Our Extraordinary Work

Our Extraordinary Work
Elizabeth O'Connor

"Without a protected time of daily silence we have no possibility of doing the extraordinary inward work that each of us needs to do. More, we will not make any substantial or sustained commitment to the solitary life unless we ask and seek for ourselves a structure of accountability."

I was always a big fan of Elizabeth O'Connor's spiritual writing and was fortunate enough to share a couple of actual snail mail letters with her a year or two before her passing. . .She spent much of her life exploring the inward work we all need to do in our contemplation, meditation, examining our lives and then how that relates to our outward journey. . .

We are not penned up in a zoo. . .scenery the same, day after day.  .fenced in, moated in. . .

But, don't we do that to ourselves?  Is performing the same old drudgery every day and falling into the same rut of coming home and firing up the idiot box any different than being caged up in a zoo?  It's like the old knowing how to read and not reading--the same as really being illiterate if you don't take advantage of reading and learning new things. . .this is not to rail against TV. . .I have my guilty pleasures. . .

It's more about what we are doing with our lives. . .it goes by quickly folks. . .you get to a certain age. . .and I'm there. . .when you start calculating forward. . .you look at how old your dad or your mom was and when their journey ended.  .and you start making bargains. .. well, I've got to have at least another twenty-five years left, eh?  And I'm in better shape than my dad was, aren't I?  

Hogwash to it all.  

We all need to go back and be a little inventive. . .rediscover the magic and discovery of our youth. . 

I like that phrase from above. . .a structure of accountability. . .none of us knows what happens after death. .. NONE OF US. . .it's all rumor, really. . .and faith. . .either faith in something or faith in nothing. . .faith, nonetheless. . .but, I'm always thinking, just in case.  .in case you're right--that there IS something after we're done with the mortal coil. . .and we're asked "Just what is it you did with the time allotted to you?" . . .or, if you don't believe in an afterlife and your wrong--the same question will be asked. . .well. . .

There's no repairing the past really. . .oh, we can make amends. . .we can atone.  .but, we're only given the next few footsteps in front of us really. . .as we plan out in folly our New Year's Resolutions coming up right around the corner (for those that do). . .

So. . .we need to take some time to reflect. . .

. . .because, regardless of where we end up or what happens after we're gone. . .you will only be someone's memory. . .and people will talk about you. . .some reverently, some not so much. . .

Worse. . .they may not talk about you at all. . .

This has got to make you proud to be an American. . .

How about we do this.  Boycott all stores that are open on Thanksgiving and have any kind of special hours rather than their regular operating hours on "Black Friday."   Enough consumerism and idiocy is enough.  When are people going to wake up.  No setting up of any tents.  Merchants HAVE to give rainchecks on all items.

And, oh yes.  .  .the family of the woman in the blue shirt with the butt crack.  .  .I'm sure one of many proud moments in that family's history. . .

This is what it's come to. . .

This is what it's come to. . .

But, there's this:

Because there is this:

. . .and maybe this is the solution:

. . or maybe this. . .I'm no scientist. . .but, maybe this is what a lot of it's about. . .

all I know is. . .maybe we need this:

On This Day My Life Was Perfect

On This Day My Life Was Perfect 

For me, there is nothing better than catching the promise of youth. . .they have their whole life before them. . .it is right there to do with what they want. . .if they only knew what a small window most people make that in their lives. . .

In fact, those windows open and close all the time. . .but, most people jump through that first window and call it a life. . .somehow. . .most people lose the ability to have this expression of joy caught in bloom. . .when all things are possible. . .

. . .I'd much rather document joy than defeat. . .promise rather than acceptance. . .glistening hope rather than resignation. . .

These are the things dreams are made of. . .these are dreamers on the rise. . .

Dreamers on the Rise

I picked up the note on the kitchen table. 

     To my roomie, aka Ben “The Stud-Man of Wilsonville” Shaw:

          I’m guessing today, Sunday, for you, is a day of rest (not because you are particularly religious, but I’m sure thirty-six hours of hedonistic sex with a luscious girl in her early twenties, with melons, ripe and delicious,  has left your plums withered, you being almost twice her age and all).  But, I digress (in a fruity sort of way).  Tomorrow, here is your schedule.  I will remind you that your roommate (you know, the other good looking young girl, also with some pretty good looking apples I might add–but as far as you’re concerned, they’re on a branch fifty feet up with nary a ladder in sight–but, again, I digress) has tomorrow off (bogus teachers workshop–notice how they’re always on a Friday or a Monday).

5:00 (yes, A.M.! Atom splitter)–Get your sorry, lard-ass out of bed.  Five-mile run.  Come home, very quick shower (no fooling around in there–reference page 118 of girl talk manual–or first three minutes of American Beauty)–free, unless you count the soap and water used.

         

6:00 Take your roommate to The Criminal Café for breakfast.  You’re back on the program, by the way.  Awaiting you, an egg white omelet with tofu and wheat germ.  Maybe $10.

7:00 We go to the West Side Market and stock up on veggies and fruit for the week.  While over that way, we go to the Book Store on West 25^th to see if they have a used copy of Endless Love by Scott Spencer because David stole the copy we had at the store and when he finally brought it back all the good pages were ripped out.  Count on at least $50. $55 if they have the book.

10:00 Call in sick.  Excuse?  Just tell David your car was sunk by a U-boat.  See how long it takes for him to realize it’s a fraudulent alibi.

    

10:05 Stop at Shoptalk Lingerie and pick up mesh stockings, garter belt,  French maid outfit, and that butterfly toy with the remote control all my girlfriends are talking about (!) for your roommate (yeah! Right!  In your dreams Humbert!)–just seeing if you’re paying attention!  And just to keep you current on the all-important cutting edge lingo, they are no longer referred to as vibrators.  They are now called BOBs.  Battery operated Boyfriends.  But, again, I digress.  Such a state of arousal you get yourself into!

10:10 Stop at Thee Diamond’s Mens’ Club to see if I passed my audition (Humbert!  Humbert!  Wake up!–instead, we’ll go to Fourbucks Coffee and see if we can get two coffees for under $20).  Talk for 50 minutes and plan out the next ten years.   Also, discuss in detail supposed innocent childhood game rumored to be called Bang the Buddy. Roughly $9.

11:00 I’m hungry!  No hake for me, thank you.  I’m thinking the Mexican Village.  Veracruzanos.  Because I’m only 16, and have 5% body fat, I’ll have three.  Because you’re hovering on the four oh, and will soon find out you are some exercise guru’s fat, bastard brother, I recommend a Spinach salad and a bran muffin.  Take copy of current Maxim magazine (it’s at the bottom of your magazine pile, beneath the Atlantic Monthly, Smithsonian,  and National Geographic–nice try) and hope we see Monica Potter there so we can get her autograph–she’s on the cover (not sure if you looked above the neck).$20.

1:00 PM–It’s afternoon!  We go see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon for the fifth time!  I’ll have the large buttered popcorn.  If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you lick my fingers.  Afterwards, we have a fake sword fight with wrapping paper tubes and see if we can run up the side of buildings.   If you win the fight, I’ve arranged for you to have a threesome with Michelle Yeoh and Zhang Ziyi.  If you lose the sword fight, you have to wear your hair and talk through your teeth like Chow Yun Fat for the rest of your life.   Figure $15, unless you hurt yourself during the sword fight and I have to take you to the EmergiCare.

3:30 John Dufresne is going to be at Joseph-Beth Booksellers for a book signing, on Shaker Square,  and my roommate insists on treating me to a signed copy of Love Warps the Mind a Little.  A subject he has cornered the market on (my roommate, not John–it would be pure speculation on my part regarding John; with you, Buttfly, factoid for sure).  While there, we ride the rapid downtown and back so we can identify with the downtrodden urban poor who have to take the transit and also the rich people from Shaker Heights who think it’s fashionable.  $25 (+ another $10 on trashy magazines so I can learn about sex and find new positions for when I play Bang the Buddy game with my roommate–Ha! Ha! Ha!  You’re so incredibly weak and easy!  Some would say, pathetic!).

5:30 We pick up Patty and Jennifer (as you so coyly call them, the Yum Yum, Double D. Pleasure Twins–your dreams must be so tortured)  from tennis practice (somebody, maybe your roommate,  has mysteriously called off sick).  You do not, I repeat, you do not, look at Patty’s legs and Jennifer’s breasts like you always do.  Hear me?  I don’t want to hear them complain to me again!  (As in, “ewwwwww the pervert was looking at my legs!  Again!”)  We drop them off at home.  Free (although for only $20, Patty said she will let you take pictures of her in her old Catholic school-girl uniform!)–What am I going to do with you?!!! (And it was the unanimous opinion of the three of us that $20 was much too low considering the fact you’d probably gladly pay $50 and provide lifetime taxi privileges).

6:00 I’m famished!  Because you love me unconditionally, as you would a daughter, you take me to Gavi’s where we feast on an appetizer of Portobello alla Gorgonzola (yum!) followed by Filetti di Vitello con Sugo di Prosciutto e Pancetta for the lady (me!), and Tasmanian Salmon for the gentleman (with reluctance, I dub thee)–be very grateful, it is a fatty fish and will go right to your thighs and immediately convert to cottage cheese (well, technically, that only happens to women.  In your case, it lands on that vast expanse called the Great Plain of Goo which resides above your belt). $80 (includes the $5 tip you’ll give Brad, the guy who’s in charge of valet parking tonight–he’s a hot boy!) 

All in all–About $225 on your Master Card.  A day with your loving, sex goddess roommate: priceless!

          Oh, I forgot.

8:00 An after-hours appointment at the bookstore with David and Pervis Stahl for you to appraise used books he’s selling.  Is it me, or do you also think Pervis’s address is somewhat south of Erebus?  (Ah, yes. All this sex you’ve been getting has turned your mind into balata. At your advanced age, you’ve probably lost all knowledge of Greek mythology.  Erebus being that dark place just north of Hades).

10:00 Wallow in self-pity because you’ve gone 24 hours without sex, no fruit even in analogies, and are developing scurvy.  Think about how you could have spent the last two hours at the mall buying me clothes instead of with that vile, nasty Pervis Stahl, and then sneak into my bedroom while I’m sleeping and steal the magazines I bought today.  Memorize them (Please!  This time, don’t cut out the pictures of the girls in their underwear!  Leave me some shred of dignity for when the Yum Yums come over and we’re looking through magazines and then I have to explain how all the holes in my poor periodicals got there.  It’s just so unfashionable to be living with a true pervert.  They both feel so sorry for me). 

          11:00 Lights out!  Wasn’t it a lovely day!?

              Most affectionately, I remain, your true Erato,

                        Amber McClain, aka, your loving roommate

Erato--Call Your Girlfriend

I am indebted to my buddy Kate Snow for making me aware of this wonderful video. . .absolutely lovely and insane!

Another version by them here:

The original:

Stronger than the dark, the light

Stronger than the dark, the light 

Tomb, thou shalt not hold Him longer;
 Death is strong, but Life is stronger;
 Stronger than the dark, the light;
 Stronger than the wrong, the right...
 ~Phillips Brooks, "An Easter Carol"

I was out early on Easter Sunday in April of 2009. . .colder than hell out there around six in the morning. . .

No matter any kind of spiritual beliefs, I wanted this picture to represent some kind of "power beyond us." Something mighty, something of wonder, something frightening, something inspiring, something that makes us want to explore. . .I rarely saturate like this, but this was just the atmosphere I wanted to create for this picture. . .

The picture was taken at Penitentiary Glen, part of the Lake Metroparks system in Kirtland, Ohio

Daylight Brings Promise and Hope

Daylight Brings Promise and Hope 

. . .and so it went. . .after they shrugged off the whispers of night. . .the cereal had been downed. . .the directions given. . . the door flung open. . .and it started all over again. . .this day that brought promise. . .this day that brought hope. . .because when you're two. . .life has not beat you down. . .and when you are five. . .all things are possible. . .and when you're ten. . .you want to hang on. . .because even by then. . .you see what's around the corner. . .and at some point. . .even as you look forward. . .there are times you want to count backward. . .to when all was promise. . .and all was hope. . .and it's all there was. . .

"Where the lawn ends and the Field Begins"

"Where the lawn ends and the Field Begins" 

"Insects tap and flutter against the window, borne in through the darkness on a tide of light--mayflies and caddis, moths and beetles, pulled off course by the glow from a reading lamp. Out in the night itself, fireflies have nearly reached their summer's peak. Where the lawn ends and the field begins, a wall of vegetation has grown up, thicker and for its height more impenetrable than any rain forest on earth. Above the grass heads and seedpods and leaves and fronds, the fireflies stutter like slow sparks. They constellate and then, for a moment, they all go dark at once.". . .from The Rural Life by Verlyn Klinkenborg

Chelsea Lee and the Walking Sticks--Subway Train

. . .such a very nice video. . .nice harmonies. . .very well done--excellent sound and production!

Resistance is futile. . .

What to Drink When You listen to John Stewart. . .yes, Drinkify is here!

What To Drink When You're Listening to John Stewart

Why Don't We Respect Stephen King as Much as We Should?

Following is the usual bang-up job NPR does interviewing an author.  This time around, Stephen King.

Stephen King--11/22/63

I have this feeling that we as a country really don't appreciate Stephen King.  Witness this: I must have deleted the picture, but at Half-Price books, they had an entire box of Stephen King hardbacks for $15.  There must have been at least twenty books in there. . .yes, I know. . .his first press runs must be in the hundreds-of-thousands. . .but, do we take him for granted?  I looked on the shelves of my personal library and only found one book of his fiction.  The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon.  It nestled betweein All the Stars Came Out That Night by Kevin King (no relation that I'm aware of) and The Summer Fletcher Greel Loved Me by Suzanne Kingsbury.  No Carrie.  No The Shining.  No The Stand. . . .

There was a time I stayed home from work to finish a Stephen King book--it was just that good and the pages just kept flying by. . .these were in the days of The Shining and The Stand. . .

His book,

was one of the most valuable books on writing I have ever read. . .(please pay no attention to the fact that I downloaded a picture for the audio version). . .you get the point.  the subtitle:  A Memoir of the Craft. . .

From the book:  "By the time I was fourteen (and shaving twice a week whether I needed to or not) the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it."

I only use that passage to point to the fact that rejection is just part of the game.  Stephen Kings tells us how human the entire creative process is. . .I was once there he's telling the budding writer, bogged down by rejection after rejection. . .but, those stories are well-known. . .the record label executive who rejected The Beatles. . .all the rejects J.K . Rowling received. . .John Grisham--rejection after rejection. . .A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle being rejected by twenty-six publishers. . .and lest we forget Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell was rejected by thirty-eight publishers. . .

But, I really didn't start this to focus on rejection (sorry, I got a bit off track there).

The truth is, many people seem to be almost embarrassed to admit they are reading Stephen King.  And why?  Because he is not "literary?"  Because he doesn't make you work for it?

Having served on the IMPAC Dublin Awards committee at Cleveland Public Library for seven years taught me one thing about "literary" fiction.  It is not all created equal.  I read some truly horrible books--not even close to being well-written because the hype machine was going full blast about a book being the "literary" read of the year.  There was great suffering. . .we debated over and over as to what was "a Dublin book."  I finally declared a Dublin book to be one that required enormous amounts of whiskey to sit through and maybe a loaded rifle near your chair. . .there were good books, also. . .more bad than good. . .The good I remember. . .the magic of finding Chris Cleave's Little Bee at the very last moment one year. . .the always good Richard Russo. . The Road by Cormac McCarthy right on the heals of No Country for Old Men. . .

The bad. . .I will not mention. . .

But, Stephen King?  No, we never considered him for Dublin. . .but, in the summer, long after we'd put the nominations to bed. . .we'd all pretty much retreat to other books. . .some to non-fiction. . .some to other writers. . .maybe even some to Stephen King. . .

So, as I stare at the twin bricks of

and Haruki Murakami's

I am truly torn. . .I know I will read them both--I am a big fan of Murakami's writing. . .and people want to know what I think of it. . .

I am drifting toward the King. . .

Because I respect the man that much. . .and yes, maybe it won't be as much work as the Murakami. . .but, the pages will fly. . .and maybe I just need to revisit that 1958-1963 time period again. . .when we lived in  four-channel TV land and AM radio ruled. . .I'll get to you Mr. Murakami. . .but, not tonight. . .

Life is never easy for those who dream

“Life is never easy for those who dream.”

 Robert James Waller

The girl in the picture had just hugged one of this guy's buddies--who is safely out of camera range now, emotions tumbling, wondering what had just happened with the spontaneous hug from this girl. . .now THIS guy, whether he was looking on still in shocked wonder about the hug or looking at the girl and wondering, "when is it my turn?," . . .wait. . .because whatever he is thinking, before he finishes the thought, she then turned to him and he got his hug, too. . .and all departed. . .

Today, these moments in life are lost far too soon. . .there is only a small window for that first hug, that first kiss, that first awkwardness, the aloneness in bed that night after it's all happened and dreaming of what is to come. . .and not knowing at that time, it will never, ever be quite that innocent again. . .only in hindsight will this whole cast realize this is the stuff dreams are made of. . .and they will all remember it differently. . .

Reasons to Rise

REASONS TO RISE. . .

. . .a new blog by my friend, buddy, pal, and one of my oldest friends in the world. . .Ben Blake. . .please take a look. . .

Reasons to Rise

Stereo Soul Future

In my ever-ending search for great new music, I was recently made aware of these great guys:

STEREO SOUL FUTURE

Love the picture. . .and kudos goes to whomever the photographer was on the shoot.  I'll be glad to edit this post to give him a shout-out.

There newest album is Ghost in the Night

Go here for an excellent video:

Stereo Soul Future

For the complete blog of the website, please go here:

 Stereo Soul Future

GO!

. . .full review to follow shortly. . .

You and Tequila--Kenny Chesney and Grace Potter--the official video. . .

The great Matraca Berg song. . .

Diana Krall. . .The Look of Love

Diana Krall. . .The Look of Love

Were you looking for something more down here?

The Staves

This is the group opening for The Civil Wars in their upcoming US tour. . .

Their website is here: The Staves

Cleveland Area History

Cleveland Area History is a total labor of love blog done by Cleveland Public Library librarian Christopher Busta-Peck.

He has recently published a book, Hidden History of Cleveland

Please show Christopher some love and check out his book!

Richard Russo

Go here: booklist online for a nice overview of one of the finest living authors we have around.  If you haven't read Russo, why not?  You can pick and choose any of his novels and feel right at home.  I happened to start with Straight Man.  I don't think you'd be sorry. . .

A big shout-out to Booklist Online for the post.

Mickey Newbury--An American Trilogy

Some writers and singers, like John Stewart, go mainly unrecognized by the mainstream. . .further example:  Mickey Newbury.

This is the song he is probably best known for--actually, to be exact, an arrangement he is best known for.  How anybody can hear this and not reflect on what we once were as a country is beyond me.  .in so many ways.  .  ."Look away, look away.  Look away, Dixieland. . ."  . . .how he reinvented an entire song!  And, at a time when the civil rights movement was hot and heavy, . . .he showed. . .songs aren't bad. . .songs aren't evil. . .songs are not the problem. . .

There is real musical history to be learned about the opening of The Bitter End West on Santa Monica Blvd.. . . .November 28, 1970. . .coming around again. . .41 years ago. . .in the audience that night--Kris Kristofferson, Joan Baez, Mama Cass, and Odetta.

. . .and after Dixie. . .he segued into The Battle Hymn of the Republic. . .finishing off the trilogy with All My Trials. . .reportedly, when he finished, you could hear a pin drop. . .

. . .to learn more about Mickey. . .head this way.  .  .

. . .it should be available at most independent record stores. . .or your public library. . or, if necessary. . .Amazon. . .under $40 for the 4-disc set. . .money well spent. . .

the above information was all contained in the booklet with the CDs and I am indebted to Chris Campion for the article. . .

This Old Song

This Old Song

Any time there is a new post by Paul Rybolt is cause for celebration. . .good stuff as always, Paul. . .

Lera Lynn. . .Oh my goodness--thank you Music Fog. . .

The End of Everything--Megan Abbott

The End of Everything--Megan Abbott

So happy for Megan that she's getting the recognition she so richly deserves. . .please, do her the justice and follow the link to her site. . .better yet, go buy The End of Everything. . .

Feature Blog--Nova Ren Suma

http://novaren.wordpress.com/

. . .I've been enjoying Nova's blog for quite some time now. . .Nova is also undertaking  NaNoWriMo as I am with my novel in progress, Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love.

The difference is. . .Nova does have an excellent novel published--Imaginary Girls.  So, she's got that going for her. . .

Nova also went to college in Yellow Springs, Ohio so she's a "hometown favorite."  OK, so Cleveland's not exactly Yellow Springs.  But, she's quality.

Today, she has a guest blogger--Sara Zarr--who says this about the writing process:

"I’ve been doing this and observing others doing this, or things like this, long enough to know that every book, every painting, every dance, every song, every screenplay, every movie, every craft project lives most of its life as a failure."

And to this, I can only add amen.

This is my small way of saying Thanks  to Nova for a wonderful book and blog.  Thanks to Sara for a wonderful piece today.  You are both inspiring.

François Rabelais

It's amazing the things you run across while researching a novel. . .well, to be fair, I run across. . .such as:


François Rabelais

"Readers, friends, if you turn these pages
 Put your prejudice aside,
 For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,
 Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious.
 Not that I sit here glowing with pride
 For my book: all you'll find is laughter:
 That's all the glory my heart is after,
 Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you.
 I'd rather write about laughing than crying,
 For laughter makes men human, and courageous.

BE HAPPY!"

. . . François Rabelais

and from our good friends at Urban Dictionary :


"These two did oftentimes do the two-backed beast together, joyfully rubbing and frotting their bacon 'gainst one another, in so far, that at last she became great with child of a fair son, and went with him unto the eleventh month; for so long, yea longer, may a woman carry her great belly, especially when it is some masterpiece of nature, and a person predestinated to the performance, in his due time, of great exploits."

François Rabelais (c. 1494 - 1553)

"Gargantua and Pantagruel"

. . .and so begins the day. . .

Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Amber brought me a cup of coffee to the table at the Arabica coffee shop.  She blew on the steam rising from her cup as she sat down across from me.  She stared at me.

“How are your classes going?” I asked.  I huddled my hands around my cup.

“Sweet Baby Jesus!” Amber stared at me.

“Look, I know you’re planning on continuing on to Seminary, but could you be more specific?”  Amber continued to stare at me.  She started tapping her well-manicured fingernails on the table.

“She gave you a toe-job, didn’t she?”  Now it was my turn to stare.  The water in the hot tub had been roiling.  There was absolutely no way she could have seen what was going on.

“Excuse me?”  With Amber, there was no such thing as buying time.

“A toe-job.  T-O-E dash J-O-B.  Toe-job.”  I looked around us to see if Amber’s voice had garnered us an audience.  Sister Lindy from Mount Carmel looked at me.  Through me.  I leaned over to her.

“I keep telling her, Sister, it’s pronounced Jobe, as in lobe, but she gets confused.”  Sister Lindy returned to her reading.  I looked over at Amber.  Now the middle nail on her right hand was tapping the rim of her cup.

“I’m gonna stick confused right up your ass until your prostate hollers uncle, you asshole.”  She continued the tapping, looked down at her cup and back up at me.  “Did you return the favor?”  If I said yes it would be a lie.  If I said no, it would mean the act in question had actually occurred.  Instead, searching for clever answers, I chose a poor one.

“If Sara had done that twenty-two years ago we wouldn’t be sharing this moment today.”

“That’s the best you can come up with?”  Okay.  She had me.  Memories of toes on flesh--even my favorite flesh--wilted under her stare.

“Did I do wrong?”  Was there no end to my stupidness?

“Define wrong.”  Her tapping on the cup rim intensified.  She was really the greatest daughter in the world.  Really.

“Well, wrong should really be my middle name--and I wouldn’t want to use my middle name as proof-text for my actions.  Is it possible I could just blame it on too much Southern Comfort?”  Stall, stall, stall.

“As opposed to lack of conscience, morals, scruples, and an assault on innocence?”  Okay.  So.  I know, I’d go on the offensive.

“I don’t think a toe-job would be construed as an act of innocence.”  There.  She sat there silently.  Clearly my plan was working.  I looked over as Sister Lindy’s chair slid back.  She got up, came over to our table, and put an index card in front of me.  She made a tsking sound and walked out the door.  Amber grabbed the card.

“Romans 12:2.  Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

“So she thinks my mind needs renewing?”  It didn’t hurt to ask.

“You’ve deeply offended the penguin.”

“That’s the last time I play bingo over there.”  I took a sip of my coffee.  I was deeply offended myself.  Deeply.

“Well, well, well, Father, you are quite the man.”

“So some would say.”

“But not many.”  Cut to the quick.

“Harsh you are.”

“So was it good?  The toe-job?”  She looked at me.

“Define good.”

. . .from the novel in progress.  . .Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Astrid poured me a cup of coffee.  It was noon.  I floundered my way through the tunnel to see if anybody might be alive.  I knocked on the door, since I was not provided with equal opportunity numbers to get back into the women’s dorm, and was met by a Brazilian glare.  She didn’t say a word to me, just nodded for me to follow her up the stairs.  This wasn’t difficult because of Astrid’s penchant for wearing a thong and precious little else.  The movement was hurting my eyes as I was following her up the stairs.  We were half way up and she stopped and I collided into her left cheek.  She turned around and snorted.

“What you think there’s going to be a quiz on them?”  My attempt at a witty repartee was hampered by the result of her turning around and now my nose and mouth being just north of all things precious, good, moist, and welcome to all males save the members of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the Will and Grace fan club.  She reached down and lifted up on my chin. 

“I’m sorry?” was all I could manage.

“Yes, you are.”  Astrid continued her ascent up the stairs and I contemplated life with my new diverse friends.  “Coffee?” I heard her faintly.  Only if it’s fair-exchange I heard the good, moral part of me say.  It was a faint voice to be sure.

“Please.”  I made it up to the top of the steps, wishing my daughter had sprung for an elevator and a need for less companionship.  Astrid settled two large porcelain cups on the table and poured.  Apparently we were to have a conversation.  I looked around for a to-go cup and saw nary a one so I settled into my seat and Astrid sat across from me.  She adjusted her thong from the looks of arm and hand movement and cleared her throat.

I did likewise.  Cleared my throat that is.  I popped my eyes open and shut to keep the memories of her thong tucked away.

We both took sips of coffee.  Didn’t she have laundry to do?

“I used to be a hippie chick,” Astrid said.  She stirred sugar into her coffee and continued.  “I lived on a commune.  A nature commune.  A nudist commune.”  Why was I continually being tested and teased.  I closed my eyes.  Of course, that’s when the projector went off in my head.  There was Astrid in a tie-died shirt.  There was Astrid sans shirt.  There was Astrid serving tea to her friends buck naked with flowers in her hair.  I shook my head and looked up at her.

“And then what happened?”  The projector was stuck.  I tapped the side of my head.

“It was all crap, man.”  This chick was like the damn princess with the pea.  She could take a bath in yogurt and get a piece of glass stuck up her ass.  Why did I always think so visually?

“Well, we all have our ideals and then we tend to lose some of that when we mature a bit.”

“I know you’re not calling me immature.”  No, good god no.  I liked life far too much to be that foolish.

“That wouldn’t be prudent of me.”  Or of anyone who valued their penis.

“A wiser statement was never spoken.”  I didn’t need circle conversations.  Not with that Southern Comfort still banging up against important brain cells, laughing at my every attempt to make sense of speech and darkness from glare.

A bird came to the feeder at the window and started tapping away at the food.  Astrid got up and threw some milk into a blender, added a banana, a raw egg, and blasted it all to smithereens.  She got a glass out of the cupboard and poured the goop into a tall glass.

“Drink,” she said, putting the glass directly in front of me.  She sat back down and put her feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles.  She started rubbing her toes together, looking at me.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  I gulped down the mess without breathing.  Rin’s toes.  Dammit!

“ ’nother?”

“No thanks.”  I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve.  I suddenly wondered where the rest of the crew might be.  “Where is everybody?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone.”  Wordy sort.

“And they might be where?”

“Practice.”

“Practice?”

“You’re wearing me out.”  Astrid got up, adjusted her thong and left the kitchen.

. . .from the novel in progress. . .Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

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Fascinating article about the RCA Victor Dance Caravan that visited Cleveland during World War II.

. . .I wasn't there. . .

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Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

I was about as drunk as a person could be.  I heard Frank singing in the background but I had no recollection of putting him on.  I was sitting in my hot tub and shriveling up like a prune.  I was in danger of sinking beneath the surface.  You can just take that metaphorically if you wish.  My soul was sinking along with my head.  I dipped down into the tub and just had my nose and eyes above the water.  Which would be why I didn’t hear the latch on the door behind me.

Rin dipped into the tub across from me.  All I saw was smooth brown skin and fleeting black pubic hair dive below the skim of the water.  I came up.  This I didn’t need.  If Amber walked in I was toast on a stick.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Rin asked. 

Mind?  On what planet would I mind?   I wasn’t about to burst out in tears of rage.  I wasn’t about to ask the good Lord why he was doing this to me either.  I thought maybe I’d just enjoy the moment.  Although I was good and snookered, part of me was enjoying the moment already. 

She motioned for the bottle of Southern Comfort and I handed it over to her.  She drained about a third of it without blinking an eye or catching a breath.  I stared at her with wonder and admiration.  Speech.  I finally found speech.

“No, I don’t mind.”  She offered the bottle back to me.  I shook it off and she set it down on the table outside the tub.  I stared at her and she back at me.  I felt a set of toes inch up my leg.  Naturally, in my impaired state, I wiggled my own first to make sure I wasn’t somehow becoming a contortionist.  Now was the time for me to get up and run.  Except it would be quite obvious that my betrayer would be happily jiggling in the wind and want to go in the opposite direction.  I hadn’t a clue what was up here.  Besides me. 

Rin’s toes planted themselves on one side of my groin.  My groin?  What?  Am I a sports announcer?  Why do they say that in football games on TV?  He has a groin pull.  He has a groin injury.  He got kicked in the balls.  Somebody put a mean hurt on Mr. Happy.  But, I digress.  With one set of toes firmly planted on the Eastern side of my penis, the other set of toes, like Lewis and Clark and eight of their pals going up a perverted creek, were climbing the  side of my other leg and found a home on the opposite side.  Rin was staring into my eyes and I could do little but stare back.  Well, let me correct myself.  I certainly could do something.  And a stronger person might have.  A less drunk one.  Maybe a more moral one.  I could rationalize this.  This was a set of toes.  A pair of them.  And hell, who’s to say they were forty-five-year-old toes or twenty-something toes?  They were toes goddamn it!  And all of a sudden they were moving up and down.  I had no idea whether my toes were supposed to be returning the favor, but I kept them right where they were.  And a good thing too.  Although I was still staring right into Rin’s eyes, my ears were working perfectly.   I heard the latch on the door this time.  In what seemed like an eternity, I saw Rin smile at me as she furiously moved her toes up and down.  I came with such intensity I buried my head beneath the water to keep from screaming.  I came back up slowly and looked at my daughter disrobing, casting aside her clothes and flashing a bright pink bikini as she gently eased herself into the hot tub without a care in the world.

  I felt my penis slowly deflate into a nub of dread.    

“What’s up?” Amber asked.  I looked at Rin and she smiled.

“Not a thing.”  I said.

“Not now.” said Rin.  Amber looked at Rin and then looked at me.  I motioned for the Southern Comfort and started drinking.

“So, Rin,” Amber said, “tomorrow’s your fourteenth birthday, right?”  I started choking on the Southern Comfort.  I coughed and wheezed.  Amber came over and started hammering me on the back.  Rin was laughing so hysterically she started snorting.

“Plus a decade,” she said between bursts of glee.

Amber started rubbing my back after I had calmed down.  She moved back over to her side of the hot tub.  We sat in silence for several minutes. 

“Time for me to get out,” Rin said.  She got up, natural as can be, the water slipping off her smooth skin.  She lifted one leg up and out and then the other one, grabbed a towel, and started patting herself dry.  Amber watched as her new naked roommate trailed away and casually entered my bathroom.  She then turned very slowly around to me.  I believe if it were a symphony, this would have been described as a largo movement.

“It’s just another proud moment for your daughter,” Amber said.  I started coughing and choking again.  She just stared at me.

“It must have been something I ate,” I said, calming down once again.

“I certainly hope not.”  She got out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and stared down at me.

“What?”

“Tomorrow we’ve got work to do.”

“Okay.”  She dried herself off.

“It’s a good thing I love you so much.”

“A good thing.”

“Oh no. A very good thing,” she said.

“Indeed.  A very good thing.” 

“Do I need to drain this thing?” she nodded down into the tub.

“I think these chemicals kill just about everything, don’t they?”

“We can only hope.”  Amber turned and walked out the door.

I sat there and pondered why my life took these turns. 

Rin came out of the bathroom, dressed, and looked over at me. 

“I need you to do something for me,” she said.

“Anything,” I said.

“I want you to kill somebody for me.”  She walked out the door.

. . .from the novel in progress. . .Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

If you called me stupid you certainly wouldn’t be the first. 

I was back at the airport.  This time putting Sara on a plane.  Rin had gone along for the ride.  My sum total of time spent with Sara had been less than a day.  Half of that time with my neglected appendage tucked away in warmth and wonder.  Was this how it was going to be?  Fleeting flings in tired sheets and then back off to Asia?  I didn’t think I could live the rest of my life this way.

“I know you’re upset with me,” Sara said.

“I understand.”  I was tapping my foot.  That must have passed for more than boredom.  Rin kept a respectful ten feet away looking at the arrival and departure monitors.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Yes, you’re right.” 

“I’ve got to do this.  You know that.”

“Knowing it and liking it are two different things.”

“You know, you are a free agent,” Sara said.  She looked into my eyes for me to say something in return.

“Is that your way of saying you’ve got some man stashed back in Korea or Japan or some other ricey place?”   Did I really hear myself say ricey place?  Sara pressed her body against me and kissed me for a long time.  It was one of those kisses, although immensely enjoyable, I wanted to peek an eye open to see if we were being filmed or watched by hundreds of potential passengers and gossipers.  I broke it off and hugged her tightly.  Rin was engrossed in us now. 

“You’re the man,” Sara said, coming up for air.  “But, look.  We’ve never been exactly about commitment.”

“That would be your choice,” I said, picking a particle of dust off her sweater.

“I can’t begin to help who I am anymore than you can help writing your next great American novel, reading Dostoevsky, or finding ambient music endlessly fascinating.  And notice I didn’t even mention your penchant for bedding young girls.”

“Uh, you just did.”

“I think Rin might just have a thing for you.”  I looked over at Rin.  She was staring at us.

“Let’s not go there shall we?”

“Oh, I won’t go there.  I don’t swing that way.  But, perhaps, you might just get lucky.”

“Luck I don’t need.  It’s you I need.”

“And we might just accomplish that one of these days.”

“Yeah, when I’m close to eighty and this thing doesn’t work anymore.”

“This thing?” Sara patted my crotch.  I looked to see who was looking.  Ten seats worth of a girls soccer team and three nuns seated across from them.  And an airport security officer headed our way.  I put a bit of distance between us and he walked by us.  Apparently we weren’t the object of his intentions.

“Any idea when you might be back for more than just breakfast?”

“You forgot about dessert.”  Sara looked up into my eyes. 

“Are we over, Sara?”  I guess I just had to know.  If you don’t ask, you don’t know.

“We’re never over.”

“I need more than an occasional dipping of the stick, you know.”  The boarding announcement came over the loudspeaker for Sara’s plane.

“I’ve got to go.  I’ll call.”  Sara kissed me on the lips and was off to get in line.  I stood there looking like the loneliest person in the world.  She turned back around.  “A dipping of the stick?”  She shook her head and walked through the door to board the plane.

. . .from the novel in progress . ..