We slip into afternoon
scattered light to sip
wine-soaked strawberries
beside bougainvillea
the color of Merlot;
Sometime around noon
we slather marmalade
thick with orange rine,
and whip eggs smooth
like creamy meringue;
We loll on hot sand
in private beach coves,
finding a hundred reasons
to touch skin kissed
by salty sea spray;
Late lovers, we stroll,
arms around each other
tightly along St. Ann's
asthe eight o'clock sun
infuses summer's sea;
Like spoons, we sleep
below an August moon,
while in the night sky
a droning plane
recalls September.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Losing Entry
Here's my FLASH FICTION entry that did not win.
LAST ROUNDUP
“Hey, pretty lady, what’s a filly like you doin’ out so late?”
He ordered himself a double shot and one for her.
“Not many cowboys come through this town anymore,” she said. “Pity, too.” Then she smiled. “You out lookin’ for some hog-killin’ fun?”
He spurred her on. “Yep.”
As the crowd thinned at two, she said, “Don’t ‘spect me to slide into that filthy pickup out front.”
He lit her cigarette, ordered a last round. “Your call, ma’am. Sometimes you get. Sometimes you get got.”
She caught him by the big brass buckle. He didn’t mind.
“I’m game,” she said, and they climbed the stairs out back to the stars.
LAST ROUNDUP
“Hey, pretty lady, what’s a filly like you doin’ out so late?”
He ordered himself a double shot and one for her.
“Not many cowboys come through this town anymore,” she said. “Pity, too.” Then she smiled. “You out lookin’ for some hog-killin’ fun?”
He spurred her on. “Yep.”
As the crowd thinned at two, she said, “Don’t ‘spect me to slide into that filthy pickup out front.”
He lit her cigarette, ordered a last round. “Your call, ma’am. Sometimes you get. Sometimes you get got.”
She caught him by the big brass buckle. He didn’t mind.
“I’m game,” she said, and they climbed the stairs out back to the stars.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Last Love
Almost every night she slips into my bed, and I welcome her, craving her warmth as she curls to conform her body to mine. We sleep, spoon fashion.
Oh, there are times when we don’t agree. She can be shrill, scolding the neighbors up too soon or those who tear around late. She’s protective, doesn’t want me disturbed or unduly startled. She’s young, you see, and I am old, but in our May-December relationship, she gives my life meaning, a reason to arise each morning.
She’s beautiful and as playful as a kitten at times. Her eagerness for a good time gets me out of my chair and makes me laugh. How clever she is and oh, how she teases. She puts a spring in my step and lifts my spirits every hour of the day.
The two of us walk every afternoon, strolling along the honeysuckle walk to get the mail or to the corner to watch the boys on bikes. We dawdle, examining leaves and bits of bark, little things others might not notice as we inhale the cool salt scent wafting inland from the coast. We poke about, checking our property, alert to anything the least bit altered from the day before. By now we know every inch of the garden planters, the slope of the grass, and what lies behind every bush. She’s alert, warning me of anything amiss. With her, I feel safe.
When we’ve had enough of the outdoors or, I should say, when I’ve had enough for she would like nothing better than to go around again, dawdling, observing, roaming the intricate pathways of our neighborhood, I ask, “Sweetie, don’t you think it’s time to go back into the house and have a little snack.”
I pour myself a glass of red wine, have a cracker or two, maybe some cheese or some dark chocolate. She prefers fresh water and a few carrot sticks. No wonder she’s in better shape than I, slim and trim; her diet and exercise keeps her that way.
I sort the day’s mail at the table, open the paper to read our horoscopes since we catch the rest of news on CNN. Then she’ll sit in my lap as I pour another glass of wine. While she rests, drowsy after a full day, I fix dinner.
In the evening, she’s alert again and demands my attention, nudging and prodding, insisting on some quality time even tough I must get some writing done, check my e-mail, and do some research on the net.
She gets out her toys, one after another, eager to play, thinking one game or another will entice me. Surely, the neighbors can hear how badly she wants to party for she can become quite insistent in the evenings.
“Shh, it’s getting late,” I tell her. Then I coax her a little, rub her back, and she settles down. She loves me, and I love her, my dachshund, my Annie.
Oh, there are times when we don’t agree. She can be shrill, scolding the neighbors up too soon or those who tear around late. She’s protective, doesn’t want me disturbed or unduly startled. She’s young, you see, and I am old, but in our May-December relationship, she gives my life meaning, a reason to arise each morning.
She’s beautiful and as playful as a kitten at times. Her eagerness for a good time gets me out of my chair and makes me laugh. How clever she is and oh, how she teases. She puts a spring in my step and lifts my spirits every hour of the day.
The two of us walk every afternoon, strolling along the honeysuckle walk to get the mail or to the corner to watch the boys on bikes. We dawdle, examining leaves and bits of bark, little things others might not notice as we inhale the cool salt scent wafting inland from the coast. We poke about, checking our property, alert to anything the least bit altered from the day before. By now we know every inch of the garden planters, the slope of the grass, and what lies behind every bush. She’s alert, warning me of anything amiss. With her, I feel safe.
When we’ve had enough of the outdoors or, I should say, when I’ve had enough for she would like nothing better than to go around again, dawdling, observing, roaming the intricate pathways of our neighborhood, I ask, “Sweetie, don’t you think it’s time to go back into the house and have a little snack.”
I pour myself a glass of red wine, have a cracker or two, maybe some cheese or some dark chocolate. She prefers fresh water and a few carrot sticks. No wonder she’s in better shape than I, slim and trim; her diet and exercise keeps her that way.
I sort the day’s mail at the table, open the paper to read our horoscopes since we catch the rest of news on CNN. Then she’ll sit in my lap as I pour another glass of wine. While she rests, drowsy after a full day, I fix dinner.
In the evening, she’s alert again and demands my attention, nudging and prodding, insisting on some quality time even tough I must get some writing done, check my e-mail, and do some research on the net.
She gets out her toys, one after another, eager to play, thinking one game or another will entice me. Surely, the neighbors can hear how badly she wants to party for she can become quite insistent in the evenings.
“Shh, it’s getting late,” I tell her. Then I coax her a little, rub her back, and she settles down. She loves me, and I love her, my dachshund, my Annie.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
New Book I'm Working On
Hello here is a new book I just started!!!
Haunted
Her new Home.
She had moved to the South. Found a place on the internet and bought it sight unseen. After twelve years with her employer the move could only be called abrupt. She quit her job and left.
She had been enchanted with the jasmine vine entwining the white pickets of the front porch. The house was built in 1849! And so no surprise there were some rotten boards here and there. She could almost smell the history of the place. Deep. Dark. Fertile.
Her first night. Very quiet. She wasn’t used to that. She lay in bed and heard herself breathing. The crickets chirped with the unvarying cadence of machines . She had locked the door, but the lock was not much good. A strong nudge and the door would creak open.
The drone of the insects had a hypnotic effect. She slept. It was one in the morning when she awoke in the dark. She couldn’t describe it, but she felt a “presence”. The hairs on her neck crawled. Her palms were damp. She lay awake, listening to rustle of leaves, the tapping of branches, the subtle creaks of an old house.
The next thing she knew it was morning. Spring sunshine dappling her bed. Birds trilling. And the sweet jasmine blossoms gay and cheerful. She inhaled, stretched like a cat. Today she would tackle the overgrown garden.
The garden had about merged with the wildness at the edges of her property – scrub pine, acacia, thistle . A blackberry had gone crazy and smothered a bouganviilla , with the rare lily or rose trying to poke its damp tentative blossom toward the sun. Ripping away the vines with gloved hands and whacking them with her machete, she encountered a scraggly tomato plant. The heavy green tomatoes lay against the moist dark soil, savageable. She smiled.
Just then her cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her jeans.
What?
How is it going?
I’m busy.
Is there anything you need?
Yeah. I need for you to stop calling me.
She turned off her phone. She took her machete and whacked at the blackberry. She had quite a pile of thorny severed boughs.
Idiot. She said aloud. Stopping, flushed and breathing hard. A bird of prey (an eagle?) soared overhead. White clouds stretched and changed shape against the blue sky. May. Her favorite month.
She had accomplished quite a bit by the time darkness extinguished the long dusk. She began to visualize orderly rows of vegetables. Sipping Jasmine tea, she smiled as she rocked in sunbleached porch rocker. The rocker was lopsided, but most enjoyable. She tasted the skin of her sunburnt forearm. Salty.
No electricity yet. The wiring was shot. As cool night yielded insects and dew. She lit the wick of a kerosene lamp. She would be sore tomorrow. Not used to physical work. She felt a healthy exhaustion which rendered her peaceful. Not like the fatigue after a sedentary day of endless phone calls and emails, capped with a commute in dense aggressive traffic, while her cell phone continued to buzz. She had yet to turn on her laptop.
The bathroom was narrow box. It had been added in the forties. The toilet. stained porcelain, was slow, but flushed, eventually. The bedroom closets were small, but the kitchen pantry was large. A big walk in pantry. No doubt it once held a winter’s worth of home canned fruits and vegetables.
She sunk into bed. The “partly furnished” component of her new house was appreciated, though the too soft double bed had a distinct gentile sag. A grandmotherly bed. Sweet but arthritic, it held her in it’s crooked springs. She would sleep well tonight.
But she did not. She had dozed off almost immediately, but awakened suddenly in the whispering blackness. A cramp bit into bowels. The usual panic attack, all she had to do was count to one hundred. One, two, three . . . .
She had the sensation of being locked in a vault. She sucked in air but felt she wasn’t getting enough. Slow. Slow down, her brain tried to tell itself, but her body had its own ideas. Her heartbeat accelerated like a gas pedal pushed down.
Then she heard something. Not loud. She had to strain to hear. Where was it? In the kitchen? She listened with the vigilance of a prey animal at high alert. But the sound did not return. The wind kicked up. It puffed the muslin curtin cooled by a pattering of summer rain. She could hear it gently rocking the oaks. The sound of rhythmic swooshings soothed her and sleep overtook her.
The next morning she emerged from her bedroom, treading softly on the oak floored hallway with the quaint patterned carpet runners that had so captivated her on the internet. Night terrors banished by the light. She yawned, anticipating brewing morning coffee on the petite gas stove, and getting to work again. Today she would begin to clear out the detached garage. The garage (not shown in the internet advertisement) was stuffed floor to ceiling with several lifetimes worth of junk. She envisioned turning the garage into a tidy little art studio slash library.
As she entered the kitchen, she stopped and froze. A smeared swath of bright red blood was already attracting a few files on the pale linoleum. Her eyes followed the blood to its terminus, where a rat lay with its intestines ripped out.
She gasped.
Instinctively she covered her eyes. But quickly recovered. This was her house and her dead rat. She would have to clean it up.
Donning gloves, she scooped up the rat with a shovel and buried beyond her property line in the forest. She deduced that the rat was killed in a fight with another rat. What else could have killed it?
She had peered into the dusty attic in search of the source of the rat . It was scattered with rat “pellets”, and it, like the garage contained dusty junk. Boxes, things covered in sheets, odds and ends, stacks of magazines and papers. Another project for another day. The real estate agent had emphasized that the house was a “fixer-upper”. The bold words “AS-IS” were something she was required to initial on the purchase contract. Of course that was why the house was so cheap she could buy it outright with cash.
She drove to the nearest small town seventeen miles distant, savoring traffic-free Oak Leaf Road for seven meandering miles. Shady forest tunnels gave was to sunlit meadows with collapsing red barns. She crossed Shenandoah Creek over a stone bridge, and turned onto two lane Shadrach County highway. The route had originally been used by horse drawn carriages trotting residents to a brisk little railroad station and thence to churning cities far beyond. The route had long ago been supplanted by the interstate. And thus it was that the town of Red Stone and all its former arteries atrophied to lovely oblivion.
The old town of Red Stone consisted of a boarded up moldering schoolhouse tucked deep in a cypress wood, a crumbling railroad station similarly festooned with vines and far enough from the existing thoroufare to look somewhat haunted, two street, two block old downtown, with a white clapboard church here and there. The “new” Redstone consisted of a couple of the most prolific Big Boxes and fast food places. A nursing home doing its best impression of a prison , an auto dealership vying for “most garish”, and a squat stucco drive through bank looking like a smug fat toad completed the ensemble. Civilization as we know it. Ugly, but convenient.
She smelled the delicious aroma of fried food. She decided to try to local fare and drove through “Ernie’s Drive-In” She ordered onion rings from a chubby freckled teenager whose name tag said “Shandora”.
Eating her onion rings at a small park while perusing the local paper, a red-neck in a base-ball cap, leered at her, and gunned his engine for all it was worth. Bare legs, a tank top, and long dirty blond hair. What more could a guy ask? Not much, she well knew. She felt good. The sun felt warm on her legs. She dipped an onion ring in ketchup and relished the crispy taste. Perfection. She loved this place. Maybe she would open a little restaurant. She still had a fair chunk of savings. She had to do something to make money, eventually.
After her onion ring feast, she purchased chocolate, peanut butter, olive oil, pasta, tomato paste, garlic, oregano, canned tomatos, lemon cake mix with lemon frosting, eggs, and rat traps
Back home she made herself jump when trying to bait the traps with peanut butter. The big traps inadvertently snapped with considerable force. She put one in the kitchen, one in the attic, and one on the front porch.
At about three a.m. she was awakened by an agonized rat squeal and the banging sound of a rat in its death throes flopping the trap around. The banging didn’t last long. She sighed and went back to sleep. She knew it was evil to murder the rat. But it had to be done. Life was brutal.
What Happened Next.
Her rat bonanza ended after she bagged six. She didn’t trap any more after that.
As the month of Map unfolded, she found herself on Sunday morning following an old stone wall along her southerly property boundary. The wall continued past her property into the forest where it became progressively more mossy and crumbling. She had no particular reason to follow the wall, and no particular reason not to. She was curious. The wall continued for about a quarter mile and veered sharply west where its condition improved. She was thrilled to hear the exuberant not too distant whinny of a horse amplified through the tall Alder and Dogwood. She skipped along and the wall curved, went down, went up, right, and left and then straight.
As she followed the straight section of wall the trees became increasingly sparse. The wall had been cemented along the top and the cement was warm and smooth. The wall was in good enough condition she could walk along the top of it and she did. She removed her shoes. She from under an enoumous weeping willow tree to a vast rolling pasture studded with oaks. In the distance several horses were grazing. One of them lifted its head and whinneyed to her. She didn’t know much about horses. She waved jumped up and down and then whinneyed back.
Something in the pasture moved that looked like part of the boulder it was sitting on moved. It turned out to be a person. The smallest oldest person she had ever seen.
The person held up a crooked walking stick in a gesture of greeting. She laughed. It was like looking at a munchkin in equestrian attire. A tiny stooped old woman with knarled hands and wrinkles everywhere. Her smile was toothless, but her blue eyes twinkled as she looked up approaching slowly using her walking stick. The wrinkles make patterns, formed a landscape of trails, were a sort of dermal geophrapic phenomenon. The old woman came and stood leaning on her cane looking up.
And what is your name young lady?
Merle. I bought the little white house. Up that way.
You live alone?
Yes.
So do I.
Merle sat on the wall smiling, fascinated with the munchkin woman, who was equally fascinated with her and smiled back.
I’m JoJo Pikering. That little house you bought used to part of my great great great grandfather’s land. He owned five thousand acres. I’ve got the last five hundred.
Wow. Merle was trying to suppress her laughter. She knew she was being impolite. It was just that when JoJo talked her wrinkly skin and tiny wrinkled mouth moved in such a way, that when she said “I’ve got the last two hundred” she looked extremely comical. A dwarf. A gnome. It was surreal!
Say young lady have you been smoking something?
No no I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s very nice to meet you. I guess I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’ve never owned a house before and I’m a little . . . you know . . .
Lonely?
Merle’s borderline hysteria was making her eyes water and for an embarrassing second she thought she would cry. She felt that she had a Hoover Dam of tears inside and the dam had sprung a dangerous crack. What would JoJo Pikering think of her new neighbor if she broke down sobbing for no reason?
Haunted
Her new Home.
She had moved to the South. Found a place on the internet and bought it sight unseen. After twelve years with her employer the move could only be called abrupt. She quit her job and left.
She had been enchanted with the jasmine vine entwining the white pickets of the front porch. The house was built in 1849! And so no surprise there were some rotten boards here and there. She could almost smell the history of the place. Deep. Dark. Fertile.
Her first night. Very quiet. She wasn’t used to that. She lay in bed and heard herself breathing. The crickets chirped with the unvarying cadence of machines . She had locked the door, but the lock was not much good. A strong nudge and the door would creak open.
The drone of the insects had a hypnotic effect. She slept. It was one in the morning when she awoke in the dark. She couldn’t describe it, but she felt a “presence”. The hairs on her neck crawled. Her palms were damp. She lay awake, listening to rustle of leaves, the tapping of branches, the subtle creaks of an old house.
The next thing she knew it was morning. Spring sunshine dappling her bed. Birds trilling. And the sweet jasmine blossoms gay and cheerful. She inhaled, stretched like a cat. Today she would tackle the overgrown garden.
The garden had about merged with the wildness at the edges of her property – scrub pine, acacia, thistle . A blackberry had gone crazy and smothered a bouganviilla , with the rare lily or rose trying to poke its damp tentative blossom toward the sun. Ripping away the vines with gloved hands and whacking them with her machete, she encountered a scraggly tomato plant. The heavy green tomatoes lay against the moist dark soil, savageable. She smiled.
Just then her cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her jeans.
What?
How is it going?
I’m busy.
Is there anything you need?
Yeah. I need for you to stop calling me.
She turned off her phone. She took her machete and whacked at the blackberry. She had quite a pile of thorny severed boughs.
Idiot. She said aloud. Stopping, flushed and breathing hard. A bird of prey (an eagle?) soared overhead. White clouds stretched and changed shape against the blue sky. May. Her favorite month.
She had accomplished quite a bit by the time darkness extinguished the long dusk. She began to visualize orderly rows of vegetables. Sipping Jasmine tea, she smiled as she rocked in sunbleached porch rocker. The rocker was lopsided, but most enjoyable. She tasted the skin of her sunburnt forearm. Salty.
No electricity yet. The wiring was shot. As cool night yielded insects and dew. She lit the wick of a kerosene lamp. She would be sore tomorrow. Not used to physical work. She felt a healthy exhaustion which rendered her peaceful. Not like the fatigue after a sedentary day of endless phone calls and emails, capped with a commute in dense aggressive traffic, while her cell phone continued to buzz. She had yet to turn on her laptop.
The bathroom was narrow box. It had been added in the forties. The toilet. stained porcelain, was slow, but flushed, eventually. The bedroom closets were small, but the kitchen pantry was large. A big walk in pantry. No doubt it once held a winter’s worth of home canned fruits and vegetables.
She sunk into bed. The “partly furnished” component of her new house was appreciated, though the too soft double bed had a distinct gentile sag. A grandmotherly bed. Sweet but arthritic, it held her in it’s crooked springs. She would sleep well tonight.
But she did not. She had dozed off almost immediately, but awakened suddenly in the whispering blackness. A cramp bit into bowels. The usual panic attack, all she had to do was count to one hundred. One, two, three . . . .
She had the sensation of being locked in a vault. She sucked in air but felt she wasn’t getting enough. Slow. Slow down, her brain tried to tell itself, but her body had its own ideas. Her heartbeat accelerated like a gas pedal pushed down.
Then she heard something. Not loud. She had to strain to hear. Where was it? In the kitchen? She listened with the vigilance of a prey animal at high alert. But the sound did not return. The wind kicked up. It puffed the muslin curtin cooled by a pattering of summer rain. She could hear it gently rocking the oaks. The sound of rhythmic swooshings soothed her and sleep overtook her.
The next morning she emerged from her bedroom, treading softly on the oak floored hallway with the quaint patterned carpet runners that had so captivated her on the internet. Night terrors banished by the light. She yawned, anticipating brewing morning coffee on the petite gas stove, and getting to work again. Today she would begin to clear out the detached garage. The garage (not shown in the internet advertisement) was stuffed floor to ceiling with several lifetimes worth of junk. She envisioned turning the garage into a tidy little art studio slash library.
As she entered the kitchen, she stopped and froze. A smeared swath of bright red blood was already attracting a few files on the pale linoleum. Her eyes followed the blood to its terminus, where a rat lay with its intestines ripped out.
She gasped.
Instinctively she covered her eyes. But quickly recovered. This was her house and her dead rat. She would have to clean it up.
Donning gloves, she scooped up the rat with a shovel and buried beyond her property line in the forest. She deduced that the rat was killed in a fight with another rat. What else could have killed it?
She had peered into the dusty attic in search of the source of the rat . It was scattered with rat “pellets”, and it, like the garage contained dusty junk. Boxes, things covered in sheets, odds and ends, stacks of magazines and papers. Another project for another day. The real estate agent had emphasized that the house was a “fixer-upper”. The bold words “AS-IS” were something she was required to initial on the purchase contract. Of course that was why the house was so cheap she could buy it outright with cash.
She drove to the nearest small town seventeen miles distant, savoring traffic-free Oak Leaf Road for seven meandering miles. Shady forest tunnels gave was to sunlit meadows with collapsing red barns. She crossed Shenandoah Creek over a stone bridge, and turned onto two lane Shadrach County highway. The route had originally been used by horse drawn carriages trotting residents to a brisk little railroad station and thence to churning cities far beyond. The route had long ago been supplanted by the interstate. And thus it was that the town of Red Stone and all its former arteries atrophied to lovely oblivion.
The old town of Red Stone consisted of a boarded up moldering schoolhouse tucked deep in a cypress wood, a crumbling railroad station similarly festooned with vines and far enough from the existing thoroufare to look somewhat haunted, two street, two block old downtown, with a white clapboard church here and there. The “new” Redstone consisted of a couple of the most prolific Big Boxes and fast food places. A nursing home doing its best impression of a prison , an auto dealership vying for “most garish”, and a squat stucco drive through bank looking like a smug fat toad completed the ensemble. Civilization as we know it. Ugly, but convenient.
She smelled the delicious aroma of fried food. She decided to try to local fare and drove through “Ernie’s Drive-In” She ordered onion rings from a chubby freckled teenager whose name tag said “Shandora”.
Eating her onion rings at a small park while perusing the local paper, a red-neck in a base-ball cap, leered at her, and gunned his engine for all it was worth. Bare legs, a tank top, and long dirty blond hair. What more could a guy ask? Not much, she well knew. She felt good. The sun felt warm on her legs. She dipped an onion ring in ketchup and relished the crispy taste. Perfection. She loved this place. Maybe she would open a little restaurant. She still had a fair chunk of savings. She had to do something to make money, eventually.
After her onion ring feast, she purchased chocolate, peanut butter, olive oil, pasta, tomato paste, garlic, oregano, canned tomatos, lemon cake mix with lemon frosting, eggs, and rat traps
Back home she made herself jump when trying to bait the traps with peanut butter. The big traps inadvertently snapped with considerable force. She put one in the kitchen, one in the attic, and one on the front porch.
At about three a.m. she was awakened by an agonized rat squeal and the banging sound of a rat in its death throes flopping the trap around. The banging didn’t last long. She sighed and went back to sleep. She knew it was evil to murder the rat. But it had to be done. Life was brutal.
What Happened Next.
Her rat bonanza ended after she bagged six. She didn’t trap any more after that.
As the month of Map unfolded, she found herself on Sunday morning following an old stone wall along her southerly property boundary. The wall continued past her property into the forest where it became progressively more mossy and crumbling. She had no particular reason to follow the wall, and no particular reason not to. She was curious. The wall continued for about a quarter mile and veered sharply west where its condition improved. She was thrilled to hear the exuberant not too distant whinny of a horse amplified through the tall Alder and Dogwood. She skipped along and the wall curved, went down, went up, right, and left and then straight.
As she followed the straight section of wall the trees became increasingly sparse. The wall had been cemented along the top and the cement was warm and smooth. The wall was in good enough condition she could walk along the top of it and she did. She removed her shoes. She from under an enoumous weeping willow tree to a vast rolling pasture studded with oaks. In the distance several horses were grazing. One of them lifted its head and whinneyed to her. She didn’t know much about horses. She waved jumped up and down and then whinneyed back.
Something in the pasture moved that looked like part of the boulder it was sitting on moved. It turned out to be a person. The smallest oldest person she had ever seen.
The person held up a crooked walking stick in a gesture of greeting. She laughed. It was like looking at a munchkin in equestrian attire. A tiny stooped old woman with knarled hands and wrinkles everywhere. Her smile was toothless, but her blue eyes twinkled as she looked up approaching slowly using her walking stick. The wrinkles make patterns, formed a landscape of trails, were a sort of dermal geophrapic phenomenon. The old woman came and stood leaning on her cane looking up.
And what is your name young lady?
Merle. I bought the little white house. Up that way.
You live alone?
Yes.
So do I.
Merle sat on the wall smiling, fascinated with the munchkin woman, who was equally fascinated with her and smiled back.
I’m JoJo Pikering. That little house you bought used to part of my great great great grandfather’s land. He owned five thousand acres. I’ve got the last five hundred.
Wow. Merle was trying to suppress her laughter. She knew she was being impolite. It was just that when JoJo talked her wrinkly skin and tiny wrinkled mouth moved in such a way, that when she said “I’ve got the last two hundred” she looked extremely comical. A dwarf. A gnome. It was surreal!
Say young lady have you been smoking something?
No no I’m sorry. I just . . . it’s very nice to meet you. I guess I’m just . . . I don’t know. I’ve never owned a house before and I’m a little . . . you know . . .
Lonely?
Merle’s borderline hysteria was making her eyes water and for an embarrassing second she thought she would cry. She felt that she had a Hoover Dam of tears inside and the dam had sprung a dangerous crack. What would JoJo Pikering think of her new neighbor if she broke down sobbing for no reason?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Boiled Egg
I am looking at the title of this Blog. Seems like I'm going in all different directions. And it's hot. So I want to lay around. I just ate a boiled egg.
I feel guilty for not doing anything.
So I am blogging to get warmed up to "doing something". Above is a picture of My Dad, my brother John and the "Blue Bag". Also my daughter Sarah is holding the volley ball. I bought her that at the Huntington Beach Pier. It was six dollars.
The blue bag is a relic from before our family broke up. It goes way back to when we were kids. When we went on a family vacation, or to the beach, or waterskiing, it was always "where is the blue bag?". It was stuffed with necessities. Snacks. Towels. Sunglasses.
The blue bag is a relic from before our family broke up. It goes way back to when we were kids. When we went on a family vacation, or to the beach, or waterskiing, it was always "where is the blue bag?". It was stuffed with necessities. Snacks. Towels. Sunglasses.
A metaphor for a womb. And it kind of looks like an empty womb doesn't it? Just dangling there. Dad has it hung on a hook in the garage. His garage is so clean and orderly. I wish mine were like that.
The freakin blue bag doesn't look much different. But we do.
Now here is another picture I really like. This is Sarah and her best friend Tara running to the ocean to jump in. Can't you just feel the sand and remember doing the same thing as a kid? Young girls on the brink of life. Running toward a bright future, their whole lives ahead of them.
Ya know, I've done a lot of trying real hard at a lot of stuff. Know what? I've got a resume five miles long. But check this out:
Here's my sister and I. We're doing some kind of hand thing that means "flower". Point is we're best friends. She is my right arm. And I'm her left foot. I look a bit like my mother. Tracy won't like this picture of herself, so I'll put up another one so you can see she reallly is a hot bitch like she mentioned in her last post:
Here is my sister wading in the ocean. And Sarah and Tara are on the body boards.We're one of those familes from Orange County. Once upon a time, not so long ago this picture could have been my mother, with Tracy and I in the water.
Tracy was always a great student. The validictorian. A smart person. Level headed. I got the crazy "gene".
I guess I can blame A.P. Simpson, our great grandpa who did time in San Quentin. He wasn't a criminal. Just a Preacher. And a Pimp.
He was some kind of charismatic or other and he convinced his followers to hop a train from Iowa to California. And he started pimping on the side.
I imagine that ride at Disneyland - you know, the "Haunted Mansion" where suddenly you pass a mirror and these ghosts are in your little car with you and you are surprised and delighted.
The world is so full of ghosts and imaginary things, it's hard to cut through all that, know what I mean?
Art and Music
Here is me all prettied up. I was going through some files and loading a program and found some . . . "Art" pix.This is kind of a test to see if I can upload some stuff on the Blog. I probably won't write much because I already have a sore neck from trying for some hours to figure out a movie editing program that appears not to be compatible with Vista. Talk about wasting time and money.
Let me try to upload some music. Don't see a button for that. Alright forget it then, over and out then.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Surviving a Singles Event
I was set up with L., a friend of a co-worker, because we were two single women amongst our coupled off friends. No, no, not a date, but because L. wanted to attend a wine tasting and the wine tasting was also a "Singles" event, I was recruited to accompany her. I had already made tentative plans that night, but since those plans involved meeting a group of friends in a sweaty bar and there was a guarantee a former flame would be there, I was itching for a different alternative. In other words, I said YES before I thought through what a Singles event might entail.
L. told me the event was semi-formal, okay, we were in the midst of a rare heat wave and I could pull out a skirt from the back of the closet, hell, it might be fun to show off that pedicure I got a week ago, and so what if I looked a little a lumpy in my knit top, I was still a "hot bitch", at least my friend, R., told me to tell myself this every morning, preferably while naked and listening to Aretha Franklin. She said it worked for her... and well, she is a hot bitch, so I was trying to think along those lines.
L. picked me up, we were both decked out in our dresses and heels. Of course, I should mention she is 5'3" and wears heels every day and walks like she could run a marathon in them. I am 5'9 and I tottered on my cheap strappy heels from Target, worn for the second time though I owned them for 2 years. The wine tasting event was at the Yacht Club, (woohoo!), I envisioned standing on the balcony watching the setting sun while a tuxedoed Clive Owen type sidles up and we watch the dramatic sunset beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, yes, this night had potential! The $25 ticket price was insurance men of quality would be there, aficionados of fine wine, and yachtsmen, nonetheless, I was actually excited. No more sweaty night clubs full of twenty-somethings for me! This was going to be my coming out party to the world of sophisticated professional singles, even the name of the group was impressive "The Professional Guild"... well, that should have been the tip off, I should have known better.
First we got the location wrong... there are two yacht clubs at the Marina. We parked and I tried to keep up with L.'s quick short steps. My feet already hurt after two minutes of walking, but it was okay... soon that Clive Owen type would be rubbing my feet...
The swanky yacht club was the wrong one, when we saw a group of women in semi-formal attire turned away and looking lost, we knew that our function was being held at the funky yacht club way at the end of that dusty, gravel road ahead. We forged on.
Despite the heat wave I was chilled by the sea breeze and my feet were quickly swelling up walking the uneven path, I started to notice a parade of women, most at least ten years older then us heading toward the building. Eyeing this parade of courageous gals, were men, men sitting in their cars, men talking to other men, lone men reeking of cologne. It wasn't long before I started to feel like a group of whores marching along the gravel road in our ridiculous heels to be scrutinized by these jackals, the clientèle. (So, that's where they got the name "The Professional Guild"?)
I felt sorry for us. Grown women, middle-aged, excited by the prospect of meeting Mr. Right, desperation trailing us like cheap perfume, trying to smile, trying to look confident and sexy and for what? These men! There wasn't a Clive Owen among them, they were awkward, leering, in various stages of paunchiness and baldness, cracking stupid jokes as we waited in line to get in. I started to feel increasing uncomfortable. I kept looking over at L. trying to catch her eye. Finally out of the corner of my mouth, I said "What do you think?" She seemed bewildered, we kept moving forward in line. "Does the $25 covering the tastings?" She wasn't sure, she said she would ask when we got to the front.
I didn't know L. very well, and since I had promised to go with her, I felt I must. I wasn't about to leave her alone, besides she was my ride home, there was no way I could walk back to the main road in these shoes to get a cab. Please, I prayed, I want to leave now.
The line was on a staircase so you could look back and see everyone looking up, the collective comb-overs and bald spots, even one misplaced skinny pony-tailed man with an odd handlebar mustache, leathery, over bronzed complexions, Geez, were they licking their lips? No, no, I was being paranoid. Ahead we could see into the Yacht Club, the bar where a gaggle of men sat and stared at the fresh meat paying for their tickets. They all looked like they drove into the City from Stockton, no offense to Stockton, I don't know who lives there, but these were not sophisticated men, these were guys who, face it, had a very hard time meeting girls and were here for the easy pickings.
We finally made it up to the ticket table and I told L. I didn't want to stay unless the wine tastings were included, as if somehow that would redeem the evening. The answer, no, nothing was included, but they had a DJ and hor dourves. I whispered to L., "This is San Francisco, there are hundreds of bars with DJs with no cover." She looked at me and for a horrifying split second, I thought she wavered, but then she said firmly "Let's go!" We paraded back down the staircase, past the leering stares of the desperate and unloved, past the dirty gravel road and the heavily cologned stragglers still coming towards the line. I felt free, young and relieved I wasn't one of them.
We were a couple of hot bitches and we went out the town in our skirts and heels and bought our own damn drinks at a swanky bar. I ended up getting to know a pretty interesting person that night. One who is not desperate at all, one who I will go out with again. Her name is L.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Dub's Double Barrel Kick Draws Blood
Today my daughter Sarah and I drove to B's ranch to ride. My horse "Dub", a bay, recently gelding, a six year old Hanoverian is there for a visit, and mainly so I can train him in the beautiful sand arena. A picture of Dub is at right . . . . In this picture he is still a stallion, about four years old, and Teralyn is riding. She braided his tail to make it curly for a horse show.
B's husband died recently. Her friends and horses help keep her spirits up. But I'm sure she is still grieving. She has no children and it seems to me that she is particularly fond of Sarah. Sarah's ash brown hair is almost to her waist. She is long of limb and soft of voice. Quite the ministering spirit when she wants to be.
Since Dub has been recently gelded, (two months ago), I am particularly alert to ward off situations where the natural combatativeness of his "Stud" self might suddenly reappear. Yes he is calmer, less crazy around mares in heat and mares and geldings in general, but he will still squeal and strike, put his teeth on the crest of pasture "neighbors", as if too say, yes I could rip you in half, but I guess I won't just now. He would probably kick the s--t out of some of the geldings "rivals" to his harem of one old sunburned paint mare, if given half a chance. B's excellent electric fence gives him a few potent shocks and dissuades him.
B's aged gelding, retired eventing champion "Mo-Jo", for some reason triggers a very aggressive response in Dub.
Thus, when B suggested today that we go for a trail up the road a bit with Mo-Jo, Elway (B' young up and coming horse) and Dub, I hesitated. My daughter Sarah would ride Mo-jo. Mo-Jo and Elway are both big and black. Very good horses. But what about Dub? If you've never owned a stallion. . . If you've never seen what they are capable of . . . you might not . . . realize . . .
"Sure!" I chirped.
Dub seemed placid enough when I tacked him up. He was caked with dried mud and didn't even try to bite me when I brushed him off. It had been a rainy blustery night. Sometimes contending with that kind of weather all night settles Dub the next day. When B led up Mo-Jo to be tacked up however, Dub instantly changed. He started to paw and act up. I decided to take him down to the arena alone and gallop him. He trotted and galloped well enough. I brought him back and booted him up for the rocks at a safe distance from Mo-Jo.
The trail ride started quite well. We were all chatting. I was glad to see B happy. Elated that we were good company. I rode lead. I told Sarah to keep a couple of horse lengths behind me . . . just in case Dub tried anything. The picture at right is Sarah a couple of years ago learning to ride on
"Pride", Teralyn's thoroughbred.
"Pride", Teralyn's thoroughbred.
Dub spooked as we crossed a culvert. No biggy. He spooked even more at a stream crossing, snorting, refusing to go, though I spurred him. I felt he was about to blow up. So we had Mo-Jo the old champion go first and Dub eventually followed snorting and jumping around.
'Confident and relaxed, after we had negotiated all the "scary" stuff, we rode on loose reins on the way back, chatting and enjoying the breeze swishing through the Avenue of Cook Pines. S uddenly I was up in the air, Dub had reared and bucked at the same time, a double barrel killer kick aimed at Mo-Jo, who apparently had come to close. I had no time to think, just that he was up in the air and I was going to come off and get got in the crossfire, but worse that he was kicking the horse my daughter was riding . . . . and as high in the air as he was . . . his double barreled kick would hit her. . . . kill her instantly. For a moment I had the most horrible feeling, a dread beyond bearing, but no time to indulge in thoughts - I was jarred forward and upward, like a ragdoll, lurching and whiplashing. God only knows why I didn't come off! When he came down I spurred him forward as hard as I could and screamed, "Sarah! are you all right!
It was deathly quiet behind me.
"Yeah", she finally called.
I spurred Dub forward again and again putting as much distance as I could between Dub and Mo-Jo. I heard Barb's urgent words to Sarah, "we've got to get home right away".
I turned and looked. "Sorry about that" I called back, trying to minimize my horror and panic. "Did he contact anything?"
"Mo-Jo is bleeding. He'll need a stitch or two". B, like me, was being valiant. Bless her heart.
"Where'd he get him?"
"On the forearm"
I winced. I felt awful. I should have made Sarah circle Mo-Jo and not get too close. I should have ridden in the rear. I should have done a milliong thingss. But Thank God Sarah didn't get kicked! I'd heard of people getting their legs broken that way. A little girl was killed several years ago when her horse ran away with her and she was trampled. A social worker I worked with had gone to the funeral, seen the perfect little girl in her casket.
Poor dear old Mo-Jo! Dub had kicked a three or four inch gash and also rendered a nasty swelling bruise. An old horse minding his manners. A champion, albeit retired and short of breath. How dare Dub!!!! And poor B. I offered to pay the Vet bill (an emergency call on a Sunday had to be ungodly expensive), but B, ever gracious, shook her head.
But I swear I will make it up to her. Free legal work in mass quantities. I can offer her that.
Neil came and we loaded Dub in the trailer and hauled him home. B was left with her limping bleeding horse. Luckily a couple of neighbors had made a "drop-in" visit and they were chatting amiably over drinks when I hugged B and thanked her. I hope B was able to reach the Vet. I hope he came right away. To properly stitch a wound, you have to do it as soon as possible before inflammation and granulation set in. I'm afraid to call her. I hope Mo-Jo, though he is very old, will heal quickly and we can forget about this, or try to.
Reflecting on what happened, it seems that Dub was utterly convinced that Mo-Jo was the senior "stud", and Dub in a fit of rage wanted to take him out, topple him, take over. So, it is safe to say that we haven't quite left the "testosterone" zone yet.
And while I've observed that geldings and mares have beloved friends whom they groom and caress, as well as tolerated aquaintances who barely register. I've seen also that they have hated enemies. So it's not purely a "stallion thing". Still, I am hoping that in a few more months, Dub will feel, or at least behave, less agressively towards those horses he perceives as enemies.
Now I Decree, until further notice, there will be a strictly enforced zone of "no entry" --- that is no horse (other than Dub's well known and acknowledged family and friends) comes within twenty feet of Dub, while he is being ridden or handled by humans. Period.
Waiting Room
I am sitting in the waiting room at the Nob Hill Cat Clinic. P. is in the back, behind closed doors enduring another test. A faded calendar shaped liked a cat stares back at me, the cardboard tail wags. A young couple comes in, their cat staring wide-eyed, nervous, from the wire and plastic carrier. The wife murmurs to the cat. The cat is young and healthy, just like the couple, they have come for vaccinations. They are called to the examining room.
I wait. They are extracting urine from P. She is 16 and things have started to fall apart...kidneys go quite commonly I am told, suspiciously she is losing weight. She is half her largest size, when I pick her up there is no substance, just soft fur and light bones, the term "bone bag" flashes through my mind. A fastidious cat, I never had to clean up accidents, now almost daily she vomits the water she gorges, just clear liquid, but I am annoyed and want to scold her, but I don't, she can't help it. At night she curls up on my chest while I read, purring and looking at me through slitted eyes, elevating me to god-like status. I try not to think about it, but I realize soon she will be just a ghost, a memory, only I will remember.
I wait still... what is taking so long? Did she die back there? I surprise myself with a sudden wave of emotion and push down the lump in my throat. The receptionists are laughing and drinking Starbucks. I refocus on the wagging tail of the cardboard cat on the wall. I think of P.'s food bowl at home with the partially eaten crunchies, the small bowl of water next to it.
Waiting.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Bindy's son the Pilot
Ok Here is a link that will take you to Bindy's son, the pilot:
http://starbulletin.com/2008/04/17/news/story05.html
Let me see if this works.
http://starbulletin.com/2008/04/17/news/story05.html
Let me see if this works.
Riding the Big Bay Horse with Bindy
No need to be over the top. Want to be just right, but it never comes out that way when you write things down for some reason . . . oh well.
Wind off ocean lifting my hair up, whipping it back. I begin to organize my thoughts into strands of prayer, intercessory and supplicatory, and wonder, is this real?
Is there something real in my life? Something alive? Something Miraculous? I have to have that.
It could be today. If my mind if open. If I accept peace, and become unbound.
The Island slopes down green to cliffs. The ocean is a rich blue with white caps because of the wind.
"Dub" is my bay horse. Black legs and red brown. A shade deeper, more complicated with tones of gold, than my powers of expression. The wind lifts his mane as we Canter. He likes the sand arena. The footing is secure for a change. He won't slip, or bruise his soles on rocks. He stretches out. I want him to be confident. To gallop and let the wind fly through his black mane. For showing hunters, the protocol is to have a short pulled mane that can be braided, a shaved bridlepath. But I'll let his mane grow out. He needs it to keep the rain off his neck. And I need his hair to hang on to.
Bindy and I went riding this A.M. It was a long drive for her to come and meet me and I appreciate the fact that she came so far. Her hair is a cap of almost blond almost curls. Sometimes with her floppy hat she peeks up and her blue eyes look so innocent, I can't help laughing. She is a grandmother, but seems young to me.
When she was twelve her mother died. After that she imagined herself a cowboy, a competent roper, named "Gus". Now she has a son named Michael who is thirty-five and a pilot.
A couple of months ago, she bought my big black mare, Char. She tells me Char has a pen pal - another big black Percheron with a white star named Toby. This is funny.
I felt so exhilarated after hand-galloping Dub. The wind was whipping my hair up, and I was smiling without trying, like I'd just danced with the Prince.
Bindy rode Dub too. She preferred to just trot, but I know she felt the same elation, looking out at the dark blue white capped ocean through the streaming Eucalptus branches. The wind made a rustling sound in the leaves. It was lovely. A shady corridor.
After the ride we took Dub up the mowed pasture past the weanling filly. Her neck was like a swan. I would call her a chocolate color. Her mane was the best of all with rusty gold sunbleached ends. And then there was her pretty little blaze, and inquisitive nibbling muzzzle.
Up at the barn, we stood Dub on the concrete and I borrowed a paintbrush and put hoof hardener on his hooves while he ate part of a flake of Orchard Grass. Chewing, his hoof in my hands, he reminded me of Robert Mitchem, the way his hooded masculine eyes reposed, and he chewed, like he had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. But it was only a piece of hay.
Wind off ocean lifting my hair up, whipping it back. I begin to organize my thoughts into strands of prayer, intercessory and supplicatory, and wonder, is this real?
Is there something real in my life? Something alive? Something Miraculous? I have to have that.
It could be today. If my mind if open. If I accept peace, and become unbound.
The Island slopes down green to cliffs. The ocean is a rich blue with white caps because of the wind.
"Dub" is my bay horse. Black legs and red brown. A shade deeper, more complicated with tones of gold, than my powers of expression. The wind lifts his mane as we Canter. He likes the sand arena. The footing is secure for a change. He won't slip, or bruise his soles on rocks. He stretches out. I want him to be confident. To gallop and let the wind fly through his black mane. For showing hunters, the protocol is to have a short pulled mane that can be braided, a shaved bridlepath. But I'll let his mane grow out. He needs it to keep the rain off his neck. And I need his hair to hang on to.
Bindy and I went riding this A.M. It was a long drive for her to come and meet me and I appreciate the fact that she came so far. Her hair is a cap of almost blond almost curls. Sometimes with her floppy hat she peeks up and her blue eyes look so innocent, I can't help laughing. She is a grandmother, but seems young to me.
When she was twelve her mother died. After that she imagined herself a cowboy, a competent roper, named "Gus". Now she has a son named Michael who is thirty-five and a pilot.
A couple of months ago, she bought my big black mare, Char. She tells me Char has a pen pal - another big black Percheron with a white star named Toby. This is funny.
I felt so exhilarated after hand-galloping Dub. The wind was whipping my hair up, and I was smiling without trying, like I'd just danced with the Prince.
Bindy rode Dub too. She preferred to just trot, but I know she felt the same elation, looking out at the dark blue white capped ocean through the streaming Eucalptus branches. The wind made a rustling sound in the leaves. It was lovely. A shady corridor.
After the ride we took Dub up the mowed pasture past the weanling filly. Her neck was like a swan. I would call her a chocolate color. Her mane was the best of all with rusty gold sunbleached ends. And then there was her pretty little blaze, and inquisitive nibbling muzzzle.
Up at the barn, we stood Dub on the concrete and I borrowed a paintbrush and put hoof hardener on his hooves while he ate part of a flake of Orchard Grass. Chewing, his hoof in my hands, he reminded me of Robert Mitchem, the way his hooded masculine eyes reposed, and he chewed, like he had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. But it was only a piece of hay.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Fingers, Flower Petals and Hooves
What will this lump of wet gray brain remember in its nights?
In its cave. where it crouches, and waits
"I" the mystery that call itself "Me" will remember the fingers of the dancers, their arms waving like seaweed, bourne on currents I know, but can't see.
And when my daughter puts the lei around my neck.
I will remember her trotting through the Eucalyptus trees on the bay horse, my horse, she is riding by herself for the first time, turning to look back at me.
And the sunlight. I will remember the way it melts over me like a caress.
And the waves. Sandpipers running with stick legs away. Pelicans diving from so high.
I will remember sitting next to my daughter eating the lunch I made us. And the joke I told about the Jack Russel Terrier and the Frog, and how we started laughing and couldn't stop.
And how scary it was, but how funny it now is, that time when Terylyn lost control of the rope and the stallion galloped up to the Marching Band.
In its cave. where it crouches, and waits
"I" the mystery that call itself "Me" will remember the fingers of the dancers, their arms waving like seaweed, bourne on currents I know, but can't see.
And when my daughter puts the lei around my neck.
I will remember her trotting through the Eucalyptus trees on the bay horse, my horse, she is riding by herself for the first time, turning to look back at me.
And the sunlight. I will remember the way it melts over me like a caress.
And the waves. Sandpipers running with stick legs away. Pelicans diving from so high.
I will remember sitting next to my daughter eating the lunch I made us. And the joke I told about the Jack Russel Terrier and the Frog, and how we started laughing and couldn't stop.
And how scary it was, but how funny it now is, that time when Terylyn lost control of the rope and the stallion galloped up to the Marching Band.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Meeting of the Minds at the Salon
Without a shred of guilt, Anne confesses she often finds
an unexpected and unexplained peace during her husband's absence.
I don't need a man to rectify myself, Shirley confides. The most
profound relationship I'll ever have
is the one with myself.
Mahalia says it's easy to be independent when a woman's got money.
Yes, money and a room of her own, Virginia adds.
And Sophia says mistakes are part of the dues paid for a full life.
Martha thinks happiness or misery depends on disposition,
not circumstances.
Anais says: We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are.
Janis says: Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got.
Find out what you're good at, and then do that, says Katherine.
Sister Mary advises: To be successful, the first thing to do is fall
in love with your work.
Any woman who writes is a survivor, Tillie announces.
I really only ask for time to write it all - time to write my books.
Then I don't mind dying. I live to write, the other Katherine says.
Gertrude scoffs: Everybody's life is full of stories. Your life
is full of stories. My life is full of stories. All very occupying.
Not really interesting. What's interesting is how the stories are told.
Joyce says great works deal with the human soul caught
in the stampede of time unable to gauge
the profundity of what passes over it.
It's all in the art. You get no credit for living, V.S. says.
Vivian concludes: So what actually happens is only raw material.
All that matters is what we make of it.
And that's enough, Eudora says.
With thanks to: Anne Shaw, Shirley MacLaine, Mahalia Jackson, Virginia Woolf, Sophia Loren, Martha Washington, Janis Joplin, Katherine Anne Porter, Sister Mary Lauretta, Tillie Olsen, Katherine Mansfield, Gertrude Stein, Joyce Carol Oates, V. S. Pritchett, Vivian Gornick, Eudora Welty.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
After the broken Leg
Well I called Nina a couple of times already. She had been crying for two weeks. Hadn't got out of bed much. Sobbed when the vet just got out the shot. Fell into his arm. The old Vet, Dr. Groussard, who is cranky and never says much. It was the hind leg. And she begged him to at least try to save her. He just shook his head. It was compound and the bone was piercing out of the skin because the filly wouldn't quit trying to run away from the pain. She was so full of life. Beautiful beyond belief. Golden Chestnut. A flash of red fire streaking by so fast, so fast.
"Nina, I'm so so sorry. It's not your fault, you did everything."
And so we talked away the day, wasting all of our cell phone minutes because neither one of us had the unlimited plan. We talked about partnering with Lani. We could buy a stud colt together and run him on Lani's 29,000 acres, breed Aura again. It could work, she had a few years left. True founder had almost killed the mare, and all the vets said put her down, that she would die, that no way could she be pregnant, no way could she carry a foal to term, but Nina never gave up, quit her job as a nurse to nurse Aura, soak her hooves, wrap them in bandages, and when Aura couldn't get up for days, she cradled the mare's head in her lap and hand fed her. And then the foal came, in the dead of night while Nina slept, Aura emerged with her vagina torn and bleeding, and the impossibly feminine filly, an angel, trotting by her side. Just what Nina had prayed and prayed for. We were jubilant together, exclaming into our cell phones about the miracle, how all the Vets were all wrong.
She lived six months and 10 days. Somehow when Nina turned her back for ten minutes she had snapped her hind leg, her exquisite long golden red leg, just below the hock. Somehow the physics were wrong, and the torque or something, maybe the leg was caught in the guava roots bulging and tangled above ground. Maybe twisted and pulled, caught in the roots, and then . . . . and then she was dangling that useless hind leg, shaking her head when she tried to nurse her mother because it hurt too much and the old Vet just shook his head brought out the needle and she went down collapsing into the sun warmed spring grass with blossoms fragrant and the birds trilling because it was early Spring.
And so Nina buried her, streams of tears coming down her face.
Good-bye Deja. What I wouldn't give to kiss your little nostrils, and feel your breath warm and alive, again.
"Nina, I'm so so sorry. It's not your fault, you did everything."
And so we talked away the day, wasting all of our cell phone minutes because neither one of us had the unlimited plan. We talked about partnering with Lani. We could buy a stud colt together and run him on Lani's 29,000 acres, breed Aura again. It could work, she had a few years left. True founder had almost killed the mare, and all the vets said put her down, that she would die, that no way could she be pregnant, no way could she carry a foal to term, but Nina never gave up, quit her job as a nurse to nurse Aura, soak her hooves, wrap them in bandages, and when Aura couldn't get up for days, she cradled the mare's head in her lap and hand fed her. And then the foal came, in the dead of night while Nina slept, Aura emerged with her vagina torn and bleeding, and the impossibly feminine filly, an angel, trotting by her side. Just what Nina had prayed and prayed for. We were jubilant together, exclaming into our cell phones about the miracle, how all the Vets were all wrong.
She lived six months and 10 days. Somehow when Nina turned her back for ten minutes she had snapped her hind leg, her exquisite long golden red leg, just below the hock. Somehow the physics were wrong, and the torque or something, maybe the leg was caught in the guava roots bulging and tangled above ground. Maybe twisted and pulled, caught in the roots, and then . . . . and then she was dangling that useless hind leg, shaking her head when she tried to nurse her mother because it hurt too much and the old Vet just shook his head brought out the needle and she went down collapsing into the sun warmed spring grass with blossoms fragrant and the birds trilling because it was early Spring.
And so Nina buried her, streams of tears coming down her face.
Good-bye Deja. What I wouldn't give to kiss your little nostrils, and feel your breath warm and alive, again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Only A Second Later
Listen, teenage girl, you can learn
from me. I've been there, done that,
a different place and time, only
yesterday. I know the screams,
giggles, toss of hair, that certain walk,
breathless gossip, endless phone call,
and oh, the crush of being crushed.
You don't know me, but I know you,
you don't see me, can't or won't
because I'm invisible, the wilted flower
you toss aside, a wrinkled sack you
discard in the food court, a pale wisp
passing in malls. Sometimes when
you're alone, you might hear my voice
from far away, wonder if it's deja vu,
pause a second, perplexed at the stickiness
beneath your shoe. Please listen then
before you hurry on. I have secrets,
so much to tell. I can save you a lifetime
of grief and trouble, spare you all the heartache,
help you soar. I know where you've been,
where you're going, and what's in store.
Listen now before it's too late. You'll be old,
probably tomorrow and wonder why
young girls never stop to listen
when you have secrets to tell.
Anybody Out There?
I hear the familiar sound of rain. It has a whoosh sound like rushing wind. I look out the window and see drops slathering over leaves. It gets harder and the tree bends. The rain is not pounding cold on my back. But I wonder if my horses are getting "cold backed" from the rain. (?) The filly and the old mare can go under the shed, and stand gazing at the sheets of rain creating a liquid curtain.
My stud horse is not a stud anymore, having been cut about a month ago now. Soon his anger will drain out of him, and I can put him in with the others. Already his pugnacity is diminished. He looks at me with almost kindly eyes. He seems not to remember his rage, his jealous passion for his favorite red mare "Ehulani", which means "beautiful red" in Hawaiian?
Today I must make a phone call. I am putting off that call. The call is to a woman whose filly (my ex-stud's daughter) broke its leg in the pasture and had to be put down last week. The filly was also a chestnut. Gorgeous. I am sad about this and there is a whole story that goes with it, but it feels like too much work to tell it. There is no consolation for such a devastating loss. Yet what can I do but try? To tender words uttered into my cell phone, such little things to stanch the hemmoraging abyss of sorrow. But little things can be miraculous. Little drops of water. Little flowers. Brave little things might be all we have right now.
My stud horse is not a stud anymore, having been cut about a month ago now. Soon his anger will drain out of him, and I can put him in with the others. Already his pugnacity is diminished. He looks at me with almost kindly eyes. He seems not to remember his rage, his jealous passion for his favorite red mare "Ehulani", which means "beautiful red" in Hawaiian?
Today I must make a phone call. I am putting off that call. The call is to a woman whose filly (my ex-stud's daughter) broke its leg in the pasture and had to be put down last week. The filly was also a chestnut. Gorgeous. I am sad about this and there is a whole story that goes with it, but it feels like too much work to tell it. There is no consolation for such a devastating loss. Yet what can I do but try? To tender words uttered into my cell phone, such little things to stanch the hemmoraging abyss of sorrow. But little things can be miraculous. Little drops of water. Little flowers. Brave little things might be all we have right now.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
A broken answering machine
I've had the same answering machine since 1987. The original cassette tapes were still in it, rewinding and playing for over 20 years, message on top of message, erased and forgotten. The machine finally played it's last message, refusing to rewind, little red lights stopped blinking, but I barely noticed, I have a cell phone now, no one calls on the land line anymore unless they want to sell me tickets to the Policeman's Ball or it might be a pre-recorded Al Gore enlisting my help with the environment.
I removed the cassette from my original machine, turned it over and popped into the tape player on my stereo (inherited from Grandpa Black, also circa 1987?) Soon my whole apartment was filled with a familiar voice. He was the love of my life in 1991. It was a fragment and barely a whisper. "... so call me back, like you promised. Don't worry about the time." And then another friend wishing me luck on the BAR exam, and then my mom speaking as if into a microphone, making an announcement "I just wanted to see how the BAR exam went", a bit of silence as if waiting for a reply, the sound of a phone (remember the solid phones we had?) being hung up, the beep... another fragment, my sister in law talking about the kids (who are all grown now) and then him again "... I know how you don't want to call me here and I understand... I just... I love you.. (silence, a sigh) that's all I have to say, I love you... the end." He hangs up.
Strangely enough further on the tape is a conversation with me and a friend that somehow got recorded. I sound young, but bored, I want to shake myself and yell "Wake up!" I won't ever be that young again and no one will ever call again just to say he loves me. I lost him and I lost myself somewhere along the way. But twenty years from now, I will probably feel the same way, and I will think I never had it so good.
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