn’t-want-to-fix-my-hair cap. To make it more necessary, I just got my hair cut, and it really wants to all stand up. Not to mention the cap/pas cap thing that comes up now and again. The pen’s got a cap too, as far as that goes.
“Oh yeah, the pen? Isn’t that a bit quaint?”
Quaint? Heck, quaint’s practically my middle name. Watch how quaintly I nudge that 15-ball in the side and leave a easy shot on the 8 in the corner. Thanks for clearing up that mess of those other numbers you had all over the table. Ka-clunk, and where does that leave us? With the 8th and final.
You want to know about the pen? I don’t know exactly. When I need a quick excuse, I blame it on my poor typing skills. To be sure, I can write faster and more error-free than when I type. I have to be pretty tired to find myself looking at a handwritten page where the characters are not the ones I was trying for. It’s more than just speed though. I like creating the letters as well as choosing the words – it feels like more of a creative act for me to be working in pen. The ink is just more fluid than the keys, though I guess a font can be fluid…, but at the same time, the writing has a permanence that’s absent in the electronic medium. I’ve never had any written work lost with no hope of return. I’ve given things away that I doubt I’ll see again, I’ve had notebooks stolen out of my car. But while I doubt I’ll ever see them again, I can imagine that they might still exist, somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered. That permanence that writing has encourages you to get it right the first time and it requires you to think about what you’re putting down. And now, I’ll put down that 8-ball, grab my other drink and bounce a few ideas around about getting that swift ship back out onto the wine-dark sea. Thanks for the game, I truly enjoyed it.

Chatou, précédemment

2007-06-28T22:50:00.000-04:00

[Everybody’s goes to see the Luncheon of the Boating Party at the Phillips, but hardly anybody knows the real story behind it like we do…]

When I arrived, it was clear I had overestimated the formality of the occasion: I was looking forward to meeting Maupassant – I had been told he was interested in sharing ideas about the short form. Pierre-August, who had invited me, had also promised to share his thoughts on the strength of brevity in description and depiction. At the moment, he himself is briefer than expected; in fact he is nowhere to be seen. Instead of a seminar, I seem to have strayed into some fête galante.
In jacket and tie I cannot hope to blend in. My bowler, so anonymous in Paris, here floats conspicuous in a catonier tide. Escape seems my best option. Before I can mumble apologies and sneak back out, Aline catches my attention. She holds her dog with one hand and waves me over with the other, calling, “Baron! Over here Baron! Please sit here and join us.” (“Wait, ‘Baron’? How is it that you’ve become a Baron? Are you trying some kind of power trip?” I have no delusions of surpassing you; it’s not even my fault. In fact it’s a bit confusing to me still at this point. If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll see if I can upgrade your ‘Wonderful’ to ‘Princess’ somehow. But first, I have to figure out what this Baron thing is all about…) I look over my shoulder to see who the Baron could be, but no one is there. I turn back and raise an eyebrow at Aline, but she persists. “Oh Baron, quit fooling around and sit here where people are anxious to finally meet you. Pierre-August told them to expect you, and we’ve saved you a seat.” Intrigued, but wary, I take the open seat in the middle. Aline leans over to pour me a drink with a wink and slips a note into my hand with the glass. It reads, “You must be Baron Barbier for one hour. If you succeed, dinner is on me. –PAR”
Aline introduces me to the ladies I’ve been placed between, “This is Angèle, and Ellen Andrée, and you must have recognized Jeanne Samary.” Yes, hello,… glad to meet you,… a great pleasure. Mlle. Andrée keeps my hand a bit longer than I expected and says, “We’ve heard you have fabulous tales of your time in Cochinchine.” And where had you heard that? “Pierre-August was very effusive about your stories of adventure.” Well, the artists can be prone to exaggeration, can’t they? This comment causes Angèle to let a giggle escape, which, in turn, makes Caillebotte shrug and raise his palms with a guilty grin. I wonder what story he got caught trying to sell? The sense of superiority is fleeting, as at that moment I realize I could soon be in the same predicament.
I take a slow drink from my glass, taking extra time to savor it while I cast around for ideas. The new ironwork on the other side of the river gives me a starting point, and I decide to begin at the imaginary beginning. Playing to my strengths, I start to tell a travel tale (“Is it one that I know?” Not yet, but if I get it written down, I’ll be sure to share it with you. “Do I at least make an appearance?” Why would I bother to remember it otherwise? “Will you promise to tell me later?” In it’s turn. Let me get back to starting this one first, okay? “Fine, but don’t forget?” Don’t worry, I think you bring it up again later...)
It’s a good audience for the most part – they’ve got the right combination of intoxication, willingness to be entertained, and disinclination to critical listening. Ellen Andrée adjusts herself to sit directly opposite me. She’s playing the part of the avid fan today: prolonged eye contact (though with a spot that seems to be through me somewhere), exaggerated facial responses, laughing too much at the jokes. While her face and torso seem to hang on every word, she’s completely absent-minded in her attention to my tall tales of an imagined administrative life in Saigon.
The stories themselves are losing cohesiveness because of my own growing distraction. That woman at the edge of the party is listening in, but pretending not to. She looks at me when I face right, but every time I look back over to try and gauge her reaction she has already turned away again. I take the stories through odd turns and sudden changes of pace as I try to catch her off guard. The rest of my audience is eager to catch my eye, but the meanings elude them. The one person who seems to really be listening is the one who appears to give me the least attention. There! – a small flicker of a grin as I spiral off on a tangent about diplomacy, espionage, and eavesdropping. You catch me noticing your grin, and we see each other for what must’ve only been a moment for everyone else. Time declines to hold still though, and before I can say anything to you directly to ask you if you would join us, you’ve been caught by the elbow and spun around.
Jules LaForgue has pulled you aside to speak to you. He makes a great show of himself, and keeps trying to find the right angle to adjust his cap to. You’re supposed to be impressed – he makes too much of his influence at the Gazette des Beaux-Arts. You’re very tolerant and gracious towards him, and I can’t imagine why. Then it occurs to me: you must be our hostess Mlle. Fournaise. You don’t look quite like your portrait – it’s the hat perhaps, or maybe the hair color. Now I understand your attention to my story was likely politeness rather than interest (“I’m not like that you know.” No, but I am. Wait though, it’s not over yet, we really show up here in a bit…)
P-A’s game was fun, but my hour must be up by now. I pull out my watch and Aline sees it and nods: I win again. I’ll have to choose something particularly splendid for that meal. Mlle. Andrée is telling me how fond she was of the stories and how impressed she is at my accomplishments – some of which I don’t remember making up. She needs to rehearse this scene more, she’s having trouble sounding sincere to me. I’m listening past her to where Jules is now trying to get you to listen as he recites his poetry to you. He agrees with himself that it is quite good, and has launched into the first lines of another when his boss shows up and interrupts. Probably to remind him to pick up his laundry, I allow myself to think. You slip away and lean on the railing with a sigh. Ellen pauses mid-sentence to empty another glass, and I stifle a sigh of my own.
This time, it’s you that catches my eye, and nothing interrupts. I raise an eyebrow, cast a glance at Jules, then raise both eyebrows. You allow a small smile, then return the sentiment by glancing at Ellen, followed by mocking a vacant stare. When you focus again, there’s a smile on my face and a question in my eyes – it puts a smile on your face too.
I excuse myself from the table, promising to be back as soon as I can – it seems everyone wants to know how the incident with the Colonel turned out, and I have no idea. You step forward as I make my way to the railing and tip my hat. Thank you for the hospitality, I’ve had a wonderful time.
“Well, I do what I can.”
Everything was quite nice, did you pick the cabernet yourself?
“Oh yes, did you like it?”
Of course, I always order it at your father’s restaurant.
“My father’s…?”
Yes, the Fournaise establishment is a favorite out here away from the city.
“Right! My father Alphonse Fournaise.”
And may I assume you are Alphonsine?
“You may assume that.”
I’m sorry, have I been too forward? You seem distressed or conflicted by something.
“It’s just that we haven’t exactly been introduced. Yet, you look, familiar to me.”
I am your servant Ma’m’selle, call me what you will.
“Shall I call you ‘Baron’ then?”
For the short term. Perhaps I’ll call you ‘Princess’ in that case?
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Well then, Princess, would you allow your Baron to get you a drink?
“Thank you, but no. Actually, I was hoping to leave – I’ve had enough for today.”
In that case, let me transport and escort you. I’ll ask Alphonse Junior if he’ll lend us a skiff. Back in a moment…
I turn around to where Alphonse Jr. is leaning back. He looks at me with a puzzled look. Al, you’ll lend your sister and me a skiff to get back off the island won’t you?
/My sister?... (just behind where I am now Aline waves to him, shows him the money for the fee and puts a finger to her lips. Her dog sees the opening, jumps down and starts to beg scraps from the other guests) Oh, sure, My sister. Okay Baron take whichever one suits you. You might be a bit warm in that jacket though./
I‘ll tell you what Al, you can be the Baron of this party now. I take my coat off and give it to him, then turn to offer you my arm.
“You seem more familiar to me somehow in shirtsleeves. Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Not before, but maybe we’ve met after, and we just don’t realize it yet.
“Maybe,… maybe that’s it.”
Go ahead and climb in, I’ll hold it steady. Now take the oars from me so I can get in.
“You’re sure you know how to pilot one of these? ‘Cause I don’t intend to do any swimming unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Well, you won’t win any races with me up in Argenteuil, but I can paddle across here.
“I was just wondering if you had some special aversion to water. I thought it was unusual that you arrived in the port of Saigon by train.”
Well, I was coming from Tourane in the south.
“Tourane is north of Saigon.”
Alright, you got me. Now I’ve got one for you: I was wondering why Alphonse Jr. didn’t seem to recognize his own sister.
“He drinks too much at these things.”
He doesn’t drink at all.
“Fine. I knew you couldn’t be some administrative royal – you’re not suited to it.”
And I knew you were out of place amongst the actresses back there – too genuine. Where is it you have to get to that made you decide to leave.
“I just had to leave. And you? Why didn’t you stay with your beautiful admirers back there?”
Why stay after the only interesting person leaves?
“So, here we are, two fictions with no plans; what are we rowing towards?”
Maybe we ought just let the current take us a ways. I’ll pull us ashore a bit further downstream and try to talk you into risking other adventure.
You acknowledge the lift in my voice and the raised eyebrow (“You ought to be careful you don’t overuse that. You might sprain something.” Yeah, I know, or maybe it’ll get stuck that way.) with a cautious squinty look – more than necessary for the sunlight glinting off the Seine. “Real or imagined adventure ‘Baron’?”
Somewhere between the two: the kind where you risk sharing your true self with someone who’s truly listening. Daring to trespass on your insecurities in order to discover another perspective on your self.
“That’s too slick – I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
Only the princesses.
We’ve pulled up to the landing, and disembarking is going in the reverse of boarding. You sit steady and hold the oars as I get out. You start to hand me them just as I bend down to pull the skiff in further and you catch me right on the chin, and the strike sits me down on the bank. That’s gonna bruise nicely – I’ll have to keep an eye on you. Wait, no I’m fine, wait till I get the boat steady before you start out.
“I’m so sorry.”
Just a little bruise, by the end of the week you may be hearing second hand accounts of the Baron’s bar fight. Give me your hand now and come walk with me. Right up here is the place I wanted to bring you to.
“Here, this wall?”
(“Wait, wait, back up – you’re not going to follow up with the getting clobbered with the oars?”
I would if it amounted to anything, but it’s nothing, really. It was my fault for sticking my chin out like that when you’re handing me the oars. Wouldn’t do to get distracted by something like that.
“You should let me take a look at it though – let me see.”
Okay, what do you think, any broken skin?
“No.”
Any teeth missing?
“Smile for me – nice by the way – nope.”
Look into my eyes, do I look dazed at all? Am I having trouble focusing?
“No more than usual, smart aleck, just trouble with being too obvious.”
Just laugh at it, and let’s get back…)
The gate’s over here, it’s been left unlocked.
“What if someone’s around?”
I don’t think anyone is – I spent the morning here with my coffee, writing. Come on, it’s beautiful inside. Maybe a thorn or two…
(“Are those supposed to represent our insecurities?”
Don’t work so hard at it, sometimes it’s just what it is.
“Which is what?”)
Through the iron gate in the brick wall we step into a large rose garden. I lead you along the paths to admire the varieties. We end up at a bench shaded by a lattice covered by climbers. A light breeze keeps both the scent and the late afternoon heat from becoming too intense. The rest of the afternoon is spent laughing at our own true stories. It’s starting to get late, perhaps we should head along the river to find some guinguette for a light supper. If we’re lucky, there might be music.
“That would be lovely I’m sure, but I need to get to the station. I can’t stay in Chatou overnight. I have to be in Paris in the morning.”
I hadn’t planned on staying either – I’ll escort you on the train then, as far as Paris. I myself am heading just east of the city. The day is coming to a close as we board the train headed back for the city. Most everyone else is staying through the weekend, so we are able to get a compartment to ourselves: you can have that seat facing forward, and I’ll take the one opposite. As the train pulls away from the station, we hit a pause in the conversation. It’s been a long day, and we feel no time pressure to keep talking. We both watch the landscape pass by beyond the window. It loses more and more detail as the sun sets until the only thing visible in the window is the reflection of ourselves. The gentle sway of the car and the repetitive clack under the wheels help me give way to my fatigue and I slip just below the surface, just awake enough to still be aware of you. You’re leaning forward to touch the back of my hand with your fingertips. You pause for a moment, then go ahead and put your palm down on my hand.
“Did you say you were writing in the rose garden?”
One eye opens, and I reply. Yes, something occurred to me, and I wanted to see how it’d work out.
“May I hear it?”
Of course, I’m pretty sure it was meant for you. Sit back and close your eyes while I get my notebook out…
“Am I in this one?”
It’s quite possible…

Vancouver

2007-06-19T10:30:00.000-04:00

We get back from across the Pacific late in the afternoon. We have to hurry and get a move on. The wipers have to struggle to cut the film of dust and dried sea spray that’s collected since we were here. We get to the dock just in time to catch the last Port Townsend – Keystone Ferry. It’s fortunate that it’s not too crowded at this time of day ‘cause I didn’t get a chance to make a reservation. I put a small bag of stuff together to pass the time with (you want to toss your book in here? “Sure, thanks. What else’re you bringing?” Just little stuff, I’ll know better as we get further into the story. “And what’re we doing out on the water again? More marine life?” If I said ‘no’, would it be a big disappointment? “Well, I don’t want these to get stuck in a rut, but maybe a little disappointed.” Ah, I see, maybe I can work something out…), and we lock the rest of our stuff in the car and head to the upper decks.
We manage to find an open booth on the port side windows where we can each sit and stretch out sideways across the seats. We’ve got a few minutes before we cast off, and we spend them quietly sitting and resting…
“So, got anything good in the bag?”
Got some cards, want to play ‘Go Fish’? (There’s a marine life appearance for you. “Yeah, a lame one that doesn’t count.” I know, I’m just having a little fun…)
“Yeah, that’s about the most mentally challenging game I’m up for.”
I’m tired too – big travel day.
The ferry heads out, and the water’s pretty choppy – the cabin movement adds a pressure to my forehead that makes concentration difficult, even for ‘Go Fish’. A waitress comes by: I’m hungry, but I don’t dare eat – the smell and sight of the food at the other tables brings a knotted feeling to my stomach. Maybe we’ll just get a couple of soft pretzels and a ginger ale to split (Ginger ale’s okay right? I don’t think it’s conducive to stones: it’s not brown anyway. “It’s not my favorite, but it seems like a good idea at this moment.” Okay then, a large ginger ale). My forehead’s sweating now, and it’s feeling really warm in here. Come on, and let’s find a place to sit outside.
The evening wind coming off the water is brisk and cold. I take my hat off and let it blow through my hair to try and numb the headache and slow down the spinning. We find a bench that faces the port/west side and look out over the water as it flashes reflections of the descending sun. The intercom announces something that we can’t quite make out about something to see, then a few hundred yards out we spot the dolphins swimming by and occasionally surfacing and puffing out a spray. (“Okay, that one counts. Seems a little superfluous though.” Yeah, not sure that’ll make it past the edit. “You edit these things? How could anyone tell?” I’m in the process of vetting an editor now, or I will be, just as soon as I ask her if she’s interested.) Focusing out in the distance is not settling me out like it’s supposed to. “When is this ride supposed to be over?” You too, eh? Well, there’s supposed to be a shiatsu point on your wrist near your ulna – here, I’ll show you. “Ow!” Still sore? I’ll hold less tightly. Maybe if we just space out: I’ve got a second pair of headphones, we could just try to survive the rest of the way with our eyes closed letting the breeze keep our heads cool, listening to some acoustic rock and classical guitar, passing the ginger ale back and forth, pretending not to notice each other burping (“Nice.” What? Tell me it doesn’t help with the head pressure. “Okay, but you’re sitting leeward.” Of course, of course.). Sitting calmly settles us down enough to get the rest of the way across, and we head back down to be ready to drive when it’s our turn to disembark. I get us off the ferry, but then pull into a parking space near the waiting area. “What’s up?” I don’t think I’m ready to drive, I’m still having trouble opening my eyes up and focusing – maybe we can find a place to stay here and go the rest of the way tomorrow. “I’m feeling okay, I’ll drive.” Okay, we’ve got about 2 hours left to drive if you’re up to it. “I feel alright now (You were doing a let of burping. “Maybe I’ll drive on, and you can stay here” Sor-ry, sheesh.), and this way we’ll have some decent driving for a change.” If I could get the uncomfortable and tired look off my face, I’d scowl and pretend to be hurt by that remark. “Yeah, whatev’s, you don’t scare me.” (“You won’t fall asleep though will you?” Well, I’d rather not. Why? “I wouldn’t want this dream to end – in case you started something else. Why wouldn’t you want to, Mr. “rather not”? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to miss something you might say.) I’ll endeavor to be an able second in command ‘Captain’ – I’ll try to keep an eye on the directions, adjust the climate controls, fish out CD’s for you… We need to end up on Granville Island – I’ve already made the reservations for us. I’ve still got pressure in my temples and a dull absence above my forehead. I slide the seat back, pull my cap tight over my head, and wrap myself up, tucking my hands in to my sweatshirt pocket.
“Remember now, you’re not going to fall asleep and leave me alone now are you?”
No ma’am, Captain ma’am.
Do you still have that World Café CD set in here? If you do, put that in first.
I find it, and put it in as we’re off heading north on U.S. 5, looking for the Canadian 99. An easy song catches us each with our guard down for a minute or two, and we’re each tentatively singing along. We’re listening carefully to match each other without being too noticeable, neither of us daring to look at each other or acknowledge we’re doing it. The song ends, and I shift in the seat and sneak a look at you: you’re smiling a little (I can tell), opening up into a big smile as you glance over and I catch your eye – cool.
“Play that one again, won’t you?”
I will if you sing along again… I wonder whatever happened to Semisonic anyway?
The rest of the drive goes by fast (we revisit some other favorites on CD), but ends none too soon. When we pull in, you rub your eyes and forehead while you lean/stretch forward on the wheel. Check-in is a breeze, and you go up ahead while I go back out to get the bags. When I get to the room the lights are all out, but the curtains are pulled back from the open window, letting in the moonlight and air. You’ve fallen asleep in your clothes on top of the covers (“I only lay down for a minute to reat my eyes – how long did it take you to get up there?” I dunno, maybe five minutes, tops. “Well, I must’ve been more tired than I thought.” Yeah, I know, I’m glad you drove though, thanks.) I put our things in the drawers and closet as quietly as I can in the moonlight. The I set up the bathroom and put the bags away. The carpet feels good – good to get my shoes and socks off and be somewhere relatively stationary. I brush my teeth and wash my face with a warm washcloth, letting it press into my eyelids.
You haven’t twitched, not even when I stubbed my toe on the leg of the bed. I gently work your shoes and socks off. I manage to pull the covers out from under you and tuck you in. Lastly, I remember the washcloth. I re-warm it and kneel beside the bed to wipe your face. You hum/purr once or twice, and when I’m done you roll over, pulling the covers up tight. Your hair smells nice – how do you do that?
I’ve been up for too long now, and I’m too tired to sleep. I pull the armchair over to the window and sit with my feet propped up and wondering what the lights are out on the water…
I’m awakened in the dark by you pulling at the sleeve of my shirt…
“Come on now, you snore too much sitting up.”
Huh? Oh, sorry, how embarrassing.
“I’m just kidding, but you’ll be sorry if you sleep in the chair all night. Lie down on that side over there.”
I’ve got too many pillows here, you want some?
“The one with the drool on it I was using to hug.”
Well, that one’s all yours then.
“Could I put my hand on your shoulder?”
There’s no answer, ‘cause it’s too late, I’m already out. Still, when the fingers close around my arm I scoot within easier reach. You shift to prop your forearm up on my arm, and I let out a long exhale with the hint of a laugh in it, that goes unheard since you’ve dropped off too…

Habit snatches me from sleep a little before 5, but I’m not in any hurry to get up. I lie in the dark listening to your breathing and try to match mine to it. Yours quickens and you shift a bit as you start to drift into a dream. I try to force myself to sleep to meet you there, but can’t manage it. I check my watch and see 5:05, next check it’s 5:08, then 5:12, 5:15, 5:20 before I decide it’s no use. If I don’t get up now, my fidgeting around’s likely to wake you. So, I roll out, grab my small pack of things and helmet and sneak off…

I’m back in the lobby by 8:30 – forced back by rain. There’s free coffee in the lobby to warm my hands with at least. It’s not the best brew in the world, but still much better’n mine. I ask the operator to switch on the message light on our room phone and leave a message at the desk for you. The concierge finds a towel and a copy of the paper for me, and stashes my helmet and gloves behind the desk (Nice guy, I didn’t even have to ask, he just offered. “You know, a lot of people are like that away from the East.” We’ll have to make sure we factor that in when we choose where we go. “Are you saying these aren’t as carefully planned as I thought?” Um, no, uh, every last detail is carefully tuned and selected, uh,… “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”) I get myself as dried off as I can and find a comfy chair in the lobby to sit and do the crossword in. (“You didn’t mention the concierge giving you a pen.” Oh, I always have a pen. “You set me up for that one.” Yeah, thanks for the straight line. “Anything to help, you know.”)
You find me with my mouth open (“Catching flies?”) and the puzzle half-done lying in my lap. My hair’s all spiking up (Forgot to bring my cap with me), and after running your fingers over it a few times I start to stir.
“Hey, if you’re going to leave me alone could you at least leave me a note so I know what’s going on?”
I did. I left a message at the desk to come down and get me when you were all ready for the day.
“Well, I woke up in an empty room at around 8, got dressed and went out to get some coffee.”
8?! There’s no way I could’ve anticipated that.
“Yeah, well I’m a little off schedule with the travel, and got a little more restful sleep than usual.”
Maybe you’re becoming a Morning Person?
“Not likely, I’ll leave that to you – what’d you do this morning: not riding without a helmet were you?”
No, I’ve got it stashed at the desk – I took a great ride around Stanley Park. Two big loops with a detour each time for a smaller loop around Beaver Lake. The first loop was great, flat and fast, with beautiful scenery. The second loop started the same way, but then the rain started when I was at the furthest point.
“Yeah, you look a little washed out – you weren’t able to hold off the rain?”
I never use my powers for purely selfish reasons.
“Okay,…wi-erd.”
Let me just run up to get clean and changed…
“…and shaved…”
…and shaved, and we can head out and see what Vancouver’s got.
“Wait a minute, I’ve got something for you.” You lean in and hover over me in the chair, looking into my eyes, and pause,… before pulling a cup of coffee and a paper bag out from behind your back. “Here, French roast and two plain donuts – and when I say plain, I only mean there’s nothing on them, they’re really good.”
You’re the best.
“I know.”
I’ll be back in minutes.
Uncurling from the chair takes a few moments – seems my legs left some of their get-up-and-go out in the rain this morning – but then I’ve grabbed my breakfast from you and am rushing off to the room.

Coming out of the bathroom and I’m completely transformed. Clean, shaven, fresh clothes, energetic. You’re sitting at the desk looking at brochures.
“I don’t suppose there’s any reason for me to bother looking right? Since you’ve already got a plan?”
I’m always open to suggestions, but let’s agree to this first: I’ll toss out the Mount Whistler bike trail brochure if you leave aside the Hidden Ranch horseback riding one, for today at least. Let me get my shoes on, and we’ll go downtown, see how funky Vancouver can be.
“You don’t want to just hang around here? There’s a lot of cool and artsy stuff?”
Yeah, I definitely want to go to the glassblower, but I thought we’d start further out and end up back around here tonight so we could crash whenever we’re ready.
“Alright, I want to make sure we go by the kid’s bazaar, maybe see if I can see anything new or cool.”
You got it. You ready for another boat ride? You look at me with disbelief after yesterday’s experience.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Just a short one, water taxi across the bay.
“Fine.”
Being on a boat again brings back a few flashback moments from yesterday, but no real symptoms. In a few minutes, we’re disembarking at the Aquatic Center and catching a cab to the main drag: Robsonstrasse (well, just Robson Street now). We start at the west end of Robson and just wander east window shopping – pulling each other into whatever store grabs our fancy. There’s a lot of high-end look-but-don’t-buy shops here, but it’s fun to put on that we’re in command and that money is no object. The art glass/jewelry shop is awesome and very tempting. It’s too early here to let our resolve not to spend be weakened – here, come across the street to Grand Maple Gifts and let’s get you a travel mug, okay? Now we’ll have something and we won’t need to buy anything else. I lose sight of you for awhile while I’m picking one out. Where’d you go?
“Never you mind, you’ll find out by the end.”
I’ve got to go into Legerdemain just to see what a name like that’s supposed to mean in a shop. In Escents, we try to guess from the scent what the aromatherapy effect is supposed to be – without much success: maybe their mislabeled. The overall effect of about 15 minutes in the shop is to leave us a bit overwhelmed, and we’re glad to get back out into the ‘fresh’ air of the street. CinCin smells good and gets us thinking about lunch.
“Italian okay? We could sit upstairs on the terrace?”
Italian’s always good, but let’s try to sit in a restaurant that’s got a terrace on the north side of the street so we can look out over the inlet.
“There was also that French place on the north side of the last block…”
Um, yeah, I’m sure that’s good and all, but I don’t really like many French specialties, just like you and the German ones.
“Whew, I was afraid you’d take me up on the French thing.”
I know, it was sweet of you to offer: movies, wine, pastry, some poetry, that’s where we should draw the line and leave lunch on the other side of it. Settebello looks good, has a terrace, and faces the right way, but let’s go another block or two up this side and come back on that side – that’ll ensure a good appetite.
The Hologram Store is a bit of a disappointment – maybe in another 10 years it’ll be cooler. Likewise Thunder Music looked like it’d have more cool indie stuff than it did. Silver Gallery has a lot of great looking and graceful and attractive things that matched you style, but (“No, wait, not ‘but’, can’t we just imagine we could afford just this one piece? I really like it.” You know, it’s really you, and it pains me to say no, but here’s the deal – you help me polish up the next book and when it does well I’ll bring you back and let you pick out whatever. “Book? Why not a movie deal? The we’d really have some cash. But here’s the true deal – I’ll help you polish it up anyway and I don’t need the jewelry: we’ll find something else to spend the money on.” Besides, you’ve already got a travel mug. “Right, and I’ve already got a travel mug.”)
If you’re hungry now, there’s a Hooters right up there.
“Har, har, hardy, har har, come on across the street.”
One more stop at Butterflies and Bugs (more for the butterflies really), then we’re back at Settebello just in time for a table to open up on the terrace in the sun. Lunch is perfect: delicious but not heavy, and we finish up (you gonna eat the rest of that? “Yes, but I’d offer you a taste of it if you thought to offer sharing yours.” But of course, sorry, what would you like? “Is that any good?” Yeah, take a bite. “And here, you should try this.” Mmm, I like that.) satisfied without being stuffed and sleepy. Our timing is good too – when we get out we only have a 10 minute wait for the bus to Grouse Mountain.
The bus ride offers some great views of the city, and you get to see Stanley Park as we go through the center of it (“I’m still a little upset that you went without me.” I promise, we’ll stop here on the way back today.). At the foot of Grouse Mountain we buy a tram ticket and coffee to enjoy while we wait.
“So tell me more about this book.”
Well, the thing is, there’s not much to it yet, but I do have pens and notebooks, and I think I’ve found an editor/contributor. If any actual words start to appear, I’ll share ‘em with you.
“So you’re planning on buying me silver with fool’s gold?”
A fool is involved, that much is sure, here’s the tram now…
Yet another conveyance playing with my nervous system – as the car heads up the mountain there are spectacular views of the park, and the city, and the inlet, and the bay, but the altitude causes my hands and feet to tingle as the blood rushes out of them, and my palms to sweat, and me to shift around in my anxiety. You get me to hold up Snowman to get some pics of him enjoying the view (He’s quite the daredevil – if I leaned up against the window like that I’d turn pale white,,, wait a minute, he is pale white.)
At the top of the mountain we alternate between taking in the vistas below us and watching the birds above. You point out a peregrine as it soars overhead. There’s another one. That screech with the vibrato at the end sounds like a red-tailed hawk, but I don’t see… there it is. And there’s another further down. In the bird house up here, Sauron the golden eagle jumps up to the front of his enclosure to get a better look at us. He turns his head to regard us silently, keeping his secrets to himself…
Back down in Stanley Park, the afternoon is running out. We pause to get a map and our bearings at the pavilion, then head west through the garden. We go up to the Beaver Lake, which is pretty crowded now, so we turn off the lake trail to make our way to Ferguson Point and catch a light dinner at Sequoia Grill at the Teahouse. After dinner, a bit more walking past the beach and along the seawall as the sun sets over the bay. Once we get out of the park, we catch a cab back to Granville Island. You’re totally in charge now that we’re within easy walking distance back to the hotel (“How’d I end up totally in charge?” Well, I’ve been up all day now, and it’s starting to wear me down and I’m getting tired. “Well, you better not be too tired, ‘cause I’m interested in a lot of this.” That’s cool – I’ve got plenty of energy to follow, just not enough to lead. “Well, maybe next time you won’t take off early and leave me alone.” Maybe next time, I’ll wake you up. “Just remember there’re consequences either way.” I’m mindful that they’re pleasant in both cases – lead on Mein Kapitan! “You might want to stick to English when you’re tired – just a friendly suggestion.”).
As the shops start to close, I influence us toward the Granville Island Brewery (“What happened to my being totally in charge? It hardly lasted one paragraph.” What? you want to just go back to the hotel? “No, but I think you mistake who influenced whom.” It’s just you’re so subtle it’s hard to recognize. In any case, we find ourselves at the Brewery, both thinking it was our idea.). We set Snowman up with a pint for a final photo-op, then have a few drinks ourselves. The city looks great lit up at night. The beers are pretty good too.
“I’m just about all in, do you mind if we head back?”
No, it’s cool, I’m ready to quit too. I was wondering though, what was it that you bought?
“Still too soon to say, it’ll be better if you let it surprise you.”
I’m all out of Canadian money – you manage the walk back?
“My legs are tired…”
Come on then, jump up.
“There’s no way…”
What do you overestimate your size or underestimate me?
“I’m too tired to fight it, let’s go.”
You put both arms around my neck when I kneel down, and my legs are less tired than I thought when I come back up with you piggy-back (“Come on now, that’s absurd.” No it’s not, it’s ridiculous, but if you could suspend the self-judgement and let yourself have fun with it you might even laugh about it. Tomorrow we’ll chalk it up to the beers and you can make fun of me about it. “You shouldn’t expect me to try to embarrass you about it – but promise you won’t drop me.” Promise.) We get within a block of the hotel, and you say in my ear, “You can let me down now ‘Clyde’.” Once I put you down it’s, “Last one back to the room has to go out and get breakfast tomorrow!” and you take off running.
That’s totally unfair! You come carry me for a while, then we can race!
You stop, turn back and call, “You know that’s not how it works – you’d ‘let’ me win anyway.”
Okay, you win, I’ll get breakfast tomorrow, just come back and walk the rest of the way with me.
You meet me halfway, with both hands behind your back. “Pick one.”
I pick your left hand, which you hold out, turn over and open.
Is that for me?
“Yeah, it’s what I got while you were buying the travel cup. Do you like it?”
Very much. Thank you.
The rest of the way back to the hotel we walk with you holding my right arm and I holding a carved wooden bear in my left hand…

Melbourne

2007-06-05T22:50:00.000-04:00

You’re right, I did already know where we were going, though you already seemed to know what we were going to do…
We pack our stuff back up in the car (it could really stand to get washed – maybe it’ll rain. “Whoa! hold it right there buster. You said we’d had enough rain for now.” Did I? I thought I had you say it – anyway, you’re the one who brought us to the northwest, I’m just looking for a way to get out of washing the car.). Well, we can leave the car for now and grab that cup of coffee, sit down, and figure out the trip.
“Can I see your West Coast map?”
Yeah, as soon as I get back. Café au Lait?
“If it looks like they know how.” (Cinnamon? It’d be too Gallic to assume.)

Here you go. Clear some table room for the map.
“We going North [shaking head]? Or South [nodding]?”
Subtle, but wrong both times, we’re going West.
“Here, let me have that map. You sure you know how to read one?”
All yours – West Coast of Australia. So we won’t need the car for this one – we can leave it here to get rained on in our absence. Meanwhile, off to Melbourne...

From the terminal, we’ll head straight to the tram station with our carry-ons: we won’t need much (not that you and I ever do).
It’s shirtsleeves and shorts weather in downtown Melbourne so make sure you’ve brought those before we go (Shave? Is that going to be a problem? “Vorsicht!” Okay, abrupt change of subject, let’s get back). Summertime, not only warm, but an extra-long day to get some stuff done in (“You do know it’s late fall in Melbourne right now?” Well, I had to change that: you didn’t want rain, and today in Melbourne real-time it’s 48 degrees and mostly cloudy, that just wouldn’t do). Actually it’s already gotten late – just as well we skip a meal before going out on the water.
(“Copy Cat.” Hey, I had this idea independently, it was already in the notebook. In fact, I suspect you might’ve read ahead and stolen it from me. “Well, let’s just share it then, and not worry about who had it first. Try to do a good job with my idea though.” Right. I don’t think the marine biologist in you will mind how it turns out.)
We might as well just walk down the river to the docks. We should be able to get someone to point us to the right boats from there.
“There’s a sign for ‘Dolphin Cruises’.”
That’s it, I hope we can still catch one.
“Looks like the first ones just left, and the next one doesn’t go until this afternoon.”
Wait here a bit, would you? Let me see what I can work out.
After a few minutes in the boat house, I come back out. Okay! Let’s go: Dolphin Cruise just for two.
“How’d you do that?”
Well, I just appealed to their better angels – certainly a relationship strong enough to get us all the way across the globe for a day shouldn’t have to miss out from being 15 minutes late.
“They really went for that?”
Well, something like that, they’re really poetic people here, plus some cash. Besides, if they were gonna be sticklers about it, I’d just go back and rewrite us in 20 minutes earlier. (“Don’t do that, it takes you long enough to finish these as it is.” Right, well anyway…)
The sky is clear with a light breeze sweeping it, and the water is a deep blue. The sun sparkles off the waves and the boat’s wake as we head out into the ocean. The Captain’s got some French bread and a variety of cheeses for us, which we leave mostly untouched. You look all adventurous standing on deck with the wind blowing your hair back (How come your hair’s not blowing? Hat, I suppose?” Nope, I just got it cut, not enough of it left to blow).
We get out to where the dolphins are, and we drop anchor and help set out the buoys. The dolphins are clearly used to this – they keep their distance while we finish preparations, coming a little closer to investigate as we slip into the water. Don’t be so quick to leave me behind, eh?
“I still think you’re a better swimmer than that.”
Nothing I dislike more than to fall short of your expectations, but this is as good as my swimming gets: effective, that’s the best that can be said of it.
You circle me as I work my way away from the boat. A little playful splash-fighting ensues. I try to pick up my pace a bit to move from the center of your circles to the circumference with you. Now it’s become almost a game of tag, and we try to keep each other guessing. Changing direction or speed, diving…, at a pause, we suddenly realize the dolphins have moved closer to join the game.
Um, you know, when they move in like that it’s a little spooky.
“You can’t be spooked, it was your idea.”
The next time one swims between us, we both reach toward it, and you actually manage to stroke its side. It circles back quicker and tighter behind me to come back between us and pause. This time we both get an opportunity to put a hand on each side of it, which it allows for a moment or two before kicking off again. This time it circles back underneath us, popping up to chortle and whistle at us. I try to mimic it (Him? he acts like a him), but he just splashes me in response, and now you’re both chortling at me.
We spend another half hour in the water, and meet a few other dolphins, but it’s about time to head back in (I didn’t pay that much), and anyway, I can’t keep my head above water much longer. Our first new friend follows me over to the boat and gives me a puff of spray through his blowhole as I climb back into the boat. He looks after me long enough to get a quick shot of him in the background of a picture of Snowman at the rail of the deck.
You stay out to make the most of the rest of our time, but now it is time to get back in. Here, I’ll give you a hand back up.
“Always finding some way to hold my hand aren’t you?”
Fine. Climb in without my help.
“That one was pretty good, except you still smiled a bit when you said it. And it should come out shorter and sharper. So now you’re not gonna take my hand just to be stubborn?”
Just wait, the story’s not over yet.
“Fine.”
Oh, now I’m starting to get it.
I’m tired from all the swimming, so we take a river taxi back up river to the center of town. We gotta get back to the tram station and catch one out of town for about 45 minutes (we should try not to fall asleep – might wake up somewhere’s else before I’m done with this one) or so, then pick up a small van to a vineyard for a tasting.
“Really? Warum?”
Again, just thought you’d like it, plus I’m determined to learn from you. And, finally, I’d like to pick up from the fatigue and slide into mellow; sit in a beautifully lush green setting, in the afternoon, letting the rest of the day slide by.
“You do over-schedule us sometimes.”
Yeah, still working on the virtue of sitting quietly – thought this afternoon we’d help each other learn.
The breeze is here too, which just keeps us warm, but not too warm, under a shade tree at our table. Pinot Noir is the most popular variety. How is it? How do you describe that? I can tell these two are different, but couldn’t describe how.
“Remember: ‘working on sitting quietly’?”
Okay, another time then. Let me take your empty glass for you.
I catch your hand between mine and the glass briefly before switching hands to get the glass free.
“Some kinda ‘smooth’ way of holding my hand?”
Really, it was just an accident. If we could agree to focus on that less, it might actually become possible again.
“Okay, I’ll try. For you.”
You’re so gracious, and selfless, and sarcastic, and I thank you with all my heart.
“So, the sun’s going down, you’ve arranged to have me drink some wine; you gonna hold my hand now as the sun goes down over the vineyard?”
Wow, that is a good one. Green below, purple and blue up high, pink and orange in the middle, with just a hint of white and shadow from some wispy clouds. But, to answer your question, no, not holding your hand now either, too obvious.
“Well, I need my hand free for this anyway” – and you run your fingers through the tickly stubbly hair on the back and base of my head.
Lumpy without the hair to cover it all up, ain’t it?
“Shh, go back to the sunset why don’t you?”
Okay, the purple is gradually starting to deepen and dominate now that the sun is nearly below the horizon. The orange fades to an uncomplicated red, with just a bright yellow underpinning, that’s…, just…, about…, out. Now there’s no sun left, with just a red to blue western sky with bright white highlights in the high clouds. With the competition gone, the thin silver crescent moon seems to brighten.
I’m really about as mellow as I can be. If we don’t get up I’m going to slip into sleep. Will you take a walk through the vineyard with me?
“I was hoping we would, but you brought up that ‘sitting still’ thing.”
After you, no, after you, but I insist, no I couldn’t,…
“What?”
We’re so anxious to get out of each other’s way today. Let’s take that walk.
A suggestion of mist is rising among the rows of vines as the air temperature drops just a bit. It swirls around our ankles as we walk over the low rolling hills. Most of the vines are either flowering or budding. Here and there a moonflower vine has snuck in among the grapevines and been allowed to stay, and their bright white blooms are starting to open as they cool. Sniff one: they’re lovely and understated, and the scent lingers in your mind long after you’ve smelled it.
“Mmm, Hmm.”
The top of the next hill is clear. It’d be a nice place to watch the stars coming out if it didn’t mean sitting on the wet ground. I should’ve thought to bring a blanket…
(“Wait, didn’t I bring one?” What do you mean, where did you get one? “Look smarty, just do something with that pen of yours.” Okay, let me just put a few words in your mouth to make it seem reasonable…)
“Help me spread this blanket out.”
Where’d you get that?
“It was on the chair before, I thought it might come in handy.”
You’re so smart.
I sit on you left, you sit on my right. The southern sky is a bit confusing, don’t usually see some of these constellations. I try to point some out with my right hand. There’s Orion – can always spot him. Over there’s Canis Major, so, that’s gotta be Canis Minor; between the two dogs is the Unicorn. Diagonally from there, I think that’s the Phoenix, and all the squiggling across is the Hydra, I think.
“Could you point with your other hand instead?”
Sure, why?
“Good, now hold my hand with this one.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Well, you weren’t going to try to first.”
And over there is the Smiley. And if you look there, like that, and there, you can see Spike and Cactus…, let’s see what else…
“Hey! Shooting star – did you see that?”
Yep. Make a wish.

Port Townsend

2007-05-22T10:00:00.000-04:00

As found in my notebook in Indeterminate:

In response to what you said in Chicago, previously, "give us someplace else to escape to."

After a faltering step from me and then one from you — we're caught up again and planning our next trip. Here's a silly idea: Google something almost random and see what comes up. Sometimes lots of fun stuff. Let's start with Pete Townsend, that should open some interesting doors. Here’s one that looks cool — West Coast, Port Townsend, Washington ...overlooks Puget Sound. Let's go....

"Did we really make it the whole way across the country?"
It appears that way, you say dryly, it doesn't look like where we started.
This statement warrants a sneer from my face when you're not looking. I can't believe we made it the whole way. We pull up in front of the Waterstreet Inn, Port Townsend, Washington. We see a placard advertising a whale watching trip.
"I want to do that while we're here," I say. You look at me, annoyed that I want to do something so uber-touristy. (It wasn't that, it was just that, well, you'll see in the near future... "What?" Nothing, let's save it for later.)
"Did you know that for a lot of years I wanted to be a marine biologist?"
No, I didn't. But, I've been wondering why an English major took AP Biology in high school.
"Status." I reply, with a smirk. "I got a 99 on my final lab report. Good writing can fool even the sharpest high school science teachers."
We check in, toss our bags in the room, and then we turn right around and head out the door. The receptionist gives us the insiders' track to the best coffee shop and a cool indie bookstore to check out Perfect—a piece of cake vanilla for me and lemon for you (do you like lemon? I'm just guessing)--and a fabulous cup of coffee (don't worry, I'll let you know if it really is good) for an after lunch snack. You pick up a Jack Kerouac title, and I try to guess how many pages are really in War and Peace.
Then, I decide that my rear end isn't sore enough from a cross-country road trip just yet, so I suggest we wander down by the beach and see what we can get into. The afternoon sun has crested and is starting to consider setting. We pass a bicycle rental shack, and you tilt your head to gauge my interest and communicate yours. I spot a horseback-riding shack up ahead and turn on my heel to look at you.
"I'll flip you for it." I smile with raised eyebrow. (Hey, when'd you learn how to do that. "I'm just borrowing it for this piece, it's back to you when you get the pen back.")
Fifteen minutes later we're atop two chestnut horses, and our guide leads us down the rocky trail onto the beach. We walk first, and then the guide picks up the pace and we're trotting a little. You turn your hat around backwards to keep the wind from blowing it off. The salty hair scrubs my face clean of all the dirt from the car trip, and the sea spray and water kicked up from the horses is making our legs damp. Looking out over the water, the sun looks like a giant yellow ball, dropping quickly now, turning the sky a brilliant menagerie of color and giving the sunsets in Key West a run for it. We start to head back to the shack, and we ride in silence listening only to the snorts and hoof beats of the horses and the water massaging the shoreline.
Off the horses, a carrot and a pat for good measure (you still had [miraculously] two carrots left in your pocket from the snow day), and we're heading back to the hotel. Dinner comes next, and we propose rock-paper-scissors to decide what we get as we walk through the little strip of restaurants and shops. We narrow the choices—Italian (of course) or French bistro. I let you win (Paper. "Ok, then, Rock. You, always with the Paper" Yeah, and you always Rock. "Cute."), because I know you're still thinking about all things French (cap?), so you order everything, and we carry it back to the inn. The receptionist nods and smiles as she sees the name of the restaurant on the bag, Le Petit.
"You guys don't need any help from me. You already know where to go. You have great instincts. But, before you go up, hang on..." her voice drops off as she disappears into the back office behind the desk. She returns a minute later and hands us a bottle of wine.
"On the house—it should suit perfectly." And, of course it does. We sit by candlelight in the twilight on our room's balcony and eat fancy food while sitting in sweatpants and warm socks. The view overlooks the Sound, and we can see a few straggling fishing boats' lights still out on the water.
After dinner we push our chairs together next to each other's and grab an extra blanket to keep our legs warm. There isn't much to say, which is okay, although I can hardly contain my excitement about the next day's whale-watching trip. We sip on after-dinner coffee that I made in the room's tiny coffee pot.
This is good coffee, you say.
"No, it isn't. But thanks for saying so." It keeps us warm on the inside as the damp cool of the progressing evening moves in closer and closer. Once the coffee's gone, we move inside and flip through the channels on the TV to see if we can catch a movie.
"What do you want to watch?" I ask, yawning.
You mumble something I can't understand as you flip through the channels. We stumble upon an old episode of the Muppet Show.
"Awesome." I say, perking up a little.
We catch a little Kermit and Miss Piggy action as well as the two old guys' commentary from the balcony before our eyes grow heavy and we start to slump...
The morning sunlight turns the sky gray, then light blue, and it wakes you before me. You try your luck with the coffee pot, yet alas, you abandon the effort and stealthily sneak out to the bakery on the corner to procure a light breakfast and some good West Coast coffee. A light breakfast is crucial to preventing seasickness. And although I'm the more water-acclimated of the two of us, I am not immune to ill that comes from being on a smaller boat in a bigger body of water. I recall one fishing trip on Lake Michigan when I would have rather been anywhere else.. . that... wasn't... moving.
After fresh breakfast bread with jam we make our way down to the marina. The boat captain greets us with a smile as we climb aboard.
"It'll just be us this morning. It's too bad there isn't anyone else coming—the coast guard is tracking a pod about three-quarters-of-a-mile off right now. Should be a good show!" he announces. He's wearing yellow slicker pants (the West Coast version of snow pants, me thinks) and a floppy canvas hat that reads "I Heart Seattle." He scoops up some rope and fidgets with some of the buoys on the side of the boat. You eyeball nervously the nearest life vest to you as he looks us over one last time and says, "Ready?"
Off we go across the Sound, and there's still morning mist lingering in the distance. But, as we move closer to it, it seems to move farther away. A half-hour later the sun has evaporated most of the mist and the narcissistic mountains admire themselves in their own reflections on the smooth surface of the water. The captain cuts the engine and lets the boat drift on its course. He smiles and puts his fingers to his lips to keep us from speaking. He flips a few dials near the steering wheel, and all of a sudden we can hear the whales' trumpeting chatter nearby. Alongside the boat, a few portentious air bubbles break the surface. The captain smiles and silently, but excitedly points downward to tell us the whales are directly beneath the boat. Twenty seconds later a sudden blast turns our heads to the left and we see a dorsal fin rolling through the water on its way back beneath the surface. A moment passes and we hear another blast—then another, and another and soon the whole pod has surfaced.
"I do this every single day and it never gets old," sighs the captain. We watch the whales play about for the better part of an hour, and then they submerge and the chatter becomes more and more distant as they swim toward the open water. The captain starts the engine again and heads back to the marina.
We waste the early afternoon by strolling around the marina shops before we return to the hotel and pack our things up—only one night in Port Townsend for us.
"Where to next?" I ask.
You tap your coat pocket, which contains a map of the western seaboard.
Shall we get a cup of coffee while we decide? you ask.
"Sure." I say and take the arm you proffer. As we start to walk, I look up at you.
"It's sweet that you're making me feel like I can help choose the next place."
Why wouldn't I let you help choose?
"Because I think you already know where we're going."

Indeterminate

2007-05-10T23:50:00.000-04:00

1) A gentle breeze blows in through the curtains,
2) carrying with it the hint of the last
3) evaporated drops of dew from the summer
4) grass. Sunlight sneaks in with the breeze and
5) dances lazy patterns on the floor, accompanied
6) by the rustling of the curtains.
7) You take a slow deep breath in through your
8) nose, hold it for a moment, then let out a long
9) sigh, rolling to your left and stretching your
10) arm out. The pillow and sheets next to you
11) are cool, and you curl back up. Wait. Cool?
12) Why would they be cool? One eye half peeks
13) for a moment – nothing wrong exactly, but
14) that side of the bed seems to have expanded
15) since you last looked. Odd. Extra pillow. You
16) reach out to retrieve it and pull it in to a
17) hug, burying your head in to keep the sun out
18) of your eyes. Mmm, smells like,… You hear a
19) page turn and you roll back toward the
20) window to squint at me, sitting in the bench
21) seat in the bay window.
w) “Hey, Sneaky, whatcha doin’ over there?”
a) Shh, go back to sleep. I’ll wait ‘til later.
i) “Whatcha readin’?”
t) One of yours, now go on and sleep, you could
) use it the way you’ve been going lately.
f) You close your eyes, but with a little sharp
o) sigh and one corner of your mouth frowning.
r) Okay, wait just a second. I get up and come
) over to sit on the floor beside the bed,
i) leaning against it, with my legs stretched out
t) toward the window to get my feet in the sunlight. You scoot closer to the edge to put your hand on my shoulder, squeezing for a moment, curled back up yet again. I lean my head back against your forearm, close my eyes, and listen to you breathe. Your breaths get a little deeper and more regular as you start to nod off again, so I go back to reading. I close my eyes for a moment to imagine and appreciate your story’s scenery…
“Hey, come on Sleepyhead, I made you some good coffee.”
You’re dressed, and opening the curtains. I’m still rumpledy, with award-winning bed head and stubble.
“Here, you want this down there?”
Ahh, that is some good coffee, thanks. Is there anything around for breakfast?
“You’re on your own there – took me long enough to find everything for coffee. Where are we anyway?”
Don’t know, I have a feeling it doesn’t matter for this one – someplace nice, as far as this place goes, though. Where’d you find the shower? The discrepancy here is a little embarrassing.
“Speaking of embarrassment, how long were you sitting watching me sleep?”
Let’s go back and check – looks like about 20 lines or so before you noticed.
“What were you doing before that?”
Well, I woke up when it stated to get light – didn’t want to pester you: you were in the middle of a dream, shifting a little and moving your lips slightly. I thought I recognized what you said, but that might’ve just been me dreaming.
“Was?” (Could we keep it auf Englisch please? “Hey, it just slips out sometimes…”)
Nothing, or Nobody I guess.
“Whatever. Was it a good dream?”
You were smiling. For a moment, I thought you were just pretending to be asleep and looking at me.
“Maybe I was.”
Um, yeah, so at the point I was tempted to reach for your temple and cheek, I was able to restrain myself to merely brushing your hair back.
“No, wait, that I think I do remember.”
Well, then your lips wordlessly said the same thing they had before; which was when I knew I better get up. Found my notebook and figured the window was a safe distance away. Hey! When did you manage to write this piece on the back pages? I only noticed it by accident this morning when the breeze blew it open.
“You’re not the only one capable of surprises – now leave that with me and go do something about yourself – that can’t be the hair you’re going with today.”
I put my hand to the top of my head to try to get an idea of the havoc – eek, that’s got to be some stylish do. Where’s the shower?
“Right through there.”
Back in a jiffy…
When I get back, I’m back to looking like my normal self, though still a little droopy-eyed. You’re sitting on the bench seat now writing, in my notebook. Excuse me?
“How can you write with these medium point pens? It’s just messy.”
Well, that way when my handwriting looks messy I can just blame the pen. Writing anything special?
“How did you put it? ‘wait for it’?”
Funny. Scoot over a bit and let me sit in the window with you.
We sit side-by-side with the sun shining on our backs. I try to play it cool, just being quiet, and letting you write, but I can’t help it: I have to try and peek at what you’re writing, and, of course, I get caught. You pull the notebook to your chest and give me a scolding look and a wag from your finger. I put on my best innocent face and shrug my shoulders, but it’s no use: you’ve shifted to sit against the side of the window with your feet on the bench and notebook on your thighs. There’s just enough room on the bench for me to sit the same way opposite, but only if I put one foot on the floor. I open the windows the rest of the way to let the breeze finish drying my hair and to admire the gardens. Maybe we could take a walk later?
“Hmm?”
I said, I thought maybe we should take a walk in the garden later.
“Maybe, not right now though; I want to finish this and give you your notebook back. I’ve got another surprise for you.”
How can you have another surprise? We don’t even know what’s around.
“I’m very resourceful, and I’ve got a hunch about this place – starting to know what to expect from your stories.”
Too predictable, eh?
"Not too predictable, but there’s always a detail just for me and I’ve anticipated today’s – you’re not the only one who listens.”
Well, that’s got my interest, let me try to hurry up with the writing, and you stop me when I get to where you want to surprise me.
“Okay, I’m done with the notebook – we’ll make mine the next story, okay? You want to take another turn writing in it now? It’s nice here in the window.”
No, I’ll scribble this in later, let’s look around some more.
We stay on the top floor. Everything is sunlit. We pass the central staircase with its skylight and come to the parlor beyond.
(“And in the parlor there is a…”
Oh, yeah, I got you...)
And in the parlor, there is a piano.
“Perfect, ‘cause I’ve got a surprise for you”
You sit at the piano, and I stand beside it where I can see you play but not be in your field of vision. You open it up, place your fingers on the keys, and start to play,… scales.
Scales? That’s the surprise?
“That’s the surprise if you don’t know enough to not pressure me by being in the room.”
I did stand where you can’t see me.
“Since when do I have to see you to be affected by you?”
Okay, how about I take my notebook out on the balcony then? French doors open out onto a balcony where the ironwork framing is thickly covered in climbing roses. I sit in the chair, put my feet up on the small table. Two sensations sneak up on me almost simultaneously. First the scent of the roses, vague at first, then unmistakable. Similarly the first few notes tease the memory and the following notes float on the breeze like cheveux de lin (“Didn’t you say we were going to stay en Anglais?” I know, but it’s important there). I want to call out my appreciation to you, but I am silenced by the beauty and feeling of the playing. And flattered by your selection. The music, and the perfume, and the gesture all dance with my attention in turn and I am transported: from wherever else I might be, to this place now.
When you get to the end, you call out to me, “Not too bad, was it?”
No, that was great. Would you play it again for me sometime?
“I’ll do it right now.”
Can I read your story while you play?
“Of course, why else would I write it?”…