It has been six months since I last wrote a blog entry. I have thought about it a lot and I have meant to write but I was waiting for things to slow down. Well, they haven't slowed down any, if anything they are crazier than ever. You would think after two battles with cancer, a massive surgical reorganization of my body and mind, the loss of a relationship, the loss of a job, a year of near-terminal frustration over a pseudo-job, and a move to California, you would think that things would slow down a bit. But NO, the day I left for California, one of my closest friends in Arizona moved in on my ex (granted he is my ex, but still) and they have been living happily ever after, while I slog along here, alone, in an empty apartment, without even a little kitty to keep me company.
Sometimes I think it's time to quit all this. I get down and depressed because it just doesn't seem to make much sense but then I stop.
I think of how worthwhile life really is. I think of those things that do have meaning for me, not my body, or past, or the things that haven't turned out perfectly. I think of the other 97% of my life.
I think about how much I enjoy my work now,
or how I love reading...,
reading the New Yorker,
or the Dragon Tattoo books,
or the biography of Benjamin Franklin,
or David Sedaris.
I think of making something lovely
or painting a table or shelf for my boys.
I think of how much I am enjoying living somewhere I have known my whole life
but never experienced before,
looking at the leaves swaying right outside my window,
how lovely the breeze feels
and how I want to share all this with my boys.
Then I know why I put up with the crap.
I want to teach my boys,
to share with them,
to be with them,
and all the other stuff is just static.
I guess I will have to find some time to keep this blog going, because it is a small way that I can write and be read, even if it is to a small audience. Thanks for reading.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
David Foster Wallace, Kenyon College Commencement Speech 2005
I transcribed this speech myself because I just thought it was so amazing. Any errors are my own. I downloaded the speech from the To The Best of Our Knowledge website at www.ttbook.org
In the day to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism, there is no such thing as not worshipping, everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship and the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual type thing to worship, be it JC, or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wicken mother goddess or the four noble truths or some inviolable set of ethical principles is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.
If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life. Then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough, it’s the truth.
Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age starts showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.
On one level we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; The skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth upfront in daily consciousness.
Worship power you will end up feeling weak and afraid and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear.
Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.
Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they are evil or sinful, it’s that they are unconscious. They are default settings. They are the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you are doing.
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along on the fuel of fear and anger and frustration and craving and the worship of self.
Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom, the freedom all to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation
This kind of freedom has much to recommend it but of course there are all different kinds of freedom and the kind that is most precious you will not hear talked about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad, petty, little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom
In the day to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism, there is no such thing as not worshipping, everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship and the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual type thing to worship, be it JC, or Allah, be it Yahweh or the Wicken mother goddess or the four noble truths or some inviolable set of ethical principles is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive.
If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life. Then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough, it’s the truth.
Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age starts showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.
On one level we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; The skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth upfront in daily consciousness.
Worship power you will end up feeling weak and afraid and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear.
Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out.
Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they are evil or sinful, it’s that they are unconscious. They are default settings. They are the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you are doing.
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along on the fuel of fear and anger and frustration and craving and the worship of self.
Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom, the freedom all to be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation
This kind of freedom has much to recommend it but of course there are all different kinds of freedom and the kind that is most precious you will not hear talked about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and displaying. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad, petty, little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
It's a LibraryThing
As my fascination,obsession even, with literature grows, I keep finding new ways to nurture it via the web. My new love is . This is so much fun. I used to think it was stupid to create a list of all the books you have, have read, want to read etc. But now I find that there is a reason for it. The reason is so that you can connect with others that share your love of reading and writers.
So I created a list of all the books that I want to mooch and I have been adding to it steadily. In the meantime, I have read some interesting blog posts, played some silly games involving book titles, met some folks who I have encountered on BookMooch and just had some fun wasting time. I have also found that there are literally hundreds, even thousands of writers that I have never heard of and I thought I was well read. This gives me hope because if there is room for them, there must be room for me to write too.
So if you have a deep and abiding love of books and reading, you might enjoy checking out the website. Happy surfing!
So I created a list of all the books that I want to mooch and I have been adding to it steadily. In the meantime, I have read some interesting blog posts, played some silly games involving book titles, met some folks who I have encountered on BookMooch and just had some fun wasting time. I have also found that there are literally hundreds, even thousands of writers that I have never heard of and I thought I was well read. This gives me hope because if there is room for them, there must be room for me to write too.
So if you have a deep and abiding love of books and reading, you might enjoy checking out the website. Happy surfing!
Energy Work
“The goals of yoga are varied and range from improving health to achieving Moksha …which is liberation from all worldly suffering and the cycle of birth and death …”
~ Wikipedia 2010
The sun was sinking like a ripe plum, falling below an orange and pink horizon. Nidra and Oliver were seated on the patio at their hotel, holding hands, their knees touching below the wrought iron table. Their glasses of Pinot Noir sat untouched.
“Look at that sunset, just look at it. There is nowhere better to live in the world than California. I don’t care what anyone says.” Oliver said. He was a tall, lanky man, with a style reminiscent of the beach bums of the 60’s and 70’s. He wore his wavy blonde hair rather long and dressed almost exclusively in shorts and Tevas.
Nidra, on the other hand, had an elegance that surpassed her attire. She exuded grace from her very pores. Her glance, smoother than river rocks, was more felt than seen. She was sleek with shimmering, sea-black hair and a lithe figure that swayed as she moved. Her limbs were long and supple and weaved themselves around Oliver’s like threads of silk.
Before the two could lift their glasses to make a toast, they heard Nidra’s name sung out from the far end of the patio. It was a lyrical voice belonging to a woman wearing a golden caramel colored shawl that blended with her bushy bronze hair. She approached the table, her tan arms reaching out to hug Nidra, her numerous bangles clinking against Nidra’s shoulders. She was followed by a man with dark hair and glasses, whose silky looking polo shirt made Oliver think of a Silicon Valley executive. The man stood back, looking embarrassed, but stepped forward when his wife began the introductions.
“Nidra, it’s so great to run into you here. What a coincidence. Hon,” she said turning to her husband, “this is my friend and yoga instructor, Nidra Sofirna. Nidra, this is my husband, Doug. And you …” she said turning to Oliver, “so you must be Nidra’s main squeeze. I’m Fawna, Fawna Dunroy.” She thrust her hand out and shook Oliver’s. Her grasp was firm and sure and Oliver had to admire the way she had gotten around the fact that he had not yet achieved the status of “husband.”
Doug moved forward to shake Oliver’s hand then stood back as Fawna rattled on about how many yoga retreats she had been on where Nidra was the instructor. Oliver wasn’t sure if he should be faintly annoyed with the way Fawna had commandeered their moment but when he looked at Nidra, he saw she was smiling. So Oliver overcame his surprise at the unexpected encounter and said nothing.
He graciously invited Fawna and Doug to share their table. Nidra gave him an apologetic glance and took a sip of her wine. Fawna sat beside her and began asking all about their trip, when they arrived, how long they were staying and what they thought of things so far.
Doug, the art historian, and Oliver, the solar panel installer, struggled to make small talk. Oliver asked Doug if he had ever done any yoga and when Doug said no, he continued, “Well, then, I don’t suppose you’ve ever had any energy work done either.”
Doug gave Oliver a quizzical look. “Energy work?” he asked.
“Yes, I do Reiki. It’s a practice to determine where your energy flow is trapped and I work to release it. Energy flow problems manifest themselves in health problems.”
Although Oliver had expected Doug to laugh derisively, he didn’t. He looked interested and asked to know more, so Oliver continued to describe how Reiki worked. Normally, Oliver found that the academic types were a bunch of stuffed shirts that just wanted to blather on about their research and their grants and the politics of academia. Oliver had heard it all before, during the four years of his graduate studies in ecology. But Doug was different.
The four chatted convivially deep into the night, sharing plates of calamari, goat cheese, artichoke dip and roasted peppers. They sipped and chugged through multiple bottles of delicious, pomegranate-red wines, from nearby wineries, the clinking of glasses and shouts of “cheers” ringing like chimes through the night air.
Finally Oliver suggested that they get some sleep, in preparation for their day at the beach, at which point Nidra suggested that Fawna and Doug join them. Oliver looked at her askance, as you would a person you suspect of some misdeed, but he kept his silence.
Doug had an expectant look on his face, waiting for Fawna to respond. She almost burst with howls of acceptance. “Oh we’d love to. That would be wonderful.” Doug breathed audibly.
Nidra turned to Oliver, “Would you mind terribly? We’ll have time alone later but it just sounds like such fun.” Oliver winced but acquiesced. It was what Nidra wanted.
They parked the car at the top of a bluff and meandered their way down to the beach below. Their steps were awkward and tentative, eight unskilled feet stumbling and sliding until they reached the sand. The four of them kicked off their shoes and Nidra immediately ran down the beach, gull-like in her eagerness to take flight. She didn’t wait long to strip off her blouse and skirt, throwing them down onto a towel. Standing in a black bikini, she shifted her weight from foot to foot while waiting for the others to join her.
Finally, she could wait no longer and she dashed towards the waves, kicking up sand as she ran. The water engulfed her legs, dampening her olive flesh, causing marbles of water to roll down her calves. Fawna ran to join her and Nidra bent down and splashed Fawna with the bubble bath foam of the sea. They frolicked like teenagers, giggling and laughing.
Nidra cheered as the water rushed up her body. Holding her nose with one hand and raising the other up in the air, she bent her knees and dropped below the surface. The others watched as she dove under the next wave and swam out to where the water was calm.
Fawna walked back up to the beach and spread out her towel and began unpacking the food, books, sunscreen and sunglasses. Oliver stood to remove his shirt then dashed down to the shore.
The water was crisp and nipped at his toes but the air still had a sting of summer heat. Oliver longed for the crispness and so began wading in up to his calves. Just then he felt a knot in the pit of his gut. There was silence. He couldn’t hear a sound other than the waves pulling out to the center of the earth, pulling, pulling, pulling.
Then he realized what it was that he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear Nidra. He didn’t hear the sound of her as she plunged through the waves, making her own wake. He couldn’t see her either. He began looking for her, looking frantically up and down the coast.
Oliver called desperately to Fawna and Doug to look for her and the two ran down to the water, Doug removing his shoes and shirt as he ran. When Oliver finally spotted Nidra, he noticed that she didn’t move through the water with her usual fluid movements, where her arms sliced smoothly over her head. Instead she floundered a bit. Usually she kicked her feet, displacing the water below them as if pressing the air out of the ocean, slowly, meticulously. But now her legs barely moved at all.
Oliver could see Nidra’s head occasionally appearing above the waves, rolling from side to side, doll-like in its lifelessness. A hand showed faintly below the surface of the water with the rise of the wave but there was no signal from her.
Oliver dove below the next wave and thrust his chest forward, grabbing his breath right out of the air, then he plunged back into the rhythm of his stroke. Although he heard faint voices in the distance he concentrated solely on the dark ropes of hair that, thankfully were still visible above the ice blue rim of the wave.
Oliver was within two feet of Nidra and her hair seemed to reach out to him. It was all he could make out of her. He imagined that she was drinking from the fathomless cup of the sea. Her black bathing suit melded into the floating strands of seaweed that braided themselves around the strands of flesh that were Nidra’s arms and legs. Oliver tugged at the seaweed in an attempt to disentangle her but couldn’t, so he swam with her towards the shore still ensnared in the seaweed’s tentacles.
Doug’s steps splashed salt water into Oliver’s eyes as he stood knee-deep in the waves. Doug grabbed the weighty body from Oliver’s numb hands and Oliver grabbed Nidra’s feet. How cold they were yet the water was mild for late September. The two men carried her onto the beach, laying her briskly onto the stack of towels that Fawna had prepared.
Doug knelt down beside Nidra’s head. He began to perform CPR, allowing Oliver to catch his breath. Oliver stood gasping in air in great loud gulps. While standing unsteadily on his feet, Oliver watched the scene below him, feeling so distant, so uninvolved. He noticed Doug, opening Nidra’s mouth, checking the passageway, taking a deep breath and then exhaling the breath into Nidra’s body.
Oliver also noticed Fawna standing back, her face a cast of fear and desperation. She had tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands quaked and Oliver noticed how the veins protruded slightly. She was so agitated that she had to sit to keep from falling. Doug grabbed Oliver’s hand to tell him that he needed to jump in and help with the CPR.
Already Oliver could see some color returning to Nidra’s features and after just one breath from him, she began to sputter and spit as balloons of water erupted from her mouth and nose. Doug and Oliver rolled Nidra on her side as the salt water and mucus flushed forth from her. Oliver noticed Fawna nearly faint but she pulled herself to and pushed her body forward, touching Nidra’s cheek with real tenderness.
“So, she’ll be all right?” she asked.
“It appears so,” replied Doug.
Oliver looked at the beach around him, at the vast stretches of sand that extended far up to the rolling dune hills and then back down to the sea. It seemed so huge and uninterrupted. Fawna sobbed with relief and the sounds catching in her throat echoed repeatedly in Oliver’s mind. Her hand was at her mouth as if to hold back some exclamation or forbidden words and Oliver just wanted to slap her, screaming, “It was me who almost lost her, you old goat, not you!”
In the car, on the way back to the hotel, Doug and Fawna were in the front seat but Fawna was twisted like a rope, constantly looking over her shoulder, checking on Nidra, casting an odd glance at Oliver, who held Nidra’s head in his lap. Doug drove without comment.
The road curved up and down through the rolling expanses that were dotted with trees and showed signs of the oncoming fall. Fawna looked back over her shoulder, giving a somewhat carsick look but apparently intrigued at the sight of Oliver holding Nidra whose hair flowed over his knee, resting there. It was cold and calm and reassuring. Oliver stared out the side window, trying not to think of what could have been the outcome that day. For just a moment, Oliver had wondered if this event heralded the end of his love with Nidra.
Later that day, Oliver couldn’t stop watching Nidra as she rested in their bed. He sat in the gold brocade armchair by the window, an open beer on the side table. Nidra lay on top of the duvet, hugging a pillow beside her body. Her breathing was slow and easy, barely audible, just a whisper really.
A few hours later, Oliver ordered up some soup and salad in hopes that she would wake and have the energy to eat. She didn’t and Oliver ate in silence, afraid to leave her alone in the room.
After he had finished eating, he went to place the dishes in the hallway. Almost as soon as he opened the door, he spotted Fawna, seated in an armchair in a small alcove down the hall. She had obviously been waiting for a chance to talk to him.
She stood up slowly. She no longer wore the bangle bracelets that were constantly clinking in the car on the drive back from the beach. In fact, he noticed she had no make-up on at all. Her hair stuck out in frizzy unkempt strands as if she had just gotten out of the shower.
She approached Oliver reaching out to grasp his hand but she pulled back at the last minute.
“How’s she doing?” she asked looking him straight in the eye.
Oliver ran his hands through his hair. Fawna tired him, she wore him out as if she were fragile or easily damaged. “She’s resting …” He hadn’t even finished his thought and she jumped in.
“So I shouldn’t disturb her right now.” She waited anxiously for his confirmation, as if it had been a question.
“Yes, I think she’ll be fine in the morning.”
Fawna looked defeated and Oliver noticed the rims of her eyes redden as she turned to walk down the hall towards the lobby, almost shouting over her shoulder, “Right-o, I’ll see you then.” Her words were chipper but her steps appeared to torture her. She appeared to struggle to pull her feet up from the carpet.
Oliver turned back to the door, struck by the oddity of the woman.
Late that evening, Oliver felt that Nidra was strong enough for him to leave her for a while, so he went down to the bar for a beer. It was late when he returned to their room. He was surprised to open the door and find Nidra lying on her side on their bed, reading a magazine. She was dressed in a black silk nightgown with ivory lace at the neckline.
Oliver noticed how her hazelnut nipples poked through the holes in the lace. Nidra’s legs rested one upon the other, showing no signs of the trauma from earlier in the day. She looked at him as he walked around the bed to the bathroom. He stopped momentarily to admire the way the nightgown was cut down below the middle of her back, revealing the oval birthmark that rode just under her left shoulder blade. It was this intimate detail that he thought of when he envisioned her and it’s what he looked for before they made love.
It made him want to consume her at that very minute. She rolled over to see what he was up to. He turned his back to her and entered the bathroom. He closed the door before she could say a word. By the time he came out, she was under the covers with her eyes closed.
Oliver awoke and Nidra was gone. There was an empty glass of orange juice on a tray by the armchair but there was no other sign of her. He found it hard to believe that she had gotten up, ordered juice and left, all without him waking. Then he realized that he was relieved that she was gone. He felt quite odd about things, not just Nidra’s near drowning but everything, the whole trip. He closed his eyes and tried to put his thoughts in order, but they kept circling around like water going down the drain. He realized that he should meditate, in order to find some peace, but the day was already upon him and the activity in the air would distract him.
He threw back the sheet and walked in to take a shower but decided on a bath instead. Maybe that would help him to clear his head.
Bathed and dressed, Oliver stepped out onto the lawn that ran down from the back of the hotel. It arched and tumbled away from the building in a lush and playful way. There was one spot where the grass leveled out under the shade of a pine tree. There Nidra stood balanced in a Lord of the Dance Pose, her right hand stretched out spear-like before her, her left hand paper clipping around her raised left leg. She stood in perfect balance, in perfect silence, and Oliver could do nothing but watch in breathless admiration.
Some minutes later, Nidra approached him, her hair pulled back and braided into a heavy rope down her back. She sat beside him, rested her hand on his knee and then stopped, halting the moment, allowing the hush of the air moving through the trees to be heard like a din. The two didn’t move.
“That was quite an experience yesterday. I guess I almost died,” she said. “Have you ever been that close to death?”
Oliver shook his head. He knew that the event had been scary but he hadn’t thought of it as a near-death experience. Of course it had been just that, he realized at that moment.
“You know I was thinking last night. I need to tell you that something has changed,” she said.
Oliver felt his breathing halt in his lungs. His muscles tightened and he had to beat back an inclination to rise and leave, without a word. The pressure from Nidra’s hand increased, to keep him there.
“I see,” he whispered. “I know that it was frightening but I didn’t expect it to have such an affect on you.” She said nothing, just gazed up into his face, unmoving. “Oh come on, Nidra. The need to change your life after a ‘near death’ experience is so cliché. Can’t you at least be original?” Oliver stopped to take a breath then plunged forth, “Is it someone else?” he asked, since that seemed the obvious question. He could feel a pinching in his throat like he had swallowed a bee.
“It is,” she responded with what seemed to him a careless nonchalance. He stayed sitting since she had not moved. He didn’t want to know any more but he felt the iron weight of her hand on his knee. He looked up into the duskiness of her stare. She cracked a threadlike smile, barely curving at the edges. She finally moved her hand and he got up and walked down the hill and out of sight.
Oliver drifted down the road until he came to a street sign announcing an upcoming curve. He stopped in his tracks staring at the sign. He kicked the sign, lightly at first, then harder. Then he began punching the sign, tearing the skin on his knuckles and sending shots of pain up his wrist into his elbow. He turned around and picked up a stick and began battering the sign, causing the metal to twist and buckle under his blows. He hacked at the sign until the stick broke and then he went looking for another stick, wandering around in circles, casting his gaze up and down. All of a sudden, he stepped into a gopher hole and took a tumble to the ground, landing face down in the drying grass. He beat his fists into the ground, carving out divots until he had no strength left and then he rested his forehead on his hands and cried.
Several minutes later, he lifted his head and all he could see was the gold and silver braided rope ring that he wore on his right hand. Nidra had given it to him for his birthday several years ago. He stood up, brushing the grass and dirt from his jeans. He walked back to the hotel, crossed the lobby, and headed for the stairs. He wasn’t in any hurry.
The staircase was cool and echoed as he took the first few steps. He decided not to think but just to listen to the sound of each step he took. He felt the weight of his foot as he set it down on the next step, the hum of his breathing, the cold of the handrail under his touch. When his mind began to wander he whispered an “Om” to himself and moved his focus back to his steps.
He pushed the stairwell door open and walked the three doors down to their room. Nidra seemed surprised when he opened the door and walked in. She was sitting in the armchair and it appeared that she had been meditating. He could never do that when he was as tense as he was at that moment. He looked at her as if it were her turn to speak because he had no idea what to say to her. He would wait for her.
“I wasn’t sure that you would come back,” she said.
“Well, I thought we were done, so what should it matter?” he responded.
She stood gaping at him. He simply shrugged his shoulders. He felt a tightening in his neck and temples and wondered if a migraine was coming on. He walked to the bathroom to take his medicine.
“I thought we might go home and talk about it,” she shouted over the burr of the running water.
He dropped the pills into his mouth and took two huge gulps from the glass. He shook his head and then threw it back, sending the pills down his throat with a torrent of water. He then splashed more water on his face.
“What’s to talk about? I’ve had my run. Eight years is a fair shake. Now it’s time to move over and give some other guy a chance. So be it.” He began to walk out of the room. Nidra moved to block the door.
“I don’t want you to leave without me,” she blurted out. “We can’t end it like this. There’s too much I need to tell you.”
“Are you sure that I want to hear it? You can’t tell me everything just to get it off your chest. That’s not fair to me. I’m not your dumping ground, here to alleviate your sense of guilt.” He took the door handle in his hand. “I’ll be in the bar.” He walked out the door, frustrated for his failure to react, his failure to tell her what this meant to him. He was just a smooth quiet river rock over which Nidra rippled and rolled without a pause.
Oliver was sipping his beer with the drone of the TV playing in the background. The bartender was chatting with a guy from Chattanooga and a mother and daughter were discussing the daughter’s wedding.
Oliver swirled the amber beer around in his glass, creating foam bubbles that clung to the sides. He felt the tightening move into his forehead. It appeared the medicine hadn’t worked. He knew that he shouldn’t be drinking the beer while taking the pills. He didn’t believe in taking any pharmaceuticals at all but he felt like he needed something at that moment. The pounding increased until he could nearly hear it in his ears. He would need to take more pills and soon. He got up, leaving a buck on the table and headed upstairs.
He stood before the door to their hotel room and he could hear Fawna and Nidra talking. “Probably sharing the details with her already,” he thought. “Why can’t she just keep this to herself, at least for a while?” he wondered.
As he opened the door just a bit, he saw the two women seated side by side on the bed, looking earnestly into each other’s eyes like schoolgirls do when sharing their deepest secrets. Fawna held Nidra’s hand in hers and was rubbing the back, gently caressing each bone, each knuckle. Nidra’s fingers were intertwined with Fawna’s like a Celtic knot.
Oliver thought about the many times that he had taken Nidra’s hand in his and how after a moment or two, she would slip her hand away. He would touch her shoulders and she would take his hand in hers and carefully remove it. Even in bed, she would not explore his body with her touch. She let her mouth do that and except for the moments just before their climax, she didn’t wish for any extraneous touch from him. But here she was nuzzling with Fawna.
Seconds later, Fawna jumped up, realizing the Oliver had opened the door. He stood in the doorway, gaping, dumbfounded.
Nidra stood suddenly, brushing Fawna aside. Oliver could see the ruby redness spring to her eyes. She looked like she wanted to rush into his arms but instead she planted herself, steadying her stance, as if she might fall. Fawna slipped past Oliver and closed the door behind her. Oliver could not move. And so the two of them stood like stones, in silence, mirroring each other’s stillness.
Oliver wanted to say, “Is she your lover? A woman?” but he knew that she was. He wanted to say, “I hate you,” but he didn’t hate her so he didn’t say that. He wanted to say, “How could you plan to meet your lover when we were away together? I would never do that to you,” because he was hurt but he didn’t say that. He wanted to say, “Nidra, I love you…” Yes, that’s what he wanted to say.
~ Wikipedia 2010
The sun was sinking like a ripe plum, falling below an orange and pink horizon. Nidra and Oliver were seated on the patio at their hotel, holding hands, their knees touching below the wrought iron table. Their glasses of Pinot Noir sat untouched.
“Look at that sunset, just look at it. There is nowhere better to live in the world than California. I don’t care what anyone says.” Oliver said. He was a tall, lanky man, with a style reminiscent of the beach bums of the 60’s and 70’s. He wore his wavy blonde hair rather long and dressed almost exclusively in shorts and Tevas.
Nidra, on the other hand, had an elegance that surpassed her attire. She exuded grace from her very pores. Her glance, smoother than river rocks, was more felt than seen. She was sleek with shimmering, sea-black hair and a lithe figure that swayed as she moved. Her limbs were long and supple and weaved themselves around Oliver’s like threads of silk.
Before the two could lift their glasses to make a toast, they heard Nidra’s name sung out from the far end of the patio. It was a lyrical voice belonging to a woman wearing a golden caramel colored shawl that blended with her bushy bronze hair. She approached the table, her tan arms reaching out to hug Nidra, her numerous bangles clinking against Nidra’s shoulders. She was followed by a man with dark hair and glasses, whose silky looking polo shirt made Oliver think of a Silicon Valley executive. The man stood back, looking embarrassed, but stepped forward when his wife began the introductions.
“Nidra, it’s so great to run into you here. What a coincidence. Hon,” she said turning to her husband, “this is my friend and yoga instructor, Nidra Sofirna. Nidra, this is my husband, Doug. And you …” she said turning to Oliver, “so you must be Nidra’s main squeeze. I’m Fawna, Fawna Dunroy.” She thrust her hand out and shook Oliver’s. Her grasp was firm and sure and Oliver had to admire the way she had gotten around the fact that he had not yet achieved the status of “husband.”
Doug moved forward to shake Oliver’s hand then stood back as Fawna rattled on about how many yoga retreats she had been on where Nidra was the instructor. Oliver wasn’t sure if he should be faintly annoyed with the way Fawna had commandeered their moment but when he looked at Nidra, he saw she was smiling. So Oliver overcame his surprise at the unexpected encounter and said nothing.
He graciously invited Fawna and Doug to share their table. Nidra gave him an apologetic glance and took a sip of her wine. Fawna sat beside her and began asking all about their trip, when they arrived, how long they were staying and what they thought of things so far.
Doug, the art historian, and Oliver, the solar panel installer, struggled to make small talk. Oliver asked Doug if he had ever done any yoga and when Doug said no, he continued, “Well, then, I don’t suppose you’ve ever had any energy work done either.”
Doug gave Oliver a quizzical look. “Energy work?” he asked.
“Yes, I do Reiki. It’s a practice to determine where your energy flow is trapped and I work to release it. Energy flow problems manifest themselves in health problems.”
Although Oliver had expected Doug to laugh derisively, he didn’t. He looked interested and asked to know more, so Oliver continued to describe how Reiki worked. Normally, Oliver found that the academic types were a bunch of stuffed shirts that just wanted to blather on about their research and their grants and the politics of academia. Oliver had heard it all before, during the four years of his graduate studies in ecology. But Doug was different.
The four chatted convivially deep into the night, sharing plates of calamari, goat cheese, artichoke dip and roasted peppers. They sipped and chugged through multiple bottles of delicious, pomegranate-red wines, from nearby wineries, the clinking of glasses and shouts of “cheers” ringing like chimes through the night air.
Finally Oliver suggested that they get some sleep, in preparation for their day at the beach, at which point Nidra suggested that Fawna and Doug join them. Oliver looked at her askance, as you would a person you suspect of some misdeed, but he kept his silence.
Doug had an expectant look on his face, waiting for Fawna to respond. She almost burst with howls of acceptance. “Oh we’d love to. That would be wonderful.” Doug breathed audibly.
Nidra turned to Oliver, “Would you mind terribly? We’ll have time alone later but it just sounds like such fun.” Oliver winced but acquiesced. It was what Nidra wanted.
They parked the car at the top of a bluff and meandered their way down to the beach below. Their steps were awkward and tentative, eight unskilled feet stumbling and sliding until they reached the sand. The four of them kicked off their shoes and Nidra immediately ran down the beach, gull-like in her eagerness to take flight. She didn’t wait long to strip off her blouse and skirt, throwing them down onto a towel. Standing in a black bikini, she shifted her weight from foot to foot while waiting for the others to join her.
Finally, she could wait no longer and she dashed towards the waves, kicking up sand as she ran. The water engulfed her legs, dampening her olive flesh, causing marbles of water to roll down her calves. Fawna ran to join her and Nidra bent down and splashed Fawna with the bubble bath foam of the sea. They frolicked like teenagers, giggling and laughing.
Nidra cheered as the water rushed up her body. Holding her nose with one hand and raising the other up in the air, she bent her knees and dropped below the surface. The others watched as she dove under the next wave and swam out to where the water was calm.
Fawna walked back up to the beach and spread out her towel and began unpacking the food, books, sunscreen and sunglasses. Oliver stood to remove his shirt then dashed down to the shore.
The water was crisp and nipped at his toes but the air still had a sting of summer heat. Oliver longed for the crispness and so began wading in up to his calves. Just then he felt a knot in the pit of his gut. There was silence. He couldn’t hear a sound other than the waves pulling out to the center of the earth, pulling, pulling, pulling.
Then he realized what it was that he didn’t hear. He didn’t hear Nidra. He didn’t hear the sound of her as she plunged through the waves, making her own wake. He couldn’t see her either. He began looking for her, looking frantically up and down the coast.
Oliver called desperately to Fawna and Doug to look for her and the two ran down to the water, Doug removing his shoes and shirt as he ran. When Oliver finally spotted Nidra, he noticed that she didn’t move through the water with her usual fluid movements, where her arms sliced smoothly over her head. Instead she floundered a bit. Usually she kicked her feet, displacing the water below them as if pressing the air out of the ocean, slowly, meticulously. But now her legs barely moved at all.
Oliver could see Nidra’s head occasionally appearing above the waves, rolling from side to side, doll-like in its lifelessness. A hand showed faintly below the surface of the water with the rise of the wave but there was no signal from her.
Oliver dove below the next wave and thrust his chest forward, grabbing his breath right out of the air, then he plunged back into the rhythm of his stroke. Although he heard faint voices in the distance he concentrated solely on the dark ropes of hair that, thankfully were still visible above the ice blue rim of the wave.
Oliver was within two feet of Nidra and her hair seemed to reach out to him. It was all he could make out of her. He imagined that she was drinking from the fathomless cup of the sea. Her black bathing suit melded into the floating strands of seaweed that braided themselves around the strands of flesh that were Nidra’s arms and legs. Oliver tugged at the seaweed in an attempt to disentangle her but couldn’t, so he swam with her towards the shore still ensnared in the seaweed’s tentacles.
Doug’s steps splashed salt water into Oliver’s eyes as he stood knee-deep in the waves. Doug grabbed the weighty body from Oliver’s numb hands and Oliver grabbed Nidra’s feet. How cold they were yet the water was mild for late September. The two men carried her onto the beach, laying her briskly onto the stack of towels that Fawna had prepared.
Doug knelt down beside Nidra’s head. He began to perform CPR, allowing Oliver to catch his breath. Oliver stood gasping in air in great loud gulps. While standing unsteadily on his feet, Oliver watched the scene below him, feeling so distant, so uninvolved. He noticed Doug, opening Nidra’s mouth, checking the passageway, taking a deep breath and then exhaling the breath into Nidra’s body.
Oliver also noticed Fawna standing back, her face a cast of fear and desperation. She had tears streaming down her cheeks. Her hands quaked and Oliver noticed how the veins protruded slightly. She was so agitated that she had to sit to keep from falling. Doug grabbed Oliver’s hand to tell him that he needed to jump in and help with the CPR.
Already Oliver could see some color returning to Nidra’s features and after just one breath from him, she began to sputter and spit as balloons of water erupted from her mouth and nose. Doug and Oliver rolled Nidra on her side as the salt water and mucus flushed forth from her. Oliver noticed Fawna nearly faint but she pulled herself to and pushed her body forward, touching Nidra’s cheek with real tenderness.
“So, she’ll be all right?” she asked.
“It appears so,” replied Doug.
Oliver looked at the beach around him, at the vast stretches of sand that extended far up to the rolling dune hills and then back down to the sea. It seemed so huge and uninterrupted. Fawna sobbed with relief and the sounds catching in her throat echoed repeatedly in Oliver’s mind. Her hand was at her mouth as if to hold back some exclamation or forbidden words and Oliver just wanted to slap her, screaming, “It was me who almost lost her, you old goat, not you!”
In the car, on the way back to the hotel, Doug and Fawna were in the front seat but Fawna was twisted like a rope, constantly looking over her shoulder, checking on Nidra, casting an odd glance at Oliver, who held Nidra’s head in his lap. Doug drove without comment.
The road curved up and down through the rolling expanses that were dotted with trees and showed signs of the oncoming fall. Fawna looked back over her shoulder, giving a somewhat carsick look but apparently intrigued at the sight of Oliver holding Nidra whose hair flowed over his knee, resting there. It was cold and calm and reassuring. Oliver stared out the side window, trying not to think of what could have been the outcome that day. For just a moment, Oliver had wondered if this event heralded the end of his love with Nidra.
Later that day, Oliver couldn’t stop watching Nidra as she rested in their bed. He sat in the gold brocade armchair by the window, an open beer on the side table. Nidra lay on top of the duvet, hugging a pillow beside her body. Her breathing was slow and easy, barely audible, just a whisper really.
A few hours later, Oliver ordered up some soup and salad in hopes that she would wake and have the energy to eat. She didn’t and Oliver ate in silence, afraid to leave her alone in the room.
After he had finished eating, he went to place the dishes in the hallway. Almost as soon as he opened the door, he spotted Fawna, seated in an armchair in a small alcove down the hall. She had obviously been waiting for a chance to talk to him.
She stood up slowly. She no longer wore the bangle bracelets that were constantly clinking in the car on the drive back from the beach. In fact, he noticed she had no make-up on at all. Her hair stuck out in frizzy unkempt strands as if she had just gotten out of the shower.
She approached Oliver reaching out to grasp his hand but she pulled back at the last minute.
“How’s she doing?” she asked looking him straight in the eye.
Oliver ran his hands through his hair. Fawna tired him, she wore him out as if she were fragile or easily damaged. “She’s resting …” He hadn’t even finished his thought and she jumped in.
“So I shouldn’t disturb her right now.” She waited anxiously for his confirmation, as if it had been a question.
“Yes, I think she’ll be fine in the morning.”
Fawna looked defeated and Oliver noticed the rims of her eyes redden as she turned to walk down the hall towards the lobby, almost shouting over her shoulder, “Right-o, I’ll see you then.” Her words were chipper but her steps appeared to torture her. She appeared to struggle to pull her feet up from the carpet.
Oliver turned back to the door, struck by the oddity of the woman.
Late that evening, Oliver felt that Nidra was strong enough for him to leave her for a while, so he went down to the bar for a beer. It was late when he returned to their room. He was surprised to open the door and find Nidra lying on her side on their bed, reading a magazine. She was dressed in a black silk nightgown with ivory lace at the neckline.
Oliver noticed how her hazelnut nipples poked through the holes in the lace. Nidra’s legs rested one upon the other, showing no signs of the trauma from earlier in the day. She looked at him as he walked around the bed to the bathroom. He stopped momentarily to admire the way the nightgown was cut down below the middle of her back, revealing the oval birthmark that rode just under her left shoulder blade. It was this intimate detail that he thought of when he envisioned her and it’s what he looked for before they made love.
It made him want to consume her at that very minute. She rolled over to see what he was up to. He turned his back to her and entered the bathroom. He closed the door before she could say a word. By the time he came out, she was under the covers with her eyes closed.
Oliver awoke and Nidra was gone. There was an empty glass of orange juice on a tray by the armchair but there was no other sign of her. He found it hard to believe that she had gotten up, ordered juice and left, all without him waking. Then he realized that he was relieved that she was gone. He felt quite odd about things, not just Nidra’s near drowning but everything, the whole trip. He closed his eyes and tried to put his thoughts in order, but they kept circling around like water going down the drain. He realized that he should meditate, in order to find some peace, but the day was already upon him and the activity in the air would distract him.
He threw back the sheet and walked in to take a shower but decided on a bath instead. Maybe that would help him to clear his head.
Bathed and dressed, Oliver stepped out onto the lawn that ran down from the back of the hotel. It arched and tumbled away from the building in a lush and playful way. There was one spot where the grass leveled out under the shade of a pine tree. There Nidra stood balanced in a Lord of the Dance Pose, her right hand stretched out spear-like before her, her left hand paper clipping around her raised left leg. She stood in perfect balance, in perfect silence, and Oliver could do nothing but watch in breathless admiration.
Some minutes later, Nidra approached him, her hair pulled back and braided into a heavy rope down her back. She sat beside him, rested her hand on his knee and then stopped, halting the moment, allowing the hush of the air moving through the trees to be heard like a din. The two didn’t move.
“That was quite an experience yesterday. I guess I almost died,” she said. “Have you ever been that close to death?”
Oliver shook his head. He knew that the event had been scary but he hadn’t thought of it as a near-death experience. Of course it had been just that, he realized at that moment.
“You know I was thinking last night. I need to tell you that something has changed,” she said.
Oliver felt his breathing halt in his lungs. His muscles tightened and he had to beat back an inclination to rise and leave, without a word. The pressure from Nidra’s hand increased, to keep him there.
“I see,” he whispered. “I know that it was frightening but I didn’t expect it to have such an affect on you.” She said nothing, just gazed up into his face, unmoving. “Oh come on, Nidra. The need to change your life after a ‘near death’ experience is so cliché. Can’t you at least be original?” Oliver stopped to take a breath then plunged forth, “Is it someone else?” he asked, since that seemed the obvious question. He could feel a pinching in his throat like he had swallowed a bee.
“It is,” she responded with what seemed to him a careless nonchalance. He stayed sitting since she had not moved. He didn’t want to know any more but he felt the iron weight of her hand on his knee. He looked up into the duskiness of her stare. She cracked a threadlike smile, barely curving at the edges. She finally moved her hand and he got up and walked down the hill and out of sight.
Oliver drifted down the road until he came to a street sign announcing an upcoming curve. He stopped in his tracks staring at the sign. He kicked the sign, lightly at first, then harder. Then he began punching the sign, tearing the skin on his knuckles and sending shots of pain up his wrist into his elbow. He turned around and picked up a stick and began battering the sign, causing the metal to twist and buckle under his blows. He hacked at the sign until the stick broke and then he went looking for another stick, wandering around in circles, casting his gaze up and down. All of a sudden, he stepped into a gopher hole and took a tumble to the ground, landing face down in the drying grass. He beat his fists into the ground, carving out divots until he had no strength left and then he rested his forehead on his hands and cried.
Several minutes later, he lifted his head and all he could see was the gold and silver braided rope ring that he wore on his right hand. Nidra had given it to him for his birthday several years ago. He stood up, brushing the grass and dirt from his jeans. He walked back to the hotel, crossed the lobby, and headed for the stairs. He wasn’t in any hurry.
The staircase was cool and echoed as he took the first few steps. He decided not to think but just to listen to the sound of each step he took. He felt the weight of his foot as he set it down on the next step, the hum of his breathing, the cold of the handrail under his touch. When his mind began to wander he whispered an “Om” to himself and moved his focus back to his steps.
He pushed the stairwell door open and walked the three doors down to their room. Nidra seemed surprised when he opened the door and walked in. She was sitting in the armchair and it appeared that she had been meditating. He could never do that when he was as tense as he was at that moment. He looked at her as if it were her turn to speak because he had no idea what to say to her. He would wait for her.
“I wasn’t sure that you would come back,” she said.
“Well, I thought we were done, so what should it matter?” he responded.
She stood gaping at him. He simply shrugged his shoulders. He felt a tightening in his neck and temples and wondered if a migraine was coming on. He walked to the bathroom to take his medicine.
“I thought we might go home and talk about it,” she shouted over the burr of the running water.
He dropped the pills into his mouth and took two huge gulps from the glass. He shook his head and then threw it back, sending the pills down his throat with a torrent of water. He then splashed more water on his face.
“What’s to talk about? I’ve had my run. Eight years is a fair shake. Now it’s time to move over and give some other guy a chance. So be it.” He began to walk out of the room. Nidra moved to block the door.
“I don’t want you to leave without me,” she blurted out. “We can’t end it like this. There’s too much I need to tell you.”
“Are you sure that I want to hear it? You can’t tell me everything just to get it off your chest. That’s not fair to me. I’m not your dumping ground, here to alleviate your sense of guilt.” He took the door handle in his hand. “I’ll be in the bar.” He walked out the door, frustrated for his failure to react, his failure to tell her what this meant to him. He was just a smooth quiet river rock over which Nidra rippled and rolled without a pause.
Oliver was sipping his beer with the drone of the TV playing in the background. The bartender was chatting with a guy from Chattanooga and a mother and daughter were discussing the daughter’s wedding.
Oliver swirled the amber beer around in his glass, creating foam bubbles that clung to the sides. He felt the tightening move into his forehead. It appeared the medicine hadn’t worked. He knew that he shouldn’t be drinking the beer while taking the pills. He didn’t believe in taking any pharmaceuticals at all but he felt like he needed something at that moment. The pounding increased until he could nearly hear it in his ears. He would need to take more pills and soon. He got up, leaving a buck on the table and headed upstairs.
He stood before the door to their hotel room and he could hear Fawna and Nidra talking. “Probably sharing the details with her already,” he thought. “Why can’t she just keep this to herself, at least for a while?” he wondered.
As he opened the door just a bit, he saw the two women seated side by side on the bed, looking earnestly into each other’s eyes like schoolgirls do when sharing their deepest secrets. Fawna held Nidra’s hand in hers and was rubbing the back, gently caressing each bone, each knuckle. Nidra’s fingers were intertwined with Fawna’s like a Celtic knot.
Oliver thought about the many times that he had taken Nidra’s hand in his and how after a moment or two, she would slip her hand away. He would touch her shoulders and she would take his hand in hers and carefully remove it. Even in bed, she would not explore his body with her touch. She let her mouth do that and except for the moments just before their climax, she didn’t wish for any extraneous touch from him. But here she was nuzzling with Fawna.
Seconds later, Fawna jumped up, realizing the Oliver had opened the door. He stood in the doorway, gaping, dumbfounded.
Nidra stood suddenly, brushing Fawna aside. Oliver could see the ruby redness spring to her eyes. She looked like she wanted to rush into his arms but instead she planted herself, steadying her stance, as if she might fall. Fawna slipped past Oliver and closed the door behind her. Oliver could not move. And so the two of them stood like stones, in silence, mirroring each other’s stillness.
Oliver wanted to say, “Is she your lover? A woman?” but he knew that she was. He wanted to say, “I hate you,” but he didn’t hate her so he didn’t say that. He wanted to say, “How could you plan to meet your lover when we were away together? I would never do that to you,” because he was hurt but he didn’t say that. He wanted to say, “Nidra, I love you…” Yes, that’s what he wanted to say.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The creative spirit of silence
I have heard more than once that the fact that our kids' lives are chock full of video games, ipods, baseball, ballet and TV, that they are lacking the free time necessary to nurture their creative spirit. I thought about that a lot because I want my boys to be creative, to be inventive, to come up with ideas that are new and unique. I want them to write, to draw, to make music and to be one with the artistic world. So I am concerned about this.
Now my boys, ages 7 and 4, although not as wired as some and not as over-scheduled as others, I still began to wonder, when do they have time to let their minds wander, to imagine, to pretend, to let it all go. Then I thought, when to I!
I don't watch TV, except for the World Cup, and I try to read a lot but still, there is not much time when my mind is free to do its own thing. I usually am working, listening to the radio or talking to the boys. So I thought about that and I realized that I could give my mind some free time if I just turned off the radio, in the bathroom, in the car, and while at work. If I did that for just a little while, I found that all sorts of great ideas would come into my head and take up residence.
Since I started that, I have been much more prolific in my story ideas and in the plot development. I dream of characters, situations, locations, and all aspects of writing. I also dream of the future, think about the boys, imagine all sorts of possibilities and just let go.
I feel a bit more relaxed too since I am no longer listening to all the tragic, heart-breaking news every day. Some would think that I am running away from the world but I know it's there if I ever want to go back to it.
Now my boys, ages 7 and 4, although not as wired as some and not as over-scheduled as others, I still began to wonder, when do they have time to let their minds wander, to imagine, to pretend, to let it all go. Then I thought, when to I!
I don't watch TV, except for the World Cup, and I try to read a lot but still, there is not much time when my mind is free to do its own thing. I usually am working, listening to the radio or talking to the boys. So I thought about that and I realized that I could give my mind some free time if I just turned off the radio, in the bathroom, in the car, and while at work. If I did that for just a little while, I found that all sorts of great ideas would come into my head and take up residence.
Since I started that, I have been much more prolific in my story ideas and in the plot development. I dream of characters, situations, locations, and all aspects of writing. I also dream of the future, think about the boys, imagine all sorts of possibilities and just let go.
I feel a bit more relaxed too since I am no longer listening to all the tragic, heart-breaking news every day. Some would think that I am running away from the world but I know it's there if I ever want to go back to it.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The Grass is Always Greener ...
I am a young mother, a mother of three boys. I spend my days waking, feeding, clothing, shouting at and kissing the owies of my kids. I wash, clean, cook and fold laundry in the tiny back room that we call a laundry room. My husband is clean, kind and responsible, if a bit overweight. He leaves our tan suburban two-story house each morning promptly at 7:00 and doesn’t return until the lights are out. He often travels for work and can be gone for weeks. When he’s gone, I pay the bills, take out the trash, drink cheap wine from Trader Joe’s, and wait for him to return. I wear housedresses, aprons and pajamas nearly every day. My feet are comfortably familiar with my bunny slippers. I never put on make-up and my face and hair look dreary and old. I am thirty.
Every week day, after the children have gone to school, I get on the computer and check my email, a note from my husband, an announcement about the school play, and three spam emails offering a variety of sex products. Then I go to my online book group. The members are from all over the world, including Chile, Israel, Scotland, and France. We read a book each month, last month it was A Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks, and then we post comments and thoughts on what we read.
My favorite member is Adele. She is Brazilian. She is well-read, worldly and vibrant. She posted a picture of herself standing in a jungle with a monkey on her shoulder, red-black hair spiked like a cactus, khol around her jade green eyes, and an exotic copper medallion hanging from her neck. Her English is impeccable but she is multi-lingual and has worked her entire career in embassies all over the world. She lives in Paris now but has lived in Israel, Mozambique and Laos. She is not married and has no children, except for the young people who camp on the floor of her Paris apartment every spring and summer, returning year after year. She is not as young as she looks.
Her emails are smooth and clean, like reading someone’s dreams. She uses a formal calligraphic font and prints large. She keeps them short but they are full of images of her petite apartment filled with souvenirs from her years abroad, sitting in a sidewalk café watching the rain, taking the metro to her job near the Champs-Élysées, or playing on the beach near her childhood home in northern Brazil. My responses are pedestrian and mournful, how I wish to travel and see the world, how I have only been to Chicago and Saint Paul but that Michigan is a lovely place to live, really. I think about sending her pictures, but decide against it.
Her comments on the book each month are complex, demonstrating how she delves into the hearts of the characters, recognizes symbolism and seeks out the social and political statements in every work of art. I make the usual mundane comments about the use of language or how a particular character speaks to me. Adele, on the other hand, looks deeper, at the rhythm of the words and the musicality of the language. I envy her perspective but do not look at the world with her eyes. I am too worried about homework and chicken nuggets. My life is Kmart and hers is a Turkish market.
So I read the book again, to look for the symbolism, to seek out the social and political statements, to delve into the hearts of the characters. After all it will be hours before the boys get home from school.
Every week day, after the children have gone to school, I get on the computer and check my email, a note from my husband, an announcement about the school play, and three spam emails offering a variety of sex products. Then I go to my online book group. The members are from all over the world, including Chile, Israel, Scotland, and France. We read a book each month, last month it was A Year of Wonders, by Geraldine Brooks, and then we post comments and thoughts on what we read.
My favorite member is Adele. She is Brazilian. She is well-read, worldly and vibrant. She posted a picture of herself standing in a jungle with a monkey on her shoulder, red-black hair spiked like a cactus, khol around her jade green eyes, and an exotic copper medallion hanging from her neck. Her English is impeccable but she is multi-lingual and has worked her entire career in embassies all over the world. She lives in Paris now but has lived in Israel, Mozambique and Laos. She is not married and has no children, except for the young people who camp on the floor of her Paris apartment every spring and summer, returning year after year. She is not as young as she looks.
Her emails are smooth and clean, like reading someone’s dreams. She uses a formal calligraphic font and prints large. She keeps them short but they are full of images of her petite apartment filled with souvenirs from her years abroad, sitting in a sidewalk café watching the rain, taking the metro to her job near the Champs-Élysées, or playing on the beach near her childhood home in northern Brazil. My responses are pedestrian and mournful, how I wish to travel and see the world, how I have only been to Chicago and Saint Paul but that Michigan is a lovely place to live, really. I think about sending her pictures, but decide against it.
Her comments on the book each month are complex, demonstrating how she delves into the hearts of the characters, recognizes symbolism and seeks out the social and political statements in every work of art. I make the usual mundane comments about the use of language or how a particular character speaks to me. Adele, on the other hand, looks deeper, at the rhythm of the words and the musicality of the language. I envy her perspective but do not look at the world with her eyes. I am too worried about homework and chicken nuggets. My life is Kmart and hers is a Turkish market.
So I read the book again, to look for the symbolism, to seek out the social and political statements, to delve into the hearts of the characters. After all it will be hours before the boys get home from school.
Lisbon 1995
It was 1995, and I had settled in Lisbon, a bright city resting on the banks of the Tejo. There were several lovely neighborhoods in Lisbon, including Bairro Alto with the streamers of bougainvillea draped across the western hillside, and the Alfama, a cluster of white Moorish houses huddled on top of the eastern hills, but I lived in the Baixa, the valley that ran north from the river.
The Baixa moved at a staccato pace. It was the center of commerce, busy, gritty, and loud. The narrow streets were full of buses, trolleys, and cars and had broken mosaic stone sidewalks that were covered with dog shit and spit. The praças or squares were a mass of African immigrants, hundreds of them, smoking, chatting, loitering. People moved here and there, opening doors, buying snacks, rushing to and fro.
My apartment was on the Rua da Madalena, on the east side of the Baixa. This street was quieter and lined with small bars where old men in their tweed caps ate sea snails and lingered over their Sagres beer. The cafes were always busy, serving petite cups of black coffee as thick as crude oil, which the patrons slugged back while standing at the bar. Even further up the hill was a shortcut back to the quiet neighborhoods where African families ran small restaurants that served curry and goat stew while people sat near the open doors, smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly.
The building I lived in was one of those built after the earthquake of 1755, a building of beautiful white stone quarried from the banks of the Tejo that had acquired a thick layer of grime that covered all seven stories. The entrance to the building was a heavy wood door about eight feet high beyond which was the entryway, a vast empty space lit by a single light bulb hung from a ceiling many feet up. It was gloomy and, on dark days, you had to feel your way back to the stairs.
The apartment was a seventh-floor walkup. There was no elevator. The climb up the stairs was slow and arduous, especially if you carried groceries or a bag full of teaching supplies. The steps were cut of stone and had worn away in the center from the thousands of feet that had climbed them over the two centuries. The banister was a bare pole, hardly visible in the dim light. At each landing there was a wood door, closed and uninviting. The door on the seventh floor was equally uninviting and the key was heavy and difficult to turn in the lock, but once it did, the door opened onto a room that shone with light.
The apartment was small and there were French doors on either end. The floor sloped noticeably from the living room towards the kitchen where the French doors led to the void, a space where the church around the corner and the building nextdoor came together in a triangular space, seven stories high. The void was where pigeons roosted on the ledges of windows and women hung their wash out to dry. There was nothing to see but grimy walls covered with pigeon guano. Occasionally the sound of a radio playing fado would waft in during the springtime.
The highlight of the apartment was how the roof hung down to the edge of the bedroom window on the west side. On those summer evenings when bands played and fireworks were shot off over the Praça do Comercio, brave, young men would climb out onto the orange brick tiles and watch the sky and the river explode in a shower of colored lights.
The Baixa moved at a staccato pace. It was the center of commerce, busy, gritty, and loud. The narrow streets were full of buses, trolleys, and cars and had broken mosaic stone sidewalks that were covered with dog shit and spit. The praças or squares were a mass of African immigrants, hundreds of them, smoking, chatting, loitering. People moved here and there, opening doors, buying snacks, rushing to and fro.
My apartment was on the Rua da Madalena, on the east side of the Baixa. This street was quieter and lined with small bars where old men in their tweed caps ate sea snails and lingered over their Sagres beer. The cafes were always busy, serving petite cups of black coffee as thick as crude oil, which the patrons slugged back while standing at the bar. Even further up the hill was a shortcut back to the quiet neighborhoods where African families ran small restaurants that served curry and goat stew while people sat near the open doors, smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly.
The building I lived in was one of those built after the earthquake of 1755, a building of beautiful white stone quarried from the banks of the Tejo that had acquired a thick layer of grime that covered all seven stories. The entrance to the building was a heavy wood door about eight feet high beyond which was the entryway, a vast empty space lit by a single light bulb hung from a ceiling many feet up. It was gloomy and, on dark days, you had to feel your way back to the stairs.
The apartment was a seventh-floor walkup. There was no elevator. The climb up the stairs was slow and arduous, especially if you carried groceries or a bag full of teaching supplies. The steps were cut of stone and had worn away in the center from the thousands of feet that had climbed them over the two centuries. The banister was a bare pole, hardly visible in the dim light. At each landing there was a wood door, closed and uninviting. The door on the seventh floor was equally uninviting and the key was heavy and difficult to turn in the lock, but once it did, the door opened onto a room that shone with light.
The apartment was small and there were French doors on either end. The floor sloped noticeably from the living room towards the kitchen where the French doors led to the void, a space where the church around the corner and the building nextdoor came together in a triangular space, seven stories high. The void was where pigeons roosted on the ledges of windows and women hung their wash out to dry. There was nothing to see but grimy walls covered with pigeon guano. Occasionally the sound of a radio playing fado would waft in during the springtime.
The highlight of the apartment was how the roof hung down to the edge of the bedroom window on the west side. On those summer evenings when bands played and fireworks were shot off over the Praça do Comercio, brave, young men would climb out onto the orange brick tiles and watch the sky and the river explode in a shower of colored lights.
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