Collection Two
It Was Always A Sure Thing
At 53, with four kids a lovely wife and life, Alejandro Blanco Munoz was in his prime. Almost. Except for the incessant insomnia. It was always a sure thing to awake in the middle of the night, attempt to return to sleep, get past the stage of potential sleepiness returning, admit that he was awake and then face the hours of lying awake engaged in circular thought of what was wrong in his life–which always concluded with a realization that his life really was very lovely—but he was still awake.
This had been his reality for years. At first he tried ways of re-inducing sleep. His early attempts to regain sleep included rubbing his warts in a ritualistic fashion, rebuilding one of the many houses he built as a carpenter, reliving each step, the building of the walls, placement of windows, indeed the driving of each nail. If that didn’t work, using his knowledge of four languages, reciting days of the week, counting backwards or saying the names of all his relatives in Italian, English or one of the others.
As an avid reader, especially of “chick books” as his lovely wife Elena referred to them in a pseudo expression of her jealousy at Alejandro’s many platonic relationships, he also tried reading. All of this to no particular avail. And TV was not an option. Alejandro had a deep seated distaste and distrust of what came out of the “big eyed joker” as he loved to call it. He had even given up his self-detested dietary addiction of pretzels and orange juice in the hope that his sleep challenge would recede into oblivion. Not so.
It was on a long ride along the Pacific coast in early September a couple of years ago with lovely Elena riding in the side car of his motorcycle that he had an epiphany about this long plaguing insomniac condition that changed his perspective and brought a solution. Catholicism was the cause. Yes, it was his Catholic upbringing, those minutes that added up to hours that added up to months and years of being on his knees reciting a litany that both brought boredom and later suspicion about the teachings and restrictions of the religion which was his heritage. “If I could only shed those painful moments and restrictions,” he thought, “perhaps I could regain my God given right to a sleep-filled night.”
As he cruised along the azure blue coastline with it beautiful waters edged in snow white waves, Alejandro caught sight of surfers lounging in the surf and then one by one rising up on their boards for the inward weaving waving journey. It occurred to him that there was a freedom there, a flowing with the energy of the sea and the unpredictable wave action that could bring to him the peace he sought from the impact of those many years that he suffered under the Catholic veil.
A rapid return to his home, an excited word of explanation to Elena about what he was up to and he raced off to a surf shop he had passed many times in his travels around town to explore the means of his saving vision.
From that point it all unfolded. He was a quick learner, even at his age, found a community of surfing enthusiasts who took him under their wings and coached, teased and encouraged him as he gained comfort and then skill as a surfer. It was exhilarating to speed across the water driven by the force of the waves, fresh salty air twirling his black curls. He would return to his bed refreshed with tired limbs and calm in his mind. Sleep came more easily and on those decreasing occasions when he would awake in the night, he had a new mode: the recalled sensations of sliding across the waves with the wind at his back that carried him out of his thoughts and back into the bliss of restful sleep, nestled against lovely Elena’s curves. This now became that which was always the sure thing.
Mr. Bonda’s Secret
Prompt: A secret. Include the words crow, wall and elbow.
Considering the time that remained, he was anxious. Just another 50 minutes before the cock would crow, so to speak. As he rose to grab his coffee, he banged his elbow on the wall beside the small table. “Oh crap! Why did that happen?” He rubbed out the resulting pain. It was gone in a moment, but left its emotional mark as he pondered the secret he was holding, wondering what to do, how to reveal it with the least negative impact.
Mr. Bonda was in his prime of life, not so young to be stupid, not so old to be inconsequential. And he had a bank account that not only eased him through financially challenging times, but allowed him the luxury of a weekend at the shore, a fine bottle of wine and the occasional taking a lovely lady to La Province, the chic little French restaurant near the park.
Mr. Bonda had grown up in the same Manhattan neighborhood where he now lived, knew all of the shop keepers, hookers, thugs and do-gooders for several blocks in each direction. He kept tabs on them all as they did on him and all coexisted in relative harmony allowing each other their respective paths of life and expecting the same from each other. There was a lot of security in this arrangement—as long as the “rules” were honored, but if anyone pushed the rules envelop, there could be consequences. Mr. Bonda knew that well and that was what was so troubling at this moment. He had acquired a small, but significant sum of money from a deceased bother and wasn’t sure how to handle it.
If he kept it a secret, but spent it in any way out of his normal routine, gave any evidence that he had more money to spend than normal, he might be found out and suffer a rebuke or a theft or be a target for one of the scam artists. If he put it in the bank, Sam, the teller with the big mouth, would surely out him. If he blabbed about the good news to everyone, they might consider him to be bragging or come to him for loans that would not be repaid or gifts–or bribes or as the news passed from those he knew to those they knew until someone who didn’t abide by the rules found their way into his apartment and the dresser where the money lay secretly mingled with his socks.
In 50 minutes, the day would begin on the street. Shops would open, the bank would open, life would begin. Mr. Bonda would be expected to emerge, walk to his cup of expresso, engage his friends and be on stage for his usual performance of life. He shaved, put on his grey pin-striped suit and ascot, oiled and combed his salt and pepper hair, now mostly salt, plucked a white carnation from the bouquet and inserted it into his lapel.
At Luigi’s Expresso, he sat at his usual table, surveyed the crowed and spied Louise Renaldo. She looked mighty fine sitting there with her two Afghan hounds folded around her feet. It had been several weeks since he’d seen her; he assumed she had been traveling. He nodded at her. She smiled and waved him over. They exchanged updates of past days, asked about how things were with the other and then she leaned in closer. “I gotta to tell you a little secret. You know, you are the only one I can tell this to because you are very honest and I trust you.”
“Yes,” he replied, “You can trust me because I know I can trust you. So what’s up Ms. Louise?”
“Well, you see, I got some money from Franko. He owed me a bunch from that lousy house scam he got me into. The jerk finally paid up. Now I got this money and I gotta be very careful about who knows. Ya know what I mean?” Mr. Bonda nodded.
“So whatcha gonna do with it.” he says. “Ya know what might happen if people find out.”
“Ya, well that’s right. So, I’m thinking, I should invest it somewhere that nobody knows. Ya know, I can’t take it to Sam cause he’s a blabber mouth.” Mr. Bonda nodded in agreement. “So I went on the internet and did that Google thing, ya know where you put in a question and it gives you the answer.” This was new to Mr. Bonda, but he nodded encouraging her to go on. “Well there this thing you can do called an anomaly, no that’s not right, it’s an annuity. So what you do is give them the money and they pay you some money every month for the rest of your life. That sounds like a pretty good deal doesn’t it?” Mr. Bonda and Louise sat in their huddled conversation for the next hour, him sharing a bit about his finances, nodding and waving to their friends that popped into Luigi’s, but making it very clear that they didn’t want to be interrupted.
As they talked, Mr. Bonda felt a growing tingle within. He hadn’t really known Louise well, but as they sat in close proximity there was an admiration and attraction that grew. Could he reach out to her in some way to let her know this feeling, see if there was some response within her. His hand bumped hers. She reached out and took hold of his and pulled him closer. “Hey Bonda, I got an Idea. What if we pool our bucks that nobody knows about, buy a couple a tickets on one of them cruises to the Bahamas and sneak off without out telling anyone?” Mr. Bonda could only grin and bow his head in agreement. He raised his expresso in a toast as they sat giggling, then nodded at other customers who were looking at them and shaking their heads.
Rachel’s Obsession
Prompt: It was the last good day.
From early in the day, Rachel was obsessed with the reality. It was, as several had reminded her countless times, the last good day. Her thoughts told her that this was the last day before things could change. Not would change, but could change. It wasn’t fixed in stone, but things had evolved according to the prediction, and this was the last day when she could be certain that things would be normal, routine, and not subject to transition into whatever was to follow.
“Oh, Rachel stop obsessing!” Don was standing in front of the mirror going through his usual shaving, spraying and brushing routine. For sure that wasn’t going to change, tomorrow or probably ever. Don was stable as a heavy well placed rock and she knew she could count on him, trust him to be there for her tomorrow, the next day and every day regardless of what happened at the office. Don was a good guy and gave her lots of leeway to be who she was, but he did get a bit impatient when she dwelt on one worry or another for more than a reasonable time.
“Ok, Dear. It just that….” she started.
“I know that there is a change in structure and new people in town, but it’s still the same business, the same product and your team will be the same. Right?” he interrupted.
Rachel’s job was unique. She had a skill and talent that was rare–the ability to know the market. Somewhat based on research, but more than that, she had an intuitive ability to guess, know, predict, what products were going to make it big. Kind of like the Pet Rock and Rubics Cube phenomenon, although in this age of cyber everything, products were much more sophisticated and complex. As an adjunct advisor to the product developing team, all products were submitted to her at several phases of conception, design and prototyping to get her read on them. She was good at it, liked her role and the folks she worked with. What she didn’t know was how the new management folks including a Director of Products were going to respond to her and her role. After all, it was a bit of a woo-woo procedure for deciding what products they would market. She had no clue whether she would be accepted.
As Rachel and Don sat over breakfast and sipped their coffee, Don, aware of her angst, let go of his irritation and dropped into that lap dog mode he could do when he felt she really needed him. “Okay sweetie, how are you going to handle this? How can you let them know who you are and how you work without spooking them? What does your intuition tell you about how to talk to them?”
She patted his hand, planted a kiss on his cheek as she rose from the table. “Thanks Sweetie. I’ve got it.”
As Rachel rode the train into city center, she reflected on how she did it, when she first became aware of her gift, how it manifested, how she was able to discern the truth from the trash that came into her thoughts. It was her. It was how she was and she was proud of it. No need to hide it or be embarrassed. She also reviewed in her mind some of the products that she had been involved with and their degree of success in the market.
At 10:50, but 10 minutes before she was to meet the new CEO and product design manager, Rachel slipped into the Women’s bathroom. It would be guy and a woman. She wanted to appeal, but not outshine. She took a check in the mirror and smiled at the woman looking back at her, pleased with her presence and the sleek navy blue outfit she had chosen, but knew her abundant wavy hair had to be more contained.
At precisely 11 am she strode into the conference room notebook and drawings in hand, walking tall and smiling. The woman it turned out was the CEO and the Director of Products was the guy. She had guessed it otherwise, but was pleased. The woman was well coifed, but smiling and had a softness to her that was inviting, calming.
After introductions and bit of personal chitchat they got down to business. Christine, the CEO, took the lead. “The new owners, the Goodalls, acquired this company specifically because of the very good production to sale history it has had with so many products. When the Goodalls, found out that their friends the Marshalls were going to sell the company they very quickly checked out the financials and found it to be very promising. They have instructed me to find out why it works so well and keep it going. Tim, the new production manager and I are all ears. Please tell us how you work to evaluate product success. Take as much time as you need.”
Rachel rose, took a deep breath and summarized the last three products she had taken all the way noting sales numbers.. She then summarized her notes from progressive meetings of her team where she had made predictions and sales results. Christine and Tim were all ears, but looking puzzled. “Ok,” Christine said, “how do you do it? How did you arrive at your conviction that these products would fly? We know you have something special here. What is it?”
Rachel sat down. “I’m not sure, but it is a gift that I have had since my early teens and perhaps longer. A knowingness that comes to me and it’s never led me astray. It’s hard to explain and I’ve shocked a lot of people trying to do so, but it’s the best I can do. If it’s too mystical or weird for you, I understand.”
Tim looked puzzled, but Christine was smiling. “I don’t share this with many, and Tim doesn’t ever know this, but I spent some time in my early days at the foot of and eastern guru. Among the things I learned was to trust my intuition. It’s one of the learnings that helps me do this job. I think we’ll get along just fine.”
Immediately after leaving the room, Rachel texted Don. “The CEO is woo-woo too. I love you.”
I Wish I’d Been A Ramblin’ Man
Prompt: Walking down a country road, guitar in hand
Will was walking down a country road, his country road, guitar in hand, his faithful, always at his side, blue healer, Patch trotting along to the rhythm of Will whistling, Lord I was born a Rambling man.
Life was, good, damn good. His sweetie Wanda had told him that morning that she just discovered she had one in the oven again and he knew she wasn’t talking about a pie. Yep, he was gonna be a proud poppa again. Little Sasha was going on two, speaking in sentences and already a knockout beauty.
It was a Saturday morning. Will was headed for neighbor Phil’s cabin for their weekly pickin’ and singin’ jam. He knew Sam and Delbert were headed for Phil’s cabin as well. They’d been doin’ it since they were in high school, always thought they could have been a big time band, but things always got in the way–jobs, pregnant girlfriends, kids, busted cars–always something. As Will was whistling Ramblin’ Man, the words formed in his head, “Lord I was born a rambling man…and when it’s time for leaving I hope you understand, that I was born a ramblin’ man.” Could he have been a ramblin’ man? Yeah maybe, if he hadn’t fallen in love with Wanda and they hadn’t gotten pregnant and…
He opened the nearly falling of the hinges door of Phil’s cabin. Phil was at his keyboard plinking a few notes. Sam slouched in his usual spot standing beside the fireplace tuning his big base fiddle. Delbert was pulling his mandolin out of its case with those big hands that Will never understood could have small enough fingers to play that dinky little mandolin.
“Howdy Dudes,” he said. They met it with a couple of grunts and a “how ya doing, Will?”
The foursome settled into their spaces. It was usual for them to bullshit a bit before they got serious with their music. Will kicked it off. “I was whistling Ramblin’ Man comin’ over here just now. Thinking about how I could of been a ramblin’ man if I hadn’t, ya know, if things had been different with me and Wanda and all, and it got me to thinking, is there anything I wish I’d of done differently. And I thought about it and then I thought I ‘d start our little shin dig here this morning asking you guys if you ever had thoughts about what you wished you’d of done differently.”
Phil rocked back on his stool, tipped his ever present baseball cap back on his head, smiled. “Yeah, I wish I’d a never met you turkeys. You all threw me off course and I could of been a big time banker if you guys hadn’t of corrupted me.” They all laughed.
Sam stepped in. “Yeah you sure as hell had enough cash to open a bank. How much was it you made picking up those pop bottles on the road—at least twenty bucks, right?” More laughter.
” Damn it.” Will said. ‘I thought for once we might get serious and reveal something, ya know, from deep inside.” A couple of sniggers drifted out.
Delbert, took a drag on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, “Okay Dude. How ’bout you telling us what you’d a done different. Set and example for us about going deep?”
“Will wiped his forehead, “Fair enough. You’re right and I did think about it after the question popped in my mind. Ok, well you all know that I had a hankering to go big time on the guitar—and thought maybe you, some of you at least would join me in that. But then, as you all know, I couldn’t keep my pants on and me an Wanda got pregnant and what could I do but get a job at the feed mill and settle down. So I, every once in a while, wish I had known about condoms. Yeah that’s it. I wish one of you guys would have told me about condoms so I wouldn’t have gotten pregnant with Wanda and could have made it big time on the country music circuit.”
There was silence. Will could feel the discomfort in the room. Were they taking him seriously, did they think he was accusing them or just joking. He wasn’t sure himself, kinda surprised at what he said.
Sam popped in. “I hear you, man. As you all know I got caught in the falling in love early in life trap myself. In those times when Budweiser has me in a melancholy mood, I think about that scholarship I could have had to Texas Tech and maybe made it to the NFL, but at least have got some kind of degree. I mean me and Sally are doing okay. We both have decent jobs at Walmart, but I ain’t Sam Walton by any means and will never be.”
“Okay,” Delbert said, stroking his beard. I’ll play. It’s simple. I wish I’d of never taken a drag on that first cigarette. Look at me. I always have one lit. Donna, keeps getting after me to quit. And I say I will next week and then next week comes and I say five more days and then she forgets about it and then my kids tell me I stink. But here I am still sucking ciggies.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his boot and tossed the butt into the fireplace.
Silence. Not a word, faces all pointed toward the floor. Phil starts punching out a tune on the keyboard. Will recognizes it, starts strumming and whistling the melody softly. The thump, thump of the bass comes into the background and Delbert’s mandolin picks up the rhythm. One trip though the chorus melody and the four of them break out in four part harmony: “Lord I was born a ramblin’ man. Trying to make a living and doing the best I can. But when it’s time for leaving, I hope you’ll under stand, that I was born a ramblin’ man.”
“Hot diggity,” Phil yells out. “I wish I’d a wrote that song. I’d a been a billionaire by now.”
Delbert responded, “That’s right Bro. And none of this, our playing and bullshitting together would of happened. I wouldn’t trade this for nothin’. Sing it Phil.”
And Phil blast out, “My father was a gambler down in Georgia…”
Capturing Salina’s Crown
Prompt: Create a piece of bullshit—write on something that you don’t know anything about and make it as convincing as possible.
“It all began the year after I became aware of my own fallibility. Under the glowing sun, all but the most unaware could not help but swell with admiration of her radiant crown. Selina was the acclaimed by even the most doubting as—“.
“It just doesn’t flow,” I announced, in my professional, not to be too critical voice. “How could you give this more punch?”
Justin was my new client. His aspiration was truly admirable, but his talent as a writer and indeed even his ideas were seriously lacking.
I was in my fourth year as an editorial producer, coaching writers as they sought to enter the field of published writing. Though my credentials were admirable, BA in liberal arts at Stanford, a masters from UC Berkely and a PhD from U of O with a thesis on mid 19th century fiction writers whose writing roots centered around exploration of child prodigies, I had to admit that the practical application had been a challenge.
The challenge in writer coaching lay mostly in being able to receive and listen to what my clients were presenting and then assist in a positive and supportive manner editing, rewriting and changing what they had written. Sometimes, actually most often, changing their basic approach of writing to a form that was a true expression of themselves rather than a “forced” expression of what their mind told them was popular and acceptable.
My foray into being a critical editor/coach arose out of my own difficulty to be creative from a “soul” level. Oh, true, I had written the best seller novel, Oh, Have It Your Way–well not actually a best seller in the sense of “the list”, but one of the 10 best sellers of my publisher, Radon House press for 2004. As an aside, let me say that Oh, Have It Your Way, was inspired by my observation that the best way to get along with people was to let them always have their own way. And of course there was the well accepted non-fiction work, How To always Get Your Own Way. Well not well accepted in the sense that lots of people bought it, but well excepted by my publisher’s assistant who graciously promoted it to the review board in May of 2005 during that time of our own exploration of whether or not we could be a committed couple.
But I digress. These early successes, modest as they were, gave me great encouragement that I could indeed become one of the greats, one of those writers whose books capture the hearts and minds of the readers of America and indeed the world. at least in my world of Kingsolver, or Tom Robbins or Conroy. But it seemed that while I had great knowledge of how to write—the rules, the formations, the organization, the capturing phrases, the use of dialogue and flash backs—all of it, when it came to actual application, I have to admit, I just couldn’t pull it off.
But I had this great understanding of how to write and an awareness of what people liked to read. Heck, I was reading and liking what was also popular with others. Wasn’t that proof enough that I knew and could detect what was truly good writing.
Slowly, as the rejection notices piled up, the thought began to grow that my niche might lie in assisting other aspiring writers to write better, to find their form of writing passion, to write in a way that readers would be drawn to their work. All of this was unfolding at the same time that I was gaining awareness of my own approach to life. The disparity of life from the mind vs. life from the soul or heart became more obvious. As I got more in touch with that and the understanding that from alignment with soul purpose flows alignment with external purpose, it became clear that for me that alignment led me more toward teaching and coaching than it did to actual writing.
So here I sit, midst piles of manuscript from writer wanna-be’s, continuing my own inner journey as I flounder at learning the art of awareness and acceptance. I do my best at using that perspective to encourage and support those writers who put their trust in me, with full confidence that with a few attitudinal adjustments in Justin’s approach, Capturing Salina’s Crown will burst forth with full brilliance and capture the hearts of Justin’s readers.
I Forgot
Prompt: I Forgot. Write a poem.
Resonating in my ear,
The phrase often spoken here,
I can’t remember, what I can’t remember
Becomes the chant.
I can’t remember. I simply can’t.
A date, a time, a place, a face,
Oh how the globed mass strains,
The hard drive searches to claim
The link that will contain,
The memory that I try to recall in vain.
Not long ago “like a steel trap”
Was the comparison in my mind,
When facts or things it could not find,
And where my speech was going
Seemed so blind.
.
And then a day, oh yes remembered,
When words failed to show their face,
And left instead a silent place.
Just a space, a gap in time
Where once there would have been a line.
Followed by an “ahh” or “gee”,
Acknowledging an “oh dear me”.
It seems that I have lost the line or
Can you tell what I was saying
At that time?
A belief that I have just past read,
Though from where is not in my head,
That as we move from life toward death,
Skills once possessed fade and recede,
No matter how hard we plead.
90 year old Mom and Dad, icons of this
Have shown the way that comes to all.
As they forget what I just said and let me tell
The story twice or thrice or on and on
With their excitement just as strong.
So it seems, that state of worry’s gone
And they’ve arrived at the place long sought,
That place where there is not a thought,
That takes us back or pulls us on,
That place present moment’s song.
So when peers are near and we remiss
How memory fade destroys our bliss,
When words won’t appear,
I am now at ease to simply say
To fill the space where words are not–
I forgot.
What I Really Meant
Standing on the corner, post office down the street to he left, bank straight ahead, her favorite bar just a two doors before the bank, Lynn was confused, perplexed, uncertain to say the least. She had just walked out of Sally’s cafe where she had coffee with her ex, Frank. Things had been stressful. They’d tried to talk about Cindy and Little Frankie, Cindy’s difficulties at school, Franky’s resistance to piano practice. Frank got angry, spilled his coffee on his lap. She’d looked at her watch, said she needed to get to the bank when it opened and had to drop off a letter at the post office before her hair appointment. What she really wanted to do was head to the bar and down a couple of martinis to get her back on track.
But she didn’t do any of those. She had to go back and face Frank. It was time to do that. Time to stop being wimpy and submissive. Time to take a stand. Lynn planted the heel of her left foot, spun around, marched the half block to Sally’s cafe, pushed the door open with gusto and continued her march back to where Frank was still sopping up coffee with a napkin. He looked up, obviously surprised.
“What I really meant when I said that I had to get to the bank and post office and hair appointment was that I am sick and tired of your blustering, know it all, stick it in my face attitude and I’m not going to take it any more.” Lynn felt her face flushing, her body starting to quiver, knees weak. Did she really just say that? Oh my. She braced herself for an onslot.
Frank was surprised to say the least, but he burst out laughing. “That was great. I can’t believe you just did that. I gotta say, that it’s really refreshing to have you stand up to my bullshit. Would you please sit down, let me finish this mop-up and get another cup of coffee.”
Lynn softened. Took three deep breaths and slid back into the booth. While Frank was at the counter, she looked around, took in Sally’s cozy little cafe. There were fresh flowers on every table, some roses, some asters, some greenery, each different, each carefully arranged in its own uniqueness. And there was art on the walls. She’d never noticed it before. All different, some water color landscapes, some oil still lifes, two lovely photos of large flower blooms. All had little tags. She could see prices. Lynn took a couple more breaths as Frank slid into the other side, facing her, taking a sip of coffee.
“Have you ever noticed the art in here?” she asked. He looked up, eyes went around the room.
“Yep, those two photos are by Gus over at the high school who teaches a photography class. The two oils are by Brenda Lee who is a piano student with Franky’s piano teacher. Pretty good aren’t they.”
His comments, took her by surprise. Frank interested in art? “Hmmm, I’m impressed that you know these people, who they are. I don’t remember you being interested in art.”
“Yeah, well you know how it is. When you have more time and time alone, it opens up new horizons. Lynn, I want you to know that I do respect your thoughts on Frankie trials with piano and Cindy’s struggle as a high school freshman. And it pains me to no end when we end up in these knock down drag-outs every time. I really mean that. It’s very painful, unsettling. It ruins my whole day. So how ’bout we start over. Is there anything else that you are pissed at me for that you want to get out? I can take it. Just let if fly. What else have you said when you really wanted to say something else instead, but didn’t?”
Lynn could hardly believe her ears. Frank inviting her to spew forth her anger, anger that had started building up less than three months after their shotgun marriage. Her mind did a thirty second redo with five images per second playing through of the incidents where she was angry at him, but didn’t express it. “Well, first there was the beat-up, run down, leaky and disgustingly ugly row boat you pulled home when I was 8 months pregnant and couldn’t even make it up the steps to the house and you wanted me to climb in the damn thing and row around that stinky, sewer filled pond behind the house.” Oh boy, this is going to take a long time she thought.
“You mean you didn’t like that boat. I remember you saying how much you liked it and how romantic it was rowing around the pond. I’ll be damned. You didn’t like it, huh? Well what else?”
Lynn felt better already. “Well there was all of the friction right after Cindy and Frankie were born when you moved your mother in with us for what was it, about two horrible months, and she wanted to take over every move with the babies. I damned near tore my hair out every day. She was such a bitch, Frank, and you just cooed over her and how grateful you were.”
“Well that’s a surprise, Lynn. I remember you telling her how grateful you were and how glad you didn’t have to do it all yourself. But you didn’t really like it, huh? Ok what else?”
Lynn was almost back to normal. “You know what Frank. I can’t believe this is happening. I can just feel the tension running out of my feet as you let me bash you with all of this stuff that I’ve been holding on to and building up. But why the hell didn’t you make me do this years ago. What’s the matter with you, letting me get away with holding it in?”
Frank looked like he’d been hit with a cold mackerel, he started to stammer, “I, I….”
Lynn burst into a grin and then a full belly laugh. “Got you on that one didn’t I? No, I don’t blame you for not making me do what I should have done all along, but I appreciate your making it possible for me to get it out. How did you do that?”
“Oh, I’ve had some time since you left. I’ve taken some classes. There’s one about how to shut up and let the other person say what they need to that I started last week. It’s just that it’s so hard to remember to do it. I apologize for not using that when we first started the conversation this morning, but when you stormed out, it kind caught me and I was able to pull back into a more neutral space when you walked back in. I’m glad you did and that you were fired up enough to let me have it. So what I really meant to say when I said I thought is was a dumb shit idea for Frankie to quit piano lessons was to commend you for suggesting Frankie trade in his piano for a guitar that he was excited about playing.”
Lynn could only smile.
Love
Prompt: Things I Love: Write a word, pass the paper four times. Use the words on the sheet you end up with. Mine: sex, food, God, fragrance.
From the beginning, he recalled his mom’s voice had rung with the chimes of Love. At times he thought her to be one of the Angels the Padre extolled. At others, Mother Mary herself. Gomez was smitten by the love of his own mother, be it her love of God, her love of food or her love of the fragrance she was wearing. His mother was love incarnate, love expressed, love possessed, love to long for, love of feeling loved.
Though it flowed through his memories and aspirations, as he grew both in stature and maturation, his curiosity about the word itself, the meaning of love also grew. Just what did it mean–indeed what exactly is love? In his early years he would hear expressions of “I love my dog, I love my freedom, I love myself, God is love, Jesus is love, God so loved the world that he gave his only Son to be killed by hanging on the cross”. Huh?
As he moved along his education path, other concepts entered his field of awareness. All is love, all you need is love, love is the answer, love is the opening door, give yourself to love, love one another as I have loved you.
When the girls in his life metamorphosed into women, love took on a new meaning. Gomez noticed the urges in his body and the conflicting thoughts that floated through. I love yous were sought after and oft expressed phrases, “I love your body, I love it when we are together, let’s make love, I love sex, I love the feeling of being with you. You love me and I love you–Right? I love seeing the moon, I love to touch you. I love being loved by you”.
And in his higher academic years, other concepts arose: Love is a feeling, love is an emotion, love is not an emotion, love is really all there is. And there are types of love, there is Gaia love–the love of everything, friendship, your dog, pizza. There is erotic love, I want to make love to you, I love to ravish your body, I want to send you screaming, I’d love to fuck you, I love it when you fuck me. And of course the Romantic love. The truly madly deeply love, the I love being with you love, the I miss you when your gone love, the love that begets broken hearts, crooning love songs, puppy dogs eyes gazing at each other. Truly, madly, deeply love that lasts a lifetime, spans a universe, compels poetry and renders even the most contentious and cantankerous into the blithering non-functional.
As years passed, a life seasoned Gomez spent more time gazing at the moon, pondering his past, wondering about source and purpose and his relation to it all. God is love and love is the source, and such, rose above the other love based thoughts. What is my relationship with Love? Who is the ultimate Beloved? How does one communicate with the ultimate Beloved? How to listen to the Love that is all? Does it require entry through the church door? Is it found in the petals of a flower? Does it come through the chanting of the monks or in the high trill of the Catholic girls’ choir? Can it be spawned by Mary Jane or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds or crack cocaine–or simply by just being with oneself, being present, focusing within?
Gomez sipped his Margarita and watched the sun dip below the horizon as soft white changed to coral and boats bobbed in the water. His mother sat beside him in warm, white woolens, uncharacteristic for the weather. Her time was near, but her eyes were bright and smiling, her lips stretched wide and moist. She took his hand, focused on him with that fixating chin slightly dropped expression with which he was so familiar. “I love you Gomez” were the only words, but in them, as always, came the true understanding of that elusive word. He heard it, he knew it, he felt it, he experienced it. There was no need for a definition.
It’s How We Do Things Around Here.
From the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was going to be trouble. Strong willed, chin held high, self-aware of both her striking appearance and her command of voice. He recalls the second set of words from her mouth after she gave a brief overview of the session and the rules. “It’s how we do things around here. Anyone got any complaints?”
Trent was new in the yoga class. His wife had sent him, told him he needed to develop some poise and balance. He had responded with a smirk. “You think I need some poison to balance?” They’d laughed, but he did go. Took the little rolled up pink yoga mat his wife had thrust into his hands as he walked out the door, fingered the mat and bellowed out “It’s thinner than paper, not going to do me any damned good.”
Jessie welcomed Trent with a warm smile, gave him a hug when he mentioned his wife’s name. Pointed to a stack of cubicles for him to put his stuff, said he could roll out his mat on the far side of the fat lady, not that Jessie called her a fat lady, but he knew who she meant.
That first day had been a stretch. Finding the position she modeled was hard enough, but holding if for what seemed like an eternity tested both his will and his strength. When he relaxed, in an instant Jessie’s commandeering voice propelled him back into it for another bout of pain. He could do it, “But why?” went through his head.
He wasn’t the only one she barked at. There were two other guys in the class, both older than him, both fighting against beer bellies and flabby arms, but they did it, held the poses with grace. The seven women seemed more relaxed. They were a variety, mostly past 20, a few in their 50’s, but all attired in what Trent assumed was trendy yoga dress: tight butt leggings, sleeveless tops and hair piled on top. Trent quickly realized that part of the payoff was the view. All of those lovelies–particularly Jessie. She was something else. Slender, nice hips, firm breasts peeking out of her tank top. Trent found that when he was losing his grip on the pose, fixating on Jessie gave him the will to endure.
His wife quizzed him when he came home from work that night. “So how did it go. How did you like Jessie? I know she’s a bit of a drill sergeant, but she is inspiring isn’t she?”
What could he say other than fine, yes, she’s persistent, but he withheld the fact that he found her utterly fascinating and intoxicating and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. But he was curious, so he asked. “Does she have another job? Where does she live?” and, hidden in those innocuous questions, “Tell me more about her. Is she married, does she have kids?” He knew women knew all that stuff about each other, hoped his inquiry didn’t disclose his real interest: Was she available? His wife wound up saying she was recently divorced, no kids.
Now don’t get me wrong. Trent was a dedicated husband, kept up his part of the marriage, worked hard as a car sales man, went grocery shopping with his wife, carried out the garbage every week. It’s how they did things around there. But after a dozen years of doing this, Trent caught himself gazing longingly at women who weren’t as faded as his wife. Oh, she was a beauty in her day. But he was very drawn to attractive, fit women and copped to it; would say to his buddies, “Someone has to date the beautiful women. Why not me?” After the courtship and marriage cemented them together, Trent gave the marriage his all, but his enthusiasm was waning.
The next Tuesday, Trent was out the door with his new blue yoga mat ten minutes earlier than he needed to be. His wife waived him on, smiling at his enthusiasm. As he hoped, Jessie was already at the yoga studio when he arrived, taking off her outer shell to reveal a bright pink set of leggings and tank top. Her hair was still drying and pulled back into a pony tail. Her skin revealed a recent session in the tanning salon.
“Hi Trent. You’re here early. I like to see that enthusiasm. That works well around here.”
“Yeah, thought I’d come in a bit early to chat with you and find out more about this drill sergeant woman I’m surrendering my life to.” Jessie laughed. “I come out that strong, do I? Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” She paused. “I’m glad you came back. I liked the way you attacked the poses. I see you as very determined guy.” She paused, hung up her jacket and turned back toward him. “Your wife told me you are a car sales man. I’m looking for a new car and wondering if you might help get one. It’s such a daunting task finding what I want, negotiating and all that?”
“Sure, I work all weekend. Could you come by on Saturday mid-morning? I can show you around.”
Trent could hardly keep his attention on the poses that morning. He felt Jessie’s hands on him a half dozen times, lifting his waist, pushing his arms down, tilting his head. Each time he felt a jolt run through his body–caught a grin on her face.
Jessie arrived just after 10:00, looking delicious tight short, shorts and sleeveless white top. After looking at a couple of small SUV’s she decided she liked the red Honda. “Want to take it for a spin?” Trent asked.
“Sure. I didn’t know I could do that if I wasn’t really committed to buying the car.”
“Yeah, well you can. It’s how we do things around here. Let the customer fall in love with the car by driving it.”
When they were a block away from the car lot, Jessie pulled the car over to the curb, turned sideways in the seat. Looked Trent in the eyes. “Your wife has been really revealing to me. She has shared that she’s not happy in your marriage and that she’s looking for a way out. She said that if you expressed got interested in me it might be a way out and asked if I might help her justify leaving you by luring you into an affair.” She paused, took a breath. Trent was spell bound, unable to speak. “I find you very attractive at a base level and am game for that. I hope you’re not offended.”
Couldn’t believe his ears, but broke into a big smile and reached for Jessie’s hand, “I am always willing to help out good customer. It’s just how I do things around here.”
The Raven
Prompt; Weaving things together.
On his perch above the roof, the soft glow of dusk settling over the junipers, the raven seemed to be surveying his realm.
Ronald McKinely West, looked up, brushed back his ample greying hair and greeted the raven with a warm smile as he did with everyone. Though Ronnie Mack, as he was known to his family, was agnostic, whatever that means–he always followed with that disclaimer after he declared his agnosticism, he had a sense that the raven, ravens as a species, have a special connection with the source of life itself.
It was late summer, Janice was in the kitchen, could see him sitting with newspaper in his lap. She smiled in appreciation of her man, very buff for his age and very attentive in the sack since he gone on a supplements kick to strengthen his testosterone levels
He caught her smile. “Sweetie,” he called. “The raven is here. Do you think it means something? I really mean it this time,” he said as he rose from his chair and walked toward her with his usually air of confidence. She smiled at him again, knowing where this was headed.
“I’ve been thinking about it, you know. That bird looks at me like he knows something that I should know.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I had a rough night again last night and while I was having my eggs and first cup of coffee this morning, my dream from last night flashed through. You remember that song that has the chorus line ‘spill the wine, take that pearl’, where the words go on to describe how he was taken before the Hall of the Mountain King and then goes off into a fanciful description?”
“I sort of remember that, Honey, but what’s that got to do with the raven?”
“Oh, I don’t know, but that dream and the raven’s presence both kind of make me rethink my declared agnosticism. That raven, he just sits there looking so damn smart and it makes me think that there is some kind of conscious in there. And I think, if he has consciousness, then I must have a consciousness too, and it makes me wonder what it is in me that can observe that the raven, and I, have a consciousness.”
Janice smiles again. She’s been here before. It’s not been easy for her to ride side-kick with an agnostic and stay in a smiley face. It’s not his doubting that ruffles her, it the ambivalence about religion that runs with it. “Make up your damn mind,” often runs through her head when she hears him go off on such matters. She has reached a place of comfort with her own religious beliefs and vicariously suffers with Ronnie Mack when he goes into this state.
Ronnie Mack shrugs, withdraws energetically a bit, as he perceives her air of unexpressed impatience, turns and walks back out to his own perch on the porch.
He glances up at the raven. It lifts up from the tree top and sails overhead. Ronnie Mack laughs as the raven’s delivery of raven dew plummets toward him and covers his head with the main section of the New York Times to catch the well-aimed splat.
As it flies off, he smiles, salutes the bird in military fashion, wipes the splat off the front page of the Times and chuckles at the article detailing the struggle going on at the Vatican about the election of a new Pope.