I'm a chronic blog-changer. I'm here, now:
http://silverfinofhope.wordpress.com
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
New blog
Hello lovelies. Am no longer posting here. You can find me at:
http://controllingaspicyuniverse.wordpress.com
Love.
http://controllingaspicyuniverse.wordpress.com
Love.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Care
Up until recently, all of the men in caves brought their food with them into the deep and the cold and the dark. That too would change soon, when a small company store was to go in adjacent to Adam's office. The families presented their own set of needs, and the wives didn't always want to shove their way into the dining hall kitchen for loaves of bread or jugs of milk for their incessantly hungry children. And sometimes the men in caves wanted something their warm wife had made for them, in their warm kitchen, for them and them only. They had placed that apple in the bag only for them, their soft hands had sliced the cheese that rested on the bread that was just the kind of bread that the men liked. And they would say so to one another, Leftover cornbread, even better the next day...and they would smile and there might even be a small note in the lunch, Have a good day...love you...xoxo. Plus, most of the men were from other places, places with their own colloquial recipes, and they could talk a bit about Home as they peeled wax paper away. The men didn't get that from the company cook, even though he really could cook, sometimes much better than any of the wives.
Adam had been to the mouth of the tunnels, and was shocked at the immediate January that escaped, his thin arms covered only with a cotton button down shirt shivered. His shudder deepened as he thought of how it must feel once the mine car traversed over the inner hill, over the darkened earth, and disappeared. The portals to that foreign world, that gnome world, that shadow cavern world that the other men entered in the mornings and exited in the early evenings were high up the mountain. Walking up there took a good fifteen minutes, though by standing near the dormitories, dining hall, and mine office deep in the valley it appeared they were a short climb away. Adam squinted up there often, amazed at how different that world was from the one down below, the world he preferred, though he often ruminated joining their ranks, and whether they would even let him, should he ask. It seemed if you entered the mines you were given keys to the Valley in exchange for the risk of losing an arm or an eye in a blast. You used to practically be given one of the town women of hire upon your arrival, before the families came. Adam was a little bit in awe of how easily the men shifted from the arms of these tarty, powdered women into the arms and hearths of their wives, brought up almost in haste, after word got out of the swarming whores around the mine. They used to buzz up the rough road all the way from Palmer, like inebriated birds of paradise in their blue and purple dresses, perched on top of almost rusted out Model T's. Their dresses were always either dusty or wet once they arrived at the mine, the pass that led there could have as many as three or four weather patterns in its giant range on a summer day (they usually didn't come up in the Winter - the mine was ghostly still then).
Adam never went to meet them when they came. He felt too ashamed for them. They were pretty, and they looked kind, all a bit like the lonely aunts that looked after him when he was in school. They had never married, these lonely aunts, and seemed to circle around him like hens who laid empty egg after empty egg; unsure of what he'd do next, should they feed him or let him fend for himself? These women for hire looked as though they wanted to take care of him when they happened to look his way on the Friday nights when they traversed upward. On the rare occasion they walked near his office, peering in and smiling a bit sideways at him as he tried not to look back. As he stuck his Roman-shaped nose deeper into a ledger or a novel, he secretly breathed in deeply, and could smell their Woolworth's lotions and powders as they clunked in cracked black high heels on the small deck outside the door. He didn't want them to take care of him in any way, just as he didn't want those lonely aunts worrying over him. He could cook his own food as he always had done and he could take care of his other, rawer needs on his own, too, just as he always had.
Adam had been to the mouth of the tunnels, and was shocked at the immediate January that escaped, his thin arms covered only with a cotton button down shirt shivered. His shudder deepened as he thought of how it must feel once the mine car traversed over the inner hill, over the darkened earth, and disappeared. The portals to that foreign world, that gnome world, that shadow cavern world that the other men entered in the mornings and exited in the early evenings were high up the mountain. Walking up there took a good fifteen minutes, though by standing near the dormitories, dining hall, and mine office deep in the valley it appeared they were a short climb away. Adam squinted up there often, amazed at how different that world was from the one down below, the world he preferred, though he often ruminated joining their ranks, and whether they would even let him, should he ask. It seemed if you entered the mines you were given keys to the Valley in exchange for the risk of losing an arm or an eye in a blast. You used to practically be given one of the town women of hire upon your arrival, before the families came. Adam was a little bit in awe of how easily the men shifted from the arms of these tarty, powdered women into the arms and hearths of their wives, brought up almost in haste, after word got out of the swarming whores around the mine. They used to buzz up the rough road all the way from Palmer, like inebriated birds of paradise in their blue and purple dresses, perched on top of almost rusted out Model T's. Their dresses were always either dusty or wet once they arrived at the mine, the pass that led there could have as many as three or four weather patterns in its giant range on a summer day (they usually didn't come up in the Winter - the mine was ghostly still then).
Adam never went to meet them when they came. He felt too ashamed for them. They were pretty, and they looked kind, all a bit like the lonely aunts that looked after him when he was in school. They had never married, these lonely aunts, and seemed to circle around him like hens who laid empty egg after empty egg; unsure of what he'd do next, should they feed him or let him fend for himself? These women for hire looked as though they wanted to take care of him when they happened to look his way on the Friday nights when they traversed upward. On the rare occasion they walked near his office, peering in and smiling a bit sideways at him as he tried not to look back. As he stuck his Roman-shaped nose deeper into a ledger or a novel, he secretly breathed in deeply, and could smell their Woolworth's lotions and powders as they clunked in cracked black high heels on the small deck outside the door. He didn't want them to take care of him in any way, just as he didn't want those lonely aunts worrying over him. He could cook his own food as he always had done and he could take care of his other, rawer needs on his own, too, just as he always had.
Friday, June 4, 2010
He's finally told me his name
Adam certainly wasn't an imposing man. His glasses were the commonly seen gold framed and round, nothing flashy or insinuated, but of course they gave him an air that men in glasses had, that scholarly air that made those in their presence feel like the one wearing the glasses had at least some of the answers. Adam was bookish, he was bright, he was educated, but not as much as others thought he was. He was good at math and always had been; his mother used shake out a bag of marbles and ask him How many marbles, darling? How many marbles does one need to make thirty if you've but nineteen? And Adam would scrunch his tiny five year old face up tight for an instant before brightening and practically shouting, Eleven! and would then bound like a puppy, rushing head first towards his mother, so proud he was of his quick answer. Math wasn't simply easy, it was like breathing to him, try as he might, his mind forced him to run up figures when it was in rest.
Like so many men with glasses who were educated, Adam was also quite thin. His considerable height on top of this caused him to look a bit like a praying mantis unfolding, especially when he got up from a seated position. His hands were long, his feet were long, his arms swayed a bit when he walked. But he wasn't unattractive in the slightest, there was something that seemed to flow through him, something peaceful but with an undercurrent of heat. He hadn't known many women but those who he did pass time with tended to become a bit obsessed; perhaps their mothers had whispered that common phrase "Still waters run deep" to them when they were girls. Meaning that the quiet, smart, peaceful ones who always seemed to be deep in thought were the ones with the most important things to say, or do. Adam had a lot on his mind most of the time, and he certainly was quite still, most of the time. Not lately, though. Lately he'd been jumpy, fidgety, the very opposite of still.
Like so many men with glasses who were educated, Adam was also quite thin. His considerable height on top of this caused him to look a bit like a praying mantis unfolding, especially when he got up from a seated position. His hands were long, his feet were long, his arms swayed a bit when he walked. But he wasn't unattractive in the slightest, there was something that seemed to flow through him, something peaceful but with an undercurrent of heat. He hadn't known many women but those who he did pass time with tended to become a bit obsessed; perhaps their mothers had whispered that common phrase "Still waters run deep" to them when they were girls. Meaning that the quiet, smart, peaceful ones who always seemed to be deep in thought were the ones with the most important things to say, or do. Adam had a lot on his mind most of the time, and he certainly was quite still, most of the time. Not lately, though. Lately he'd been jumpy, fidgety, the very opposite of still.
On haiku
Why I love haiku:
its simple syllables help
my wild thoughts come clean
Haiku is simple, and it is good to me. Always has been. I used to entertain friends at bars and music halls with pretty personalized haiku in tribute to their glowing personalities. Sometimes I penned some raunchy blue ones, like a late 1990's Wife of Bath.
Haiku helps me usher in the odd thoughts that hit me at 2:00 a.m., the elevators to space and poppy fields that fill my night with strange cinema. Haiku helps me organize the hodgepodge into neat, rhythmic structured syllabic form. It helps that haiku isn't meant to rhyme.
Imagine my sighs when I saw some crummy haiku up in a lobby art installation, chiseled and lasered on expensive architectural art plastic (the sort that I admired in a few design-centric-sales luncheons, the ones I wasn't needed or expected at but that I loved to attend once in an while). Crummy haiku written about plasma TV's, and wads of cash, and hunting without poetry.
I was disappointed and angry that I hadn't submitted any, that I didn't even know where to submit. Then I realized that my little haiku weren't in mesh with the odes to ATV's and snowboards that illustrated the new young Alaskan spirit. It only reminded me that this beautiful world is not my permanent world, that I do much better on a front porch with an oak or willow nearby, or on a mountain that doesn't expect me to tame it, or something "extreme" on it. Haiku has brought me everything, really; the children's book Gary and I are almost finished creating is told in it, and I plan on telling many more in the same way.
It is good to me
it holds my hand and guides me there
and quiets the din
its simple syllables help
my wild thoughts come clean
Haiku is simple, and it is good to me. Always has been. I used to entertain friends at bars and music halls with pretty personalized haiku in tribute to their glowing personalities. Sometimes I penned some raunchy blue ones, like a late 1990's Wife of Bath.
Haiku helps me usher in the odd thoughts that hit me at 2:00 a.m., the elevators to space and poppy fields that fill my night with strange cinema. Haiku helps me organize the hodgepodge into neat, rhythmic structured syllabic form. It helps that haiku isn't meant to rhyme.
Imagine my sighs when I saw some crummy haiku up in a lobby art installation, chiseled and lasered on expensive architectural art plastic (the sort that I admired in a few design-centric-sales luncheons, the ones I wasn't needed or expected at but that I loved to attend once in an while). Crummy haiku written about plasma TV's, and wads of cash, and hunting without poetry.
I was disappointed and angry that I hadn't submitted any, that I didn't even know where to submit. Then I realized that my little haiku weren't in mesh with the odes to ATV's and snowboards that illustrated the new young Alaskan spirit. It only reminded me that this beautiful world is not my permanent world, that I do much better on a front porch with an oak or willow nearby, or on a mountain that doesn't expect me to tame it, or something "extreme" on it. Haiku has brought me everything, really; the children's book Gary and I are almost finished creating is told in it, and I plan on telling many more in the same way.
It is good to me
it holds my hand and guides me there
and quiets the din
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Now
If my heart sings now
it's because I'm seeing things
like sun on water
What used to frighten
and turn my stomach to ice
I look in the eye
And sweep away fear
by shading my eyes away
from the blinding glare
Of all the true things
that are bright and beautiful
and terrifying
it's because I'm seeing things
like sun on water
What used to frighten
and turn my stomach to ice
I look in the eye
And sweep away fear
by shading my eyes away
from the blinding glare
Of all the true things
that are bright and beautiful
and terrifying
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Valley
The place expanded and contracted, given his mood and the morning. It had gotten much better since the Winter finally let go its frigid stronghold in the valley; they had a commissary now, a dining hall, some workers were allowed to bring their families. He was still alone because he didn't go into the caves, he only punched numbers and filed ledgers so any family he might have wasn't yet allowed up. Not that it mattered, since he had no family to speak of, not one of his choosing at least.
When the valley started to fill up a bit with women that weren't for hire, his loneliness became somewhat unbearable during the day. He was alone in his office, which was its own little building, while the other men (rough and crude as they were he enjoyed their company) went into the caves and pulled out gold and sent it down a track. After the geologist analyzed the load he was given a set of numbers, which he recorded and turned into dollars for the owner. He then turned the remaining dollars into payroll for the men, into paid bills for the food, for the heat, for the floors, for the chair that he sat on all day and sometimes all night. He did most of this alone, save the conversation with the owner and a manager or two, or a few forced words at the dining hall in the evenings or to the cook when he picked up his lunch (at his own given lunch time, the other men ate in the caves).
He was alone all day, and slept in a small closet attached to his office all night. The other men (those who were not foreman and did not have a small house onsite allotted to them complete with a priorly formed family unit to keep them warm) slept in dormitories with ping pong tables and shared baths. The dormitories reminded him of where he lived when he attended Denison University in Granville, Ohio: tall ceilings, lots of loud voices calling out in the late hours, the stink of sweaty young men and unwashed clothing. He had had his share of camaraderie in school, but in this lonely profession at this lonely place in this lonely state he felt a bit like a shadow. His shoulders that were always bony became a bit stooped, driven forward by his shyness and introversion.
The new women helped, even if they were married to the men in the caves. Their happy voices called out each other and their children, enough children lived here now that soon the mining company was turning one of the apartments in the large new dining hall into a school for the ten-odd offspring that had joined this bizarre community. The owner had asked him if he wanted to teach math or more intricate accounting to the older children, and he agreed, glad for distraction, glad for change, glad to be able to hear his voice speak out loud for extended periods of time and to hear voices speak back to him earnestly. The small homes with the small families inside were quite close to his office and quarters, and he sometimes could smell the bread baking smells that he had so missed, and when he passed the tall windows on his way to the owner's office he peeked askance at the cozy interiors. They were full of modern and familiar things: toasters, Felix the cat clocks, rag rugs, radios (amazing they could get a signal up here), calendars with movie stars on them. The grey planks of the small homes shone silver sometimes, and the red framed windows and red doors gave a cheeriness that hadn't existed prior to the improvements that were made right around the women's arrival. Roughness was being covered up a bit. No longer did the place look like an organized Civil War era factory camp.
There was another improvement, another pleasant advance: movies were being shown in one of the larger dormitories now. He had come to one of the showings, held rather late because of the stubborn sunlight, but the men and the older children and the wives with no very young children stuck it out until the movies would start at midnight. The younger men and the older boys threw popcorn and cat called Rita Hayworth or whomever the main actress was, and if he closed his eyes he felt as though he were in a move house back home, and not in some lonely gold mine in South Central Alaska.
To be close to the new wives, to sit sometimes next to one of them (when they arrived the women of hire had discreetly removed themselves back down to the town down the pass - twenty miles below), was a frustrating and blissful experience for him. Sometimes he allowed one of his bony tweed knees to graze a soft cotton skirt, sometimes he was able to stare at a lower lip for longer than an instant, while the wife and husband gazed in rapt attention at the flickering screen. Sometimes he imagined he felt pulses of recognition, of attraction when his leg ever so slightly brushed along the fabric of one of the wives' skirts. The wives' lips were usually red, ripened with lipstick brought up from civilization. Hair was glossy, shined with shampoo and good brushes also lugged the miles and many feet of elevation up. The lack of trees in this place, the low plants and squashy emerald tundra only accentuated these women's allure; red was more red than red, black and blonde hair stood out and turned the valley into a painted postcard. To sit next to one of them and begin a casual, slightly intellectual conversation was aching fodder for his imagination. He was harmless, though. The men in the caves had nothing to worry about. He was too kind and too smart to attempt anything other than a church-parishioner like relationship with any of these women. But it didn't stop him from quietly looking. Or thinking. Or wanting.
When the valley started to fill up a bit with women that weren't for hire, his loneliness became somewhat unbearable during the day. He was alone in his office, which was its own little building, while the other men (rough and crude as they were he enjoyed their company) went into the caves and pulled out gold and sent it down a track. After the geologist analyzed the load he was given a set of numbers, which he recorded and turned into dollars for the owner. He then turned the remaining dollars into payroll for the men, into paid bills for the food, for the heat, for the floors, for the chair that he sat on all day and sometimes all night. He did most of this alone, save the conversation with the owner and a manager or two, or a few forced words at the dining hall in the evenings or to the cook when he picked up his lunch (at his own given lunch time, the other men ate in the caves).
He was alone all day, and slept in a small closet attached to his office all night. The other men (those who were not foreman and did not have a small house onsite allotted to them complete with a priorly formed family unit to keep them warm) slept in dormitories with ping pong tables and shared baths. The dormitories reminded him of where he lived when he attended Denison University in Granville, Ohio: tall ceilings, lots of loud voices calling out in the late hours, the stink of sweaty young men and unwashed clothing. He had had his share of camaraderie in school, but in this lonely profession at this lonely place in this lonely state he felt a bit like a shadow. His shoulders that were always bony became a bit stooped, driven forward by his shyness and introversion.
The new women helped, even if they were married to the men in the caves. Their happy voices called out each other and their children, enough children lived here now that soon the mining company was turning one of the apartments in the large new dining hall into a school for the ten-odd offspring that had joined this bizarre community. The owner had asked him if he wanted to teach math or more intricate accounting to the older children, and he agreed, glad for distraction, glad for change, glad to be able to hear his voice speak out loud for extended periods of time and to hear voices speak back to him earnestly. The small homes with the small families inside were quite close to his office and quarters, and he sometimes could smell the bread baking smells that he had so missed, and when he passed the tall windows on his way to the owner's office he peeked askance at the cozy interiors. They were full of modern and familiar things: toasters, Felix the cat clocks, rag rugs, radios (amazing they could get a signal up here), calendars with movie stars on them. The grey planks of the small homes shone silver sometimes, and the red framed windows and red doors gave a cheeriness that hadn't existed prior to the improvements that were made right around the women's arrival. Roughness was being covered up a bit. No longer did the place look like an organized Civil War era factory camp.
There was another improvement, another pleasant advance: movies were being shown in one of the larger dormitories now. He had come to one of the showings, held rather late because of the stubborn sunlight, but the men and the older children and the wives with no very young children stuck it out until the movies would start at midnight. The younger men and the older boys threw popcorn and cat called Rita Hayworth or whomever the main actress was, and if he closed his eyes he felt as though he were in a move house back home, and not in some lonely gold mine in South Central Alaska.
To be close to the new wives, to sit sometimes next to one of them (when they arrived the women of hire had discreetly removed themselves back down to the town down the pass - twenty miles below), was a frustrating and blissful experience for him. Sometimes he allowed one of his bony tweed knees to graze a soft cotton skirt, sometimes he was able to stare at a lower lip for longer than an instant, while the wife and husband gazed in rapt attention at the flickering screen. Sometimes he imagined he felt pulses of recognition, of attraction when his leg ever so slightly brushed along the fabric of one of the wives' skirts. The wives' lips were usually red, ripened with lipstick brought up from civilization. Hair was glossy, shined with shampoo and good brushes also lugged the miles and many feet of elevation up. The lack of trees in this place, the low plants and squashy emerald tundra only accentuated these women's allure; red was more red than red, black and blonde hair stood out and turned the valley into a painted postcard. To sit next to one of them and begin a casual, slightly intellectual conversation was aching fodder for his imagination. He was harmless, though. The men in the caves had nothing to worry about. He was too kind and too smart to attempt anything other than a church-parishioner like relationship with any of these women. But it didn't stop him from quietly looking. Or thinking. Or wanting.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
something else
Was there somewhere else he'd rather be? Was there somewhere more temperate or flatter? Where every mile walked wasn't mostly uphill? Of course there was. He'd rather be somewhere mossy and green, with animals around every corner that he could trap. He'd rather be somewhere with someone warm and a bit lusty, somewhere that smelled of bread baking and timber and herbs lined up on wooden tables. That place would be free from other men save a few young male offspring of his own; no other men to stink and speak close enough for him to see their wretched teeth or hear their cacophonous snores.
But he was here. Here in this giant place with men all around. Men for miles, punctuating the lonely emptiness that stretched all over this strange part of the continent. The few women here were shared by all of the men, men with loud voices and little schooling. Men who were feasting on bars of gold while he recorded their ever-increasing bankrolls into ledgers for them. Men who paid him a moderate sum because he was precise at numbers. The sum was enough to keep him here. Away from the truth of faraway home. If it were a few dollars a week less he would probably be where it was mossy and green, where it snowed only sometimes and the mountains rolled along like a calm day at sea, instead of jutting up boastfully. He would be home.
But he was here. Here in this giant place with men all around. Men for miles, punctuating the lonely emptiness that stretched all over this strange part of the continent. The few women here were shared by all of the men, men with loud voices and little schooling. Men who were feasting on bars of gold while he recorded their ever-increasing bankrolls into ledgers for them. Men who paid him a moderate sum because he was precise at numbers. The sum was enough to keep him here. Away from the truth of faraway home. If it were a few dollars a week less he would probably be where it was mossy and green, where it snowed only sometimes and the mountains rolled along like a calm day at sea, instead of jutting up boastfully. He would be home.
It's not Science Fiction, It's Love
Theresa was a beautiful girl. She didn't feel beautiful most of the time, though; her eyebrows were thick and her hips were a little generous, bony as she was. She never noticed the heads turning and if she did she thought the stares were in reaction to her thick eyebrows and generous hips. She didn't see her raven feather hair. Usually she only saw the beautiful ones she knew, and thought they were far more lovely than she. She felt a slight rise in power when she eventually starting drinking and smoking, she felt wise and started watching lots of Bette Davis movies on Sunday afternoons. But young girls really don't need to find glamour in an emphysematous pop eyed film star from the thirties. Young girls need to be found outside, running and leaping, rolling in the grass. Theresa felt like she was born in the wrong era, but she wasn't yet aware of how common this malady was, how many legions of girls felt the same way. She wasn't yet aware that she was born at exactly the right place in exactly the right time, to exactly the right parents, so that she could meet the exact right person at the exactly right time, and that that person would save her life in every way imaginable. That person who had also felt like such a failure for much of his life would bring her to the threshold of her (and their) ultimate destiny. It's not science fiction, it's love.
Purest
Has anyone described this before? I've never read it, and I've read much and often. That feeling you get when a beloved teacher puts her face close to yours and helps you read the words aloud. Who helps you finally, properly spell "because" or "definitely". That tiny, swirling feeling when a child puts clothespins all over the back of your shirt and declares that you are a porcupine. It's a quiet feeling of love in its purest form: true, innocent, calm, peaceful. It tingles your shoulders and makes the edges of your mouth hum and buzz a bit and lift at the corners. When mermaids are real and tin can phones work and good pirates are around every corner. Or when you're tiny and someone brushes your hair in long strokes.
Today there is a shadow of sadness passing through the world of blogs. I don't really belong to that world but I do read quite a few of the more well known ladies, and I have been reading about sweet Henry Granju for a while now. Here's his story: http://www.mamapundit.com.
I am reminded of my cousin who died from similar causes and of myself and of my husband, who thankfully escaped the clutches of active addiction. I think of my son and I worry about his adolescence, and am glad it's almost ten years away.
I am reminded of my cousin who died from similar causes and of myself and of my husband, who thankfully escaped the clutches of active addiction. I think of my son and I worry about his adolescence, and am glad it's almost ten years away.
Monday, May 31, 2010
An old dream about something much older
When we learned about Lincoln's assassination in elementary school we were given few details. He was a good man. Everyone loved him. Well, a few people didn't love him. He did very good things and then a bad man shot and killed him. I don't remember much of the lesson but I do remember the dream I had the night they taught us about what happened to the tall president with the big hat, big beard, big voice.
I am there but not there. I am in a room, just waiting in the corner. I wasn't me but I was me at once. I was male, and had itchy pants and heavy, highly polished black shoes on. The chair I sat in was hard, straight-backed, wooden, not upholstered at all. I was waiting. I was sad about something.
Soon they brought him in. I wasn't waiting long. I sat and watched and no one knew who I was. They didn't see or feel my presence at all. They brought him in and had to lie him across the bed instead of the regular longways position. Everyone moved around him and worked in silence, murmuring. He didn't murmur. He breathed and then he didn't. They put coins in his eyes.
Then I stood on cobblestone and they moved him past me on a moving bed (I didn't know the word for gurney). I cried and was in my own body again and everyone milled around me in the dark cobblestone alley, lit only by oily streetlights. They put pennies in his eyes but his face wasn't on the penny yet.
*I had this dream after learning that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. I must have been in the fourth or fifth grade. I can still feel this dream in my bones, over twenty years after having it.*
I am there but not there. I am in a room, just waiting in the corner. I wasn't me but I was me at once. I was male, and had itchy pants and heavy, highly polished black shoes on. The chair I sat in was hard, straight-backed, wooden, not upholstered at all. I was waiting. I was sad about something.
Soon they brought him in. I wasn't waiting long. I sat and watched and no one knew who I was. They didn't see or feel my presence at all. They brought him in and had to lie him across the bed instead of the regular longways position. Everyone moved around him and worked in silence, murmuring. He didn't murmur. He breathed and then he didn't. They put coins in his eyes.
Then I stood on cobblestone and they moved him past me on a moving bed (I didn't know the word for gurney). I cried and was in my own body again and everyone milled around me in the dark cobblestone alley, lit only by oily streetlights. They put pennies in his eyes but his face wasn't on the penny yet.
*I had this dream after learning that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. I must have been in the fourth or fifth grade. I can still feel this dream in my bones, over twenty years after having it.*
Friday, May 28, 2010
Late part 4
I have dreams that are waiting but I'd rather put them off, as perfect and strange as they normally are. The moment I close my burning eyelids (burning because I'm getting a cold) they'll start to rush in, desperate to have their say. The players, orchestra, and backstage crew has everything arranged just so, ready for me to enter the weird and wicked world my subconscious has created just for tonight: glittering eels swimming through seas of magma, polka dot swimsuits worn by beautiful strangers, twenty pairs of hands clasped together on a beach, twenty people singing softly with their eyes closed.
It's a world that I love and that I visit nightly but tonight I'm just not ready. Tonight I'd rather sit here and type and look at the boxes that are starting to be filled with what will travel with us the 4,000+ miles back home. I'd rather feel my legs go numb in this position, read until it finally gets dark at 2 am, and wake up feeling like I'm on vacation. Listen to my husband emerge from his shower and wait for the accompanying smell of his cologne on his wet warm skin. Wake up feeling alive and new. I put off the things that excite me, though. The waiting is the jewel of it all. The perfect, hard little stone that begs to be thrown and skipped in the water. But the best part is waiting to throw it. Watching the sun dance on the water with your arm reared back behind you. Knowing that perfect moment is just moments away. Then you're in it. And it might as well be over.
It's a world that I love and that I visit nightly but tonight I'm just not ready. Tonight I'd rather sit here and type and look at the boxes that are starting to be filled with what will travel with us the 4,000+ miles back home. I'd rather feel my legs go numb in this position, read until it finally gets dark at 2 am, and wake up feeling like I'm on vacation. Listen to my husband emerge from his shower and wait for the accompanying smell of his cologne on his wet warm skin. Wake up feeling alive and new. I put off the things that excite me, though. The waiting is the jewel of it all. The perfect, hard little stone that begs to be thrown and skipped in the water. But the best part is waiting to throw it. Watching the sun dance on the water with your arm reared back behind you. Knowing that perfect moment is just moments away. Then you're in it. And it might as well be over.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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