1. alistairconnor - 4/7/2005 4:48:01 AM
Here we go :
Webfeet has promised, Message # 2862 in thread 141, to give us Chapter Three, "Scenes From a Marriage", of her forthcoming novel (publisher not yet selected).
I think that, in return for this privilege, we should try to give her a bit of cogent and pungent literary criticism. Help her tighten up the literary tummy muscles, so to speak.
And although Magoseph hasn't actually promised anything, I think she could be flattered/threatened into a short story (childhood in Provence, immigrant in the US?).
There are plenty of other authors here : we'd all like to read something from such stylish writers as Ronski or Resonance; and we're all of us capable of chunking up something worthwhile out of the depths of our subconscious.
No imposed format or length. Except that suggested by the maximum post length : 8000 signs, or multiples thereof. Suggested theme : fictionalised elements from your own life.
2. webfeet - 4/7/2005 7:48:18 AM
The only thing I craved was a retreat, a temporary state of permanent rest. Not death exactly, but someplace I could go to check out, where I could simply go and disappear for a short period to sleep--no tennis, golf, masseuse, Jacuzzi, nothing else. Just sleep. And then a demented plan hatched in my brain: maybe I could just stage my own death? But I would need a corpse to pull that off. What if I simply threw one of my raincoats into the East River and filled the pockets with my credit cards and driver’s license? That might work. I could just go missing and then reappear in a week better rested. It probably happened all the time.
---Sleep Camp
3. webfeet - 4/7/2005 7:54:44 AM
This excerpt is not from Scenes From A Marriage (although I will add that later) but it is kind of like, if I were doing a one-woman monologue, the essence of the novel.
Thanks so much for creating this site, alistair. This is fun. And I hope that this is entertaining.
*************
In my mind I imagined the day when I could finally be happy. It was a day when the house would be in order; unstained hand towels folded neatly, obscure plastic toy parts that have been floating around the house, such as puzzle pieces or parts to the playdough wafflemaker, that turn up in odd places like the bread basket, would be reunited with their proper set, and the nursery would be a well-ordered haven, a model of American life as shown in a Pottery Barn catalog; rice and cereal and sticky pools of dried baby food would not stain the floors and they would actually shine. Like a mirage, I would admire it from afar,
The dish drain would not have wet scrambled eggs or pasta shells clogging it and shoes thrown off in a hurry would not litter the hall, causing me to trip unawares as I stumble over them. The pages of my checkbook would not stick together from dried apple juice that has spilled; and the spots of shame, stains on the carpet that I try to convince myself are just shadows, would be magically erased.
Although I know that this is just a fantasy, it is still one that seems, almost impossibly, just within reach. If I can just try a little harder, I think to myself, it would all be right. And this is the illusion I maintain each morning as I wake to a sink full of dishes, my bare feet sticking to the floor as I greet Rene and the babies after their crepe-making breakfast. I know that I will not come remotely close to achieving this housewife’s eden, but the challenge of it, is what keeps me going day after day.
4. webfeet - 4/7/2005 7:55:18 AM
I had to resist the temptation to order clothing out of catalogs, square wholesome, I want to Nurture Myself in a Chenille Sweater kinds of things that, outside of the catalog’s rosy garden where a honey blonde, photographed wearing one, is pausing to gain sustenance from the morning sunlight, actually looked repellent and lasciviously clingy in real life, like the kind of velvety sweater a substitute teacher in my elementary school might have worn with a brooch and polyester pants. When I wore it I looked like a QVC shopper from New Jersey . Who was I becoming? Catalogs weren’t shopping. No, not in the tactile way. That was why they were to be mistrusted. I fyou couldn’t wear the clothes, feel the clothes, be the clothes, then you’d never really know if they were right for you. The only problem was that the clothes I felt were right for me, the ones I actually saw in the stores in Nolita, were either obscenely expensive or belonged on someone else’s body, someone who had smaller breasts and ample time to invest in a gym, before they went out to play in the city’s bars and restaurants. And those somebodies, it appeared as I walked through Nolita with Juliette in the stroller, were all around me.
I decided as I glanced at the young, smartly dressed men and women shopping and laughing and drinking latte’s that the world was classified into two different people: those with children, and those without. They were a seductive species, those without; there was something vampirical about the men,, their slender forms in gray and black clothing; their faces barely hiding the residue of their nocturnal adventures, pale and shadowed as though they hadn’t quite made the transition to daytime. They were like exotic species I never saw anymore and I stared at them with fascination.
They were young. The girls could still party all night and wake up the next day with just a fresh coat of lipstick to brighten up any traces of sleepiness on their youthful faces. I remembered when I could do that once, without looking like one of the Furies as I did now, waking up most mornings, after Charlotte’s hell nights, with my dark circles, dried out fatigue crusting my skin making concealer pointless, crusty hellish adventure. There they were, childless and carefree. The Miu Miu cuties, the vagabond hipsters, or the girls in cloche hats and granny sweaters who looked like they wanted to be spanked. And, of course, the Japanese twins in Ugg boots and mini skirts, playing at being Pebbles and Bam Bam. They were all at play, work was play, play was play, everyday was play. I hated them.
They didn’t know what it was like to keep a ledger of your free moments, adding and subtracting minutes in a day that weren’t spent in enforced playtime or performing the drudgery and dull labour that made the house a home and not a crack den. To console myself, I played a cruel game that momentarily enthralled and entertained me. I took the prettiest little fashion slut I could find and imagined her hauling a diaper bag around the childrens museum on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when the moist air smells of bananas and wet diapers, and it seems you are breathing it for hours as you sit there, deathly bored reading the Metro section while your child rolls tennis balls down a pipe ad infitum. And I pictured the end to her breezy little fashion trips as all her play money mysteriously got absorbed in formula, diapers, and over-priced children’s toys.
“How is it, with two? We were thinking of having another one.” Another mother asks me, as we sit at the playdough station inside the Children’s Museum of Art. Charlotte is busy with the dough and I am relieved that I can let go for a moment.
“It’s work. But you know,” I said, imaginging myself like a guest on Phil Donahue, when the subject, a trying one, suddenly brightens and the interviewee decides to let you in on the little ray of hope that all of mankind could grasp onto, “I really feel now like I’ve crossed the arc, that it’s getting better and I am actually learning to manage both.”
At that moment, a black mother who was sitting with her daughter quietly rolling play dough, said “I think you better get that playdough out of her mouth.”
“Oh she ‘s okay. If I responded everytime she put things in her mouth, I’d never get anything done. She’s passed that stage anyway,” I said, dismissing it. Wasn’t there always a nervous nelly in the bunch? Always the worry wort ready to reprimand you? Make you feel bad?
Just then Charlotte;s eyes went red and watery, and she began to splutter.
“I think she’s choking on playdough,” the black woman said with deliberate calm.
Seized with panic, I pried open Charlotte’s mouth and was shocked to see the roof of her mouth was coated with pink dough. She had been squirreling little pellets into her mouth quietly and methodically until it looked like she had a wad of bubblegum stuck up there. I slid my finger in several times and removed little pieces, praying that her throat wasn’t coated too. Charlotte was screaming, her face red and hot with tears. And I realized, as I worked to save my daughter once again from a needless death, that I was not just the biggest idiot in the world, but the poorest representation of motherhood that ever existed.
Now that Charlotte was freed from the deadly playdough, the quiet scene that had devolved into a minor psychodrama ended and everybody silently went back to play as though nothing ever happened. Charlotte and I returned from the bathroom where I had washed out her mouth and she was now smiling again, my wiggly ball of love, alive and beautiful. My shame was so great, so silently overpowering however, that, returning from the bathroom, I walked past the other mothers without a brightening word, like “She’s all better! We’re fine now!” Winkety wink wink. Disney mom goofed. Instead, I walked by and said nothing, blinking, in my mind, like the lights on Chernobyl, a radioactive mother.
Later on as we left the museum and I pushed her in the stroller, I watched her little feet in their tights coiling about and kicking in boredom. I thought about how responsible I was for those funny little feet and their movement, at how helpless they were, that I hated myself for jeopardizing their happy ballet with my carelessness.
5. alistairconnor - 4/7/2005 9:45:24 AM
Very vivid, particularly the olfactive and tactile stuff. And the palpable sentiment of overwhelm.
OK, you've set the scene... so, um, where's the sex?
6. Jenerator - 4/7/2005 9:48:13 AM
Well, it's hard for me to be objective when reading this memoir of mommyhood. Given that webfeet has managed to perfectly represent what motherhood is like for me, as well as others, all I can say is that I love it. The ups and downs, the insecurities and confidences, the elation and the utter fatigue is all there.
Motherhood is almost fickle in a sense. One minute we're marveling at how beautiful our child's/children's eyelashes are, the next we're desperately trying to bribe anyone into watching the little ones so that we can have a few minutes of escape.
And my God do I relate to the feelings of embarassment, acceptance and annoyance over the condition of the house!
Everyday I must reconcile myself to the fact that I am not 22 anymore and my body is about function rather than form - and when did I start thinking that Target and Costco are the greatest and most essential stores in the world?
Sometimes I mourn my youth when I think about vacations filled with tanned skin, hard bodies, and complete freedom. Nowadays I am planning trips with Disney and every place I go to *must* have a bathroom nearby. No more tanned skin, no more hardbodies, and definitely no wanton freedoms.
Then I look into those baby blues of my son or I feel a little kick from the baby growing in me, and I realize that this is my life. It may be messy, but it's beautiful in its own right.
Thank you Webbie. Thank you for reminding me that I, and the other mothers out there, are not alone in this process of life and of motherhood. Thank you for articulately expressing the balance it represents and the fortitude it requires.
7. judithathome - 4/7/2005 10:06:39 AM
The Miu Miu cuties, the vagabond hipsters, or the girls in cloche hats and granny sweaters who looked like they wanted to be spanked. And, of course, the Japanese twins in Ugg boots and mini skirts, playing at being Pebbles and Bam Bam. They were all at play, work was play, play was play, everyday was play. I hated them.
This paragraph is fabulous, as is the rest of it, but THIS is the most perfect picture of what you are describing...I can absolutely SEE the little shits!
8. webfeet - 4/7/2005 10:38:20 AM
Jen, your reply leaves me heart broken, happy and hopeful all at once--excuse the corny alliteration.
Heartbroken because even though I didn't come of age under the Texan sun, we share a similar consciousness (that story you contributed last year in Heartbreak Alley about trying to be sexy for that football player was poignant and adorable). It's been at least eight years since we've been on this forum together and we've gone from Sex and the City to Disney, Costco and Target in the blink of an eye. And it's extremely tough if not a little scary to watch it all fly away.
Most of all, though, it's such a pleasure to know that you can relate to this. I think it's why mommy blogs have become so popular lately. We can fool ourselves with our smart consumer options and cellphones that we are not the 1950's housewives Betty Friedan describes in The Feminine Mystique (a book that is getting its second or third wind thanks to Judith Warner and her recent Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, but there are too many similarities to the feelings of isolation mothers today experience in this age of technology and also, to the consumer aspects of the New Mommy Culture (the world of cool mommy gear) to be ignored.
And you express the pleasures and pains of motherhood far more elegantly than I can. You're a beautiful writer, seriously, and I think your spirituality enhances the way you express yourself.
And sometimes, it just takes a little inspiration. Juliette (Charlotte) is both my nemesis (a diabolical, mischievious, horrible little brat) and my muse (the most beautiful lovable, flirtatious little girl in the universe.
Anyway, I'm so grateful for your feedback. It really separates the sense of being just a lunatic writing to try and cope to creating something that actually resonates with other mommies.
9. webfeet - 4/7/2005 10:40:10 AM
Thanks Judy! You guys are spoiling me! It's like I feel like the winner of the $1.99 beauty contest from years ago, parading around with my roses! Thanks!
And alistair, me mate, you're going to be sadly disappointed if you're looking for Mothers Home Erotica, whatever sex there is, and there is a little in Scenes from a Marriage, it takes place in what I've called Barney's playhouse. ANd it's NOT SEXY.
10. Jenerator - 4/7/2005 11:54:45 AM
webfeet,
I think that that has to be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me here!
You are so sophisticated and so humble, and I love your poetic, fun and straightforward way of looking at things. I truly believe that you have been gifted with a deeper insight to life than most.
You're the kind of person people want to be around.
I really didn't know that cool mommy blogs existed. A couple of years ago I stumbled on to one forum that seemed to be only a place to vent about how vacuum cleaner X worked and how husbands are jerks. True or not, I wasn't inspired there.
I think that your comments about that feeling of isolation that many mothers are experiencing is really relevant. It's funny - right after I had Dylan and he was still at that age where Icould leave them in his carrier for little bits at a time and do things, I decided to pick up a couple of the books that you had previously mentioned as ones you felt to be important. The Feminine Mystique being one of them!
I remember getting about a third of the way into it and thinking that I would get a divorce if I kept reading the book! The loneliness I was experiencing and the expectations that were being crushed by the poopy diapers, sleepless nights and cavalier husband were all too real for me during that time and that book made me start feeling intense pain.
I think that Friedan might have been on to something that she wasn't aware of at that time: consumer accessibility and equal rights among the sexes don't necessarily improve the life at home. I don't know, my thinking is still clouded from sleep deprivation. It seems that once I got the insomniac to finally start sleeping through the night, my newly pregnant bladder kicked it into high gear.
Anyway, your writing is a gift, and I admire you very, very much.
11. Jenerator - 4/7/2005 11:58:31 AM
Sorry about the typos!
12. webfeet - 4/7/2005 8:15:53 PM
Thanks, cherie. Really lovely. And it doesn't sound like your thinking is clouded at all (except the part when you said you admired me!!)
But I am concerned for you. The exhaustion is what gave rise to the idea for this novel. Having children is already overwhelming. Sleep deprivation makes it a confusing, nightmarish struggle. And it can weather a marriage, for a variety of reasons. Irritability and exhaustion. And then there is the uninvited guest, Veiled Melancholy, the dark dame of depression, camping out on your floor.
So that's why I urge you to spare no expense or enlist your mom to help you--you will need it. And if she can't be there-- spend whatever it requires, even if you think it's too much--to get some help on a regular basis. At least in the beginning. You've got to have support. In societies like India, South America, women do not raise children alone. There is like a whole network of family, friends, community to assist in the process.
Anyway, I have too much to say on this topic so I will stop for now.
Except: have you tried one of those Bedtime herbal teas for your insomnia? Oh, God, drinking tea before bed is like the last thing you need--you'll be peeing all night. But try something homeopathic to relax you so that when you have to get up, you can fall back to sleep with ease. Smelling lavendar helps as do deep breathing exercises from lamaze.
13. webfeet - 4/7/2005 8:42:55 PM
...and another thing about sleep deprivation, jen, is that you wake up in the morning looking like Keith Richards. Or worse-- some greek tragedien from The House of Agamemnon.
Get a babysitter tout de suite! Mine thought I was an incompetent, utter wreck. But it helped. I felt like a teenager everytime I got to leave the house, light and free, like I could go for a run and listen to depeche mode on my walkman.
14. Macnas - 4/8/2005 1:04:31 AM
My sister left work to begin her maternity leave 2 weeks back, and on the second day of it, at about 10.a.m. or so, she rings the mother out of boredom. "what am I going to do now?" sez she, "I'm so bored I'm floored" sez she.
When the mother tells me this, I say she should get her husband to take a few pictures of her while she sleeps. Then she could look at them when she's up at 3.30 a.m. walking the floor with a screaming hobgoblin for whom nothing you do will do. Just to remind herself of her old life.
Myself and the missus would spell each other when we had our kids, each of us running away from the house as fast as we could when our turn came around. Then you'd get a mother or a sister or somesuch to babysit so the both of you could go out for a drink together.
You sit there like a pair of shell-shocked soldiers trying not to talk about the children, and you realise that it is just not the same as it was, you both have a terminal case of responsibility. It's not like your sense of "get up and go" has gone, but it definitely has too much to do these days to get up and go anywhere.
I've always thought that getting married, having children, and the death of a parent were the 3 major steps in your life, the one's that make you an adult. The kid part though, that is the real bollock kicker.
Webfeet, you write really good stuff, it's very entertaining to read, and bears being read again. I'm no good at critique, it's either good or it isn't.
15. alistairconnor - 4/8/2005 2:04:01 AM
OK I think it's your turn, Mr Nas.
Unlike most of us, you can wing it : I bet you can write a coherent short story as fast as you can type it. Stick with the parenthood riff, or something completely different?
16. Macnas - 4/8/2005 3:00:26 AM
My daughter, for whom I write bits of rhyme and little stories, asked me if I could write a love story for her, so I gave it a go.
At sea, terrible things can happen, and one night that’s just what happened. His ship was wrecked by a huge storm and was sunk. He floated on the water, clinging to some timber that had been torn from the ship. He hung on for as long as he could, but he became exhausted, and closing his eyes, he slipped away from the timber and knew no more.
She had been alone for so many years now, long and long. ‘Though the island teemed with wildlife and good water ran there, nobody ever came. She had been forgotten about by all that ever knew of her, and like old ink on poor paper, as the years passed she faded out of sight and mind from the rest of the world.
The morning light spread across her, the dark lifting and receding like a veil being drawn away, when she saw him. He lay on the sand, half in and half out of the water. She looked and looked, it had been so very long ago, and she feared him to be dead, a corpse thrown at her by the spiteful sea.
But no, she could feel his heart beating through the sand, and although her powers ended at the waters edge, she drew him further and further up the beach until he was clear of the water. The sea hissed and spat in anger, but she knew the sea would soon forget. The sea has no memory, but she did.
17. Macnas - 4/8/2005 3:04:01 AM
He awoke much later, so hard to open his eyes sealed shut with dried salt from the water. Some palm fronds had fallen from the tall lithe trees that swayed above him, and he was covered over in a leafy blanket. Slowly he gets to his feet, stumbling, falling, his head ringing and his body aching.
A huge thirst roars inside him, as he makes his way up the beach to the forest edge. He hears the sweet teasing sound of fresh water running, somewhere ahead of him. He moves deeper into the forest.
Leaves rustle and quiver as she watches him come ashore, she feels his faltering footfalls, his hands as he grasps the branches to steady himself. As he finally reached the spring, alive and urgent with fresh water, she sees him drink and drink, then finally slumping down , slipping into sleep.
She protects him as he lays insensible on the forest floor. She warns away the wild pigs, as a huge boar, massive tusks and bright eyes, glares at him from the undergrowth. She chides the snakes as they move around him, attracted to his warmth.
He wakes up as the sun heats up the forest, and feeling alive once more, sets out to discover some of his surroundings. He walks for 2 hours before he realises he is on an island, and the rest of the frantic day tells him he is alone here. He falls to his knees and starts to cry, tears dropping onto the sand as he stares out at the sea.
18. Macnas - 4/8/2005 3:25:56 AM
She tastes each tear as it soaks though the sand, and she wishes she could tell him not to cry, that she will look after him, that he is not alone. Her tears fall as soft rain on the hilltop, as he stays on the beach all night.
Years go by, and with each passing year the man hates the island more and more. He chops down trees just to punish this lonely place, and kills animals whenever he sees them.
She bears his hatred patiently, still providing for his every want, never punishing him for his wilful cruelty, never loving him any less than she did since the day he came to her. The only true sorrow she feels is when, every evening, the man climbs to the hilltop and watches the horizon until the sae sips the sun under the waves.
19. Macnas - 4/8/2005 3:28:26 AM
Then, one day, as he watched the sea and sky, he caught a flash of silver as flying fish in the lagoon below leapt from the water to escape the dark murderous shape he could see hunting them under the water. He looked at the soft green forest that housed him, fed him. He went to the waters edge and knelt on the sand, feeling the days warmth soak into him. He sinks his hands into the soft sand and feels the grains fall away as he lifts them up. How often had he, when he was amongst others, dreamt of being here, in a place like this. What had he accomplished in his old life that compared to what he had done here?
Once again, he spent the night on the beach. She was unsure, she knew something was happening, she could feel him, feel his mind turning and turning, but what about she could not tell. Her worry and fear flashed as lightning across the hilltop, and her doubt and anger crashed as thunder.
But in the morning, she felt a peace in him that she had never felt before, and her heart was warmed again. His eye was firm now, his manner was easy and he walked the shore for the first time, for the pure pleasure of it. Here was his home, now and for always, how beautiful the island was, now he finally realised that he loved it, that this was his paradise and he was content here. He had no need to look for miles away mizzenmasts anymore, to take him away.
Her heart sang, her song of love was heard as birdsong welcomed the dawn. How she loved him, how happy they would be together.
20. Macnas - 4/8/2005 5:46:07 AM
You know, I know its a story for my daughter and all, but it looks awfully awkward after the smooth urbane tale from webfeet.
21. wonkers2 - 4/8/2005 5:54:47 AM
Not bad!
22. Macnas - 4/8/2005 7:19:07 AM
This is more my speed, and its true, god help me.
Viva la raza.
Nolan, locked out of his skull, steals a bottle of raspberry cordial from the bar. We’ve always called it raza, which is a habit people of this city have, adding “-za” onto the end of things.
Anyway, that was grand, but although each of us was very drunk, we knew that it might not be such a clever idea to drink this stuff, so we warned Nolan off it and after a bit we left the bar to get a cab back to the northside.
That proved easier said, as no cabbie in his right mind would stop for a bunch of eejits like us in a fit.
So, after stopping at a chipper and eating some hot grease to feed the drink hunger, we set about walking the 3 miles or so home, or to where I was staying that night at least. We’re halfway up Summer Hill when what does Tony do but flag a cab, which given the time of night and the state of us was a wonder in and of itself.
It was only then we noticed that Nolan had started necking the raza, and had it all over his face and down his shirt. He had about half of it drank and looked really, really ill.
The cab is underway when after a few hundred yards, yer man the cabbie notices the cut of Nolan in the mirror. He brakes the cab short, turns to us and sez “that bollix is going to puke in the back of my cab, get him out!” to which we protested that no, no way, we’ll look after him, no fear, not a bother, no worries boy, it’ll be grand. “You’ll pay me 50 pounds if he gawks, alright? 50 pound!”
We looked at each other. Nolan was almost definitely going to puke and we had no more chance of coming up with 50 notes than the man in the moon. “Grand, fine, 50 quid it is” sez us.
The cab continued on for another few seconds before Tony lost the plot entirely and bursts out laughing “50 quid? Go on ya langer!”
The cab squeals to a stop and we are all turfed out on the street. The cab roars off, yer man reading us up and down as he heads away at speed. We stagger off in the direction of the northside proper.
Somehow we manage to make it back before dawn, and I head off with Tony while Jossa goes to Nolans place. Nolans Da is a fucking head the ball, and has a notorious temper, so none of us want to be there if he discovers Nolan in the state he’s in. Jossa goes with him as they are cousins, and I persuade him that Nolan is far more likely to take notice of him than he is of me.
Tony’s house is empty, his folks are away in London, so I crash out on the couch and slip into a coma.
In the morning, myself and Tony make some tea, then watch a film as neither of us wants to go out into the sun just yet. A few hours later there’s a knock on the front door, and Jossa comes in. He’s laughing fit to die.
He had spent the night in the coal shed. He quit the house after Nolan woke everyone up by staggering out of the bedroom where Jossa had put him and puking down the stairs. “Most of a bottle of raza” sez Jossa,
What was it like at all? We asked “well, live and in technicolour, it was fucking spectacular” he sez.
He got out the back door when he heard Nolans Da roaring, and kipped in the shed while the Da laid into Nolan. We found out afterwards that he’d pissed all over his brother as well, for some unknown reason.
We went down town later on, we didn’t call for Nolan, in case his old fella would shoot us or something.
After some breakfast we went for a few frames, such was the easy way of being a young fella with no other care than where the next stip would come from.
23. RickNelson - 4/8/2005 8:07:34 AM
Good reading.
Jen and webby, on a male level, I'm one who is at home all day, sleeps with my son 5 nights a week and I do a lot of homebody work, there is a connection to your world I'm living. Not that any male, especially myself, can be equal to the all powerful mother connection.
However, there are instances, when the circumstance of marriage are such that the role reversal not only works well, but the result may be good for all involved. Now, if I can just convince my wife! We agree, she backs away, we agree, she backs into old shit. Damn, history can sure F-up so much of a good thing. My being very well meaning, all up to the task and willing, makes no difference to the whimsy of this woman I keep trying life with. I've never, never mentioned anything regarding my relationship but, dammit, after so many years, like webby said, it just seemed I could put my fiddy-cents in.
I'll read stories and do stories now.
That's all.
[hesitating], … [hesitating], … click the post button~~~~~~~
The problem is, it’s not f-in-fiction, so dammit all…
click the damn button!
24. RickNelson - 4/8/2005 8:32:33 AM
I was sitting on the hill overlooking the Rose Garden in south Minneapolis. The wind was mild, clouds above, with that clear blue we all love, moving across the sun now and again. The grass is nice I thought, and there are many trees, as this park was planned for gardens growing a wide variety. I drifted to thinking about the north fence-line adjacent to Lakewood Cemetery, resting place of Minneapolis’ dignitaries etal. Most recently the Welstones. Hubert H. Humphrey is there too. But, it’s the newness of the fence-line experimental plants that draws more attention. They’re beautiful asters, azaleas, cone flowers and a hundred more. Just south of this is the Peace Garden. And across the street east is the display garden. Then just south of that is the Rose Garden.
The entrance opens to an awesome fountain many turtles squirting into a raised round pool. This fountain is a transplant from the old Gateway of Minneapolis, which was built early in the 20th century, but fell to disrepair as the 50’s drunks took over that entire neighborhood. Eventually leading to it all being torn down, and rebuilt to much of what is now seen from the skyline. So, walking by the fountain gives rise to marking the changes of my city.
I like settling in, to see and smell the grand display, row upon row of gorgeous blooms, tall and short, bushes or trees, miniature or large, the sight and smell are always welcoming. It’s peaceful, at least while the air traffic is ebbed. Those damn planes can mess up a perfect moment and some days. If that happens, I’ll walk over to the Peace Garden. Stroll the path, and stop whining in thought. There’s always enough distraction, from the smallest pebbles amongst blooming plants or trees, and green grass at the central bridge commemorating the need for peace because of the two great bombs Japan suffered in ‘45. Then add a man-made waterfall, with myriad plantings among the pebbled path and I find I’m lost to almost anything. It’s a time to be blank, not to give into cares. Just stop, stop it all, wait until I want to and then get up and walk away. It’s just that kind of place.
There’s so much truth to be found, being alone with the gardens. Why it’s important to do what needs to be done, what’s gone on before and what might be going on, a lot of thinking. But, as needed, just pause, stop and smell a rose, look at pebbles and watch water fall.
25. Jenerator - 4/8/2005 2:45:45 PM
Macnas,
This is the first piece I have read of yours. You write so dreamily, I am impressed! Your daughter is very blessed.
26. Jenerator - 4/8/2005 2:49:05 PM
Rick,
It is so nice to have you and Macnas contribute in here. I can't speak on behalf of Webbie, but I always find it heart warming when fathers share their feelings. You all do it so differently than we do and it's wonderful.
Tell me more about your child - how old is s/he? What has been the biggest challenge to being a stay at home dad? If you could tell the women of the world one thing, what would it be?
I like your observations about the beautiful garden, you pay such close attention to detail.
27. webfeet - 4/8/2005 4:24:30 PM
Well, they say the Irish are master storytellers and that is unarguably true.
I'm always impressed when I come across writers with such a strikingly different voice, such as yours Macnas, that is able to move about like a panoramic camera. How do they even think of those things? I ask myself. I've never been capable of projecting myself into unknown situations, of transcending the self to get into the heads and hearts of others. Or of using mythological images to expand the sense of the moment.
It's so amazing the way a culture, and the countryside itself, (in this area you have a huge advantage!) forms a particular literary sensibility that is really, instantly recognizable.
And I really identified with the 'terminal responsibility' remark. But it's sweet to let go, even if a glass of wine now and then is my cocaine.
And rick, your post kind of is staying with me. I really feel it. And with your post about the garden, I feel like I could weep. It really touched me. I can see how much the garden represents a place of peace and happiness for you. We all need those places. There is such a loneliness in raising children. It's just that in a way, adult knowledge has no place in their world. And it's hard trying to hide it from them.
Pubs and gardens, book stores and diners, anywhere we can go to be alone.
28. RickNelson - 4/8/2005 8:51:12 PM
Jen., I've one of both sexes. My daughter is 20 and my son is 10 months. No joke.
It's actually a very nice situation. Just one youngun' at a time, and the grown sister is playing and lovin' taking care of her baby brother. That is, when she's not messing with her break neck school schedule.
The working of this is a good thing for me, I'm very adept with taking care of both kids. My daughter and I talk over many of the needs, wants, issues, desires/wishes, despairs, hopes, you name it, except relationships. I give her lots of good attention, clean up after her, as if she were a toddler and cannot do dishes. I do whatever, except her room. Of course that's her domain. We're all happy she lives at home, commutes to school and works one weekend day in addition to tutoring twice a week. She maintains some friends from highschool, and they're a great bunch.
My boy is a miracle. Angels smiled upon his birth and my complete acceptance to be his daddy and likewise for his mommy. This is serious stuff, no joking. When he was born, the situation was an emergency, and my wife went through living hell for 5 days after. Three of which, the last three, were in intensive care.
Well, when she was rushed into the operating room to deliver, I was informed that I had to wait outside, in the adjacent room, which was for recovery. I was alone. I watched two different carts wheel by, and then waited. A long 4 days later, my wife was talking pretty freely with me, and told me the story.
She was laying on the operating table, and knew this, but floated out, and landed standing next to the table. She had our boy in her hands. Newborn and fresh, alive and smiling. She was very happy. She was compelled to walk out into the hall, and move toward the two swinging doors that are for the emergency corridor. She saw four beautiful, winged, white auraed angels, smiling. One gestured to her, smiling, and holding out its hands as if to take our son. She felt complete calm and peace, because these were angels, and if it was to be, then she could accept that the angels take our newborn. However, just as she walks past the door to and adjacent room, mine, a man appears, also smiling and takes the boy. The angels, accept this and halt the compelling gesture to hand over the baby. Of course the man has to be myself.
I'm always overwhelmed when I relate this story. It's a part of my son as his living body is. It will always be important and I will relate it for as long as I live.
29. judithathome - 4/9/2005 9:51:19 AM
Beautiful thoughts, Rick.
30. anomie - 4/9/2005 1:24:49 PM
Nice job everyone. I've been reading from work as time allows. Very enjoyable.
31. alistairConnor - 4/10/2005 4:09:27 AM
I hope and imagine that those of us who are not such fluent writers, are now working up their first drafts offline.
Once you've got something with a beginning, a middle, and an end, just cough it up. There is nothing like seeing it on the white page, and knowing others are reading it, to bring on second thoughts and revisions. And that's good. I'll know this thread is really working when I see a second draft.
32. Macnas - 4/11/2005 1:33:19 AM
wonk, Jen and webfeet
Thank you very much for your kind words, 'though I'd say webfeet is choking on all that corn I put in there. Nonetheless it is always nice when someone says they like what you have done, it's very pleasing.
But Jen, you hit the nail on the head when you said dreamily, as that is how I feel when I write anything like that. I have memories or notions, I see a scene or series of things, and they all kind of mix and blend and it comes out like a dream transcript.
I don't sweat blood over writing, I do it for fun and very rarely, for good or bad, change or revise anything. Sometimes, when I'm in the right mood, it just does fall out of my head and onto the page. I wrote a thing here once about a daytrip with my kids, that was such enormous craic to write and read afterwards (just for myself), that just fell onto the page in one 15 minute daydream.
And webfeet, I found your comments on a culture having recognisable literary traits interesting. There was a time when I would have scoffed at that, but the more I write (not a lot mind you) the more I agree. I don't know why, really I don't, but lots of Irish people who write have the same flavour, that "in a waking dream" thing.
Any time I think my writing is kind of good, I think of James Stephens "The Crock Of Gold", and think again.
Webfeets writing, is also, in my opinion, very markedly American. There is a line of self analysis that runs through it, a continuous sounding of the self off others, through a kind of medium thats made up of very modern, urban situations. It's a complex style, very varied and rich. When it's written as well as webfeet does it, it's very pleasurable to read.
I can't do it, couldn't even try to! My emotions as written are your basic joy, fear, anger, and empathy.
Mostly joy though.
33. Magoseph - 4/11/2005 8:46:39 AM
Once you've got something with a beginning, a middle, and an end, just cough it up.
I have a beginning, a middle, and an end and I am through with the darn thing, Ali, only I’m afraid to post it because it shows without a doubt how much past états d'âmes (so to speak) still obsess me to no end. I mean, look at the other posters, each one of them is much more imaginative than I’ll ever be--I can only post what I have lived and the best I can do as far as fictionalizing is to change places and names, even that is tricky for me.
34. alistairconnor - 4/11/2005 9:46:35 AM
It's perfectly normal to be obsessed with events in one's early life. All the more so when one is an exile.
You may just find that posting it helps with the obsession, Mago : a sort of exorcism. And then, you can try variations. A happy ending; or the villain getting just desserts; or a full-blown tragedy, for example.
35. alistairconnor - 4/11/2005 10:12:13 AM
I started writing something too. I haven't written very much of it yet. Scene-setting.
36. webfeet - 4/11/2005 1:39:35 PM
um, now it's my turn to ask you. so where's the sex?
37. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 1:48:39 PM
oh believe me, it's coming...
But allow me to hold the door for you... after you, my dear. Let's have some scenes from a marriage.
38. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:01:00 PM
Hardly the stuff passion prose is made of, but here it is.
Chapter 3
Scenes from a Marriage
Rene is home. It is a quarter to eight. I put down the copy of Organic Life and Living I’d been reading and lay it on the coffee table.
This month’s cover story, featuring get-aways in fashionably ecological destinations like British Columbia or Alaska, intersperses tales of personal triumph like a widow whose husband was eaten by a shark, with extraordinary images of nature. Whether it’s Thanksgiving tables set with bakelite in autumnal colors; a harvest day celebration at an editor’s farmhouse in the Berkshires or the formal beauty of heirloom tomatoes photographed like one of Robert Maplethorpe’s riding whips, these are my fantasies. This is my porn. Instead of ending my day with a scotch and a Playboy, I dive into a world of aesthetic perfection.
Everything is about simplicity, yet nothing looks even remotely simple to
“Hello,” Rene sings, bending down to kiss my check. “What are you reading?” he asks, glancing at the cover.
“One of those organic magazine,” I say, lazily. “We have to start buying organic grapes.”
“Why?”
“Regular grapes are sprayed with so many chemicals that Kelly Preston Travolta calls them pesticide pellets.”
“But aren’t all these organic products so expensive?” he asks.
I shrug as though Kelly Preston and I have more important things to worry about.
“Papa!” Charles cries, putting down his train to run toward him. After giving him a hug, Rene whirls around the apartment chasing Charles, his trench coat billowing behind him like a cape.
39. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:02:14 PM
“Rene, can you please take off your shoes before coming into the apartment?”
“Oui, mon general,” he replies, standing to attention and saluting me, like one of DeGaulle’s lieutenants.
Imagining him trekking in the grime from the city to the rug on which Charles plays makes me crazy. “Do you want to turn the house into the subway station?”
Rene is handsome. Tall and slender with the kind of smooth black hair I used to dream of as a teenager, and dark eyes he inherited from his Basque grandfather, he has a natural elegance, one that becomes even more pronounced when he’s angry. “Can you relax?” he asks, annoyed.
I lay there on the couch in a state of pregnant paralysis, too fatigued to retaliate and too bored with what I know will come out of my mouth.
“Here’s the mail,” he says, handing it to me.
Scanning through the advertisements, my attention turns to a children’s toy catalog that arrived in the pile.It’s called Geewillikers! Turning page after page of small scale Hummers, play cellphones and mini barbecue stations I feel myself start to snigger like Archie Bunker as I read the affected copy accompanying each product description. that appeals to the narcissism of each parents your child into a prodigy.
Hoping to break the tension with Rene who, still annoyed, is sniffing as he removes his shoes, I say, “You have to look at this children’s toy catalog. It’s so pretentious. They even have a dids geosafari talking telescope.”
“Now you’re attacking children’s toys?” he asks, disgusted.
“There must be a special place in hell for people like me.”
“Charles, qu’est ce que tu as fait aujourd’hui?” Rene asks Charles who has gone back to playing with Timmy and friends, ignoring him once the French starts and the fun ends.
Repeating this ritual night after night in which Rene tries to speak French to Charles, and Charles ignores him, is the one embarrassing element in my French education and in our image as the franco-american couple. Inevitably the questions are posed: Does your son speak French? Everyone wants to know. Everyone expects us to have raised a perfectly bilingual child. Although I spoke French to Charles, reading him French stories several times a week, and play at being a French mommy during the many trips we spend in France, Charles is anti-French.
40. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:02:53 PM
“Charles repond a ton pere.”
“NOT NOW!” Charles hollers. “I’m play-ing.”
“Actually, Charles had an incident today.”
Rene looks at me, surprised. “What are you talking about?” .
“Charles pushed a Korean baby off the stage during Mommy and Me storytime at Barnes and Noble.”
“C’est vrai?” Rene asks Charles, playfully. Perhaps sophisticated French parents sitting inside their Parisian salons at the end of the day find it amusant when their child makes a public spectacle out of hitting another. My concern over Charles’ behavior seemed overbearing somehow, even ridiculous.
“It’s not funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“You don’t seem to be taking it very seriously,” I insist, giving the matter now, more gravitas now than it really deserves.
“What do you want from me?” Rene demands. “I come home from work, I sit down, you order me to take off my shoes and now I am supposed to be an interrogator! God!” he shouts, “Can you just relax?”
With pregnant indignation, I slowly get up to serve dinner but a part of me wonders if he is right. Why can’t I relax? Is it hormonal? All toddlers are prone to aggression. I think to myself, what would Gabrielle do? Shrug, and say “C’est comme ca,” making that French ‘pfoof’ sound at the end, indicating one shouldn’t stretch the brain cells too far in seeking an answer to a question only a fool would bother worrying about.
Standing in front of the kitchen sink a few minutes later, Rene slips behind me and cups my rear end, as I warm up the sauce.
“This is where I put my money,” he says, jokingly as he squeezes my cheeks, by way of apology. Somehow he is never more affectionate to me than when he sees me behind a stove, cooking for him.
“That’s what the Arab men say to their wives. Now I know I’m rich.” And he squeezes them again before walking away, laughing.
41. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:06:19 PM
My weight gain is something of a joke between us. Not just the pregnancy weight gain, but the pounds I’d accumulated since having Charles and quitting my job as a writer and producer of financial conferences. I’d forgotten about the simple pleasure cookies-- happy snack time children’s cookies—afforded until Charles was old enough to eat them. What a discovery! Nutter Butters, chocolate chips, cramming one, two, three in my mouth as I went down the supermarket aisle. One for Charles, one for me. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized that half the box was devoured. I still thought, geez, that’s nothing. They are just cookies.
And then, it was as if most of my wardrobe, not just the career girl clothes-- the good suits, silk blouses and jackets-- all the frou frou treasures I wore when I studied and worked in Paris were too tight and inappropriate for this new line of work.
What did mommies wear during the day? Why couldn’t we just have rompers, the way our newborns did? That would solve the problem. Since I was getting chunky, I refused to buy a pair of jeans reasoning that just as soon as whatever this was that was happening to my body would go away, I would buy a pair. The day never came.
After weeks of wearing an old, embarrassingly snug pair of cheenos, a revelation occurred when an L.L. Bean catalog arrived in my mailbox. Comfortable, snuggly, forgiving clothes—elastic waistlines! Tunic tops! Tummy concealing rugbies! All the clothes I’d avoided during my glamorous twenties were now the only means of clothing this new mommy body of mine. And even better, I didn’t have to have them dry cleaned.
Now that stressful moment when all that lies between you and social ruin when a favorite item like a silk camisole is at the cleaners-- was not an issue. In fact, there was no issue. The only place I ever went was the park.
Later that night after Rene went to bed, I rearranged the photo album to include new ones taken of Charles. As I scanned through the photos taken of us standing outside my parents’ yard after a Sunday dinner, I could hardly recognize my self. It was as though I were looking at someone else’s picture: standing in a red fleece sweatshirt looking puffy and disheveled, I reminded myself of those women in a Before photo for a Slimfast ad. It was as if I had involuntarily metamorphosed into the sort of pudgy mommy I had seen cutting up sheets to make Halloween costumes in the back pages of my mother’s copies of Woman’s Day growing up.
42. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:08:03 PM
Somehow I had always believed that those women elected to look that way, that it was a choice to look like a cabbage patch mommy, homegrown and frumpy, so different from the glamorous career girl, smug and sexy in a smart hat and gloves, on the cover of what had been my mother’s career girl bible, “Sex and the Single Girl.” It was like choosing a life of Chef Boyardee and English muffin pizzas over finger cakes and champagne. But there I was. Former Paris career girl, traveler, now a Woman’s Day mommy, wearing a playsuit of leggings and baggy top, ready to romp on a carpet, wipe baby boogers on her sleeve and make apple-juicy pops with a shake of her fat ass. Was it really what I wanted, to stay at home?
I sighed. I had just started a diet based largely on eating ridiculous quantities of salmon, when this happened--this pregnancy. After eating salmon straight for a week, I couldn’t tell if it was the idea of eating fish for breakfast or morning sickness that was making me nauseous. Salmon smoothies, salmon for breakfast, salmon out of a can—it was almost a relief to learn that I was pregnant. Now I could stop.
Opening the door softly, so as not to disturb Charles and Rene, I finally crawl into bed. It’s 11:23 p.m. As I lay down, Rene, demoted to the toddler bed, (really a single attached like a little caboose to the queen size one Charles and I share), reaches out his arm, feeling for my body in the dark and starts to caress me.
“Do you want to have a party?” he whispers. What he is referring to is a sex party, and he is not joking it seems, but frighteningly serious.
43. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:08:47 PM
I couldn’t even begin to think about the task of mating at this hour, in this stage, in sweats, fatigued to the point of delirium and greeted his request with the enthusiasm of an amputee presented with a prosthetic limb to try out for the first time.
“Come on,” Rene says, taking my arm with the impatience of a schoolboy.
I feel too lazy to move. Moreover, I’m turned off by the idea of copulating in the bedlam of our living area on a couch covered with cookie crumbs and juice stains. Rather than fornicate like medieval peasants in our family bed with a three year old sleeping next to us, however, Rene drags me, like a stubborn mule, out into the living room.
“You don’t think it’s kind of sick to be having sex next to our son?” he asks, angrily kicking toys out of his way to make room to walk.
“But I hate the couch. It’s no fun here,” I say, sitting down. “It’s like making love in Barney’s playhouse.”
With Fisher Price toys and stuffed animals scattered all over the floor it seemed ridiculous, even perverted to think about love-making. How can Rene still be excited? I ask myself, as he caresses me. An idea floats through my mind: it is the first time I ever consider faking it.
“So close your eyes, baby,” he says, undressing me.
At least Charles wouldn’t hear us.
**********
44. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:13:29 PM
I hope I've stopped writing in italics. And that, I'm sorry to say, is as dirty as it gets.
I had wanted to give a little space in between stories to post this rather than turn this thread into a gazpacho of words and images, but there it is.
And it's Kids Geosafari Talking Telescope. Not 'Dids'.
45. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 2:16:22 PM
Ooooh. As I was reading posts 38 to 40, I thought to myself, hey this is better than sex.
Many a true word...
46. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 2:16:42 PM
stop.
47. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 2:18:01 PM
I think we can do some reconstructive surgery on the thread to piece the stories together, at a later stage. There's no need to make it too easy for readers at the moment.
48. Magoseph - 4/11/2005 2:18:13 PM
Many a true word...
Yes, very familiar.
49. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 2:21:39 PM
OK Mago let's roll! I'm working on my next installment, I'll post it in an hour or so, but I want you to show me yours...
50. Magoseph - 4/11/2005 2:30:04 PM
They say this morning in the paper that Gavin’s honesty, fairness, and lack of bias are beyond question and that his books about international laws are highly praised and have become the bibles of law students everywhere. They say much more, but Chritiane knows the feeling of guilt and doom will soon be hovering at the back of her neck and she will have to deal with it before the nightmare comes back. She now realizes that the day of reckoning has come when she will have to admit the lie and tell Gavin she knew the assassins and the location where they disposed of the bodies. The following exchange took place inside her apartment in the building where they both lived when the crime was committed: “Have you seen them?” Gavin asked her: “Yes”, she answered, pointing away from the scene of the crime, “They went that way”. How did it happen that a tough and smart city boy like Gavin who knew how to deal with the local bully came to be a federal judge, she wonders?
The fateful day started with the arrival of the moving truck and Grandma asking her to take the baby to the beach because she wanted to empty the boxes and put their contents in the chests. Christiane knew that Grandma wanted to spend time alone with her son before she left the following morning. Happily thinking that now was the time to wear the tight shorts and blouse that her husband hated, she left quickly before he came back from the city to help his mother. She knew the looks in her direction will be back in force and if there was a time in her life when she needed reinforcement, it was now when she could escape the people in her life for a while. Her husband was a very possessive man and his constant and destructive jealousy did not permit her to enjoy the fact that she was young, healthy, and attractive.
She remembers everything about Sunset Beach that day-- especially her elation at noticing the delighted looks and smiles at the marvelous baby who stopped people in their tracks whenever he was in their line of vision. At the beach she watched the bathers while the baby slept securely under his canopy and she was happy until it was time to return home. How heavily and slowly she walked back to the apartment--the park was almost deserted, the baby was fussy, and she was tired.
Her return to the apartment was greeted with foreboding in the air and her husband told her that after the baby was bathed and in bed they must sit down and discuss the possibility of leaving this apartment because there were mice in it. His mother said she wanted to postpone her departure so that she could help them in this emergency. Her husband told her that the mice he killed this afternoon were very frisky and he suspected the building to be riddled by them. In the morning, he intended to see the building manager and raised hell with him and moved them by the afternoon into a hotel until he could find a better place. Now it was time for bed since during the next few days there will be much work to do.
The building manager sent the next day a disinfecting team to check out every crevice in the apartment and he came up to the apartment to present them with his sincere apologies and a generous rental rate. They were packing when the doorbell rang and she went to open to a man who introduced himself as Gavin Willow. When the visitor asked her if she had seen his wife’s beloved gerbils, she said, pointing out to the building garbage chute: “Yes, they went that way.” Her mother-in-law and her husband were so shocked by this blatant lie that they did not know what to say to her and to the visitor.
She told them later that she could not bear the thought that Gavin’s wife would find out how her beloved gerbils met their fate. It was a long time since these events and many people were gone and she had anguished so long over a load that should never have been picked up.
51. Magoseph - 4/11/2005 2:32:26 PM
Genre-style noir, you might say, Ali.
52. webfeet - 4/11/2005 2:34:26 PM
Not knowing how much work is involved in that sort of reconstructive surgery, if Macnas or Rick or you for that matter, finish your stories it is a good idea to piece them together rather than turning it into a gazpacho of broken thoughts.
53. webfeet - 4/11/2005 3:01:53 PM
My other post didn't go through so I'll repeat it.
Mags, definetely an intriguing set-up. I'm already fearing what has happened to the gerbils.
And in response to what you posted earlier about revisiting different etats d'ame I felt the same way in submitting this. I return to a time when I was pregnant with my second child, still overweight from the first, and my husband and I didn't know how to live with each other!
You do revisit those feelings intensely, perhaps, but it's always interesting to hear another writer express a point of view or a consciousness.
54. judithathome - 4/11/2005 3:16:33 PM
Great stories, everyone...
I'm holding my breath over the fate of the gerbils and of the young lady in the bedroom with the guy in a robe.
55. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 3:22:34 PM
I think the autobiographical element is important in providing the motivation to write in the first place, and the process is undoubtedly therapeutic -- but probably the self-referential themes tend to fade out in subsequent drafts, as art takes over, and the universal is distilled out of the circumstantial.
But what do I know.
56. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 3:27:04 PM
(continued from Message # 35)
Desdemona hands a carton of leaflets to her friend. "Oh. This is Gisèle." she says, pronouncing it "jizzelle".
"Ah!" I exclaim. "Bonjour, Gisèle!", pronouncing it "zheezayle". And bite my tongue: absurdly pretentious. She laughs at me : this divine French creature laughs at me! and I blush to the roots of my hair.
She is scanning the room, looking to change the subject (it is littered with cardboard boxes full of my junk : I've only been living in the house four months, I'm not set up yet) and seizes on my wetsuit and weight belt. "Oh! You go diving? I love diving!"
The diving gear, and diving lessons, had been my 21st birthday present from my parents. (I had thought it was an arch reference to my favourite film, The Graduate, and I asked them, OK, where's Mrs Robinson? but they just looked at me blankly). I had completed the course, but I'd only gone diving a couple of times since then : I didn't hang out with that sort of people, and politics took priority anyway.
Gisèle, it turned out, was having an extended holiday, doing a world tour on the cheap, having recently completed a doctorate in social sciences. Over coffee, we seemed to be getting on famously : but whether she was genuinely interested in me, or simply being polite in her sophisticated, inscrutable European way : how could a poor insular New Zealand lad hope to guess?
Anyway, before the coffee was finished, I knew I was in love. In my particular case, it's a curious abdominal sensation, sort of halfway between an orgasm and being disembowelled.
57. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 4:18:09 PM
As they were disappearing from view, and I was standing on my doorstep grinning like the village idiot, it struck me that I hadn't made any arrangement to see Gisèle again. Nor did I have any way to contact her. Except through Desdemona.
Not very clever.
I spent the next couple of hours pacing up and down, in a mixture of elation and despair, as Lizzy and my other flatmates rolled their eyes at each other. I eventually steeled myself, sat by the phone, started to dial Desdemona's number, and put the phone down. And so on. Eventually, I got through to her, and started stammering something. She said, "Did you forget something?" and sighed (or perhaps it was a suppressed giggle). "Gisèle will be at the anti-nuclear meeting this afternoon. You haven't forgotten it, have you."
Only a little bit.
The meeting went well. We were discussing the forthcoming departure of Greenpeace's ship, the Rainbow Warrior, currently anchored in the port, which was sailing for Mururoa, the French nuclear testing zone near Tahiti. Our hearts were aflame : we were defending peace, the environment, and the rights of the Polynesian islanders, with the added romance of adventure on the high seas. Some of those present were veterans of protest voyages of the seventies, and had had the honour of being arrested and maltreated by the French navy.
Gisèle didn't say much, but took lots of notes. She was asked whether public opinion in France would support us, and she had to tell us that very few people there were aware of the issue, except a few environmentally-conscious citizens such as herself. She mentioned René Dumont (whom I believed I had heard of) and Jacques Cousteau (we were on more familiar ground there).
After the meeting, I asked if she would like to do some diving with me. She was clearly delighted with the idea. I said we could easily hire the necessary gear for her (I had no idea how, but I was sure I could find out).
So we made an appointment for the following morning, Sunday.
58. alistairConnor - 4/11/2005 4:20:04 PM
... and that'll have to do for tonight.
I know what's going to happen, but that's all I've written.
59. Magoseph - 4/11/2005 5:45:09 PM
Mags, definetely an intriguing set-up. I'm already fearing what has happened to the gerbils.
Web, thank you, but it is not a set-up, just a story. The husband didn’t know the difference between beloved pets and mice. I suppose the gerbils were blugeoned to death and taken to the garbage chute.
60. alistairconnor - 4/12/2005 1:44:10 AM
Needs polishing Mago, since apparently some don't get it on the first read... Just a little bit more clarity in the syntax : for example, it took me several tries to work out who was going to the beach with whom.
Actually, on re-reading, I think you're stuck in a French literary groove... we never get away from our origins, my dear... it perhaps needs translating into American?
... I just re-read it again, and I withdraw that comment : I think, with a bit of tweaking, it could be quite Fitzgeraldian. And that would be ... quite saisissant.
As for the structure and style, they are great. I think you need to bulk it out, with more expository detail and perhaps dialogues, to give the creepy atmosphere time to develop. Still, I feared for the life of the husband (you really got your knife into him, didn't you?)
61. Macnas - 4/12/2005 2:48:30 AM
Alistair,
For gods sake, tell us what g-zel looks like.
Mago,
French-noir!
Webfeet
I think that resonates with everyone who has had a kid or 2. My Missus had a good laugh reading it, which in and of itself is amazing, seeing as she regards the Mote, at best, as "that place where you converse with other wierdos".
62. alistairconnor - 4/12/2005 4:32:32 AM
(continued from Message # 57)
When I later described her as beautiful, people would look puzzled. Eye of the beholder and all that. But nobody, man or woman, denied her magnetic attractiveness.
Hazel eyes : she called them green, but they were more subtle than that, very complex -- they are what stay with me when I can't conjure up the rest of her. The way they sparkled, and the creases at the corners, when she smiled at me - I often thought she was mocking me, but no, she was delighting in me, she would say. Fleshy features; shortish straw-coloured hair (I have always preferred brunettes), a slightly ruddy complexion that was rather more tanned than I normally would have liked. And freckles. I never used to like freckles either.
My flatmates called her Gazelle -- it was meant to be ironic, she was not slender, nor did she move gracefully. Not on land. But in water, or in bed... But I'm getting ahead of myself.
There are very few good diving spots that you can reach from Auckland without a boat. I took the easy option, we went to Goat Island. Over the bridge, and an hour's drive north : a marine reserve. Chock full of fish, but window shopping only.
During the drive, and at the dive shop, we chatted animatedly. She used her hands a lot, and touched me quite often. I knew about cultural codes; intellectually, I knew that those contacts were not invested with the intimacy that they would imply in our reserved Kiwi culture. But still, every touch was an electric thrill.
I had thought her chunky, perhaps even a bit... podgy. Not that I minded. That was because of the formless clothes she affected. While we were putting on our wetsuits, I realised my mistake. There was plenty of her, but it was all in the right places.
63. alistairconnor - 4/12/2005 7:56:42 AM
The sun was shining; the water was clear. Schools of brilliant snapper : vertical silver in motion. Ghostly white and grey rays; dozens of colourful fishes that I've never learned the names of. Gisèle was in her element. Lithe and swift, she literally swam rings round me. Urging me on, taking me by the hand and towing me. This may sound strange, but it was the first time I had erotic thoughts about her. I have always been an uneasy diver, unskilled and naturally clumsy. I gladly deferred to her experience and skill. I, the local guide, let myself be guided; and we discovered wonders together.
We surfaced on the seaward side of the island, and clambered ashore : not a soul in sight. Late March, autumn in principle, but in fact a splendid warm Indian summer. We slowly stripped off our gear -- all of our gear -- and had sex.
(But wait, you will say. You mean you "made love", right? Well actually... No, let's stick with the chronology. OK, for the sake of argument...)
We made love.
It might sound pretty uncomfortable. A rock shelf, below the high tide mark, among the barnacles, mussels, tidal pools and clammy seaweed. But a couple of wetsuits make a surprisingly good mattress in a pinch. And we were young and fit.
It was the best love I'd ever had. Easy.
64. MegKelso - 4/12/2005 8:22:40 AM
Meg...
...What an adorable puppy! What breed is he?
He, Payton, is a boxer. He is either incredibly smart or incredibly
stupid...the juries still out on that one. He is lying at my feet as I type this. He loves me. He sleeps in my bed when I let him but I don’t let him stay long because he has been known to do a no-no now and again. One night he slept perfectly fine with me. The next, he ate the bottom out of my bed. Then he spent a month of nights in the crate. Then, I tried again. He was so good. He did jump off the bed once while I was on the phone, but I quickly called him back up on the bed. He was so good, I almost felt bad taking him back to the crate...until I stepped in the pee carpet with my socks on. My oldest used to set little pee carpet bombs for me. He wore a diaper but he would get up in the middle of the night, untape it and pee through the bars of his crib. Then he would tape it back up and go back to sleep. I didn’t have to step in too many of those messes before we lost both the diaper and the crib. Baby pee is bad enough but I don’t do animal pee.
And, the dog can do some serious damage, he isn’t too
much of a puppy. Well, he acts like one but he is close to 50 pounds.
And...he shows no signs of slowing down. I believe Payton is a mutant large boxer.
His parents weighed 70 and 80 pounds. This dog has a LOT of growing to do to fit those feet and that big dumb head of his. He keeps knocking it on things. He still tries, in the panic of the moment as I am chasing his bad ass down for some canine transgression, to hide in places he no longer fits. At one time, he could scamper easily under the bed. Every so often he still bangs his head trying. He used to be able to drive me nuts from under the coffee table. If there was nothing on it, I would just toss it over. But there was usually something on it so I had to play that, this side, no, that side, no, the other side game for a while. It was very annoying. But now, he bangs his "shoulder" area because he can’t get under the coffee table quickly enough. He has pretty much run out of hiding places because of his considerable size. And he is still growing.
Kids can cause a mess but they don’t do as much serious damage, at least not while they are very young...usually. My oldest The pee bonb kid) gave me a morning to remember.
I woke up and went to the baby first. I found her sitting in her crib with a half gallon of ice cream and a spoon. My oldest had effectively shut her up with Neapolitan ice cream. I went to the bathroom. The toilet water was orange. There was an empty jar of Tang on the floor next to the toilet. I was getting pretty nervous. As I walked through the hall, I noticed a brown handprint on the closet door. I walked into the kitchen and at first glance, it wasn’t so bad. I remember a lot of Cinnamon Life cereal on the floor and a bowl of it on the table. He seemed to have handled the milk O.K. He was about 3.
On the floor I noticed quite a mess. He had dumped all of my canisters out onto the floor, obviously sitting on the counter as he did it. There was flour, sugar, coffee and pennies, all in a large puddle. I say puddle because he peed all over the muddle he had caused. And it appeared as though he had done it a very long time before I woke up because those pennies were glued to the floor. I had to pry them off of the floor with a putty knife. I bet there is sugar, flour and little boy pee in super glue. Above the canisters, on cabinet was slightly ajar. I opened both of them and all of a sudden, a 3 pound box of vermicelli began streaming out of the box and onto the floor like Niagara Falls. I only made the mess worse trying to stop it.
After I stopped the pasta onslaught, I decided to open the refrigerator. I found the milk. It was all in the bottom of the refrigerator and a lot of it must have poured out after he shut the door because a bunch fell out onto my feet when I opened it. I found a can of chocolate sauce with fingerprints all around it. That explained the brown handprint
on the door. The chocolate was on it’s side like the milk so it had spilled
and leaked over every shelf below it to the bottom of the fridge. He stuck his chocolaty hands in the watermelon and ate it by the handful. Then I noticed that the eggs were missing. About that time, I heard him.
He was under the table, covered in Tang, chocolate sauce, watermelon seeds, flour, sugar, ice cream, and yes, eggs. He was sitting in the eggs which he had already broken and was slipping around under the table in his mess. I’ve never seen a dog get so creative. But I never laugh at what the dog does either. I had to laugh at my kid, or else I would have had to hurt him really, really bad.
I guess this is non-fiction, but there wasn't a non fiction thread. :(
65. alistairconnor - 4/12/2005 8:42:59 AM
I don't care if it's true or not, it's in the right thread this time!
Actually you have a ton of material and raw writing talent to be harnessed, Meg. I am clueless as to how to go about it, but there's a novel in it.
Or a sitcom perhaps.
66. alistairconnor - 4/12/2005 9:10:16 AM
My story is not over, by the way. I think I'm about halfway through it. If you think I'm laying it on thick... yes I am. Any New Zealanders reading it will have already spotted what's coming (gidday Snow, gidday Neato)...
67. webfeet - 4/12/2005 11:16:26 AM
That was pretty hot. And well told. Clear, visual and succinct.
68. webfeet - 4/12/2005 11:30:22 AM
Macnas, it seriously delights me to hear that she enjoyed it. The key, though, is to get beyond the myopia of the self-referential world of motherhood and strike a more universal, as alistair put it, note.
What I try to do in subsequent chapters is to observe and connect the culture of parenting to the narrative so that it transcends some of the pitfalls of the dull, egocentric mommy blog. You can lose your audience quickly if you don't move onto another plain.
69. Magoseph - 4/12/2005 11:58:00 AM
Ali, thank you very much for your kind comments which will help to write the next story. However, the story is best left to oblivion, I believe.
That was pretty hot. And well told. Clear, visual and succinct.
Web’s words, describing your work, are so great and so much right on the money that all I can add for the moment is that I love the seduction scene in the last post.
70. webfeet - 4/12/2005 11:58:14 AM
Oh, and I wanted to mention this earlier. One of the happiest summers in my life was spent in a graduate course in Irish literature. From the gorgeous imagery of Yeats to the emotionally charged works of Synge and O'Casey to the titillating wit of Wilde, and of course, Joyce it was like living inside the soul of Ireland. And I never forgot it.
After hearing your voice and style, I was struck by how familiar it was, that kind of Celtic storytelling style, and it instantly brought the memory of it back to me.
Now was it Sean O'Casey who wrote Juno and the Paycock? Were these writers your equivalent of the Hemingways and Fitzgeralds? The ones you read early on in middle school? Were there others not mentioned?
71. webfeet - 4/12/2005 12:00:07 PM
Mags, no way!
I really liked your oblique style. It was a little unclear at first, but seriously kind of intriguing. Because you felt something uneasy and undefined in the writing of it. I know I'm not going to be believed anymore if I go on making these grand comparisons, but it reminded me of Paul Auster.
72. PelleNilsson - 4/12/2005 1:06:01 PM
magnetic attractiveness ... hazel eyes ... there was plenty of her, but it was all in the right places.
So delightfully retro and corny ... Philip Marlowe describing the damsel in distress waiting in his ante-room. Or Sam Spade. Or Lew Archer.
73. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 1:06:19 PM
Hey wimmin, I'm grinning with pleasure, but I wish you would tell me what you don't like, find irritating, unclear, etc. I have never tried to write a story before, it's fun, but I lose all objectivity once I'm pleased with a passage. If the story works, I'll want to do another draft, some time, so your first impressions are interesting.
74. Magoseph - 4/12/2005 1:07:51 PM
Web, it’s a story about a lie told by a 22 year-old to a man she admires and is a friend of many years, a lie that has always bothered her because she never found the courage to own up to it. I command Ali for reading it a couple of times. Really, that story was an imposition on the readers of this thread.
75. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 1:10:48 PM
Interesting thoughts about national styles. I'm not entirely sure, but I suspect I'm working within a palpably New Zealand style. Not consciously of course.
76. judithathome - 4/12/2005 1:13:24 PM
No it wasn't...and you should be spanked with a little paddle for saying it was!
77. judithathome - 4/12/2005 1:14:44 PM
Alistair, that post was to Magos.
I like your style and despite Pelle's gruff pronouncement, I think you're onto something.
78. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 1:31:17 PM
Alistair, that post was to Magos.
Damn, and I was just starting to get hot and bothered!
79. PelleNilsson - 4/12/2005 1:52:03 PM
Gruff?? Sometimes I don't understand Americans and they obviously don't understand me. It was not gruff at all. A good-natured jab between friends, that's all.
80. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 1:57:24 PM
Thanks Pelle - I was aware of the retro-corny effect, but didn't take the time to find something more fitting. Actually I quite like sneaking in stylistically incongruous effects -- but most people probably find it disruptive.
81. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 4:14:06 PM
The next few weeks are a bit of a blur. Gisèle disappeared for a few days to do some tourism down country. Meanwhile, I wandered around in a happy haze. I've always been a bit absent-minded, but I became a hazard for everyone and everything around me. I had to turn up to work every day, but they soon stopped asking me to do anything complicated.
When she came back, I wanted to take her to a restaurant, to go out dancing, all that stuff... no, she just wanted to stay home. Bed. Love. Fine with me.
But she didn't stay the night. She never stayed the night. She always left me wanting more. Wanting her.
She channelled my youthful ardour, educated it. She... taught me all I know? Barely an exaggeration. The love just kept getting better. She was always pleased with my efforts; but surely better pleased towards the end than at the beginning.
We talked and talked. I was a shallow well, soon pumped dry : my short life had provided little of great interest for me to share; but she was a fount of anecdotes. Student life in Montpellier and Paris in the ferment of the seventies : politics, sex, sexual politics; diving in the Greek islands; a whole enticing world that I had only glimpsed before.
But asking questions about the present and the near future didn't get me far. She wasn't exactly evasive; and she didn't try to shut me up with love (which would have been the easiest thing in the world), but I ended up with nothing of substance.
Naturally, I got the idea that she had another lover. I'd also got it into my head, I'm not sure how, that this was supposed to be OK with me (perhaps due to an overdose of Crosby Stills and Nash during childhood). When I blurted this out one night, she laughed at me : not at the idea, plausible enough, but at the way I tried to put a brave face on it. She implored me to believe her that she had no other man in her love life. No-one but me. I have no reason to disbelieve that. Even now.
She came and went as she pleased; she didn't come every evening, and gave no warning either way. I ended up staying home at night, waiting for her. My political contacts started missing me : not in a positive, "I wonder what he's up to, good old..." sort of way : more like "Where the hell is he when we need him?"
82. alistairConnor - 4/12/2005 4:15:03 PM
Ah, 81 is continued from Message # 63
83. webfeet - 4/12/2005 6:04:03 PM
How is it that you know girls with poetic, Shakespearean names like Desdemona and Giselle?
The only girls I grew up with were named Jennifer, Lisa, Kristen or Kimberly. Oh, and Debbie. I wonder what destiny would have beheld us had we been named after tragediennes top models or ballets.
84. Macnas - 4/13/2005 1:22:43 AM
webfeet
You've had more edjakatin in Irish literature than I have.
Synge and O'Casey, well, I suppose you could say they were our versions of Hemingway & co., but with very little in the way of being upbeat, and as for redemption, well, if you can find it in their writing, its pretty blurred.
Yeats, I've always had a gra for his poetry, most of it anyway. Wilde, I don't consider particularly Irish at all, 'though I like a lot of his stuff. There are so many writers who we can claim as being Irish, but very few who you could pin down as being recognisably so.
Joyce is, in my opinion, particularly Irish, but not in the same way as other writers. For a start he is generally much more good humoured! Irish writing, in general, is all about misery. There are some exceptions, but in the main it's a gloom fest.
In addition to that, and to answer your last question, I'd have a rattle off Frank O'Conner. He does despair and loneliness like nobody else, and he writes in such a perfect style, he should be taught to everyone studying english prose.
85. Macnas - 4/13/2005 1:27:58 AM
alistair
Good man yourself! I'd doubt anyone could be that helpless though.
Could they?
Still, very entertaining. You have continuity, which is something I find all but impossible to do, thats why I stick to (very) short stories. Plus your enthusiasm hops off the page, kind of infectious.
86. alistairconnor - 4/13/2005 2:01:04 AM
I'd doubt anyone could be that helpless though.
Yes, I'll have to address that.
87. alistairconnor - 4/13/2005 5:58:43 AM
In the lunch room, I just read an interview with a writer who's published an essay, "In defense of Narcissus", which analyses the current wave of autobiographical fiction in France.
I swear I haven't read any of this stuff (though I suspect Webfeet has!) -- but there's some very pertinent stuff in the article, I'm tempted to post a quick and dirty translation, when I've got a moment.
88. alistairconnor - 4/13/2005 6:09:31 AM
I just bet Cap'n Dirty has a tale or two to tell.
89. alistairconnor - 4/13/2005 10:07:35 AM
(continued from Message # 81)
There were a few political events I really couldn't get out of. I turned up late to one meeting : Harriet Horton caught my eye as I slunk in, and winked at me.
It was the electorate committee of Dick Jeckler, the most right-wing member of parliament of our ostensibly left-of-centre party (and, in retrospect, the worst bastard on the New Zealand political scene over the following twenty years). He had it all tightly under control, and Harriet and I found ourselves in a permanent minority of two.
She was a superb, charismatic silver-maned law professor, and had recently been elected president of the Party (of which I was the titular head of the evanescent youth wing). I suppose she was amused by my quixotic radicalism; and perhaps touched by my ardent feminism. (She could have bedded me if she'd wanted. The idea never occurred to me in those days; still less, the idea of making a move on her. The vast age difference accounted for that. Ye gods, she must have been nearly forty! Fooool.) (I'd better take this paragraph out of the second draft.)
In any case, the Higher Ups, or at least her faction, had their eye on me. It's true that I talked a good game in those days. I can imagine the trajectory they expected of me : they would give me an unwinnable seat to contest in the next general election; I'd be in Parliament before I was thirty, easy; and probably an ex-minister by now. Shudder.
She cornered me after the meeting. I hung my head : there was some moderately important stuff I hadn't taken action on. We discussed that, and she observed wryly : "I suppose there's a woman behind this."
"Not just a woman!" I declaimed defensively, blushing slightly (my, what a lot of blushing I did in those few weeks). "A ... a... a French woman." I finished lamely.
"Are you sure that's... politically correct? In the current circumstances?"
("Politically correct" was a rare term in those days, understood only by initiates of the left. Its meaning has eroded and deformed. It was our badge of pride.)
In fact, she was giving me an easy out : "You wouldn't want me to be racist, would you?"
90. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:25:30 AM
This story is titled “The Day I Realized I was a Mother.”
Dylan was born a week early and his introduction to life began with an emergency ceasarean section. I was rushed to the hospital after being informed that the baby was breech and that I would be delivering within the hour. I had no time to prepare really, as I was caught completely off guard. Thank God I had the prescience to bring along my pre-packed gym bag to the doctor’s just in case these pains were the real thing.
During the pregnancy I had forced myself to watch a couple episodes of TLC’s Baby Story and was moved by the excitement of having a new baby. Each woman was glowing and each husband was attentive, loving and pregnant alongside the wife. I was ready for the experience. I was ready for the actual pain, but even more so to hear the doctor say, “Yes, yes. Push harder… here’s the head…you have a lovely boy…here he is!”
Things didn’t happen that way, and I can only speculate that as a result, the bond between mother and baby wasn’t instantaneous. The first time I saw Dylan, I was still in somewhat of a drugged stupor and couldn’t muster enough strength to hold him. He was so little and so delicate and so intimidating. He was a precious life that had just come from me, and yet I was terrified that I would do something wrong. What if I didn’t hold him the right way, and as a result he hurt his neck? What if I didn’t know how to change a diaper correctly and he pooped all over the place? What if he was in pain and I couldn’t figure out what it was?
Yes, this little “bundle of joy” was really the start of a new life for me, and one that I wasn’t prepared for.
91. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:29:00 AM
We were able to bring Dylan home a few days later and I thought for sure that the maternal instinct would hit me. All of the nurses assured me that I would “just know what to do”, and I trusted them. I breastfed him, changed him, put him in his bassinet when he slept, and talked to him a soothing voice, but somethingw as still missing.
My family and friends were constantly calling and coming by to see the little guy and always asking the same things: “Aren’t babies the greatest? Dontcha just love him? Are y’all going to have anymore?”
I would smile and answer the way I thought I was supposed to answer. Yes, children are the greatest and I just love him to bits, and oh, I can’t wait to have more.
The real truth was that I still didn’t feel like I was a mother. Who was this person that had just given birth and where did the carefree and independent Jennifer go?
Of course I loved Dylan, but it was more of a desperate love, the kind that is terrified of doing anything wrong. Every little peep sent me into a panic and I kept hoping that I would feel the connection and just glide into the groove.
My friend Karen from church had just had her third baby a month ago and was already back into hot pants and tank tops. I would watch her with all three of the kids and she had a natural ease and grace about her. We would be heavily engrossed in conversation and without batting an eye, she could prepare formula, change the second child and assemble a tower for the oldest. She had it down, she was a natural.
“Don’t you just love Dylan?” she asked me, I responded, “Oh yes.”
“Keith and I want to have at least seven kids, we just think that they’re the greatest,” she smiled at me, all the while confirming my deepest fear that *I* must have been a horrible mother because I didn’t feel that way. I wanted to. I wanted to be a super mom like Karen.
92. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:30:57 AM
I thought about Karen and decided that that day, I was going to be Super Jennifer. Having a baby didn’t really change ME, I thought. I am still the young, slender, carefree, independent Jennifer. I can handle anything.
So, I focused my sights on making a dessert to celebrate the Old/new me. I thought I would just make an authentic tiramisu complete with piped marzipan in a fancy decoration. The Jennifer before Dylan could do that, no sweat.
It took me 5 hours to create the tiramisu and it wasn’t that good. I let the lady fingers soak too long because I had to feed the baby and forgot about them. I didn’t have time to run to the store and so I substituted cream cheese. I couldn’t find the pastry bag and I was out of cinnamon.
I wasn’t about to let this wreck my determination to prove that I was still me. I decided to go to the mall. Granted I had never taken Dylan to the mall, and had only taken him out once since had been born, but I needed to prove that my life hadn’t changed that much even though I had a baby. He felt like someone else’s baby.
I chose an upscale mall, the one where even the 80 year olds wear stilettos to. I spent 30 minutes on my hair, did my make up and tried best I could to squeeze into anything that looked fashionable. Nothing really fit, but it was too painful to acknowledge that life had changed and that I couldn’t fit into my pre-pregnancy clothes. So, I threw on a clean t-shit and a skirt with some sandals and dressed Dylan and together we headed off to the mall.
93. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:34:03 AM
My life hadn’t changed, so I thought I would do some shopping and then maybe some antiquing. Once we got to the mall, I realized that I hadn't packed a diaper bag along. In my reluctance (or ignorance) to admit that I was a mother - and needed to prepare the baby in addition to myself - I only managed to grab my purse.
Dylan and I strolled the mall and I watched the other mothers play with their toddlers or coo their babies. I watched the good looking guys walk right past me without even a glance. I went into places like Williams & Sonoma thinking I would plunk down $500 for an espresso machine, but no one helped me.
I felt so alone and so ignored! I wanted people to treat me like they had always treated me, and yet, somehow, pushing a baby around caused everyone to focus on him.
Dylan was like a baby bird and I was it’s mother. Day and night I fetched his substinence while he lay there with an opened mouth ready to be fed.
I didn’t know who I was, and hadn’t felt any connection to the living, breathing, vulnerable being who was completely dependent on me.
I cried about it to my mother who assured me that all mothers went through a similar process, but that didn’t jibe with what I had seen in the super moms like Karen. She promised me that it would hit me one day when I least expected it – I would realize and accept that I was a mother. I would embrace it and be fantastic.
I felt depressed but tried to carry on like normal. I wasn’t a freak like Andrea Yates or Susan Smith, so I felt some relief.
94. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:40:28 AM
Late that evening, my husband came home from work and tried some of the tiramisu. He was surprised that I had even attempted to make such a complicated dessert. I smiled and told him that we had gone to the mall. I left out the part about forgetting to bring a diaper bag and being forced to leave early because of the prolific poo that Dylan had in Neiman Marcus. Or about the part of having to stop at the nearest grocery store and buy another pack of diapers to change the boy immediately. Instead, I just told him that we had gotten out of the house.
He went into the baby’s room and greeted Dylan and carried him into the living room. It was cute the way he played with the baby, and it made me love my husband more. My heart ached and so I retreated into the den.
A half an hour went by and then Robert yelled, “JEN!!! Come here! You have got to see this!”
He had said the same thing before, which usually meant that baby needed to be changed, but this time, my ears perked up and I raced into the living room.
“Oh my gosh, check this out!”he said.
He held up a pair of tweezers which grasped the largest booger I have ever seen in my life. The two of us just marveled at its size.
Neither one of us could believe that someone so tiny could make something so big. I looked at it wondering how it could even be in that poor baby’s nose. I stared at Dylan and he just flapped his arms with glee.
I suddenly realized what he and I were studying with fascination - had it been from anyone else I would have been completely grossed out, and yet I was calm about it and thought that I needed to suck out Dylan's nose every now and then.
I looked into Dylan's eyes and hr smiled at me for the first time.
I fell in love at that very moment and realized that I was a mother after all!
95. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 10:44:26 AM
P.s. sorry about the misspellings and typos!
96. judithathome - 4/13/2005 12:29:34 PM
Very cute story, Jen, and one I'm sure many mothers relate to!
I have one question: what is "substinence" in this sentence:
Dylan was like a baby bird and I was it’s mother. Day and night I fetched his substinence while he lay there with an opened mouth ready to be fed. Wouldn't "sustenance" work better?
97. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 1:01:18 PM
Ha ha ha!
yes, Judith, you caught one of my many typos. I wrote the story in one sitting and right when I got to that point, I was trying to finish my thought and tell a student that I was getting a substitute.
It should be sustenance.
;-)
98. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 1:18:39 PM
I am seriously considering playing hookey tomorrow.
Btw, for any of you who read my story, I know I am not much of a writer, I was just hoping to share a funny anecdote.
99. alistairConnor - 4/13/2005 2:33:42 PM
The important thing is the universal element that speaks to all parents - that transcends the anecdote. The alienation of modern medicalised childbirth : is it the scourge of our age? Your anecdote certainly moved me. I can feel the pain of that retarded bonding, I can relate to that unexpressed jealousy : as it happens, my wife had a local anaesthetic for our first daughter, she was groggy, and I believe that I bonded with her before her mother did.
100. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 2:46:29 PM
Thank you Alistair. I am happy to say that Dylan and I are in love with each other, but I am still terrified that I will do something wrong. I have accepted that I will no longer be pre-baby Jennifer, but I do miss some of the old days. I wouldn't trade them for Dillie, though.
I am also happy to say that my husband has bonded more with the kiddo, too. It seems that the older he gets, the more they can play together.
I will read back on everyone's preceeding stories tomorrow! Can't wait!
101. Jenerator - 4/13/2005 2:46:55 PM
Thank you Alistair. I am happy to say that Dylan and I are in love with each other, bit I am still terrified that I will do something wrong. I have accepted that I will no longer be pre-baby Jennifer, but I do miss some of the old days. I wouldn't trade them for Dillie, though.
I am also happy to say that my husband has bonded more with the kiddo, too. It seems that the older he gets, the more they can play together.
I will read back on everyone's preceeding stories tomorrow! Can't wait!
102. judithathome - 4/13/2005 2:49:04 PM
I'm about to post a story I wrote for Keoni...every year I write him a story about an animal for Christmas. I've done this for over 20 years....
103. judithathome - 4/13/2005 2:53:01 PM
The Christmas Toad
Once upon a time in a land where groups of men devoted half their lives to playing a game called golf, there lived a little toad called Tomet. Now you might think this little toad had a name that rhymed with grommet but you’d be wrong. He was a French toad and his elegant name was pronounced Toe-may.
How on earth did a French toad end up living in Texas, one might ask? It was a very strange and convoluted tale. Tomet was born to aristocracy but preferred the down and dirty style of life amongst the common man. So one year he sat in the cheap seats of the Grand Prix of tennis which took place in Paris each year. A plan was soon formed to see more of the world after watching how much fun the American camera team seemed to be having shooting the tennis matches.
On the eve of the final match, Tomet secured himself a hiding place in the camera bags of the head cameraman and settled in for a long ride. He made it to America without his stowaway status being discovered and without being squashed, either. Quite a feat, considering how the bags were tossed so cavalierly by the baggage handlers!
It just so happened the cameraman who had been in Paris and who ended up with Tomet in his bags was assigned to the Byron Nelson Golf Invitational tournament in Dallas Texas. Having no time to unpack, the cameraman grabbed his gear and took off for the country club right from the airport. He dumped his things in the sound truck and that was where Tomet found himself after rousing from a deep stupor. The first thing he noticed was how weirdly everyone spoke. It sounded like a bad movie, the sort of movie with horses and ladies who worked in saloons. This was no movie, however.
Tomet found himself gazing at the frantic efforts of the production crew working to get the pageantry and puffery of the opening of the golf tournament on the air and not only on the air but on time. He guessed this was of utmost importance to the viewing public but little did he know those out there watching would be snoring and asleep about forty five minutes into the show. Tomet decided to search out a place safe from being trampled by technicians and grips and he set off for the greens and a nice looking pond beyond them.
The pond was cool and quiet and most inviting so Tomet took a dip. He swam deep under water and noticed with a jolt hundreds of egg-looking objects resting on the bottom. What could possibly account for this? Some highly fertile egg laying amphibian? Just as he was musing on this poser, a loud plop blooped into the water next to him and one of those eggs settled to the bottom with the others. Tomet raised his head out of the water to about eye level and saw the answer to his perplexing question…ah ha! It’s the species golfexis!
The species golfexis is particular to the state of Texas and can be found on any course in any city on any given weekend. Sometimes they travel to other states and can be recognized in airports by the huge bags they wheel around and the way their eyes are glazed over, staring into the distance as though seeing the golf course they are heading to off in the distance. A grouchy female, weighted down with books and magazines, can usually be seen in their company.
No doubt the golfer who landed the egg in the pond bottom was from out of state. No matter. It was a close call and Tomet decided to exit the pond and look for safer shores. He made his way to the parking lot and saw a beautiful pewter-colored car that had the windows open a bit and availed himself of this boon immediately. Soon be was settled into the warm area under the backseat and asleep, dreaming of France and calmer days.
Before Tomet knew it, the car was speeding west and was filled with laughter. Two people seemed to be enjoying themselves quite a bit. Tomet stayed quietly listening and riding into the great unknown. The car sped on, carrying him and his fate to places he could only imagine and hope were not to be regretted. It was cool and dark in the car and Tomet was soon lulled back to sleep, the tinkling laughter of the occupants sifting into his dreams as background music.
The next thing Tomet knew, it was daylight and the car was being driven at a fast speed toward the west. Suddenly it stopped and he could hear clanking and clunking coming from the trunk area of the car. Tomet peeked out the back window and saw a huge Hawaiian guy lugging a set of golf clubs toward what appeared to be the clubhouse. Deciding to investigate further, Tomet exited the car and hopped along the gravel trail until he came upon the tee box of the first hole of the gorgeously laid out course.
Little did Tomet know he was on the verge of a great adventure and one of the best all time practical jokes ever played in the history of golf. That the Hawaiian would be the brunt of this joke was cosmic retribution of the highest sort.
The French are a droll race and not given to practical jokes, neither doing them nor on the receiving end. Also, the French aren’t too keen on golf. So Tomet, being the fun loving type toad that he was, hadn’t much chance to practice his little tricks on unsuspecting golfers who actually took the game as seriously as these residents of Texas did. He was in the midst of a race of golfers who lived, breathed, and practically ate the game of golf. The big guy from Hawaii was definitely in this category.
The course was laid out so that it snaked around a planned community of cedar shake roofed McMansions with mouse pad lawns and blue lagoon sparkling pools, many of which were actually black lagoon pools. Most of the pools were nestled in rocks and foliage resembling an oasis in the Arabian Desert. One expected to see the Sheik come riding up on his noble steed to sweep the lounging lady of the house up in his muscular arms and ride off into the sunset with her weakly protesting. However, the only horse within shouting distance was the one powering the riding lawnmower.
All these castles verged upon the golf course with great impunity and made their presence known by the number of arched windows in their back walls. These impossible-to-curtain arches overlooked the patios that served as the staging areas for the pools that served as financial statements sans numbers for the owners therein. It was in this setting that our little Franconian toad found himself.
Tomet surveyed the course and noted which holes looked the furthest from the tee boxes. He decided to start his prank after the Hawaiian had played a few holes so Tomet could get a feel for the way he putted before Phase One of the Franco-American Golf Ruse took place.
Soon Tomets prey approached the first box and teed off, sending the ball in a long arc down the fairway. “Wow!” thought Tomet. “I have my work cut out for me if this dude putts as good as he drives.” Hopping down the rough so he would remain out of sight, the little toad scampered ahead of the foursome and made it to the green well ahead of the players. His perch was such that he could survey the placement of each players landed shot.
The Hawaiian was shooting third and as the third ball plopped onto the edge of the green and rolled to a stop about six feet from the hole, Tomet jumped forward, grabbed the ball, and tossed it over into the well manicured yard of a pricey castle resembling a fortress from the movie Braveheart, well beyond the boundary of the official course. As the golfers approached, the Hawaiian groaned at seeing the absence of what he had assumed was a well-hit ball. He grumbled something about scoring his game by the number of balls he lost each time and took the penalty.
At the next hole, Tomet allowed the Hawaiian to have his shot unimpeded and was pleased to note the putting didn’t go as well as might be expected. On two following holes, Tomet pulled the toss trick once and once he pushed the ball off the green and into the rough. The Hawaiian was becoming a little rattled but not overly so. He was still joshing and laughing it up with guys in a self-deprecating manner.
(continued)
104. judithathome - 4/13/2005 2:53:21 PM
(continued)
Time for a new Tomet Tack! He backed off and let the Hawaiian have five good holes. No toady tricks, no jumping japes and no subterfuge at all, just well driven balls and accurately putted putts. This had just the effect Tomet had planned…the Hawaiian became more confident and began to relax.
On the next hole, Tomet secreted himself inside the cup on the green and when the Hawaiian putted and the ball fell in, the wily toad punched it back out of the cup and it rolled a few feet away. He did this on every other hole for the rest of the game, in fact. He also tossed several balls out of bounds and many more into the rough. The putting trick was his absolute masterstroke, though, and was something that couldn’t be explained. Because no self-respecting golfer whose putt has gone awry will think to look into the cup and place blame there. Instead, he will blame himself and go home and order yet another expensive golfing aid guaranteed to improve his putting by so many strokes and costing just three easy payments of thus and so plus shipping and handling.
So Tomet continued his little ruse and the Hawaiian spent the last third of the game very distracted, trying to remember which putting aid he had recently seen advertised and where. He just couldn’t believe his putting had gone so downhill in such a short time nor could he believe he’d lost so many balls that day. The Hawaiian just had no clue about how this had come to pass.
No, this golfer could never stoop to imagining a little French toad named Tomet might be hiding in the cup pulling a prank.
Why, that would be like finding out there was no Santa Claus!
Merry Christmas!
105. Ms. No - 4/13/2005 2:53:29 PM
Oh wonderful stuff! I'm having such a great time reading all these stories!
106. judithathome - 4/13/2005 2:56:18 PM
(It was a little over the 8200 limit so I broke it up a bit.)
107. alistairConnor - 4/13/2005 4:30:18 PM
Nouvel Observateur (French weekly), 10-16 Feb 2005
(my translation)
An interview avec Philippe Vilain
With the publication of Marianne Denicourt's narrative, and the release of Annie Ernaux's book, the "auto-fiction" debate is raging. Philippe Vilain comes to the defense of Narcissus.
Philippe Vilain entered literature arm in arm with Annie Ernaux, who made him the hero of a novel called "The Occupation". He lost no time in shaking out their bedsheets in his novel "The embrace" (L'étreinte). From one book to another, estranged lovers are pushing the boundaries : is exposing one's intimate life a valid literarly genre? Is it a crime to mine someone else's life to provide the substance of a book? The artist has no case to answer, says P.V, in his essay "In defense of Narcissus".
Why such a personal novel?
PV : I wanted to decry the intellectual contempt in which autobiographical literature is held. It's always the same criticism : writing about oneself is narcissistic.
Is that untrue?
No. But some "me"s are more "me" than others, as Valéry said. Most autobiographical novels are works of mourning. People talk about their pain. ... A narcissistic text can be recognised by the fact that there is no concern for the reader, nor for universality. It doesn't try to transcend the intimate and move toward the extimate.
What do you mean by extimate?
It's a learned term which means envisaging one's relationship with oneself as a relationship with others, i.e. in an altruistic manner. Simone de Beauvoir said that when an individual exposes himself sincerely, it's everyone's business.
Sharing oneself means taking in one's personal experience what belongs to everyone. In drawing out one's own experience, often one finds... a water table. Scratch the bark of your ego, you'll find an Us underneath.
But the writer who tells his own story is often accused of immodesty. It's a stupidly moralist criticism. ... Writing has a therapeutic dimension, but that's not the original motive. ... Confession writing. That's the generic form of the autobiographical novel : Rousseau, Gide, Guibert, Mondiano... It's the opposite of "Prozac literature" : people go to the bookshop and ask for "something that's not depressing"... People sometimes tell me that my work is "good, but sad"... as if the purpose of literature was to amuse, and to flee reality. Why should works of imagination be considered the only true literature? The origin of the world, by Courbet, is a work of art. Why should realistic literature not be considered art?
[... And there's more, but never mind...]
108. alistairConnor - 4/13/2005 4:47:53 PM
Continued...
PV: In "The Embrace", I give my own romanced version of my relationship with Annie Ernaux, but I reinvent the first encounter, and I invent the separation.
You invented the separation although you were still living together. You explain now that that provoked your separation.
PV: At the time, I wasn't aware of the destructive impact. I didn't realise the implications of such a book. And I was 26.
It's no doubt gratifying to be the subject of a book. But people who don't know you, discover your intimacy in reading it.
PV : It's gratifying, but over time, it becomes a criminal record. To tell the truth, the publication of Annie Ernaux's book "The Occupation" poisoned my life.
You are the incarnation of the cruelty of the writer who is willing to create carnage all around himself to nourish his book. Do you accept that?
PV : There is something of the cannibal in us. Perhaps we're writers first, lovers second. We choose to see life through the prism of literature. We are ready to sacrifice all to literature.
A few years ago, a French writer seduced a young woman and did all he could to make her love him. He wanted to write a sort of Diary of an Affair. When the book was finished, he left. Could you do that?
PV : No. But I'd be ready to make a contract with a girl, so that she became my heroine, for the duration of a novel. I'm inventing the literary marriage contract.
109. alistairConnor - 4/13/2005 4:48:41 PM
Now I'm wondering why I translated all that.
It's fuckin' weird.
110. The Summer Woman - 4/13/2005 10:23:16 PM
Judith - What a great story and a wonderful tradition. Have you considered actually putting a toad in one of the putting cups?
111. The Summer Woman - 4/13/2005 10:28:00 PM
Alistair - I thought it was a riot!
112. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 1:12:29 AM
Your time is near, Woman.
How about a spring tale?
113. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 3:05:12 AM
An illustration of how far gone I was :
A few days into our relationship, we were discussing the golden age of sexual freedom, in France and in New Zealand, which we both felt was drawing to a close. A reflux of conservative moral values was turning people back into conformists; and the threat of sexual pandemic meant that people had not only to worry about contracep...
... I realised it was time for a cold sweat.
Her eyes narrowed. "Ah yes. You've just realised that we've been fucking for nearly a week, and you've never raised the subject of contraception. I suppose you decided it was my responsibility, Mister Feminist?"
In truth, I think she was giving me too much credit. It was just instinctive, primitive, fusional love for me. It simply never crossed my mind... I couldn't admit to such a thing, I couldn't even understand it myself. "Well, I guess I trusted you..."
"Trusted! You trusted me!" Tears of anger. She rushed out of the house.
The anger, I think, is what saves her. Though I misunderstood it at the time.
114. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 3:06:52 AM
This was supposed to be a short story... it seems to be turning into a novelette. A lot of work to make it psychologically convincing. Or at least accessible.
115. Magoseph - 4/14/2005 4:10:39 AM
Now I'm wondering why I translated all that.
I'm very glad that you did, Ali.
The last story you were working on last Christmas about a dream you had, Judith, should be posted too, I thought it was fantastic.
116. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 4:16:55 AM
(oops, 113 continues from Message # 89. And this one continues from 113.)
Don't imagine that I was content to be simply her love puppy. I knew she wasn't being completely straight with me. But I was OK with that. Really.
From the first day, I wanted to take her home and keep her. That is, offer her hospitality for the duration of her stay in New Zealand. Save her the money of cheap hostels.
But no, she was house-sitting, for a wealthy business connection of her father's. A luxury flat in Parnell. Obviously, I wanted to go there : see how the rich bastards lived. No, that wasn't possible, she was under strict instructions to bring no-one home.
It was almost plausible. I almost believed her. Rather, I suspended my disbelief. Like in a movie.
I had read a lot of Alexandre Dumas, in my student days (that, and Conan the Barbarian). Sword and swashbuckle; plots against the Queen; revolution in the streets of Naples. I sensed that I was living some sort of adventure. I was impatient to see how it played out, but I didn't want to mess it up by asking too many questions.
I had already eliminated the most plausible explanation : another lover : because my heart told me she was true to me. I had the idea that she was probably in the drugs trade. I don't mean to say that I approved of that. Nor was I afraid to know the truth. But I didn't want to force her to lie to me.
I was confident that I would unravel the mystery in the end; that she would tell me everything when she was free to do so. In the meantime, living day to day, hand to mouth, was enough for me. I have never been happier in my life.
One night, so as not to appear a total idiot, I playfully chided her for not introducing me to those other people she was surely hanging out with. She turned the question around : who had I presented her to? It was true, apart from my flatmates, she had met no-one but Desdemona. Okay, says I, reaching for the phone : so you want to meet my parents? ... what was your family name, again?
She called my bluff. It was no bluff. My parents adored her; she was charming; I was proud. After dinner, talk, and the inevitable photo albums, they retired to bed, and we retired to the jacuzzi to try some experimental stuff. (For what it's worth: I found that there's not much that's worthwhile that you can do in a jacuzzi, for various reasons.)
117. Macnas - 4/14/2005 4:33:57 AM
You might have drowned man!
118. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 4:37:22 AM
And a mask and snorkel are not much help.
I've got to get this thing finished. It's eating up my head.
119. Magoseph - 4/14/2005 4:54:41 AM
It's eating up my head.
Good, a fellow in misery, I like that.
120. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 4:58:40 AM
(continued from Message # 116)
In the middle of the third week, Gisèle announced that she was going to do a three-week tour of the South Island. There was no chance of my going with her, I wasn't entitled to any holidays until Christmas. After that, she would be back in Auckland for a week, then she would fly on to her next destination, Tahiti.
My guts clenched like a fist. Time to face reality, and the prospect of losing her.
But the coming weekend was for us two. Another diving trip?
We discussed the Poor Nights islands, New Zealand's best diving site, and probably high on the world's best list. We would have to book a trip with a dive boat, I said. She frowned : not very romantic, not very... intimate. Couldn't I organise a boat, just for the two of us?
... I could see her point. She didn't have to draw me a diagram.
I thought about it : who could I borrow a motor boat from? No one in the immediate family. I had friends I could go boating with, but nobody I could just borrow a boat off, out of the blue. Hire one perhaps?
She prompted me : In the dive shop, they had those rubber inflatables... Zodiacs. Yes! I thought I could handle a Zodiac. I made the arrangements immediately.
The plan was that I would get everything ready on Thursday night, so that we could start straight after work on Friday. There was three hours' driving, then we could bivouac on the beach, and start for the islands at first light.
And I would have plenty of time to talk to her about Us. To make my move, to stake my claim. Not a proposal of marriage : heaven, and ideology, forbid! No, I was going with her. Wherever she was going. (It was time. I had never been out of the country, except for a brief political gravy trip to Australia. Any self-respecting New Zealander of my age and generation had to go out and conquer the world.)
I would be passionate, I would be firm. I would not be denied.
121. wonkers2 - 4/14/2005 6:15:14 AM
Great stuff! Keep it coming. I actually went back to the first installment and read them all. How about posting a photo?
122. wonkers2 - 4/14/2005 6:19:41 AM
The Cap'n had a less satisfying experience with a french girl once--Marie Claire, a beautiful au pair, he met at the International House in Cambridge, Mass once upon a time. What is that je ne saix quois about French women?
123. Magoseph - 4/14/2005 6:27:44 AM
Meet me somewhere, I'll show you.
124. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 6:31:11 AM
A photo, eh? I'll see what I can find...
The last story you were working on last Christmas about a dream you had, Judith, should be posted too
Definitely, more Judith!
I know the toad story is specifically for Keoni, but I find that the marvellous description of the golf-course McMansions gives it that element of universality that makes it work for a wider audience.
And I'm still waiting for Wonk. Or the Cap'n... would there be a South American tale to be told, for example?
125. judithathome - 4/14/2005 8:21:53 AM
Summer Woman, I don't get that near the golf course...heh.
Magos, the one with the dreams is very, very Keoni-centric...I'm not sure others would enjoy it that much but maybe I will post it to liven up the idea I am a stodgy stay-at-home old lady.
The Toad piece is the one I did before I broke my leg. I didn't do one the Christmas I had my broken leg and the one I did this past year was a bomb...literally. I was so blocked I finally ended it with an asteroid hitting earth and blowing it up, just to get out of the story.
126. judithathome - 4/14/2005 8:25:35 AM
Alistair, I was thinking maybe you could list the post numbers of the person's story in the right hand column...author's name and post number of their entry. For yours, you could list all the post numbers of the chapters and update it each time.
It might be a daunting task right now but doing it after each submission in the future would be easy enough. And starting now, you'd only have a few to do whereas if you decided to do it after 300 stories, it would be a pain.
127. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 8:56:23 AM
Good idea... I'll consider that Judith...
128. judithathome - 4/14/2005 9:13:41 AM
Before I forget, thank you, Alistair, for your nice comments on my story.
I may post another one in a few days.
129. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 9:19:12 AM
OK here it comes, the oh-so-predictable kicker.
130. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 9:31:39 AM
(continued from Message # 120)
On Thursday night, she helped me pack the car. It was a tight fit, but we weren't intending to pick up any hitch-hikers, anyway. We had agreed that she would take the car, so she could pick me up directly from work on Friday without losing any time. She was affectionate but tense, and in a hurry to get away.
"What, no love tonight?"
She kissed me tenderly : "You get some sleep. You'll need it."
It was sound advice.
-------------
I was awakened by a knock on my door. 7 am : a bit early for me. The flatmates were buzzing around the kitchen in a turmoil, listening to the radio : "The Greenpeace protest vessel, the Rainbow Warrior, has sunk at its mooring in Auckland Harbour. One crew member is reported dead. Police suspect sabotage."
My flatmates suspected "the French". I was completely floored. I didn't know what to think.
I didn't go to work that day : I went to the usual gathering place, and with Desdemona and the others, we tried to make sense of the fragments of information and rumour we had. One of the boat people turned up, distraught. He explained that an explosion during the night had woken everyone, and they had evacuated the boat, but that Fernando, the photographer, had gone back to get his cameras, and had been killed outright by the second explosion, the one that sank the boat.
I can't say I knew the guy, but we'd been in the same room a couple of times.
But who had planted the bombs, and how?
Late morning, someone arrived with the news/rumour that limpet bombs had been placed on the outside of the hull, below the water line; and that a Zodiac and diving gear had been found in Mission Bay, about a mile away.
Desdemona turned to face me. Her mouth opened, and her pupils dilated. (In any other circumstances I would have found the effect intensely erotic. She has wonderful eyes.)
"You'd better go to the police."
"...yes..."
"Straight away."
We left the room unobtrusively. She had her mother's car. She was going to drive me directly to the main cop shop, but I wanted to go home and have a shower first. Or something. I don't really remember.
The cops were waiting for me at my front door.
131. thoughtful - 4/14/2005 9:57:12 AM
i just started reading the stories here and I'm enjoying them. Good job to all.
Wanted to mention that it reminded me of a game my mother and I played when I was a child where one of us would start telling a story and then stop and the other would pick up the thread and weave it along. It was fun trying to trap the other person into corners and the creative ways we got ourselves out of it. Good times.
132. judithathome - 4/14/2005 10:20:38 AM
Over at WC, in Demonizing Religion, we're writing "Jesus, An Internet Play" that way.
133. PelleNilsson - 4/14/2005 10:21:14 AM
Aideing and abetting, eh Alistair? But I suspect there is more to it. Much more. How can you now have a classified job at the nerve centre of SNCF? The Prince of Darkness lives among us.
I'm thinking of putting something together but I have a problem. Over the years I have posted many tales and I have contemplated posting other tales but never got around to it. In my mind those two categories are conflated, so if you recognize whatever I'll write please don't think "there is Pelle digging out the same old story". I genuinely don't remember. And it will not be exactly the same anyhow.
134. alistairconnor - 4/14/2005 10:28:28 AM
Here's the wash-up.
(continued from Message # 130)
Five weeks in prison might seem excessive to some people. I didn't mind, actually. Saved me making any complicated decisions.
The problem was, they didn't have anyone else. Only me. I told them everything I knew, straight away. That took about four minutes.
They charged me as accessory to murder, to start with. Obviously, what they wanted to get me for was conspiracy to murder, plus the various property-damage things. (I had always believed that New Zealand had abolished the death penalty; but at that time, there was still a capital offense related to sinking ships, that was at least theoretically on the books. Also, treason.)
Desdemona and my flatmates were put through the grinder too. Obviously, they knew nothing that I hadn't told the cops, which was a point in my favour I suppose. The dive shop guy remembered that there had been a woman with me the first time, though it seems she had kept out of his line of sight and let me do all the talking. Nobody else, as far as I know, came forward with any useful information about her. Nobody of her name had either entered or left the country, nor had she ever been at the universities she mentioned under that name.
Quite simply, Gisèle had never existed.
I didn't tell the fuzz she had met my parents. I didn't want to put them through the ordeal of an interrogation, when they had strictly no useful information anyway. That backfired on me : of course, they spontaneously came forward to tell the cops all they knew about her (absolutely nothing), and Auckland's Finest had their proof that I was trying to protect her.
Then three weeks later, by sheer chance, a couple of French secret service agents got caught trying to leave the country with false passports, masquerading as a Swiss couple on their honeymoon. (When all became clear, a couple of years later, it turned out that there had been at least six DGSE agents in the country in support roles, as well as the two divers.) They brought us together for a confrontation. The two of them eyed me coldly, weighing up whether I could be of any further use to them. I had never seen them before, nor they me; but they had heard of me, it seems. In most uncomplimentary terms, they said.
In the end the cops had to accept that I was telling the truth. Boy were they pissed off about that. Clearly I was no danger to anyone (other than myself), so they let me go. Without dropping the charges.
Luckily for me, the affair came swiftly to trial. The French government was stonewalling, the entire New Zealand nation was in the grip of righteous fury. The French spooks got ten years each, conspiracy to commit murder. My lawyer -- he was very good, my parents took care of that -- begged for, and obtained, suppression of my name, and I was discharged without conviction.
------
Desdemona stood by me in that dark period. Not many other people did. Not that I blamed them. If I had been of a truly romantic disposition, I would have borrowed my brother's .303 and blown my head off (but I have always abhorred firearms). Or, more appropriately, I could have bought a couple of extra weight belts and jumped off the Harbour Bridge. I like to think that, if I had been truly suicidal, Desdemona would have used love to keep me alive. Not for humanitarian, but for political reasons. That's the sort of woman she is.
Naturally, my nascent political career was over. Opposition to nuclear testing, formerly a lefty fringe thing, became a great National Cause; and rabid anti-French chauvinism was the norm for several years. It served as a wonderful alibi or smokescreen for Dick Jeckler and his cronies, as they pillaged the country. Helen Clark, who had been of my faction, built her career around the issue of nuclear disarmament, becoming minister of foreign affairs, and is now Prime Minister.
After a couple of months of moping around, I saw the writing on the wall, and emigrated.
-------
Where is Gisèle now? Who is Gisèle now? Do I want to know?
You bet I do.
At the time, I forgave her in my heart for deceiving me, but I could not forgive her for being on the wrong side.
Twenty-two years later, all things considered, I think it's the other way round.
135. alistairConnor - 4/14/2005 11:45:12 AM
Sex.
Politics.
Sexual politics.
I want a story from Jexster.
136. alistairConnor - 4/14/2005 11:46:33 AM
Pelle, by all means fire away. But bear in mind that a strong autobiographical element is required.
137. Magoseph - 4/14/2005 12:28:20 PM
Ali— I thought I was reading a romantic adventure with an unusual woman and it turns out to be a total deception, which could have ruined your life—What a story and quite ‘a tour de force’ the way you brought up the end! I am stunned.
138. judithathome - 4/14/2005 12:37:40 PM
I'm very impressed with the way the whole thing unfolded. Great job...it held my interest all the way through.
139. wonkers2 - 4/14/2005 12:58:59 PM
Great story Alistair! I felt betrayed by Marie Claire but never succeeded in getting her in the sack although although she kept letting me think I was getting close.
140. alistairConnor - 4/14/2005 2:49:32 PM
I have linked up the stories in the sidebar.
Eight authors so far. I want more.
Come on, I've shown you mine...
141. webfeet - 4/15/2005 10:55:37 AM
I was astonished when I opened up this thread and saw the crop of stories that sprouted overnight.
Judy,
I just loved Tomet the Toad and the social critique of life inside one of Texas's tony suburbs, especially the image of the sheik on horseback and the description of the lawns groomed like mousepads.
Jenerator
I really could identify to the post-partum sense of bewilderment you express, like making yourself up and then forgetting the diaper bag. Very real. (and I'm relieved to hear you have SOS for second child.)
142. webfeet - 4/15/2005 11:15:00 AM
Fabulous, alistair. I'm still stunned, actually, that you were at the center of this international scandal. The pacing only heightened the suspense and it led to quite a climax--for lack of a better word.
I was also interested by the passage you translated from the Nouvel Observateur. I hadn't read it. I can't think of any writer, Hemingway, McCarthy, Bellow that hasn't plagiarized, borrowing shamelessly from the pages of his own life to authenticate or expand a narrative, bringing it to life.
Although I am writing about the faultline of a marriage (Ever hear of a book written by an American couple both journalists-- she wrote The Bitch in the Kitchen and he wrote The Bastard on the Couch about their almost divorce) I am much more interested in bringing the story out of my boudoir, or couch as it were, and taking it into an entirely fictive universe that is unrecognizable from the life frenchcat and I lead.
I thought what you were referring to "In Defense of narcissus" was the spate of autobiographical books dealing with childhood traumas that have also been recent subjects of literary interest such as 'Mermaid Frigo.' Written by a minister in the Chirac administration, a polished over-achiever whose biography should read like any other enarchque, he recounts instead a childhood marked by poverty, horror and depression. The title of the book is about a game of hide and seek which ended when a small child, the cousin of the author, pretended he was a mermaid, and froze to death hiding in the refrigerator.
I would describe it more but I have to go to mommy and me baby gym. Merde.
143. webfeet - 4/15/2005 1:09:13 PM
What a pleasure that was..I'm still holding out hope that banksy, my urban male counterpart, will pop up and treat us to some Daddy and Me anecdotes.
Banksy?
144. Magoseph - 4/15/2005 1:25:02 PM
Web, please go the Cafe--thank you.
Message # 14622 in thread 142
145. Jenerator - 4/15/2005 2:54:25 PM
Judith,
Loved your toad story!! What was Keoni's reaction?
146. alistairConnor - 4/15/2005 3:29:22 PM
I'm still stunned, actually, that you were at the center of this international scandal.
Well I'm... flattered.
On Monday, I was thinking, what could I write?
The story just popped into my head, fully-formed. Easy enough : it was a simple conflation of my actual life and well-attested historical events. A slight temporal telescoping (I had already emigrated at the time of the bombing), and one invented character.
It's been an immensely cathartic experience, writing it. I'm quite pleased with the result.
I would be keen on concrete criticisms. Stuff that doesn't work, irritating mannerisms, implausibilities, incomprehensible references, etc. I don't think I'd ever publish it, but I'd like to write some more stuff.
147. judithathome - 4/15/2005 4:41:33 PM
Jen, Keoni loved it but he loves all of them. The very first one I killed off the main protagonists and he was rather squeamish about it so I just write "happy happy" stuff now.
(the unfortunates were rabbits and were killed by one of the Magi in the desert while following after the Starin the East on Christmas Eve...heh.)
148. judithathome - 4/15/2005 4:42:17 PM
Star in...sorry.
149. webfeet - 4/15/2005 5:31:29 PM
Does that mean you weren't? Am I like the only one who believed it? I feel like Candide.
150. webfeet - 4/15/2005 5:33:09 PM
And Bansky is banksy, none other than the irrepressibly hilarious marjoribanks.
151. wabbit - 4/15/2005 5:35:21 PM
rabbits died????
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
152. webfeet - 4/15/2005 5:39:00 PM
kissees to you, wabbit.
153. wabbit - 4/15/2005 5:54:32 PM
Hey webfeet, it's great to read you again!
154. alistairConnor - 4/16/2005 5:16:09 AM
Am I like the only one who believed it?
It never occurred to me that anyone would... shall we take a quick poll?
Actually, on Wonk's request (probably on the Cap'n's prompting) I was looking for a photo of Gisèle, and after a bit of thought, I knew exactly the one I wanted to post... Standing on the rocks, with the sea behind her, illuminated by the setting sun... wearing an overcoat (hiding her light under a bushel) and looking at me with just the right expression. (A Dutch medical student, Marieke by name.)
But I guess I left that picture in NZ twenty years ago. I guess I know why too.
155. PelleNilsson - 4/16/2005 1:28:24 PM
I must admit I was unsure. I had doubts but on the other hand the story looked quite plausible. What this means, Alistair, is that you must be congratulated for a very well constructed narrative. Despite my "gruff" comment I think it is very well-written too. Considering that you, as I understand it, more or less typed it out as it came to you there is no doubt room for some polishing but I wouldn't presume to advise you on that. Neither my English, nor my sense of of literary style is good enough for that as no doubt the following post will demonstrate.
156. PelleNilsson - 4/16/2005 1:52:42 PM
I am a city boy but I spent a few years of my childhood on a small farm. This came about because of my parents' divorce. It was a messy affair, made messier because the families were intertwined in various ways. My father worked in my paternal grandfather's transport firm. His older brother was married to my mother's aunt. The Second Woman first appeared as the girlfriend of his younger brother. My mother wanted to get away from the hothouse of confkicts. She found a job as a bookkeeper in a dairy on the island of Orust, 40 km north of Gothenburg. Orust is a large island, roundish with a diameter of about 30 km, with a lot of farms. We lived in a one-room apartment in the dairy building itself. I was then five years old, my mother was 27. The year was 1948.
My memories of our time there are very vague except for one thing. I learned to read. I don't know how it happened. I suddenly understood that these strange signs on the paper represented sounds and that these sounds made up Swedish. It was like a miracle. A whole new world opened, a world I have never left since then. I don't think I've gone to sleep a single night in my life without reading for 15 minutes or half an hour.
The farmers had errands to the dairy now and then. One of them was Anders who had recently taken over a small farm from an old relative. Anders and my mother fell in love, they married and we moved to the farm. I was now six. It was, as I said a small farm, somewhere between five and ten hectars (10-20 acres) of arable land, I guess, and some forest. Four cows, a horse, a pig, a score of hens.
After the first passion died down my mother realized that the whole thing had been a mistake. She had lived in the city all her life. She was not cut out to be a farmer's wife, feeding the hens, cooking on a wooden stove and dealing with the other myriad tasks involved in farming. She came to hate the social environment where everybody was related to everybody else and gossiped endlessly about who had been seen doing what. But Anders was a farmer. It had been his life and he wanted it to continue forever. But that was not to be. The writing had really been on the wall since the end of the war. These very small farms that couldn't support investment in machinery were doomed. Anders tried to stave off the inevitable by taking a loan to buy a tractor, a Massey Fergusson, naturally.
157. alistairConnor - 4/16/2005 4:31:39 PM
Wonderful. Atmosphere, anecdotes, complex family background, economic pressures and social friction; a dry and direct style.
Now do something with it. The problem with real life is that it rarely provides a coherent plot line. But you can dream one up, and the story will hang together, as mine did, because the details are authentic and the events plausible.
158. judithathome - 4/16/2005 7:06:17 PM
Wonderful story, Pelle...Alistair said it much better than I but I enjoyed it very much.
159. wonkers2 - 4/16/2005 9:52:55 PM
My name is Hillary Chollet. I was one of the best running backs in the history of Holy Cross High School school in New Orleans. In 1945 I broke several Class A high school records and was well on my way to a full athletic scholarship at either Tulane or LSU. The choice was mine. My future seemed assured, but when I signed with LSU, Tulane spread rumors that I was Creole, that is, part French, Spanish and Negro.
I came home in tears the February afternoon after my high school coach, Father O'Malley, told me that LSU had been forced to rescind its offer because Negroes weren't allowed to go to the state university. My parents did their best to console me for the double shock of losing my opportunity for a football scholarship and being told that I was part Negro after being accepted as white at Catholic schools in New Orleans first grade through high school. It was a bitter pill to swallow to be relegated to Southern University, the all-Negro school north of Baton Rouge instead of LSU. Weeks went by and I became more and more disconsolate. My steady girl was showing signs of backing away as well as some of my school buddies.
But Coach O'Leary told me not to give up and keep hitting the books. He had a few ideas. One was to call a college friend, Ed McKeever, who was head football coach at Cornell in upstate New York. Although it hadn't occurred to me to apply to Cornell and the application deadline had long since passed, O'Leary convinced the Cornell coach to go to work on the problem. The semester wore on and I was becoming reconciled to entering Southern University in September, when early in June, after graduating near the top of my class from Holy Cross, I was contacted first by the Cornell coach and then by the admissions department and offered a place in the class of 1948 with a full academic scholarship.
I entered Cornell that fall and made All-Ivy back and broke the Ivy League record for yards gained in a season. In 1947 I led Cornell to the Ivy League championship. From there I was an 18th draft pick by the St Louis Rams and then went to a medical school and settled in Kansas City where I still practice medicine.
[Based on a true story told to me by LSU's line coach, Clarence "Pop" Strange.]
160. alistairConnor - 4/17/2005 9:28:01 AM
This, too, is fertile ground. You have a plot line, and you have the personal background to flesh it out well beyond this initial outline. This guy must have been ten years older than you, that is certainly close enough to slip into his skin. And you must certainly have seen plenty of examples of racism, both of institutional and of common-or-garden varieties, to nourish the theme which provides the dramatic tension.
It doesn't have to be an all-singing, all-dancing Showboat, but there's a lot you can do with it.
161. wonkers2 - 4/17/2005 3:07:36 PM
Thanks for the encouragement, Alistair. Not sure I have the imagination to write fiction. I get about as far as born, went to school, married, had a couple of kids and died. The details don't come to mind.
162. alistairConnor - 4/17/2005 3:15:58 PM
Well, that's where you can cheat by slipping in details from your own life, and embroidering on them.
163. Macnas - 4/18/2005 1:23:51 AM
Pelle, I remember tales of Annette from some time back, in Childhood memories I think. Nice to see her again!
164. Macnas - 4/18/2005 3:42:02 AM
On the Bus.
A bus, in particular a double decker bus, gives you a different perspective on suburban life. I know, you’re higher up, hence “different perspective”, but it is, I think, more than that.
I only spent a relatively short time in college, but it was the first time that I had spent in a suburban area. Barracks and countryside were all I had known ‘till then. I took an immediate dislike to it, it was neither this nor that, here nor there. You had no privacy, much traffic and noise, and not one house showed any stamp of originality that might define it as being the home of anyone in particular.
My transportation issues, in those days, were generally sorted out with a mixture of Shanks mare and the generosity of my auto-mobile friends. This meant I wore out boots at an alarming rate, and the patience of my friends at an even faster rate. I don’t know why I never took a bus, maybe it seemed to be a luxury I could ill afford, and believe me, at the time the money I had in my pockets was all the money I had.
And I had shallow pockets.
After some time, I was able to finagle a small grant, which entitled me to a small amount of cash at the end of each month (rather like my current arrangement!), this opened up a few doors to me, such as some semblance of a social life.
The ability to buy college consumables without going into hock to my siblings was, given my up-to-then experiences, downright transcendental.
Moreover, the bus now looked like a very likely prospect, one which was vigorously encouraged by my jug-jug owning friends. So, with my correct change in hand, I boarded the number 8 to town, it being my nearest “stop”, and indeed one much used by students.
It was a double decker, and while the upstairs held no particular attraction to me at first, it was upstairs I went as all other seats were taken.
Strange though it may seem, I can still recall quite vividly the journey I took that early summer evening. For as the bus took me slowly along the busy road to the town centre, I found I could see down into the properties that up to now I had only ever seen from a very much 2 dimensional frontal aspect.
I could see gardens, front and back, vegetable patches which were astonishing in both size and variety.
Tiny orchards, of apple and pear. Ornamental ponds, with tiny hump-backed bridges, no doubt with miniature trolls beneath them.
People resting and sunning themselves, children playing hide and seek, dogs pottering, cats stretched insensible on warm timber benches. Garages, mechanics, amateur and otherwise, up to the waist in engines of one sort or another. Bicycles, thrown in heaps. Washing lines and volley ball nets, bird houses and kennels, men leaning on shovels as they tended to some patch of overturned sod. Old women in housecoats hanging out and taking in washing, lawn chairs occupied by a newspaper and pipe tobacco smoke.
Everywhere, people playing, working, relaxing, living.
Each place an oasis next to another oasis, the thin division of green hedge or shrubbery more effective through the power of suggestion than any real barrier qualities.
My stop came, and I de-bused onto a busy street. I made my way back to Wellington road, and looking out the tiny skylight at the opposite house, crammed, like this house, from basement to rafters with students and low rent payers, with only a sterile 4 meters of concrete dividing the two, found myself wondering if I shouldn’t look for alternative accommodation, in the suburbs.
165. judithathome - 4/18/2005 1:33:16 PM
Absolutely charming, Mac. I was there on the bus with you. Very nice job.
166. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:11:30 PM
O.K. Deep down I know I’m a poet by nature. I think mostly because I’m not one to elaborate once I think I’ve gotten the essence of an idea out of my system. But since I have often contemplated writing fiction, and because I think there just might be an appreciable audience in those who love food and are fascinated by cooking and all that goes with it, and being a non celebrated Executive Chef, I will try my hand writing about that which I actually might know something about. In any case, this thread is fun to read. I hope I can add to the amusement.
167. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:12:05 PM
The Chicken Piccata Test
The problem with the Piccata is you must understand a butter sauce. The single most important thing to remember is that once you have reduced your puddle of wine and lemon, salt, capers and demi-glace to the proper intensity, you must immediately begin the swirl of fresh butter if you hope to have any chance of winding up with a smooth, glistening and emulsified sauce that will slide, rather than wash, off your perfectly pan seared, trimmed, golden filet of boneless breast of chicken. It is hard to teach this particular skill, because the cooks all understand the part where they sear the chicken in an aluminum sauté pan in smoking clarified butter and they all appear professional and Emeril-like when they bend to their left and tip the pan over the grease bucket holding the filet with their shiny tongs. They know what is coming next and they hope a few waitresses are nearby when they return the pan to the fire and splash it hard with the wine as cook and flame are silhouetted against the stainless steel of the polished wall.
Because first a wonderful white and sweet putrid steam sucks up and envelops the atmosphere surrounding the pan and like an exhaled silent thunderclap, all in a poof, and followed, as if like lightning itself, the pan shoots out a bolt. A bowl of flame. A blue and hollow and surreal flashing that the cooks learn to live in, and although when it is busy they must turn their backs on it, because it is essential to spin and grab the next ingredient, they feel it on their shoulders and hope to get back and see it die. Because it does not die up top in the powerful updraft of the hood fans, no, it dies downward as if returning back to the soul of the pan. For if they have created it just right they will learn to see that it collapses totally in reverse as if time were rewound and the whole process was just a visitation. I definitely can’t explain it, what with the Heisenberg uncertainty and all, but a cook should at least understand it, or at least understand that the gravity of the liquid and the universe within the pan has the final say in the jump-out lifespan of the flame. Rather than thinking that like an ordinary fire it just goes up in a puff of gas and smoke. In any case, the show is over and the hard part begins. That first part, which I just explained to my auditioning sauté cook, was put more simply.
“O.K. Jose. Yesterday you watched me. Today, I watch you,” I said.
“Heat the butter till it starts to smoke, dredge the chicken, sear it golden and deglaze.”
168. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:12:46 PM
I didn’t like the way Jose floured the chicken and he dropped it into the hot butter before it was fully smoking. This told me two things. He lied about his English and he could not copy what he had just been shown. He has been training with the Sous Chef for two full shifts, pretty much running through all the sauté procedures that popped out of the machine. My Sous Chef is Brazilian, as is Jose, so that part of the equation worked. Two nights on the Line, which is more than enough time to evaluate at least his basic sauté skills and give the Sous Chef enough confidence to prescribe the Piccata Test, is usually enough time and terror to decide if it will be worth the effort to continue.
Now I say terror because that is the first thing you notice about a line cook once the shit starts flying. If he or she, and that is the last time I will infuse pronouns with gender, (because as Executive Chef, to me they are all just robots), if they have been in the pit, behind the plates, behind the hole, behind the window where we toss out the food to the hands that grab and garnish; and, if they were accustomed to it, had survived it, you could easily tell by the look on their faces. If they are watching the chaos, reacting to pans being crashed into the pans tossed into the pick-up boxes, standing still, turning side to side, starting to reach, stopping, attempting to ask something, then from that point on they are frozen out of the process. At least for a series of orders that are in the process of being expedited. Panic on-line is untreatable. You might as well not exist because the other cooks are doing calculus in their heads or wondering where to go after work, or worse, showing you how simple it all is by talking about sports or music or sex while they turn twelve waiting plates into culinary masterpieces, push them out the window and the expediter pulls down ten more.
“O.K., let’s do table 125, 117, 101 and the deuce on 119.”
This, the expediter threatens as he rearranges the tickets hanging in his face, pulls out the five just finished, pins them and aligns the newly called four in the up position. Up line left the grill cook does the same arrangement with his tickets and tells his oven guy what to go on. Down line left the sauté guys turn toward the tickets to check for surprises then just keep working 3 tickets ahead. Further down right the salad and desert people never even flinch as they work off their own copies of juxtaposed tickets. Everybody waits with a picture of that food in their mind’s eye until the expediter says, “Let’s do it.” There’s no talking for these 2 minutes. Only the expediter may speak, and you can only answer his questions. He’s telling the servers what to expect and pushing out the order at them and when he says, ‘That’s a go.” They are gone. They are responsible for completing the order with items from the salad window down line right. And once the ticket is pinned, they are locked out. Period. To get back in they need to send the floor manager to stand left of the main window to wait until the expediter acknowledges her existence.
169. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:13:30 PM
From both sides of the line the cooks converge on the middle, mingling and dangling in a space that gets divided into well traveled express lanes that each one of them uses in the same order and same way and using the same warning as they step in and deliver their portion of a particular part of a plate. They then retreat and reclaim their spot until the dance is done and the plates are full. This is no man’s land. One false step in here, you lose one item to the floor, cause one accident, you are in serious trouble. If you can’t move in a sweltering 8 x 4 foot rectangle with flame on all sides and with 8-10 bodies moving as fast as they can you will soon learn that cooking is the easy part. Even if you are the owner, no one will go in there with you. Because for all the skills necessary for high flame, fast paced precision line cooking, getting the food on the plate on time, well, let’s just say, moving through the maze and onto the plate is a most necessary and expected skill. Accidents at such a point in the process are unforgivable. They can’t happen. So they don’t. And if the unthinkable, unspeakable, unimaginable happens a ripple surges outward and washes over everyone in the rectangle and the mood changes. Anything casual or humorous is now swallowed up by the intensity to steer around the horror that has brought a self-consciousness to the routine. A waitperson must be told, even apologized to. The floor manager will find the maitre d’ who will scout the table and assess the situation out there. Out there. Out there in the dining room, by comparison, is the tinkle and chatter and murmur of serenity. It is like falling out of Dorothy’s cyclone and landing in Oz. Some people are bored. Some are exuberantly talking and eating and smiling. Time is moving on schedule. Earth time. Fifteen minutes can be a long time out there, unless someone bothers to measure it, so it is absolutely crucial that the party in question be negotiated as quickly as possible. A deal must be struck to buy back some time, kitchen time, so that the problem can be fixed.
The maitre d’ kicks through the door carrying a littered tray and yells, “We got about twelve minutes before we cop it.” The expediter burns a hole in him as he wooshes away toward the dish station then tosses a deadly but familiar glance at the Second Cook that dropped the tuna. The cook just lets his right eye scan the Expediter then vanishes behind a fog of steam.
“Whata we got?” He half asks mostly demanding.
“Five minutes,” says the Grill cook as he prods a 12oz filet mignon.
“O.K. Give me 113. Quick. Then the fuck-up. Let’s do it.”
Six minutes had been lost since the food fell until the order got recalled. That is an awful long second splitting time to juggle thoughts and entrée’s and would put a crunch in at least the next half hour. If anything else had dove to the ground in that party of nine, it would have only taken perhaps 2 minutes to juggle. But the tuna was ordered medium rare and since it was pan seared and encrusted with shaved potato, Japanese crumbs and horseradish, and, because the two behind it were both mediums, they could not steal one of those. The medium rare had to be timed to land on the plate near rare and cook to medium rare on its ride to the table. Everyone knew it at the instant the Second Cook blurted, “Shit, fuck,” and stood looking down as if he had lost his child in a dark hole in the ground. They all knew the unthinkable had occurred. But enemy guns fired from across the line and everyone took cover and continued the battle. Dwelling on anything real, anything that made the clock tick, anything that might divert your focus from your space in the rectangle, even the unimaginable, especially that, had to be ignored. You got back to your spot on the order slip, tried to calculate the adjustment, then pretended with a bloating oven scorched face that nothing had happened.
170. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:14:04 PM
“Are you ready?” I asked Jose the day before he got his test.
“O.K. I want you to watch me and remember everything you see. I will go slow, and explain as I go. Fabiano will add shit in Portuguese when you look constipated…O.K.?”
“Yes, si. Go.Yes.” Said Jose.
The clarified butter had just let go of its first few wisps of smoke. If it was a contest I would wait until the smoke seemed to be emanating rather than escaping from the liquid in that suspended, I believe it is called transition phase, before I laid in the floured chicken breast. The secret to flouring the chicken is to press and message it in the flour so that it gets into the folds and crevices and to make sure you shake off all excess flour before it goes into the pan. Jose watched that and nodded by shrugging his chin up toward his nose and shaking the top of his head up and down. That told me he didn’t think this part was especially important or noteworthy, almost as if he expected this whole thing to be a trick question or something, because after all, in fine-dining-upscale-cooking the Chicken Piccata is pretty much frowned upon. But as a test, creating a butter and wine sauce without using a stabilizer, over an intense flame, is foolproof. At least in terms of evaluating previous sauté experience. So I took hold of the sauté pan with my side towel, tilted it toward me a bit so that the smoking butter would pool away from the splash, then laid the chicken, thick part first, into the pool and let the tail splash down toward the low end. Two reasons for this: First, you don’t want that shit splashing anywhere near your skin. The burn is second degree and instantaneous. Secondly, the splash brings up any excess flour and forces it to stick to the top wall of the pan and it burns and contaminates the butter and taste of the eventual sauce. So I made sure mine landed clean and stressed the point by exclaiming, “Muito Bom! Or as they say in France, Vwaalla.” Or whatever they say in France.
In any case my chicken filet was consumed now in a sputtering, crackling, smoking world of caramelization. Jose was right up next to me almost in my face so I backed him off a bit by faking a move his way. He just kept the same intense posture but cleared out of my line to the ingredients. His eagerness was at least an interesting sign. Though it could mean nothing.
I could see the white starting to grow up the sides of the filet and Jose’s brow furrowed toward it assuming it was time to turn the chicken. You could turn it now, and in the battle and nighttime weeds the cooks usually do, even sooner, depending upon where they are in the fight to be several tickets ahead. But I would wait. I would turn it when the white was past the edge at the thickest part and I could see some brown just starting to show at the thin end. Because after the flip I would have a marvelously golden top with speckles of dark brown across an even gold of waving grain. Later, the sauce would be like shellac on aged pine. So the advantage of the wait and not fast flipping was in getting the sear and color correct while holding the caramelization centered in the pan and away from the scorching walls of the sloped sides. That way during de-glaze you had nothing to burn at the edges.
I flipped it. Jose made an affected startled look and dropped his shoulders and stood at ease thinking that now there was time to wait. Ah! But here is where most cooks get it wrong. First he figured I had waited too long to turn it and once I had, that now, the real wait would begin. The cooks always tend to rush the first flip and let the second side become the long burn, and hopefully, the eventual face up surface. What they fail to notice is that the caramelized debris they half created on that quick first flip are lost and either burn or dissolve. Now, letting the second side become the long burn creates gaps and hollows in the gold where the pan couldn’t adhere to the meat with blacks at the high points. It is still a nice looking surface, but only half as perfect as it could have been. Aside from that, this is a typical mistake born out of organizing speed for comfort. And cooks will go half perfect in a heartbeat to buy time. And in most instances the Chef will yield some time to near perfection but never without a fight and exasperation. And yield only if it was a procedural question. Good line cooks do not bother themselves with what they are cooking, just the how. But first the deglaze.
171. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:14:29 PM
Is there anything more fascinating than fire, more mesmerizing or feared. It is why one burns in hell, I suppose, rather than slow braising, steaming or boiling for eternity. And I suppose it is why the devil, the de-sanctified demon, the beast, the penultimate entity was the easy pick to have won the place as the archrival to God and is assigned fire as his modus operandi. Staring at bonfires, candles, homes ablaze, funeral pyres, where else but in the conflagration would the demon materialize and reside. But that is evil fire. My fire is the fire of life. No Boogie Men. No demons. Just the stuff of the universe. The engine of the stars. The opposite of the inanimate. And all this in an aluminum sauté pan.
172. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:15:11 PM
I grabbed the chicken filet with my tongs and pressed it into the center of the pan and brought them both down to the grease bucket to my left. I did it instinctively and quick and let all the butter drain out and put the pan right back on the fire. In a zip turn I reached up for the wine, a Napa Chardonnay, and with the grip feeling just right I splashed in a good dose and stopped like a bartender shorting a drink precisely at the instant when I knew the flame was ready to jump. The sizzling steam and smoking was perfect, the quick plume of the gas just right and I let it fill my nose, sweet and strong and acrid all at once. Splash, steam, gas, essence, as if combining to flee a catastrophe. Then poof! All in an instant and in the perfect shape and wonderful strange blue, yellow, white, opaque and eerie translucence the flame enveloped the pan.
“Do you see that?” I exhaled as if Jose and I were gazing like frozen deer and getting ready to run from a volcano. And he was staring at it. That meant something. At least he knew it was important.
“Si, muito bonita,” he inhaled.
And as the flame collapsed, which to the uninitiated would seem like a mere disappearance, I immediately snapped to reality and began swirling the pan so that the chicken would move through the wine and grate against any caramelized pieces and keep them from sticking and burning. I doubted that he could actually understand or see exactly how the fire had died into the pan in retreat, but since I couldn’t explain it anyway, it didn’t matter.
Fabiano began to chatter in Portuguese but I shut him up with a shake of my head and told him to go check the veal stock out back. Jose showed a mild grin and stiffened his shoulders by tightening his arms behind his back. The base was solid. The wine was almost reduced to within a safe limit. I got Jose to follow my face toward the pan and by pointing at the liquid with my chin I got him to answer yes by looking at it and nodding slightly.
“Lemon,” I said, holding a quartered piece and squeezing the juice into the pan.
“Pocco, not grande. You see?” Then I spun and scooped out a good tablespoon of capers.
“Capers, pocco juice. Pocco juice, muito importante. Too much, very bad. Just a little. O.K.?”
The slight nod.
“Good,” I said.
I set the flame slightly lower so that it wasn’t above the rim of the pan and added an ounce of the demi-glace, a meticulously reduced veal stock concoction, a whole other story, and watched it wash through the wine and lemon reduction and set the color to a marvelous light bronze. Oh, with just a speck of salt it would taste wonderful at this point, but the beauty and decadence and creamy texture could only come by adding some fresh butter. And it was time.
“Never just toss the butter in all at once, put two pieces on either side of the filet and swirl it so that it floats through and slides under the chicken.” I said it all fast while I was doing it and relied on my face motions for him to follow the instructions.
“There,” my forehead tilting down pointed to the pan. “You must be there just as the last little bit of butter almost disappears.” I used my finger to point to it.
“As that happens, get the pan off the fire and finish the swirl on your way to the plate.”
“Produce is on the phone,” the office manager echoed loudly from somewhere.
“I’ll call’em back,” I yelled.
I pulled a shining white plate down from the stack above the out window and with my tongs placed the chicken on the plate. I tilted the pan and poured just enough sauce so that it would spread like a glacier in all directions and stop as if it suddenly slowly halted at an exact distance before it demolished the village. I fished out a pile of capers from the remaining pool in the tilted pan with the tong tips and released them along the length of the chicken. Most of them took hold on board the filet while others floated down into the surrounding moat of golden lacquer. Jose and I looked down at it as did the face of Fabiano that suddenly appeared below at plate level through the service window.
173. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2005 1:15:58 PM
“Go ahead Senhor Vulture,” I told Fabiano.
“And give half to Jose.”
“Ah, sim. Obrigado my best friend. I talk to produce, no figs today.”
“Son of a witch!” I flung the sauté pan into the pick-up box under the stove and marched off to deal with that. Jose winced but also reached and shut off the flaming burner. Another good sign. From what I saw of Jose’s reactions he would pass his Piccata Test. Not that cooking is any proof he could make it in the rectangle.
Some people are just clumsy. But only clumsy once they have shut off their focus. Some people are clumsy because they can’t focus. Still others are clumsy because they pretend to know things. Some because they have forgotten things. Some are pre-occupied. Some have dying adrenalin glands. But the main thing is, the degree of clumsiness a person is endowed with pretty much enables or excludes them from certain vocations in life. For those who have the ability to just command their focus and co-ordination at will and then just relax back into bumping through things the rest of their time, these are people that can do very specialized and time sensitive work. Surgeons, bomb squad defusers or mothers, for example. The clumsy that can’t focus make wonderful abstract watercolors. The clumsy that pretend to know shit get tripped up by the people who really know shit, which makes politics a sensible profession. The clumsy that forget stuff are useful because you can remind them of things and they can quickly remember how to finish a task and are useful in jobs where you sit on your ass a whole lot of the time. They make wonderful government clerks. The pre-occupied clumsy can belong to all the different groups and are fine with proper counseling or medication. But the ones who are suffering from dying adrenalin glands, unfortunately, really need to consider something marginally predictable such as lighthouse keeper or Poet Laureate. The Second Cook, in my opinion, would excel at postmodern watercolor frescoes.
As I said, I didn’t like the way Jose floured the chicken. But he did shake it as if trying to remember each detail I had shown him the day before. And although the butter wasn’t at that magical point I dream of, a wisp of smoke had been emitted so it was plenty hot. Fabiano stood up line left with his arms folded and with his serious Sous Chef face. Aside from being a total clown and Latin charmer he was talented enough to be a Chef on his own and he quite simply could cook his way out of the weeds two times as fast as anyone I had ever seen. I wouldn’t even attempt to challenge him down there in the rectangle. He chewed up and spit out intensity and panic like a wood chipper. But he was a loose cannon and without constraints was a one-man show, so he understood his limitations and accepted his role and was well paid for it. And now he was watching Jose and by the expression of his forehead I could tell he wanted me to just observe. So I did. I took myself out of New York Times Food Critic mode and pretended I was watching the show instead of directing a Food Channel segment. Jose must have sensed from Fabiano’s posture that he was safe or had just been set free, and at that instant I too could sense some sort of pre-arranged connection between them.
Ah, so that was it! Fabiano already knew the kid was a natural. And as if to prove it, Jose cleared me out of the lane as he tilted the pan to the grease bucket. The rest was precise and flowing. The wine splashed, steamed, created the fleeing cloud then poofed into a perfect bowl of flame. He never blinked as he leaned into it and caught his whiff and bravely stared into the secret world of the flame. Quickly and in the correct order he did his dance of ingredients and at just the right moment, just as the butter threatened to dissolve prematurely, he was swirling on his way to the plate.
“Vwooola Boss?” Fabiano asked teasingly in a bad mimic.
“Ya, whatever,” I returned as I headed out of the rectangle.
“Make up his schedule, and tell Rosealie I am running the Regianno Soufle off the Salad end tonight and I don’t want to hear any bullshit.”
“O.K. boss. 300 hungry souls tonight,” Fabiano said with his left arm across Jose’s shoulder and looking left at me.
“Ya, so let’s make’em smile,” I said as I turned the corner.
I had my new Second Cook and the old one had dropped his last tuna. The produce guy almost ran me over as he pushed by with his two-wheeler when I got out back.
“You finally got my freakin figs today farmer man,’ I alliterated quite nicely.
“Fuck do I know. I gotta check the slip.” He jeered as he bumped both sides of the doorway.
“Clumsy fucker,” I thought.
I grabbed the slip, saw my figs, checked my watch and the surging bite of adrenalin tickled my testicles. 2 hours to showtime. No lighthouse for me.
174. judithathome - 4/26/2005 2:15:43 PM
God, Nu Planet....that was truly amazing. I am salivating for Chicken Piccata right this very minute!
I could literally see every single thing you described. I was right there...very, very good descriptive talent.
175. Magoseph - 4/26/2005 2:24:13 PM
Yes, excellent, I was much taken by the action. What a good story!
176. alistairConnor - 4/26/2005 3:19:48 PM
Magnificent, NuPlanet.
It's always a privilege to glimpse into someone else's world, and that was a very intense experience, vividly rendered, and as Judith said, mouth-watering.
I sense adultery and murder in the next chapter. (well, I can always hope.)
177. Macnas - 4/27/2005 1:20:27 AM
Nuplanet, fucking hell, good tale.
Alistair, just what is it with you, sex and violence?? You know, for a hippie, you've got some issues.
178. alistairconnor - 4/27/2005 2:24:51 AM
Hippie, schmippie. I am neo-post-everything. I want blood and guts and veins in my teeth.
But seriously. I love atmospheric short stories, but I'm yearning for some plot and action too.
179. Macnas - 4/27/2005 6:58:45 AM
Guns for McBride.
There’s cattle in the next field, lowing as they become aware of the 3 men standing against the nearby hedge. They’ve moved a concrete water trough to one side and are looking into a plastic lined pit that it had been siting on top of.
McBride squats to pull out an assault rifle, covered in yet more plastic. When he strips this away, it is sticky with the manufacturers cosmoline grease, cold to the touch. There is some words spoken but before anything more can be said, a van appears at the end of the long lane that leads to the field, and McBride has thrown the rifle back into the pit. He looks up to see the two men he was talking with have started running. He turns and scrambles over the hedge, tearing himself on wire and briars. He sprints past the cows that stop calling and look at him in mute curiosity.
He hurdles a low gate and is running, running. He finally enters a forestry block, and emerges on a main road. He made his way home, and quickly packed a bag.
The phone rang, and he let it ring. After two more calls he finally answers. The voice on the line tells him what he already knows, and confirms that he has to do what he is already doing.
The first I hear of it is when I get a call from him, asking me to meet him in an obscure “old mans” pub on the outskirts of town. I get there early, and find myself waiting for him. It was always the way, McBride would be late for his own funeral, and had been that way for as long as I’d known him.
I met him at school, both of us taking the same woodwork class. We had a bit in common, his older brother was a carpenter, mine a cabinet maker. Both of us country boys too.
He was a fantastic carpenter, able to make any joint as neat and tight as any professional could. Some people have it, that talent to create and coordinate with their hands. It was of course, wasted on McBride, as while he would be interested in something at the start, his passion for it would soon fade and he had more unfinished work than anyone else in his wood locker.
This lack of focus was a trademark. We fooled around with the idea of forming a band, but it died off when he never turned up for a bit of practise. We were going to fix up an old car, just to have something to go about in. Kyboshed due to lack of interest. Still, throughout these and many other small things we remained firm friends.
180. Macnas - 4/27/2005 6:59:32 AM
We left school early, both of us at 16. I got some mad fit and signed up as an army apprentice. He hung around, doing some work with his brothers firm and dabbling in the music scene. I finally lost track of him 4 years later, when my apprenticeship was up and I volunteered for Lebanon. When I got back home just over a year later, He had disappeared to London., and I was not to hear from him for another 5 years.
I was in town with some friends who were back home for christmas. We were drinking in the Round House bar, when one of them got up, and said he was going to score some cannabis. About 15 minutes later he walked through the door, with none other than McBride following 30 seconds behind him. After the deal was concluded, I said goodnight to my friends and took up with him. We spent a few hours going over the past, both of us with that warm feeling you get, when you start a conversation with a friend you haven’t seen in years, picking things up as if it had only been yesterday.
He had worked the building sites for a few years, going between the Isle of Dogs to the massive dockland projects. He took up a band while he was there, and managed them for a while. They had some moderate success on the live circuit, and it gave him a taste for the business. He admitted he didn’t have the talent for management that he first thought he had, and ended up doing some DJ work and some studio engineering.
When we got to the more recent past, he became very vague about things, but however vague he was being, it still couldn’t hide the fact that he was here, back in town, and in the drug trade.
McBride finally said he had to go, and after we swapped numbers he left the bar. I stayed on for one more before closing time. The barman, who I knew quite well, gave me my pint, took my money and as he was giving me my change, said “you know yer man so yeah?” I nodded as I drank from the glass. “you know what he does so?” I nodded again. “Well boy, you better pick a better class of friend, he’s making a name for himself this past few months”.
I finished my pint, and told the barman to keep his opinions to himself. He just shrugged and said “I know that, I’m just telling you what I know, for your sake, seeing as I know you and all, otherwise I wouldn’t open my mouth”. I said fair enough, left the pub and made my way home.
A week went by, when out of the blue McBride calls, and we arrange to meet later that night. We go to a very busy pub, and from then onto a club. The entire night long, he’s dealing. Not just cannabis, but any hard drug as well. I feel very much out of my depth and hugely uncomfortable, looking around me for the law to swoop at any moment. I’m not enjoying myself and near the end of the night I tell him that I’ve had enough of this and that I didn’t come out to watch him deal the whole night long. I leave him in the club and get out as fast as I can.
181. Macnas - 4/27/2005 7:00:25 AM
Three days later I’m back in the Round House, doing the crossword and keeping myself to myself. The barman wandered down to my table and sat across from me. I was about to ask him what he wanted when he leaned close to me and said in a low quiet voice “I don’t want any more dealing in here, so once you’re done, you’d better leave, and don’t be back, alright?”
I looked at him with my mouth open, to say I was shocked would have been the understatement of the year.
I asked him what the hell he was talking about. “You were working with McBride the other night, doing protection for him, you were seen, so don’t deny it”. I put down my paper and told him that yes, I was out with McBride, but I wasn’t working with him or for him, and that he should know better than to suspect me of it. He sat back and looked at me for a bit, then said “alright, I’ll take your word. But don’t bring him in here, I don’t want anything to do with him or the like of him, ok?”
Nodding, I went back to my crossword, or at least pretending to. I was fast coming to the realisation that McBride had been using me, and I had been too stupid to realise it. When I thought of it, it made some sense. I pictured it, the two of us in the club, McBride doing his work, and a big guy next to him, scanning the room continuously. I called him later that night, and asked him straight out had he been using me as dumb muscle that night. He pissed around for a while before he admitted it. It then dawned on me that he must have told someone that I was working with him, and of course he had.
I tore strips off him over the ’phone. I threatened him within an inch of his life, and told him if he ever came near me again I would tear his fucking head off. He apologised over and over, and said that he had been getting some pressure from someone, and was nervous of being out on his own. He sounded so genuinely scared that I was torn between wanting to help him and wanting to beat him. I finally told him that we should keep our distance, and that while I felt for him, I would not be used like that ever again.
I kept as best tabs on him as I could over the next year, while not actually seeing him in person. From what I could glean he was now a major dealer, and was attracting a lot of heat from all quarters.
I sat mulling on all of this while I waited on him, late as usual. Finally, 20 minutes later, he arrived.
He sat down and started to talk, but couldn’t. His face scrunched up and he hung his head as he sat, with a beer mat soaking up his tears as they dripped onto the table.
182. Macnas - 4/27/2005 7:02:05 AM
He had taken up with some rough characters, and got further and further into the drug trade. He went from dealing smoke to speed, then to cocaine and heroin. Guns became a matter of course and after a bad deal had left him short, he had taken a lead from an ex-IRA man who knew where some arms were dumped. If he could sort it out, he could make some big money selling them on to another gang of drug dealers who were also in the INLA. McBride arranged the deal and set it up. It all went wrong and he was lucky to get away with his life.
The ex-IRA man was actually far from ex. He had used McBride to draw out the INLA men and catch them in the act. Now McBride had to leave, and quickly. He begged me to help him, this one last time. What could I say?
I went out into the carpark and waited for 15 minutes. He came out and got into the car. I drove out onto the road and got onto the main road to Waterford. I drove through the night and waited with him in the car for the ferry port to open. I didn’t say a word to him as he got out of the car and went to the ticket office. I watched him board, waited for the ferry to pull away, then went for some breakfast.
After I got home, I saw a news item where two suspected INLA men had been found shot to death and dumped at the side of the road just out of town. I made some calls myself, trying to find out from my own contacts (republican family history and all that) if I myself was in any danger. But I was clear, and breathed easier for knowing it. I never heard from McBride again.
183. PelleNilsson - 4/27/2005 7:29:12 AM
A fine effort, Macnas, with a very genuine sound to it.
184. Magoseph - 4/27/2005 7:32:17 AM
It is frightening how close sometimes we can be near dire danger to ourselves by renewing old acquaintances--good story, Mac, thank you.
185. Macnas - 4/27/2005 7:42:49 AM
Thank you Pelle, and you Mago.
It might sound genuine, because it is very true. I changed names and places a bit, and also condensed time a little. But other than that, it happened as it reads.
186. alistairconnor - 4/27/2005 8:12:07 AM
Gobsmacked. There's only one thing to say to that...
...
... where's the sex?
187. Macnas - 4/27/2005 8:21:55 AM
I know the story isn't all that exciting alistair, but you'll have to sort your own self out I'm afraid.
188. alistairconnor - 4/27/2005 8:33:32 AM
No, it was very atmospheric, very moving. And well-constructed : there is palpable danger, the prospect of the IRA turning up before the boat leaves.
And an interesting echo of my own, fictional story. We're always someone else's mug.
The perfect bodyguard : too dumb to realise he's doing a great job, just by sitting there looking dangerous. Marvellous.
189. Macnas - 4/27/2005 8:59:26 AM
You know, I could have made things more dramatic. But I think it's only someone like le Carre can make waiting in a car dramatic.
190. PelleNilsson - 4/27/2005 9:45:27 AM
There must be more where that came from. Looks like you had an interesting youth.
191. Macnas - 4/27/2005 9:58:50 AM
When I look back, I suppose, I had some interesting times.
As for writing about them, I find it hard to write about awkward or dangerous events. The story above was difficult, I'd started it when alistair first proposed this thread, and finished it in 10 minutes this morning. I usually take 15 minutes tops to write anything.
I guess I prefer writing about, I don't know, happy stuff.
192. NuPlanetOne - 4/27/2005 10:10:47 AM
Thank you all for that enthusiastic reception. Really, it is very encouraging. And Alistair, I can think of several scenarios within a restaurant setting that easily could include sex and violence. For instance, the homicidal serial rapist that by day routinely disembowels whole tuna carcasses, live crustaceans, any number of game and fowl and deftly carves them into that night’s tempting entrees. You would not believe the blood and gore that splashes about during the gutting and cleaning of a whole tuna. The largest one I have attempted alone was a Yellowtail that weighed about 95 pounds. I also assisted in cleaning an Atlantic Big Eye that weighed in at close to 200 pounds. And it is not your normal filleting. There are two strips per side and to cut them out properly requires at least a brief look into the animal’s anatomy, where to teach one to clean a whole salmon might easily be accomplished by a simple demonstration. Two cuts per side, but with the tuna, beheading the thing in and of itself requires or is facilitated by power tools, or at least the ability to butcher it with the head on. I found it harder to work with a headless corpse, but harvesting the cheek steaks was easier because it held the fish quiet while I sliced out its face. Now couldn’t you just imagine building a plot around the secret life of this particular homicidal prep-cook. Hmmmmmm…….
Macnas, I suspected that your story depicted an actual account of a personal experience. It was an excellent narrative. I think that all it is missing to become a wonderful piece of fiction is perhaps some embellishment from other matters of intrigue of which I feel you have been witness to, or, I can’t help but suspect, participated in. Non-criminal of course. But in describing in an exaggerated way the pieces you know about that underground process, I think would even keep Alistair turning the page.
193. Magoseph - 4/27/2005 10:28:41 AM
But in describing in an exaggerated way the pieces you know about that underground process, I think would even keep Alistair turning the page.
Did you do that with your work, Nu?—it didn’t sound to me as you did. It sounded like a real life experience about a experience you have lived.
194. PelleNilsson - 4/27/2005 11:59:25 AM
NU - I forgot to express my appreciation of your piece. I really was good with an acute sense of presence.
195. judithathome - 4/27/2005 12:16:48 PM
Mac, excellent story...left me wanting more. And it doesn't need sex at all; it was intense enough as it was!
196. NuPlanetOne - 4/27/2005 7:50:13 PM
Magoseph…..touché. One story and there I am offering advice.
197. alistairconnor - 4/28/2005 1:46:25 AM
Don't be shy about that, Nu... I wish we would offer each other more advice and criticism. Praise and encouragement are the easy parts. (I know that the small amount of feedback I received while writing Gisèle, mainly from Pelle and Macnas, was immensely helpful.)
I agree that Macnas can easily flesh out his bare narrative with authentic, fictionalised detail, to give a very powerful result, because the story itself already works very well. It's sort of the opposite extreme from your own story, where the wealth of detail, atmosphere and character are almost overpowering, but we don't have a story... yet. (It would function very well as the first chapter of a story in which José, Fabiano, the produce guy and others would feature... Also, the big advantage of the restaurant setting is that you can introduce anyone you want as a diner... )
In general, I suppose, it's only by mastering the depiction of what we know intimately, that we win the right to extrapolate, interpolate and invent. And that is which enables us to build a coherent story (for those of us who aren't lucky enough to have the story fall, fully-formed, in our lap, like Macnas).
Also, Nu, as a poet I think you are likely to have insights that may escape the rest of us, concerning the process of distilling something universal out of our intimate experience. Which is my declared theme for this thread.
198. Magoseph - 4/28/2005 5:52:49 AM
A List Of Fallacious Arguments
II think that maybe this link belongs here, Ali, but I may be wrong...so you do what's necessayry.
199. Macnas - 4/29/2005 1:18:23 AM
"I agree that Macnas can easily flesh out his bare narrative with authentic, fictionalised detail, to give a very powerful result"
I can easilty do what now? Speak for yourself boyo, I can't easily do anything of the sort!
200. alistairconnor - 4/29/2005 1:35:02 AM
No, you can sweat blood and do it.
That's what I really meant. That's what I want you to do.
201. Macnas - 4/29/2005 1:37:55 AM
Awwwwwww but that takes the fun out of it.
202. alistairconnor - 4/29/2005 1:47:14 AM
"There is no worthwhile art without suffering."
Discuss.
In the case of writing fiction, I'm not sure whether the creative process itself necessarily involves suffering, but if not, then the wellspring of the writing itself needs to relate to some pretty intense events or feelings in the experience of the writer.
Can anyone offer counter-examples?
203. PelleNilsson - 4/29/2005 2:46:22 AM
Historical novels.
204. Magoseph - 4/29/2005 2:52:07 AM
Biographies?
205. Macnas - 4/29/2005 2:58:58 AM
Frank O'Conner, the best short story writer ever in my opinion, once said that good writing was the result of the aplication of your arse to a chair and your pen to paper.
I'm not much good at making stuff up. I have a lot to draw on from my own life, plus I have a good memory for stories told to me by others. I suffer when I have to, as you say, flesh things out, make it richer. My narrative style is pretty bare bones, I agree, it reads very sparsely when I look at it again.
As for suffering making, or being a requirement for "worthwhile art", well I dont know really. Just because I suffer to create something does not mean that the result will be any better than if it just tripped out naturally. Yes, you have to apply yourself, as Frank O'COnner says, if you want to make something you have to plug away at it, if only to get it done and finished.
But whether or not blood sweat and tears, those that you might shed in a creative process, trying to describe something a certain way or trying to convey some emotion or atmosphere, actually make the result better, well, I'm in no position to answer, as I have never done that.
206. Ulgine Barrows - 4/29/2005 3:12:49 AM
And if you were a Painter, would you put that dot just there?
207. Ulgine Barrows - 4/29/2005 3:20:10 AM
Better half thinks most of Van Gogh to be crap: and I think Van Gogh's brilliant for being the first to 'waste' chrome yellow.
208. Ulgine Barrows - 4/29/2005 3:27:35 AM
Smooosh that new color all around the canvas, why not.
The chemicals invented in that timeframe, no doubt someone more clever than I could profit.
209. Ulgine Barrows - 4/29/2005 3:33:47 AM
Holy crap. I never thought I'd read it here:
"homicidal serial rapist that by day routinely disembowels whole tuna carcasses, live crustaceans, any number of game and fowl and deftly carves them into that night’s tempting entrees."
Jessica didn't know the man in front of her very well. He'd been recommended by the dating service. She decided to test his manners, and ordered the artichoke appetizer.
210. Ulgine Barrows - 4/29/2005 3:39:04 AM
Then, with pangs of honesty clutching at her heart, she gave herself to hermitude.
211. alistairconnor - 4/29/2005 3:43:48 AM
Historical novels :
I wonder. In some cases, I think it's like science fiction : because there isn't the requirement of intimate personal knowledge of the subject matter, people can just make stuff up. Whether a story works psychologically or not, is the acid test : often, I suspect, in historical fiction, the writer gets away with faking it, relying on the supposed psychological distance between the reader and the subject.
In which case, it's not worthwhile art.
Thinking about great historical fiction : Robert Graves and Marguerite Yourcenar come to mind, who both got inside the heads of Roman emperors : does this require suffering? Rather, it requires the gift of empathy.
212. alistairconnor - 4/29/2005 3:48:37 AM
Hermitude?
213. Magoseph - 4/29/2005 7:02:30 AM
Must be a better place than a nunnery could be, I guess.
214. alistairconnor - 5/4/2005 7:49:06 AM
It's been over a week since the last new story in here!
Only ten authors on the roster so far. I think we can do better...
New offerings from the ten are welcome, but I want new blood too.
215. Macnas - 5/4/2005 9:33:08 AM
Res could write a good tale, if he wasn't so busy with nuptials, conjugal duties and whatnot.
216. NuPlanetOne - 5/4/2005 11:19:08 AM
I am definitely in the camp that believes you have to suffer, at least to some degree, in order to create or depict such an experience in form or word. And since we all suffer something, and, since we all suffer the same calamities, or imaginings, or injustices, I think everyone feels there is a need to express individually their interpretation of the consequences. People that cannot write or fashion their pain or joy into a symbol of relief need or appreciate a voice in the crowd to identify with. Someone that can give it meaning. I love finding in a poem or piece of fiction, historical account or work of art, a connection to my own personal collision with one of life’s common or uncommon experiences. It makes me feel normal. It helps me to get over the feeling that I am essentially alone in a universe awash with so many diverse beings. It allows me to get over it. And why am I so dramatic! I need to write something.
Ulgine…was that the marinated artichoke hearts atop a shredded head of watercress drizzled with a lemongrass and honey vinaigrette?
217. alistairConnor - 5/4/2005 3:26:04 PM
How can hermitude withstand such a gush of untrammeled vegetable emotion?
218. alistairConnor - 5/10/2005 3:12:37 PM
This is what I'd like to do... lock you all up in boxes to make you write.
Actually I'd love to do it myself.
A recurring fantasy is to be completely immobilised somewhere, generally a hospital, where I can just read and write in peace. Something non-crippling but slow to heal.
219. Macnas - 5/11/2005 2:40:58 AM
You're weird Conner, just plain weird.
220. alistairconnor - 5/13/2005 1:57:35 AM
oh, here's some pretty raw Webfeet material (from Salon)
Dear Cary,
I'm an American woman, living in France with my French husband, whom I have always thought of as just the greatest, kindest guy. In fact, that's kind of his rep, in his family and among his friends. I had absolute trust and confidence in him up until December. I was pregnant and lost the baby after two months and had to have a D&C, scheduled for early on a Saturday morning. He and I own a restaurant, and that Friday evening we had some regular (and very rich!) customers coming. They're also guys who drink like crazy and will often stay until very, very late. I opted not to work that night and asked my husband to promise me not to drink too much, and not to stay too late, to kick the guys out at 2 a.m. at the latest so he could drive me to the hospital the next day. He promised. He arrived home at 4:30 a.m., drunker than I've ever seen him (he's not at all a heavy drinker).
I sent him to bed, walked to the hospital (40 minutes) by myself, and went through it all by myself. So, anyway, we talked it all out, and although it still freaks me out that he could have done that, we've tried to work through it. Then, yesterday, I found out that he made out with the first friend I made in France, on our balcony after I -- and her husband -- had gone to bed (they live in another city and were spending the weekend with us). He claims that they didn't have sex, but did make plans to see each other again, until she told her husband and he called mine and bawled him out and said they never wanted to see us again. This was last June.
Not knowing any of this until yesterday, I had been repeatedly asking my husband, "Why do you think F. and H. never call us anymore? Is it something I/we did? Why don't they like me/us anymore?" Not once did he fess up. It was only yesterday when I picked up the phone and said I was going to call those guys to invite them to dinner (I knew they were going to be in our town for a social event this weekend) that he admitted what had happened. I am so freaked out I can barely hold it together. A kiss on a balcony is a kiss on a balcony -- I don't think it's worth ending a marriage for (besides, that's what French people do). But for nine months he led me to believe that my friends no longer liked us, or cared. He saw me agonize over it many times, and only told the truth once he knew he was going to be caught anyway. My question is: How can I trust him again? I think if we were in the States and didn't own a business together I would seek a divorce, but we have so much invested together, and, besides, he says he really wants to work it out. I just don't know.
Hurt in France
221. Magoseph - 5/13/2005 2:26:30 AM
You started it, Ali...
Dear Hurt in France,
Alone among the peoples of the world, the French possess an organ called the "foie d'amour" (sometimes corrupted as "petit pâté"). Similar in structure to the liver but smaller and tucked just posterior to the breastbone in the thoracic cavity, the foie d'amour (known to medieval clerics as the "passionatum") allows the French to digest a vast array of amorous betrayals and transform them into rare and delicate essences -- bitter beauty, somber acceptance, fiery pride, exquisite form, eternal resignation.
Events and circumstances intolerable to others are not only digestible but perversely pleasing to the French. When a kiss occurs on a balcony and is kept secret all summer, we Americans can only think: punishment, a righting of wrongs, banishment. What do the French think? I suspect they think "C'est la vie," which, roughly and loosely translated, means that life between a man and a woman is spiced not only by sweetness but by cruelty, that a man's pride is as much a part of him as the weaknesses it hides, and that sometimes to be bad and true is better than to be good and dull -- even if, to our eyes your husband has behaved like a royal dick (a term, incidentally, for which there appears to be no French equivalent).
So where does that leave the American wife? What would a French wife do? Would she even the score by indulging in an evening of scores (as I have indulged in a clumsy but irresistible pun)? I suspect that she would transform this episode into the peculiar melancholy fire of the wounded French woman. The question is, what can an American woman do, lacking that singular French organ of emotional alchemy?
I think that the best you can do is punish him with your eyes, give him grief and guilt and coldness, pile work on him at the restaurant, send him the bad, demanding customers, blame him for anything that's burned, flirt with the best-looking diners, and let the news reach him through a circuitous route that you may well be having an affair.
When you are satisfied that you have punished him sufficiently, then turn to yourself. Pamper yourself. Love yourself. Treat yourself to whatever will make you feel that you are on top again -- assuming that on top is the position you prefer. And then, when you feel you have reached a kind of emotional equilibrium from which you can serenely contemplate your options, make a plan. Clarify for yourself the point at which, if his indiscretions continue, you would leave him: One year, two years, six months? Become ready to let go of the things you are attached to -- the restaurant, the apartment -- so you will be free to go when and if he continues to mistreat you. Make concrete plans so if life with him becomes intolerable, you have a workable option.
Finally, if you plan to remain in France, keep this in mind: Although none but the French are born with an intact foie d'amour, the peculiar essence it produces, some scientists believe, can be absorbed through the skin.
222. alistairconnor - 5/13/2005 2:42:48 AM
Now if Webfeet and NuPlanet would pick up this riff and run with it... imagine the possibilities.
Perhaps they could write alternate "he/she" chapters...
223. alistairconnor - 5/13/2005 2:48:39 AM
... you could ask your restaurateur brother to check it for authenticity, Mago...
224. Macnas - 5/13/2005 3:14:53 AM
Ach, I don't know, exploiting web's uncertain situation doesn't seem right.
225. alistairconnor - 5/13/2005 4:22:13 AM
Indeed so. Pudeur and tact are called for, and I have none of either. Apologies.
226. Macnas - 5/13/2005 4:39:43 AM
What is Pudeur??
227. Magoseph - 5/13/2005 4:42:57 AM
What is Pudeur??
Sexual modesty
228. Macnas - 5/13/2005 5:53:49 AM
Sure what would I know about that?
229. Magoseph - 5/13/2005 8:03:53 AM
I hope not much, Mac.
230. alistairConnor - 5/13/2005 2:59:25 PM
Yeah I was trying to think of the English word for it... drew a complete blank. The translation is not accurate, translations rarely are.
231. Ulgine Barrows - 5/25/2005 12:14:58 AM
This guy, Mike, just quit the office. Absolutely shattered the Guys in Development. The Girls in Development waved goodbye.
The Girls knew he was on to new adventures, and the Guys knew they were stuck with their choices.
Mike left a music CD about the office that had 8 songs on it. He left it on my desk. That was three weeks ago. I played it for the first time tonight.
I'm thinking, I should have played it sooner.
But I was busy, trying to figure out how to get the opera off my iPod so my workouts could be more vigorous.
232. alistairconnor - 5/25/2005 4:33:18 AM
... or more rhythmical?
That's an interesting opening. I await development.
233. webfeet - 5/26/2005 10:05:34 PM
Yesterday I was trapped in the elevator of my building.
(i don't say that to get your sympathy, well, yes, actually i do as it's been awhile since i've been around here)
I don't think I'm religious, only like most people in the selfish sense as in Please God [fill in the blank] when it serves me, but after this experience, I will sign up tomorrow as a guest on the 700 Club and cry hallelujah, thanking Jesus and all the angels in America for saving me and [spectacular pause] my babies from tragedy.
It all started when I was making shortbread biscuits for a dessert I was preparing in honor of frenchcat's birthday. The recipe was from a July 2003 copy of Martha Stewart living that I had accidentally stolen from my public library. This inclusion, the exposure now of this shaming defect in my character, even though it was an honest and one-time only offense, an accident actually, could clearly lessen your sympathy toward me--but I digress.
It was an ordinary afternoon. The baby was taking her nap, my son was eating his afternoon snack (while watching public television), the laundry was spinning toward the end of its cycle in the washer downstairs, and I was in the kitchen putting my martha stewart biscuits in the oven.
That is a good set up for any disaster I would say, judging as we are, the fictional qualities of these everyday moments.
And I think to myself, this is the part that is really tragic--I now have an edge, a head start on the birthday dinner. I've really got it altogether today. I'm really getting good at this. As a mother, wife and stay at home nobody, these are the biggies, the big high fives to the open winds.
It is then that I call out to my son, "I'm just going downstairs to put the clothes in the dryer. Mommy's coming right back!"
But Mommy wasn't. The elevator went down a few floors (i;m on the 3rd) and then stopped with a terrible thud below the basement. And there I was, in the dark, looking up at the light from the floor above me like some kind of mad, desperate prisoner and wondered how the distance between what seemed like reality only a split second ago could suddenly so impossibly out of reach, so far.
And then, of course, I panicked. Close your eyes and imagine one child sweetly asleep in her crib, the other eating pepperidge farm goldfish while watching public television while martha stewart biscuits are baking at a high heat in the oven. And where is mommy? Underground.
234. webfeet - 5/26/2005 10:14:03 PM
Sorry for the cliffhanger but I have to go to sleep.
Obviously the doomed ending that would have gone over big with the God crowd is not going to happen so you can rest easy. It can wait.
Macnas and alistair, what the devil are you two talking about? My bad marriage (okay, not all of it) is fiction!
235. Macnas - 5/27/2005 1:59:58 AM
How was I to know? As usual I only half informed myself with hearsay and outright fiction, whereapon I came to a dumbassed conclusion.
That's my excuse, I doubt alistairs will be any better.
236. webfeet - 5/27/2005 8:48:35 AM
No, it wasn't dumb. The line between fiction and reality is blurred in this thread: how closely are we expected to read into the meaning or emotional subtexts of another's post? I can hardly blame you for thinking so based on what I've written about my married life-- it's all pretty selective and only part of the picture. And I was just teasing you, you know, I wasn't shaking you by the collar.
Just to be clear, frenchcat never had an affair with a gorgeous twenty-two year old ski champion. It was an idea that hatched as a way of connecting a string of anecdotal mommy and me stories into a novel. I'm not very original--take a look at any of the commercial best sellers including 'Le Divorce' and all the others that belong in the genre of Latte Literature and you'll see how a device like that can carry a story forward.
If he does indeed possess the foie d'amour, though, I have yet to know about it.
237. Magoseph - 5/27/2005 9:29:45 AM
Sorry for the cliffhanger but I have to go to sleep.
I'm in suspenseful state here. web.
238. webfeet - 5/27/2005 11:44:05 AM
Well, perhaps as you're reading this, compelled as you are to call social services and report me for negligence, you might understand how the invisible line that separates my indulgent and well-meaning middle class existence from the barrio tragedies, a christmas candle that burned all night, a cigarette in bed, the mother who works nights at Mcdonalds comes home to find her children dead-- that endless ticker tape of bad news that you half expect half dread each night-- can actually be crossed in the space of a moment so that you find yourself on the other side, hollering in agony, pleading not your life, but for your children's, to be spared.
Other things happen to people in the suburbs. They are more likely, thank god someone is evening the score, to get hit by cars or fall into septic tanks. We city dwellers-- we die in elevator shafts or fires. It's always the usual suspects--the alcoholic with the face like a knife, or the medicated lunatic with the uneven eyes-they slip into their own comas dragging others to their deaths with their suicides. Others, so intent are they on their middle class obsessions that they play with matches,
Now this was the image, a graphic one embellished by all the bad events that ever happened in America, that went through my mind: the blackened biscuits, the smoke-filled apartment, my son eating his goldfish followed by bewilderment, siren cries and body bags. When you're pleading for your life, you don't recognize the sound of your own voice. And as I cried out, growing more and more frantic with the thought of my children dying because of my carelessness, I was in disbelief at hearing the words even as I shouted: "Help me! My children are upstairs. Help me! Call the Fire Department." I repeated this with all my force, determined to shake any middle-class neighbor, who shuts their ears and closes their door, out of their complacency. What was that? Some lady crying in the elevator? No, that wasn't enough. I screamed Save My children. My children are alone upstairs.
When you are rescued ten minutes later, when the super, who is wearing wings in the made for tv movie, appears by a miracle out of the dull stupor of mid-day and bangs open the elevator door, you walk out into the ugly daylight of the basement wanting to spit at your good fortune you are so ashamed.
You don't hug the super. You don't even look at him as you step up out of the sunken elevator which looks like it could have continued on its doomed trajectory, to the dead center of the earth. You thank him, but you were already so close to crossing the invisible line, of living a life that you think maybe now you deserved after all, that you can't even display some conventional form of gratitude. "I'm sorry," you say as if it were your fault.
Your children don't die in the fire. The call to 911 this time is never made. The body bags that you saw on the stretcher were not your own and the squad car is not waiting for you as you are escorted out of the building in handcuffs.
Instead you walk upstairs to your apartment and find the scene exactly as you left it. A five year old boy who loves action figures and 'Star Wars' doesn't turn his attention away from the tv set when you walk in, panting as you carry your misshapen bag of overflowing laundry, sweating from the inferno inside your head. Your baby girl, asleep in her crib, is as perfect as the last time you looked at her with her blonde locks spread out on the blanket.
And when you go inside the kitchen and remove the tray from the oven, the biscuits are golden, browned to magazine perfection. And as Martha says, smiling down at you from the top of the elevator shaft, it's a good thing.
239. judithathome - 5/27/2005 12:21:19 PM
Wonderfully told, Webs. I was almost smelling the terror...and the biscuits.
240. alistairconnor - 5/31/2005 6:57:20 AM
Gisèle, an epilogue
The two French agents jailed over the Rainbow Warrior bombing 20 years ago have appealed against a High Court decision to allow TVNZ to show footage of their trial.
The ruling last week allowed the network to screen court footage never before seen of Alain Mafart and Dominique Prieur, who were convicted of wilful damage and the manslaughter of Greenpeace photographer Fernando Pereira in 1985.
[...]
The appeal did not surprise Greenpeace campaign manager Cindy Baxter.
"The French Government still won't apologise, and 20 years later is still running from New Zealand justice."
241. webfeet - 6/16/2005 11:42:15 AM
Where doth one go to post a post about Liter-ah-ture?
Here it be.
A lot of people have gushed in recent months about David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas'-- A.S> Byatt got a hard-on reading him and Martin, as in "My" Martin Amis has passed on his literary laurels and crowned him the New Prince.
No-one really knows what to make of the thing, except that everyone agrees that it is brilliant. Not just brilliant, the word that's tossed around to describe shiny lipstick or witty bon mots, but brilliant as in genius brilliant. And the word 'joycean' has come out of the urn..to dance beside him.
The imagination just topples over in trying to stack praise upon it. That said, no-one can really tell you what the fuck it is about. But it's mesmorizing-- all of it. Worlds invented and reinvented with a frightening yet often hilarious satire of the extremities of consumer culture, as in "An Orison of Somni - 451" --where purebloods and fabricants or bio-engineered slaves exist in a corpocracy of Disneyariums and digital entertainment.
I am going to relish this book. I've been reading it on and off, it's not the kind of popular novel you can devour in one night. What it does is stimulate my brain like a dildo. And Mitchell is a refined and imaginative writer who has invented the kind of work it seems, the literary world has been longing to read for some time.
Has anyone read it?
242. judithathome - 6/16/2005 12:00:54 PM
Webs, I think they discuss literature in the Culture and the Arts threads these days.
I haven't heard of that book but it sounds interesting.
243. judithathome - 6/16/2005 12:09:45 PM
I found this rather detailed review: Cloud Atlas
244. webfeet - 6/16/2005 1:06:37 PM
I don't remember seeing any books discussed in Culture and the Arts, although I might have missed something.
I appreciated that review, Judy. It articulated much of what I've been thinking. This is absolutely a work that requires patience, not in the way one is told to read Faulkner, an author I have never enjoyed, forcing yourself to get through it. It is astounding on every level but it does require especially mid-way through the novel a kind of discipline.
I abandoned it when I came to "Sloosha's Crossin' and Everythin' After" the part about the post-nuclear Iron Age society--so impatient with the new lexicon he created, and the accent, and now I'm obsessed with 'Sloosha's Crossin'" it is so fucking brilliant. And it's often hilarious.
They were discussing this in books in 'Salon' and I was so bored with the lack of book discussion over there. It's very bland.
245. arkymalarky - 6/16/2005 2:24:11 PM
I love Faulkner, though I haven't loved everything I've read by him. I wouldn't tell anyone to force their way through Faulkner and be patient, although, as I've quoted my dad before, reading Faulkner is like peeling an onion--fine, transluscent layers forming a solid whole as they lie, one on top of another. I don't know if you were around for The Sound and the Fury discussion, but it was very good.
246. webfeet - 6/16/2005 2:47:57 PM
I seem to remember something about that thread. Certainement better than the superficial middle class hooey on Salon. And yet, the allure of Faulkner will always elude me.
My mind goes dead when I read faulkner. tedious, a dreadful entry into a consciousness I can't escape from and a wide open prairie of unhappiness that I must somehow muster the intellectual heft (which i lack) to walk through barefoot and in the hot sun. Une supplice.
When it comes to writing, I want Vegas. I want to be dazzled. I am a cheap ho looking for thrills.
247. alistairConnor - 6/16/2005 3:20:52 PM
What ho, old chap!
How's the book?
248. arkymalarky - 6/16/2005 4:31:57 PM
When it comes to writing, I want Vegas. I want to be dazzled.
Ah!
There was some discussion whether being Southern made a difference in how much people appreciate reading Faulkner, though obviously many non-Southerners enjoy him, and Spudboy, who isn't Southern, led the discussion. Still, there are so many things I recognize in Faulkner that I can't imagine someone not from the South wouldn't get. I sometimes tell Bob his family has Faulknerian elements in them (Compton, not Snopes), but he hasn't read enough of Faulkner to know whether his family's been complimented or insulted. It's actually a little of both, but it's also very true.
I haven't read any new fiction in quite a while. I ought to get a short reading list for the summer and fall, before things get crazy again. I bought another paperback Lord of the Rings to read after surgery, just to get away, but got sidetracked somehow.
249. alistairConnor - 6/16/2005 4:42:13 PM
I find Faulkner marvellous, but that may be because I'm introverted narcissistic and obsessive, like the author.
250. judithathome - 6/16/2005 5:13:41 PM
Arky, I read that as "peeing on an onion"....ha!
251. judithathome - 6/16/2005 5:14:20 PM
How Faulknarian!
252. webfeet - 6/17/2005 5:10:31 PM
I want to respond to these posts, but it looks like bath time and the water antics that follow have interfered. I'll try again later.
Arky reminds me: why don't we start a short list of books for summer reading? All contributions welcome.
253. arkymalarky - 6/17/2005 5:37:09 PM
I said "Compton" when I meant "Compson." Must be listening to too much rap lately.
254. wabbit - 6/17/2005 6:15:26 PM
Don't know if you've heard this, Arky - Nina Gordon (of Veruca Salt) singing "Straight Outta Compton".
255. arkymalarky - 6/18/2005 8:28:38 AM
No, I must say I haven't, thanks!
256. arkymalarky - 6/18/2005 8:43:41 AM
Hey, I can hear all the lyrics!
257. webfeet - 6/18/2005 1:29:41 PM
Arky
Still, there are so many things I recognize in Faulkner that I can't imagine someone not from the South wouldn't get.
My shortcomings in the realm of All Things Faulkner cannot be blamed on the fact that I'm from the North. (thanks to alistair) I simply can't get into it. It's that 'ho complex, but there it is.
Summer reading is the time to pick up old classics, delude yourself for a short-lived gin soaked moment that you would like to read them again, or aspire to reach for the heavies--like Cervantes, Tolstoy and Proust. Now if you haven't read Proust or if you are like me, haven't worked your way through "A Remembrance of Things Past' then you could simply fake it by reading the 'New Critical Essays' of Roland Barthes.
'Proust and Names' will make you feel smarter than you really are the next time Proust just pops up at your next cook-out. This dense exploration into the Proustian Theory of the Name --the meaning and resonance of Gourmantes for example "limpid as its name" "a feudal castle in the middle of Paris" etcetera), or Balbec "a stormy place at the end of the earth"/ "Gothic Architecture and a storm at sea" (Swann's Way) will enlighten even the most drowsy, hammock happy reader.
258. webfeet - 6/18/2005 1:44:07 PM
How is my book?
A pompous reply comes forward as I stroke my collar..the other instinct is to break out into an unseemly rash.
The novel is up to chapter eight which is called
"Pregnant in Provence" --and recounts les vacances en famille I took last summer with frenchcat's brother, his children 'les petits cousins' (rude little monsters who are only nice to me when i give them presents) and les flics my beau-parents.
By the end of this cohabitation in a rural gite that is like the wet dream sine qua non of my lifestyle porn with its overgrown lavendar bushes (oops) on a garden overlooking a stream--I got drunk at this exquisitely pittoresque restaurant on the canal and ruined our last night in Langued'oc by bitching about my in-laws.
A terrible flaw or a good read. I don't know yet.
259. Magoseph - 6/18/2005 1:55:55 PM
May we have the honor to evaluate this chapter, Web?
260. arkymalarky - 6/18/2005 2:50:32 PM
Now if you haven't read Proust or if you are like me, haven't worked your way through "A Remembrance of Things Past'....
Hey! I was reading that when I found out I had to have a hysterectomy. Wonder if there was a connection. I haven't picked it back up yet.
261. judithathome - 6/18/2005 11:58:02 PM
See, I think summers are the time for trash...I save the heavy stuff for winter.
I'm reading some trashy stuff right now. Today I picked up a big book at the sidewalk sale and paid a buck for it...three novels in one heavy tome by Willam Golding.
I stepped out of my car and walked up to the shelves in air frying at 98° and reached for this big book which had Nobel Prize Winner on the cover and saw that one of the novels inside was entitled Pincher Martin and I thought it a sign that I should buy it.
But getting it home, I read a bit more about the nature of those three novels and decided it's a winter book. So I started reading a book about sleazy Hollywood lives called The Deceivers and it's very much summer.
262. Ulgine Barrows - 6/20/2005 1:08:28 AM
Lordy, the trash I got through at the pool last week:
Just A Hint--Clint by Lori Foster.
I actually snorted when I wrote this entry.
The book was so badly written it was fascinating, but had moments that reminded me of my internet thingys I'd read, so I finished it. Apparently it was 3rd of the heap from this author.
Never having written anything I've been paid for, I am now going to howl.
263. alistairconnor - 6/20/2005 1:19:24 AM
Well, you don't get paid here, but I'm still waiting for you to string some sentences together.
I am sure that your existence provides you with plenty of raw material... and your imagination knows no bounds. You don't have to own up to what is truth and what is fiction : we won't know the difference.
Knowing, as you do, that you write a lot better than others who get paid for it...
264. alistairconnor - 6/20/2005 1:20:34 AM
Satirical kiss-off to your previous job? Imagine the catharsis.
265. Ulgine Barrows - 6/20/2005 1:25:05 AM
I aint got nobody to listen...
thanks for the encouragement, ha!
Lordy,the resignation letters I've written!
Most are on the downstairs' PC hard drive.
266. Ulgine Barrows - 6/20/2005 1:31:53 AM
Most best sellers seem to have either murder or infidelity, of which I know nothing or refuse to acknowlege ;)
267. Macnas - 6/20/2005 1:40:18 AM
"As a groundsman in Mgelliots market farm, I was working on my eventual rise to a position of supervisor and then on to manager, when to my surprise my employment was terminated, without warning, after a visit by a local detective and some special branch policemen.
Taking this in my stride, I then found work in Balinascarty post office, where my talents were sure to be noticed. I spent a very happy and fruitful 6 weeks there before, yet again, the special branch called to interview me and there-by ruin any chance I had for advancement.
I have taken note of every instance of this conspiracy to defame and destroy me, and, in due time, will produce a report of such a damaging and explosive nature, that the government of the day will fall. The truth must be told, but I will endeavour not to let it get in the way of my career development.
I have also, over the last 15 years, been involved with 4 different voluntary groups, mainly those whose area of activity is the promotion of the Irish language. In all but one I have had to leave due to receiving the height of abuse for my hard work and attempts to progress.
My reasons for leaving the last group are long and complicated, but needless to say, my friends (ha ha) in the special branch were again involved."
The above is an excerpt from a letter of application that a friend of mine once received.
268. Ulgine Barrows - 6/20/2005 1:46:51 AM
Right.
My nails are painted orange, but I myself am blue.
269. alistairconnor - 6/20/2005 3:20:25 AM
Lordy,the resignation letters I've written!
Most are on the downstairs' PC hard drive.
That's an interesting angle. A short story consisting of a series of unsent resignation letters. Ended perhaps by a newspaper article.
270. alistairconnor - 6/20/2005 3:20:55 AM
Mac, there's definitely a short story in that one, too!
271. webfeet - 6/20/2005 11:38:22 AM
Mags, I am so flattered. Let me do a quick pop of editing and I will provide what I have which includes a humiliating afternoon spent maternity dress shopping with belle mere and her elegant copine Michelle in Aix. You have naturally guessed why it is humiliating. Somebody was, once again, too much woman for france.
[painful aside: i'm not fat. I'm honestly a size 10 and 5"11]
And, I would like to thank you for helping me to continue my lady bug house is on fire story and forcing me to finish it. Had you not asked, I was just going to abandon that thought. Now I think I'm going to work it in the novel, the subtext of which, is being a failure at motherhood.
272. Magoseph - 6/20/2005 12:30:33 PM
You are very welcome, Web--we all love your writing on this thread, you know.
I should tell you about my experience with French relatives and their ideas about motherhood. I have two sisters and a sister-in-law who have between them seven adult children. Over the years, these women have vilified me as the epitome of the inadequate French mother. This criticism has been consistent and often overwhelming. Today, it has become apparent to the whole family that my two sons are very close to me and it is very clear that my nephews and nieces want as little to do with their mothers as possible.
273. alistairConnor - 6/20/2005 3:44:07 PM
Ahhh lifestyle porn! Please please lay it on thick.
Likewise Mago, how about a Provençal morality tale ? (or immorality tale?)
But please please wimmin, stop bad mouthing the French mothers... I know I know, some of my best friends are French mothers but...
274. alistairConnor - 6/20/2005 3:46:35 PM
'Proust and Names' will make you feel smarter than you really are the next time Proust just pops up at your next cook-out.
I hear you! Barthes is the perfect meta-literature. My own specialty is "haven't read the book, but I heard about it on France Culture"
275. Macnas - 6/21/2005 1:24:40 AM
Mine is: "Audio books!! that's the way I go now, I'm replacing everything with cd's and throwing my paper books in the bin, either that or burn them, depending on how much I liked them"
276. webfeet - 6/22/2005 7:42:28 AM
Chapter 8
Excerpts Pregnant in Provence
Air France flight #006 departs from Terminal 1 at JFK at five p.m. Before passing through security, I remove my shoes, then Charles’ sandals and watch his chubby little feet as they cross the line. He turns around anxiously while an unsmiling soldier with a machine gun strapped over his shoulder waits for him on the other side. I follow him through and gather our belongings which have been stacked in boxes at the end of the conveyor belt.
I ignore the glamorous trappings of the duty free shop--glittering compacts, creamy handbags that cost more than a down payment on a car and limited edition Gucci t-shirts. An announcement is made and our flight is called to boarding. The airport lounge is a grim tableau of antsy, over-perfumed passengers clutching their carry-on bags as they proceed to file into line. It is the New York flight to Paris and there is a sort of jumpy expectancy, a sense of self-importance to their movement.
Once inside the plane, we are seated next to an anemic looking French man in his twenties who is twisted into his seat, his long legs gathered into his lap like a Jack-in-the-Box waiting to spring. Charles turns toward the window and watches the pre-flight production taking place outside on the tarmac as the baggage carriers load up the plane just like in his Richard Scarry storybook.
As we prepare for take-off, faces tighten; lozenges are unwrapped, newspapers folded and watches are re-set as we wait. Charles and I hold hands. Finally the plan speeds down the runway and we glide into the sky as the sun begins to set over New York.
Twenty minutes into the flight, Charles starts to wriggle in his seat and says that he has to go pee pee. Glancing at the expressions of dull contentment on the faces of the passengers seated around us, I silently envy the middle-aged couples reading the luxuriously vapid in-flight magazine and guide books, or the students daydreaming un-
der their head sets, knowing it will be a long time before I will ever enjoy a peaceful flight, without a sticky diaper bag filled with baby games again.
277. webfeet - 6/22/2005 7:50:53 AM
Through-out the cocktail hour, our flight partner is engaged in a passionate struggle to prevent the seat in from of him from being lowered. He sits there, tense, waiting. As soon as it starts to move, he pushes his feet against the back of the chair and forces it upright, glowering at the back of the silver-haired gentleman’s head in front of him. After several unsuccessful tries, the gentleman turns around, bewildered. The flight attendant is called and the Frenchman is defeated as the seat is reclined.
Charles falls asleep after a story and lullaby. At seven months pregnant, flying is just as uncomfortable as I feared. I manage to relax even though my bloated feet are squeezed inside my loafers,and the seat in front of me is nearly pushing against my abdomen.
The cabin starts to shake lightly as we hit an area of turbulence There are only a few light bumps but the captain makes his announcement and instructs us to buckle up. A moment later, the Air France flight attendant, presented with the grave task of ensuring our safety during this treacherous moment, starts to make her way down the aisle ordering people to fasten their seatbelts.
Charles is sleeping unbuckled and I am terrified that they will wake him. Hoping she won’t notice, I pretend to sleep myself.
A moment later, the young attendant stops at our aisle and glances at Charles. ‘Mais pourquoi il n’est pas attaché?’ She demands, denouncing me in front of the cabine.
“Il dort profondement et je ne veux pas le reveiller,” I reply.
“Mais, il faut qu’il soit attaché, Madame.” She insists, arrogantly.
“Non! Je refuse de le reveiller,”
“Mais pourquoi vous etes mechante? Moi, je suis gentile,” she said, bending over and speaking to me in a sweetly condescending voice reserved in the flight attendant's handbook for madmen and children.
“Ah, arrête avec la psychologie!” I said, tutoying her, and waved her away impatiently like an enfant terrible. The Ugly American was back. And this time, it was me.
Returning two minutes later followed by a male steward who stands before me. “Il faut qu’il soit attaché, Madame.” They have ganged up on me. As they lean over and buckle him, I wait for Charles to wake up crying, but he never does. He sleeps right through it. The flight attendants regard me victoriously before turning on their heels to go back to their curtained party room at the back of the plane where they will certainnement ridicule me with their colleagues, the other French hostesses as they consume the left-over desserts from Business Class. Shamed, I return to my sad copy of Hot Air, the in-flight magazine, not thinking to have brought a novel.
278. webfeet - 6/22/2005 8:03:11 AM
I'll post more later. It took a Herculean effort just to get to this moment with the usual antics going on around here.
Mags, I'd love to hear more about your french family, it's intriguing. How would you explain the french attitude toward parenting versus the American way? I bet I could guess a few, but we can continue this exchange.
Alistair, who'se attacking french women? belle-mere noticed that the american mothers were much nicer on the playground, that there is a warmer atmosphere like we're all in this together whereas french mothers are less likely to go through the chit chat.
After my second child, I, too, have lost patience with that bit and kind of try to avoid it.
279. Macnas - 6/22/2005 9:03:39 AM
I used to get uptight when I took my kids to the playground. I'd sit there or worse walk around keeping an eye on everything they would do.
My Missus told me off about it, not that that's anything new, but when I thought back on the capers me and my brothers aad sisters would get up to in what was basically a dangerous farmyard, I learned to relax and just keep enough of an eye on them just to make sure they are still in the same parish.
You don't see parents chatting to each other in Irish playgrounds, other than those who know each other anyway. We have a reputation of being hospitable to the visitor, and that is more or less the case, but beyond that, well, we tend to declare a republic when it comes to mixing with others.
280. arkymalarky - 6/22/2005 11:21:23 AM
I can relate, Mac, though I never got to the point I could relax. I rarely took Mose to playgrounds because we live in the country, though my parents took her a lot. I never socialized at them, though, partly because I couldn't concentrate and partly because I'm not much good at talking to people I don't know--Bob is, and he enjoys it.
Playgrounds make me a nervous wreck, mainly because of the high stuff (remember Kramer vs Kramer?). I want to just scream at all the kids on the monkey bars and slides to get down before they get hurt. There are plenty of reasons I couldn't teach elementary kids, and playground duty is a big one.
281. arkymalarky - 6/22/2005 11:24:24 AM
This is wonderful reading, Webbie--very immediate and tangible.
282. webfeet - 6/22/2005 3:34:44 PM
Very happy for the feedback. Playgrounds are stressful.
When clement was born, I was in love with every child I saw. Now I am completely indifferent to even the cutest, chubbiest little meatball. Yeah, you're a baby. So what.
What's funny and a little bit silly these days is the 'sensitivity' you are supposed to have on the playgrounds. The other day, Clement who is five, threw a water balloon at a boy who was about eight years old or older actually, riding on a bicycle. The boy stopped me and told on him.
My first reaction was Deal with it but I went through the motions of extracting an apology from my son. In the seventies when I grew up, if you complained to an adult about something like that, they would have looked at you like you were this snivelling little shit and either ignored you or gone back to their highball.
I am on top of clement for talking rudely and name calling. But this was welcome to kid sensitivity sissy time.
Arky, I'm going to rent "KRamer vs. Kramer" again. Merrill Streep is in that, right?
283. arkymalarky - 6/22/2005 3:38:41 PM
Yes, and the boy in that movie was one of the best child actors I've ever seen.
284. judithathome - 6/22/2005 3:50:19 PM
That is Justin Henry. He's on ABC's Lost right now.
285. judithathome - 6/22/2005 4:12:02 PM
Correction: He's in a movie with the same title.
286. wonkers2 - 6/22/2005 7:20:04 PM
Kramer V. Kramer is a great movie.
287. wonkers2 - 6/22/2005 7:20:26 PM
Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman at their finest.
288. wonkers2 - 6/22/2005 7:21:47 PM
A real emotional grabber. More contemporary ethical value than most anything in the Bible.
289. webfeet - 6/22/2005 10:51:15 PM
What I find excruciating in trying to write this is how A got to B and C to Q.
AS in the description of the airport scene, it took me --Long Island Italilan accent included-- for fuckin evah to work those tedious little transitions which bind a story-- which is really just fragments of consciousness--together.
And yet nothing I produce could even remotely describe the thrill of take off with clement at sunset. And that's where I feel like at some point you just got to stick a sentence on it. And that's what sucks. Knowing that you just didn't arrive at the point where you could launch the thought the way you would like it to be received.
I have to work on that. Now I am just beginning to understand the part where liquid crack might help.
290. Macnas - 6/23/2005 1:18:07 AM
Not that I make any kind of a good hand at it myself, but when there arises a moment of beauty, or something that transcends you and your at-that-moment situation, a bit of detachment is good.
I mean to say, instead of trying to weave what you want to describe into the dialogue/storyline, take a time out and describe it in its own right. If it's good it'll stand on its own.
291. Magoseph - 6/23/2005 6:18:45 AM
Web, all day yesterday between bouts of impatience with this or that around me, I wondered about the rest of the flight, the arrival, and who welcomed the two of you--I wanted to see and hear the people as I saw them vividly at the airport and in the plane.
292. wonkers2 - 6/23/2005 9:34:12 AM
Nice piece, webfeet! I felt like I was sitting across the aisle.
293. Jenerator - 6/24/2005 4:14:28 PM
webfeet,
Sometimes I think we are sisters separated at birth.
I am 6+ months pregnant right now and am preparing to fly to Seattle to visit my MIL. Now, don't get me wrong, my MIL and I get along well, but if I hear another time that her precious and perfect son was potty trained at 16 months, I may go ballistic! It's funny that he gets younger and younger (and sweeter and sweeter) as time goes on, in her stories. Why, soon, I expect her to tell me that her son never needed diapers!
Thank God my 3 1/2 year old wears big boy underwear. Ah, but he is delayed in his speech. I am dreading the inevitable announcement that my husband was writing books by 3 1/2!
Anyway, I can't remember if I said this in here or not, but the last time I took Dylan on a flight (March, to San Diego) I had a small situation with a horrible flight attendant. Once we were past the intial ascent - enduring some objectively bad turbulence - my son said he really, really needed to go tee tee in the potty.
I took him to the bathroom in the back and the attendant glared at me and said, "Um, the fasten seat belt signs are on for a reason!"
I quickly responded with something like, "Well, we can use the bathroom or he can piss in your seat and you can clean it up, hon." -- with the same condescending smile she had used while speaking with me.
I was ready to throw down.
;-)
294. Jenerator - 6/24/2005 4:18:18 PM
It's like ATTENTION ALL FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, parents disregard all seat belt signs when potty training toddlers!
Learn this, your jobs will be less stressful.
295. alistairConnor - 7/2/2005 4:25:45 PM
Another footnote to the Gisèle story
Details about the ordinary New Zealanders who shopped the French saboteurs.
Some who had relationships with the saboteurs during their time in New Zealand had personal reasons for wanting their role kept quiet.
But the Rainbow Warrior episode is a part of their past they keep being reminded of because it is such a significant chapter of New Zealand's recent history.
296. Neato - 7/2/2005 6:41:55 PM
Lovely to read - Could only happen like that in good old NZ
297. Ulgine Barrows - 7/3/2005 1:17:59 AM
216. NuPlanetOne - 5/4/2005 6:19:08 PM
People that cannot write or fashion their pain or joy into a symbol of relief need or appreciate a voice in the crowd to identify with. Someone that can give it meaning. I love finding in a poem or piece of fiction, historical account or work of art, a connection to my own personal collision with one of life’s common or uncommon experiences. It makes me feel normal.
Well, they had to write it first for anyone to get comfort.
So angry with myself, not finding the correct words.
I can't think of what to say except someone has to go first. For normal to happen, along the way.
298. Jenerator - 7/19/2005 3:01:29 PM
This probably belongs in a rant thread, but WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH THE CHILDPROOF/ADULTPROOF WRAPPING THAT TOYS COME IN THESE DAYS!?
My mom bought my son some Play Doh and it took me literally half an hour to get all of the pieces out of the individually threaded wires that were intrically holding onto each and every piece.
Just when I thought I had freed a small canister of blue Play doh, I realized that I had to unwind yet another set of wires!
Grrrr!~
299. webfeet - 8/11/2005 1:01:52 PM
sorry for abandoning all of you mid flight. I left for france a day after my last post and ivz been in remote access region most of the summer; the alps: i jumped off a mountain in a parachut yesterday; insane joys bewildering sense of exaltation followed by motion sickness; fortunately i didnt barf in front of the bohunk who was my flight moniteur.
i leave here saturday and will spend one night in the city of lights before returning to nyc
i am at belle-meres as we speak; many amusing tales to be told: i cant express enough gratitude for your feedback and advice. i really appreciate the fact that you find it entertaining. mags expect a fresh dose of french--I want to say-- crotte but that would be in bad taste.
Jen; I will think of you on our flight home from Paris sunday night. I too am always ready to play it dirty with the flight attendants. especially french ones with too much flash bronzer and attitude.
300. alistairConnor - 8/11/2005 3:30:18 PM
Oh goody! Does this mean we get another chapter?
I'm sure that parapente jump can be useful material...
301. Jenerator - 8/14/2005 6:09:39 PM
How many people can say they've parachuted over the Alps! Very cool, Webbie.
----
I am in my final month and I feel as full as a tick. I had forgotten just how free some people feel to talk about health stories around pregnant women, and just how tempting a pregnant belly is to touch for those brazen strangers.
Let's see, this week alone I had a woman at the grovery store tell me that sex was difficult for her when she was pregnant because it always made her pee, I have had several colleagues of mine whom I had never spoken more than "hello" to, massage my belly, and then the most weird situation was when a couple with a newborn at the mall told me how large the wife's nipples got during breast-feeding, and oh, had mine gotten big like that, too, because I should try Lanolin for soreness.
My grandmother called me yesterday to see how I was feeling - which really meant she called to tell me how she was feeling, and all she did was talk about the health problems of people I'll never meet nor care about.
In fact, when I called her in May to tell her we were expecting a girl, her precise reaction was, "A girl, huh? Well, Aunt Irene has cancer!"
Neat.
Anyway, after politely listening to 30 minutes of so and so having a hysterectomy or colon cancer and how Nexium doesn't work on Uncle Joe (who is Uncle Joe, by the way??), she announced to me that she will be coming down to stay with us the day I am released from the hospital! This is the woman who goes through trash to find receipts and other personal bits of information regarding her "guests" when they stay at her house.
I don't know ho would be more thrilled about a visit from her: me, suffering from post c-section surgery with a newborn and a toddler, or my husband who has managed to cleverly escape any down time with that side of the family.
Oh, and she volunteered to stay in the baby's room. She could track and critique my comings, goings, housekeeping and parenting the day after I give birth while filling me in on her neighbor's son's cousin who has diabetes.
302. judithathome - 8/15/2005 2:20:10 PM
Right. Just tell her you aren't going to feel like company. You're a grownup now and don't have to be imposed upon unless you allow it.
303. Jenerator - 8/16/2005 1:11:47 PM
Judith,
I politely thanked her for her offer and told her that it would be better if she came down when the baby was around a month old, and she took offense to that!
I just let it roll off my back.
304. arkymalarky - 8/16/2005 4:34:11 PM
Some people use taking offense as a way to control other people. Good for you that you didn't buy into it.
305. webfeet - 8/17/2005 6:15:48 PM
you know what? i don't want to even post anything right now. i just can't get over this grandma bit.
i just cant. because it seems to me you came so preciously close to some kind of full blown mental breakdown had you waivered in this delicate battle of wills and given in to granny.
and good luck staying wt your mom in law!
306. Jenerator - 8/17/2005 10:00:36 PM
No worries Webbie.
I have had my grandmother figured out for a long time. In fact, my sister and I talk about the whole situation with her often.
To be honest, I was trying to show the humorous side of it all - how some people do not see their ill-timed visits as impositions, nor do they understand why we just don't care about all of the illnesses their 80 year old friends have.
Do we all get like that when we're older - self obsessed with health problems?
My grandmother is a unique person - very snooty and very judgmental with some major skeletons in her closet. I will always love her, but sometimes it must be at arms length.
She is the same woman who bought me a dictionary and elbow gloves for Christmas when I was 12.
Anyway, remembering vaguely what it was like when Dylan was first born, there was no way on God's green earth I was going to agree have her come and stay with us the day I am to be released from the hospital.
No way.
If that means she cuts me out of the will, so be it. I fully expect it, anyway.
307. Jenerator - 8/17/2005 10:05:35 PM
When my sister brought up her two year old son and six month old daughter to visit our grandparents, my grandmother announced that she was not going to baby-proof her house - that those kids should just know better and behave properly.
That's why when she told me she was coming down here to "take care of" me, (1) I was surprised and (2) I had to change her plans!
I think I did the right thing by saying that she was welcome when the baby was a tad bit older. I really wouldn't mind at that point.
Besides, it'll coincide with her annual trip to Australia and Hawaii.
;-)
308. Magoseph - 8/18/2005 7:24:27 AM
I wonder the initials FOP stand for, Jen.
Hello-Butch hates to be medicated. It takes the two of us to clean his ears and then squeeze the ointment.
309. Magoseph - 8/18/2005 7:26:26 AM
Sorry again, Ali--this post and the previous one belong in the Cafe, I know that, darn it all!
310. Jenerator - 8/24/2005 10:56:46 AM
I talked to my sister two days ago and it turns out that our grandmother told her that I was naming the baby after grandma. I am?
I can't quite figure out why she is trying to cause drama.
311. wonkers2 - 8/25/2005 11:15:37 AM
Parents should think primarily of the child when naming babies, not relatives, movie stars, religious leaders, etc. The first name should be easily pronounceable with the last name and be one that the child will be comfortable with as opposed to self-conscious about. (e.g., Throckmorton, Archibald, or Sue for a boy.) And, needless to say, the spelling should be correct not made up or cutsey.
312. judithathome - 8/25/2005 11:55:43 AM
Parents should think primarily of the child when naming babies, not relatives, movie stars, religious leaders, etc.
Or fruit or planets or commercial products for the home and body.
313. PelleNilsson - 8/25/2005 12:46:00 PM
But naming children after relatives is a very long and established tradition. Here in Sweden it would be considered odd if at least one of the two names they usually get were not a "family name".
314. Jenerator - 8/25/2005 12:49:45 PM
So Mortimer Wigglesquish is out of the question?
315. Jenerator - 8/25/2005 12:50:47 PM
By the way, we're naming our soon-to-be daughter Faith Elizabeth -------.
316. webfeet - 9/2/2005 6:29:47 PM
Grandma sounds like a true southern specimen. Is this grand dame the mother of marshame or your father?
And when exactly is Faith Elizabeth due? I loved your phrase "full as a tick". You must be even fuller by now.
328. Jenerator - 9/6/2005 12:29:39 PM
Faith is due two weeks from today.
329. Jenerator - 9/12/2005 9:50:51 AM
My mom called my grandparents yesterday to say hello and my grandmother told her that they had bought the tickets to come down, but wouldn't tell her when...
!!!!???
330. Jenerator - 10/13/2005 3:09:46 PM
Webbie,
Well, I endured a short visit from the grandparents and now I am working through a week long mother-in-law visit.
---
My grandparents bought our new baby daughter a multi-pack of boy onesies.
;-)
331. wonkers2 - 10/21/2005 1:37:59 PM
Another consideration--the name should indicate whether the child is a boy or a girl. A niece of mine recently named her new baby Reece Palmer (followed by the last name). Anyone care to guess the sex of the baby? I don't know where Reece came from (Witherspoon?). Palmer was my niece's great grandfather's middle name which I believe was his mother's maiden name. Nothing wrong with sticking a family name on your offspring especially if the individual is rich and susceptible to including you or your offspring in his or her will.
332. Jenerator - 10/22/2005 4:31:12 PM
Well, our daughter is named Faith Elizabeth, so I'm not sure how they thought boy onesies were good. I'm thinking they just picked something up without so much as even really looking at it.
333. wonkers2 - 10/22/2005 8:24:57 PM
That's a nice name. My daughter is namecd SArah Elizabeth.
334. judithathome - 10/23/2005 6:05:06 PM
Aren't "onesies" kinda generic?
335. alistairconnor - 10/24/2005 3:27:11 AM
I'm going to start cracking some heads together unless you people stop discussing "onesies" in here.
Or at least tell me what the hell "onesies" is.
336. Macnas - 10/24/2005 3:38:52 AM
Don't ask me!
337. marjoribanks - 10/24/2005 4:01:39 AM
A onesie is a babygro to you that-side-of-the-ponders.
338. Macnas - 10/24/2005 4:13:48 AM
Ah.
339. alistairconnor - 10/24/2005 4:16:15 AM
Ah, well that had the unexpected effect of luring Marj into a contribution to this thread!
Can't stop now, Marj. Carry on.
(and on the substantive topic : what Judith said. The only point of differentiated clothing for babies is to give visual clues to gawpers.)
340. Macnas - 10/24/2005 4:19:35 AM
Ah indeed.
You know alistair, that Marj is just acting coy about making something up, as opposed to writing about other peoples stuff....
Seriously Marj, if I can make a effort, surely someone who can spell can have a go.
341. Macnas - 10/24/2005 4:21:13 AM
And at something more interesting than pink or blue babygro clothes.
Sorry alistair.
342. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:49:33 PM
Boy onesie:
343. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:50:48 PM
Girl onesie:
344. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:51:50 PM
The multi-pack I received had three. One was blue with trucks, the other was green with bugs and the third was white with sports balls.
345. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:53:04 PM
From toddleposh.com
346. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:57:36 PM
Would any of you grandparents buy this for your new granddaughter?
347. Jenerator - 10/24/2005 8:57:37 PM
Would any of you grandparents buy this for your new granddaughter?
348. marjoribanks - 10/24/2005 9:26:54 PM
I might have bought it for a hypothetical daughter, there are few things more silly (and often revolting) than the precipitate haste to cram tiny babies into gender roles literally immediately after birth.
Thus, I militantly refuse to give babies and small girls anything pink or remotely like a doll. Or blue and the euqivalent for boys. Both genders get books, art supplies, balls, etc.
I admit that everyone (including my wife) thinks I'm a bit extreme, but really this pink/blue stuff is way out of hand. If we have a daughter at some point, believe me, I am ruthlessly exising her 'drobe of pink until she's old enough to choose it for herself.
349. wonkers2 - 10/24/2005 10:48:56 PM
I'm with you banks. Our daughter was brought up the way you suggest. And she turned out to be an independent, fearless, talented and accomplished adult of whom we're very proud.
350. alistairconnor - 10/25/2005 1:50:28 AM
Absolutely, I find the truck one rather cute and I would have been delighted to receive it from either side of the family, for either one of my daughters.
Definitely not the "work hard, play hard" one, which would be equally stupid for a new-born of either sex.
Actually, if the bug and ball ones are similarly styled, I see nothing gender-specific in them at all, (though it's true the truck will probably be a "boy" cue for gawpers), and I think it's a fine choice.
Jen, are you worried that the gawpers won't be able to tell she's a girl without the visual cues? Do you think it's important that they should?
351. judithathome - 10/25/2005 9:26:03 AM
I would have been grateful that someone had given me clothes for the baby, period. More clothes, less frequency of laundering.
Back when my son was born (43 years ago), they couldn't tell if it was going to be a boy or a girl in advance...gifts given prior to the birth were usually mixed and many were yellow or green. My son wore some pink edged diaper shirts on some days when I just didn't have time to wash more than two loads of cloth diapers...yes, this was pre-Huggies and those cloth diapers were hung on the clothes line to dry. (I have officially turned into my parents now..."back in MY day, we didn't" blah blah blah.)
I was grateful for baby clothes of any color. Let Faith wear the offending onsies when she is at home, alone with the family...I doubt they will make her turn into a lesbian trucker. She will grow up the proper little princess, to be sure, whether she wears pink, blue, or day-glo orange.
352. Jenerator - 10/25/2005 11:14:50 AM
Only on the Mote would *I* be admonished for not liking boy clothes for my baby daughter!
353. Jenerator - 10/25/2005 11:19:00 AM
Call me old fashioned, but I think it's "impolite" to buy gender specific clothes for the wrong gender.
Tell me Alistair, would you be thrilled if you received a negligee in your size this Christmas? How about you, Marjoribanks? If you received some pink ballet slippers on your birthday, would you wear them?
Faith has plenty of learning toys and books and art and quilts, and I would rather receive more of them than boy clothes.
354. Jenerator - 10/25/2005 11:22:53 AM
Part of the fun of having a girl is that she's a girl and not a boy. Embrace gender! Viva la feminine!
355. judithathome - 10/25/2005 11:30:18 AM
Good lord, Jen, only you would bitch about a gift from people that didn't suit your needs or wants. Get a grip...you'd think these people had done all they could to deliberately insult you and your children.
If you feel that strongly about it, send it back with a snippy note and tell them to go to hell.
356. Jenerator - 10/25/2005 11:51:13 AM
Nah, I just took the pack back and exchanged it for the right gender and the right size.
By the way Judith, for Christmas I am buying you some Dickies coveralls and a Purina hat.
357. judithathome - 10/25/2005 12:01:13 PM
Jen, how old were these people who foisted this unwanted gift off on you? Do they even KNOW what's fashionable? Or were they just trying to show kindness by giving a gift?
And send them on...maybe I can learn to plow the back forty and feel like a farmer.
358. wonkers2 - 10/25/2005 12:52:19 PM
Jen, are you worried that allowing your daughter to wear something blue instead of pink may result,in gender confusion on her part, or, perish the thought, lesbian tendencies?
359. webfeet - 10/25/2005 1:51:00 PM
You guys are running away with this like sugar streaked toddlers let loose in the candy aisle at Rite Aid. Baby clothes really aren't that loaded a subject. And if they are, it's only because you want them to be.
Congratulations, Jen. It looks like I am last on the line of well-wishers, but I'm very happy for you and look forward to hearing about your coping strategies.
360. judithathome - 10/25/2005 4:33:04 PM
You guys are running away with this like sugar streaked toddlers let loose in the candy aisle at Rite Aid. Baby clothes really aren't that loaded a subject. And if they are, it's only because you want them to be.
Exactly.
361. Jenerator - 11/2/2005 5:48:57 PM
Judith,
I forgot to mention that the onesies were from my drama-loving granmother I mentioned upthread.
362. judithathome - 12/25/2005 10:28:30 AM
THE YEAR THERE WAS NO CHRISTMAS
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a group of lemmings took over the country and decided to do away with everything that made people happy. The hated anything that brought joy and comfort to the masses. They called themselves Republicans. One could recognize them by their scowls.
It was strange how they had come to power. At first, they were thought to be a good thing for the country because they said so quite often and soon, the meme had spread throughout the land because it was repeated so often and so loudly. Groups of them would make appearances in front of large numbers of citizens and they would sound so folksy and competent. Pointing out what bad shape the country was in, making suggestions about how to get the country back on track…what did it matter if the country were actually in fine shape and not off track at all? After hearing it so many times, the people began to think it must be true.
The lemmings were fun at first. They would provide dance bands and lots of refreshments at their gatherings and would welcome anyone who cared to join. Their speeches would be interesting and the information they imparted would seem like something only they could know. They had a way of telling stories that seemed to be true but with just a little detail slightly off…before long, these details had just slipped into the collective consciousness full blown and the off-sounding detail was stashed away innocently enough.
And talk about organization! These guys were masters of it…they had a grass-roots organization that rivaled any private or public corporation in the country…heck, any in the world! They had started years ago, getting their members elected to small local offices and boards of directors. Then, they had moved into the congressional seats of state government and on to the biggies, the National Government of the country. They were not yet in the majority and no one could imagine they ever would be…except for the lemmings themselves.
These were no ordinary lemmings. No running around and diving off cliffs for them! They had a master plan…the Neo Lemming Century. This was a secret plan, hatched in darkness but backed by some of the richest lemmings in the country. Most of them had attended Vole University and were members of the highly secretive Fur & Bones Society. Some say these lemmings were part of the Trilateral Society that was thought to rule the entire world from an unknown location in Europe.
Whatever their background, they were driven to take over the government of the country come hell or high water. Stealing elections became the norm and if they happened to lose out in certain areas of the states, they would soon start a push to redistrict those areas to reflect their desires. Suddenly, almost overnight, they were in the majority of Congress and had installed an inept bungler of a President who was controlled by a cadre of schemers. This group never let the buffoon speak without piping answers into his ear and controlled every appearance he made like puppet masters holding and manipulating the strings on a block of wood with lemming-like features.
Then came an attack on our country and all hell broke loose. Suddenly, the country was vulnerable and every Tom, Dick, and George fell under the sway of the Buffoon in Chief. This was helped along by the puppet masters who flooded the media with outrageous lies about an oil-rich country that had nothing to do with the brutal attack. That was the purview of another oil-rich country, which held ours in thrall to cheap oil to fuel our obscene addiction to huge vehicles and cheap means to operate them. After many months of flooding the media with stories about how evil was the dictator of the country that didn’t attack us and bogus stories about the threat he posed, the lemmings declared war on this evil monster and soon, we were in deep shit with in Middle East.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the economy was in the crapper. The Buffoon In Chief was granting tax breaks to the richest one percent of the lemmings and giving the country over to the corporate assholes who decided to move all their businesses to foreign countries where labor was cheap because the monkeys living there would work for literal peanuts. Then, the Buffoon in Chief decided the poor people in this country didn’t need healthcare, education, or a decent wage to provide for their families and to the amazement of all, said in a speech aired all over the country “Let ‘em eat cake”. This was a statement reminiscent of a long-ago king in a country of frogs who was beheaded because he’d underestimated the intelligence of mere frogs and found himself headless at the end of a revolution.
No revolution was in sight for this group, however. The populace was inundated daily with stories from the government and the media of how swimmingly the war was going and how great the economy was coming along, despite an unmentioned gazillion dollar deficit. Why worry about a niggling little detail like that, anyhow? It wouldn’t be their problem; it would be another generation’s problem long after these geezers were out of the country and sipping Mojitos on the beach in a tax-sheltered paradise.
The country seemed under the sway of some drug…the feel good drug of apathy. If everything felt good and the news was good and the sun continued to rise each day, why worry? And even if a few DID have some concerns, they were quickly eliminated. Not literally but they were labeled traitors to the cause and their reputations were trashed and they were scorned by their fellow citizens. It was a neat trick, especially in a democracy. They were virtually disappeared.
Then came the capper: rumblings from the right wing faction within the lemmings that the Buffoon In Chief was ignoring their demands. They had helped whisk him into office and demanded he do certain things for them after the victory. They wanted science banned in schools and the constitution of the country replaced with tenets from their holy book…a book allegedly written by inspired followers of their Badger god. Then, they started to attack anyone not a follower of their religion…lucky for the Buffoon In Chief he had become born-again just as his cocaine habit careened out of control or he’d have been condemned to hell, also.
Despite the outcry from some segments of the population, these wing nuts began to have more and more control over the Buffoon. They appeared on the pundits’ TV shows and mouthed policy straight out, without even checking in with the Buffoon’s Ministry Of Information. They began to set up camps outside large cities in which to house the non-believers and started to round up unsuspecting souls who wished fellow citizens “Happy Holiday” instead of “Merry Badgermus” during the months of winter.
This was a serious affront to many citizens that had previously supported…or at least not opposed…the Buffoon and his henchmen. The Holiday was a commercial extravaganza that came once a year and allowed everyone to rake in the goodies. It was a win-win Holiday…people got gifts and the stores made a killing on things like the Pocket Fisherman and little figurines that grew green hair once they were doused with water. Food and booze were the staples of the three day orgy and everyone planned for the Holiday at least a year in advance.
(cont')
363. judithathome - 12/25/2005 10:29:00 AM
(cont'd)
The Right Wingnuts, however, decided that the rest of the country was killing Badgermus because of the generic greeting “Happy Holiday”. They claimed we were all trying to take the Badger out of Badgermus. They conveniently forgot that the Holiday started long before the Badger was made a god and that the celebration predated “Badgermus” by centuries.
So, in a country founded on freedom of religion…and freedom FROM it…we found ourselves being attacked from all sides, most prominently from a FOX news commentator named Bull O’Reilly. He took up the Right Wingnuts’ cause with a vengeance and proceeded to use his nightly newscast to further divide the country. Soon, it became impossible to wish anyone a Merry Badgermus or Happy Holidays without coming to blows.
Gradually, it became too violent to even drink eggnog. Or put up lights around the roofs of our homes. And so, we decided to just cancel the day and the celebration.
I’d like to report that this was such a devastating blow to the economy that the wingnuts backed off but, alas, that was not the case. The Buffoon in Chief was unrepentant and blamed everyone else, as was his wont…this dude could never admit to making a mistake. The economy continued to tank and as the populace became more and more disenchanted, so did the Buffoon’s poll numbers. Soon, he became a huge liability to the party and they decided to impeach him. He was cast aside like yesterday’s fish left out to rot at room temperature.
Since this is a fairytale, you’d expect this to be the place where it ends with “…and they all lived happily every after.” Sorry, that is not to be…they all didn’t live happily ever after because they all had to work their fingers to the bone just to survive. The country went into a major depression, both realistically and metaphorically speaking. Gloom covered big city and small berg alike; everyone snarled at their neighbor; the nightly news was a mass of bad luck stories and dire forecasts for the future.
There IS a way this could end the way all fairytales do but unfortunately, that will have to wait for another election and another story.
364. wonkers2 - 12/25/2005 11:16:58 AM
Great piece! However, I don't think it belongs in Mote Fiction!
365. alistairConnor - 12/25/2005 2:07:14 PM
Lovely story Judith...
A merry Badgermas to you all, and a happy new Flying Spaghetti Monster!
I will take as many religious holidays as I can get, as long as they're paid.
366. TheWizardOfWhimsy - 12/25/2005 2:17:45 PM
. . . and to all a good fight!
367. thoughtful - 12/25/2005 9:17:27 PM
Great story...only piece missing is the chief opponents of the lemmings known as the headless chickens who can't find a coherent strategy or walk or talk a straight line despite being gifted platters full of feed by the lemmings. Only thing they seem to be sure of is that they are not lemmings...and even at that a few headless chickens of the lieberass or hillary varieties believe their success lies in making just like lemmings. Only promise seems to be a very young, too young chicken named obama who for some reason has managed to keep his head.
368. Jenerator - 1/29/2006 10:01:03 AM
Webbie-
WHERE ARE YOU??!!
369. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 6:24:37 AM
Reading the bible, no doubt.
370. Jenerator - 3/9/2006 2:00:40 PM
Alistair,
Any sign of webfeet?
371. webfeet - 3/13/2006 10:20:22 PM
Yes, actually Ulgine is right. I've been reading Deuteronomy and have decided to life my spectacles and come up for some victuals.
I had this sense of ESP since it's been really long since I've said hello, and I felt that jenerator was flagging me down from rte 99..and now here I am. I've missed you and everyone--really! I apologize for not being around. Our apartment was under renovation for two and a half months and life has been more hectic and crazy than usual with everyone coming down with the flu at the end. Oh, but who cares? Shallow as I am, all that really matter is I have a goddamned new kitchen.
Frenchcat will have his first sick day tomorrow in six years. It's quite a milestone. He was hot as a microwave earlier, I hope he isn't dead.
How is your brood? Have you started hissing yet at other mothers in the park? Belittled other people's children?
Snagged a cookie out from the grubby hand of a wee one who dares to steal a snackie from you? Nooo?
Children...oh please just send them all away.
372. Jenerator - 3/14/2006 10:17:02 AM
I take it we're needing a vacation from the kiddos?
373. Jenerator - 3/14/2006 10:27:54 AM
I am glad to see you, Webfeet. And I am green with envy that you have a new kitchen. Whoever designed the home we live in had to have been one of two things: male or male!
Things such as counter space, storage, and plug accessibility are all missing, but the house is paid for so I can't really complain. Much.
My daughter is a little spitfire - she is ready to run and is so happy. She smiles at everyone and everything and she is such a joy. Dylan is still a bit jealous, but he is doing better. His speech has come a long way. He tells me all of the time, "Mommy, I marry you!"
But I, too, am wanting a respite from all of my domestic resonsibilities. Just to have a few hours of complete disregard for mommy-rules would be nice - but I have no way of deciding what to do with myself.
Sitting on a veranda drinking a margarita with girls sounds lovely, but I know I'll get sleepy and energy is not something I can waste. Maybe I'll go and have a massage, Lord knows I could use one. But I don't want to lay down for an hour and pay someone $80. I know! I'll go to the mall and be able to actual look at what I want to and shop without distraction!! Too bad I am not down to my fighting weight yet.
Perhaps I will read. I have, at last count, seven unfinished books. Or maybe I'll do some yardwork - it's spring and I sure would like to have flowers here and there. I could go to the movies and see an actual movie from start to finish...
So many things, so little time.
I should probably take a nap or read Deuteronomy.
;-)
374. alistairconnor - 3/15/2006 5:55:41 AM
No, you should write more, Jen. Perfect escape, cheaper than shopping.
As for laying down and paying $80 an hour, I'm biting my tongue, obviously.
375. alistairconnor - 3/15/2006 5:58:57 AM
And it's definitely time to revive this thread.
Anomie, Uzmakk, Neato, MsGreer, Patsy : Read this thread from the beginning. Then write.
All you other slackers too. You know who you are.
376. judithathome - 3/16/2006 12:50:33 AM
Hey, some of us have done our parts....rustle up some newbies at this fiction game!
377. Macnas - 3/16/2006 4:39:38 AM
5 minutes from Black Ash to Lapps quay.
City dump, there was a fire burning underground for 6 years before they found out, now there’s vent pipes all over the area, what for though, to feed the fire oxygen or to pour water down? Eric told me when they were kids they’d spend the Sunday evening killing rats with hurleys just for sport and he was bitten twice the fucking fool no wonder he was half mad the old concrete works I knew a guy who died in there after putting rotten smack into himself they didn’t find his corpse until 3 days later when Eric’s rats had extracted some measure of revenge on the human killers by eating one eye and most of his nose which was maybe just as well because if he didn’t die from bad heroin, he’d have died from the stench from that fucking dump that stinks to high heaven in the warm weather but not too much of that so not as bad as it could be there is Fehillys house off the south Douglas road I can see the window frames painted red cos he liked the colour red a lot and one day went into town wearing a red skirt just to see what it was like but he said it didn’t do anything for him so he never bothered with cross dressing after that but he had the biggest record collection I have ever seen it took up an entire room, the record room we called it but when he was fired from his last job due to a combination of economic recession and him being a few sandwiches short of a picnic he upped and sold the lot and moved to england without telling anyone including his mother who for 2 days after he disappeared called me frantically every shagging hour to see if I’d heard anything but then he rang from london and said he’d picked up a couriers job in the city so not to worry, I never heard from him since but then that’s nothing new I haven’t heard from Neil either and we were close as you like but after he went back to Italy the last time I haven’t heard a word so he could be dead or maybe married to a girl and raising bambinos but I think not he’s probably in Russia or something at this stage as he could never stop too long but then what do I know? The old gas works I had some fun as did everyone else who liked to sit out and get pissed in the evening beside a fire like tinkers but then the corpo knocked the arches and someone built a petrol station there and Brownlows moved the plumbing shop from the old premises off Parnell place to here and there’s the police station and I’m trying for the life of me to remember what the hell was there before it was built but I can’t and I’m distracted by thinking about the model school that they turned into a courthouse across the road from the cops I knew a guy who worked on it he said the found a tunnel running the length of the building and heading off towards Copely street where it was bricked up they filled it in afterwards but that reminds me of a house on barrack street where a friend of mine rented it had a cellar and they found a tunnel in there that ran all the way to the old barrack walls the coppers said it was a way of getting in and out without getting your head blown off by the IRA back in the 1920s when the brits had the place and I’ve gone past a stretch without noticing anything but here’s the national sculpture factory I’ve often said I must visit but what would I say? Nice sculpture lads, keep up the good work? If I could look over to the right Id see the Sextant bar where John and his brother Alex used to play pool on Thursday nights until Alex had an argument with a sore loser who’d lost over a ton back in the days when a ton was a lot and had finished up the disagreement by hopping yer mans head off a sink in the toilets so the welcome wore out fast there and now here we are at Lapps.
378. PelleNilsson - 3/16/2006 9:23:18 AM
Beautiful, Mac, really beautiful.
379. judithathome - 3/16/2006 1:47:44 PM
...cos he liked the colour red a lot and one day went into town wearing a red skirt just to see what it was like but he said it didn’t do anything for him so he never bothered with cross dressing after that but he had the biggest....
Oh my, I was expecting something a little more racy than a record collection!
Stunning, Mac...loved it!
380. Jenerator - 3/16/2006 9:48:11 PM
Macnas,
Wow. I have to admit that the lack of punctuation was a little distracting, but your story is so descriptive!
381. judithathome - 3/16/2006 11:18:30 PM
You do realize what Mac was doing with that lack of punctuation, don't you?
382. alistairconnor - 3/17/2006 3:35:56 AM
Oh miaow!
Nice sculpture lad, keep up the good work!
Can't think of anything else to say.
383. Magoseph - 3/17/2006 7:49:42 AM
Yes, Pelle, it is really beautiful.
384. Macnas - 3/20/2006 2:06:50 AM
Hardly beautful or stunning, but thanks, it's good when others enjoy something you make.
Looking back at it I could have make it better but thats SOC for you, you have to write it as it comes.
385. alistairconnor - 3/20/2006 5:10:58 AM
You mean, it would be cheating to do a second draft? Breaking the rules of the genre? Like stand-up improv?
Surely not.
Might be an interesting exercise to rework it, perhaps?
386. Magoseph - 3/20/2006 5:43:13 AM
Might be an interesting exercise to rework it, perhaps?
I don't agree, it wouldn't be what it is if he were to rework it.
387. Macnas - 3/20/2006 5:54:11 AM
I don't really know about the rules of the genre, to be honest.
I beat that tale out in about as much time as I could type it, going as fast as I could.
That's the way it flowed out, and while I know I could go back to it and edit it here and there to make it maybe funnier or whatever, it wouldn't feel right to do it. So when I say you have to write it as it comes, I'm just talking about myself.
388. judithathome - 3/20/2006 3:44:37 PM
I like it as it is...I'm sure Joyce could have done rewrites, too, but then his work wouldn't be what it is, would it?
389. arkymalarky - 3/20/2006 6:04:55 PM
I don't know if rewrite is equal to editing in this discussion, but SOC can involve extensive editing. It's not thoughts as they come to the author, but as they come to the character. Faulkner painstakingly edited his SOC work in The Sound and the Fury.
But either way, Mac you do write great stuff in here, and I agree that piece doesn't need tinkering or tweaking.
390. arkymalarky - 3/20/2006 6:22:18 PM
AFAIK, there are no rules in how one goes about the writing process in any particular genre. It's the outcome that you want. If you can do as Blake claimed and hop up in the night with great stuff pre-constructed, great. If you have to do like Hugo and write in a room without clothes so you can't leave until you've written what you want, it might not be worth it. I wonder if it was worth it to his wife.
391. Macnas - 3/21/2006 2:36:01 AM
Ha ha no, I never suffer when I write or when I think of something to write.
It wouldn't bear it.
392. NuPlanetOne - 3/25/2006 8:46:21 AM
Mac...
I don't care what style that was. It was fun reading. Very nice.
393. alistairConnor - 3/25/2006 4:10:00 PM
What about you, Nu? That Chicken Piccata was mouth-watering. Got any more recipes you'd like to share?
394. webfeet - 4/4/2006 10:56:14 AM
It always struck me that the strength of this thread was in its collaborative endeavors rather than in critiquing (if that is even the word) individual pieces workshop style. It has been fruitful, but maybe it's time to come up with something new. This barker style step-right-up-to the-mat approach is fine the first time around, then it seems everyone runs out of tricks and the thread is like a crippled little pony hobbling around the rink without an audience.
There was an interesting article recently in Slate on the lack of scent in American fiction. How our novels, devoid of smell, have become sanitized and sterile compared to 19th century fiction and earlier--or even compared to contemporary European writers, not just Proust or more recently, Patrick Susskind. Is it just that we've lost our nose or have American novels gone the way of Lysol pine tree scent? Or, are we just not dirty enough?
395. uzmakk - 4/4/2006 11:44:48 AM
I just read the little instruction up thread.
I will read the thread from top to bottom, bottom to top, front to back and back to front, beginning to end and end the beginning, and I shall write as the instruction says I should. The topic will most definitely be me.
396. uzmakk - 4/4/2006 11:46:14 AM
SMELL WILL ABOUND!
397. PelleNilsson - 4/4/2006 12:36:57 PM
For smelly attachments please consult our special advisor, alistairconnor, who shall be pleased to assist you.
398. Jenerator - 4/4/2006 2:04:56 PM
well, he IS from France!
399. alistairConnor - 4/4/2006 2:58:55 PM
Keskipuedonctant?
C'est le tapis qui pue.
(Opening lines from the classic novel "Zazie dans le metro" by Raymond Queneau)
Whatsthathorriblestink?
It's the carpet.
400. alistairconnor - 4/5/2006 4:18:49 AM
Or, are we just not dirty enough?
you really want to go there, don't you. Fine!
Enough of the bark till you croak style! Sounds like you just appointed yourself facilitator for a collaborative work of Stink Fiction.
401. alistairconnor - 4/5/2006 4:19:31 AM
My smelly attachments can be inspected by appointment only.
402. Macnas - 4/5/2006 4:44:10 AM
You'll be waiting for that appointment.
403. Magoseph - 4/5/2006 7:51:53 AM
Oh, Mac, I'd be willing to make one, but I'd want to pay in kind and that would be--Ali, let's go to two places, one where I was born, and the other where I spent my early childhood and summers.
405. PelleNilsson - 4/5/2006 8:05:43 AM
Such breathtaking ambiguity! Mago would like an appointment to inspect alistair's smelly attachments but she hesitates because she'd want to pay in kind.... The mind fairly boggles.
406. Magoseph - 4/5/2006 8:13:06 AM
Didn’t someone just lately accuse you of having a dirty mind, dear Pelle? I just want Ali to see the 13th century gothic church and the highest donjon in France…want to come along--I’m still in pretty good shape, you know?
407. Jenerator - 4/5/2006 9:17:37 AM
My literalist tendencies cause me to be easily confused when confronted with ambiguity - so, for clarity's sake, when you all say smelly, do you mean you want stories that are so poorly written they stink, are about something or someone odoriferous, or about something foul (meaning nasty, juvenile or naughty)?
408. alistairconnor - 4/5/2006 9:22:16 AM
Oh, so you want to get ambiguous with my smelly appendages too, Jen?
Form an orderly queue.
Scratch and sniff literature.
409. PelleNilsson - 4/5/2006 9:34:31 AM
Aaah, the donjon, the medieval phallos symbol (my donjon is higher than yours). The plot thickens.
410. Jenerator - 4/5/2006 10:40:00 AM
So this guy walks up to a beautiful woman in a bar and he says, "Hey babe, wanna get ambiguous with my smelly appendages?"
411. alistairconnor - 4/5/2006 10:44:59 AM
Works every time...
412. alistairconnor - 4/5/2006 10:46:04 AM
(ahem) But as always in literature, it is the moral ambiguity which is the more essential. As it were.
413. Jenerator - 4/5/2006 10:47:45 AM
Yes, there is such a difference between getting ambiguous with smelly appendages versus getting morally ambiguous with smelly appendages.
414. Macnas - 4/6/2006 2:34:12 AM
Yeah....so, what is this all about again??
415. alistairconnor - 4/6/2006 4:17:05 AM
Just a bit of banter at the back of the class while we're waiting for the teacher to set the essay subject...
I think it's supposed to be a collective effort with an olfactory theme.
416. alistairconnor - 4/6/2006 4:17:35 AM
I kissed my girl
By the olfactory wall
Smelly old town...
417. uzmakk - 4/6/2006 4:51:08 AM
I am very busy, what with serving daily lunch (to the troops) at the encampment(I don't think I've ever described the encampment to you), working, and planning a full frontal assault on a particularly stubborn enemy(the local judiciary). All this, while I breed ponies for the U.S. military. Life is a strange business, and war a serious one, ladies and gentlemen.
I printed out about 80 posts, started reading them last night, and decided to bind them into a book. This has nothing to do with the quality of the writing, good or bad. I do no bookbinding these days, ladies and gentlemen, and I don't like it. There is a problem which presents itself in binding computer printouts which can be solved by cutting a batch of paper with the grain running short instead of long. Excuse me for a while, this shouldn't take too long.
418. Macnas - 4/6/2006 6:20:30 AM
Take your time.
419. PelleNilsson - 4/6/2006 8:18:36 AM
You don't do bookbinding any more? I'm devastated. I had some hope, albeit feint, that the Haysweep Treatise would appear in a bibliophile edition one day. Why does a master artisan abandon his trade?
420. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 10:42:20 AM
Here's what I want in our tale - a hot, smelly guy (preferably someone who looks like The Rock), a likable heroine, intrigue, drama, humor and a cat named Felipe.
421. PelleNilsson - 4/6/2006 10:56:56 AM
Well, Jen, go ahead. Write it!
422. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 11:16:09 AM
Let's make it a work in progress - all of us should contribute.
423. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 11:16:52 AM
Chapter 1
The day was achingly long and the sun glared down on the parched earth. Paco had just wandered into town with his rifle strapped to his back; it was his lone possession.
424. PelleNilsson - 4/6/2006 11:17:22 AM
You first.
425. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 11:30:59 AM
His eyes immediately found the sign that read "Saloon" and so he made his way through the barren street to the bar. Paco's lips were cracked from the heat, and his dirty shirt was open revealing a muscular and sweaty chest.
426. uzmakk - 4/6/2006 12:04:20 PM
I have always been sorry that I didn't take a few of my best horsemen down to Tejas and abduct Jenerator.
All boxes and presentation cases, Pelle, I can switch to books any time.
427. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 12:29:22 PM
[You are a sweetheart Uzzie. For your kind words you must be written into this story.]
428. arkymalarky - 4/6/2006 1:20:52 PM
I think it fits the storyline and theme to incorporate a character named Ooze.
429. Jenerator - 4/6/2006 2:25:24 PM
"What can I do ye for?" asked the bartender named Ooze. He'd been pouring drinks for twenty years and had never seen anyone like Paco.
"Something strong and something that will hurt," Paco replied as he pulled up a bar stool.
Everyone sat still and watched the giant gracefully take a seat. He smeeled like acrid Patchouli oil.
The men kept their hands on their guns and the women fanned their bosoms.
Ooze slid the tequila down to Paco as he had done a thousand times with others, except this time, he slid it too hard and it spilled.
430. Magoseph - 4/6/2006 5:48:36 PM
Suddenly, Fifi LaBelle’s women in a single and disciplinary file left the saloon, except for the Madame herself. A big handsome six-foot woman, she advanced stealthily, suggestively, but not ambiguously toward Paco.
431. judithathome - 4/6/2006 5:50:54 PM
She carried a silk hankie and slowly began to wipe up the puddle of agave juice that had tumbled from the errant glass.
"Hey, Mister, want me to squezze you a shot?" she purred.
432. judithathome - 4/6/2006 5:51:26 PM
(dammit...double e's)
433. arkymalarky - 4/6/2006 6:51:33 PM
I thought it was some kind of exotic accent--like the Weird Czechoslovakians.
434. arkymalarky - 4/6/2006 6:52:29 PM
I thought it was some kind of exotic accent--like the Weird Czechoslovakians.
435. arkymalarky - 4/6/2006 6:53:53 PM
double e's, double z's, double posts, maybe it can be incorporated into the theme.
436. Macnas - 4/7/2006 2:57:44 AM
Meanwhile, outside the cantina, a boy was making his way back home after a long day working in Thaddeus Hertz's fields. His dark curly hair was matted with sweat and dirt, and his shirt clung to him across his back. Under each fingernail packed earth formed a black cresent that made his hands hurt, but he was too tired to do anything about it now, he just had to get home.
His feet were hurting him too, so he had to step lightly and shift his weight as he walked, giving him a curious, almost dancing gait. The wind spun dust in spirals, sending them meandering across the street in front of him.
At the side of the street, under the boards of the sidewalk, the corpse of a dog rotted in the evening heat. The boy could smell it before he could see it, half kicked in out of the way, its skull had been crushed under the iron rim of a conestoga wagon wheel.
He stared at it as he limped by, it reminded him of the smell from the sty when the last of his family's hogs had died from swine fever. A warm smell, thick and almost sweet, ripe and corrupt.
437. Magoseph - 4/7/2006 5:36:39 AM
Approaching the saloon, a wondrous sight caught his attention. This can’t be, he thought, would be too much luck, just couldn’t be Paco’s horse, now could it? Ah, but it is, yes, here is Blueskin.
Happiness overwhelmed his senses at seeing the beautiful animal and erased the odor of death. It brought back the sweating energy, the blended smell of hay, leather, oil, and manure of Thaddeus Hertz's stable and a worry…could Paco still be looking for his beloved?
438. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 7:59:38 AM
Inside the saloon Paco stared at the buxom beauty who had offered him more than a casual respite from the heat. Her long fingers held the handerchief and she confidently plunged it into his shirt wiping off the excess sweat that had formed beads of dirt on his shield of a chest.
439. PelleNilsson - 4/7/2006 8:02:55 AM
The boy entered the saloon and cautiously approached Paco. "What the hell?", cried Paco, "there you are and how you have grown! Time for you to get some carnal knowledge. Go with Fifi here. I know, she is a bit overripe, but she's a great fuck. And don't pay anything. She'll do it for me."
In the meantime, Ooze had produced another glass of tequila which Fifi promptly threw in Pacos face. After wiping it off with his checkered handkerchief Paco brought up the rifle and shot her. While sliding to the floor, Fifi managed to say (with some difficulty because her false teeth were coming loose) "How could you do it, Paco"?
"It was easy", Paco said and slapped a $100 bill on the bar top. "Clean up the place, Ooze, and dump her in some remote place for the coyotes". He turned to the boy, "Now tell me son, how have you been doing lately?"
440. wonkers2 - 4/7/2006 8:37:53 AM
Jen missed her calling. She should be writing bodice rippers!
441. Macnas - 4/7/2006 8:44:04 AM
I think Pelle has just invented a snuff mills & boon genre.
442. wonkers2 - 4/7/2006 9:08:21 AM
Ha! He kinda killed the story, so to speak, just before the young lad went up the stairs with Fifi.
443. Macnas - 4/7/2006 9:15:29 AM
But Ooze, despairing at seeing his one true love (though unrequited) slain so callously before his very eyes, in his own cantina, and just after he had scrubbed the floor, could not contain his anger.
From beneath the bar he raised a smith and wesson 32/20 revolver, pointed it at Paco's sweat riven face, and thumbed back the hammer....
444. wonkers2 - 4/7/2006 9:27:09 AM
"Would you please show proof of age, cowboy? Besides, you've already had more than you can handle."
445. judithathome - 4/7/2006 10:09:44 AM
Paco calmly stared back at Ooze, a smirk on his lips and his left eyebrow raised in that assured arrogance a handsome man gets when he's been told too often how handsome he is.
"Proof of age? I don't need no stinkin' proof of age, old man!" and like a flash his right hand swept up from nowhere and grabbed the barrel of Ooze's gun while with his left hand, he shoved the gun into Oooze's trembling bewhiskered chin.
446. uzmakk - 4/7/2006 10:42:35 AM
Gosh, this is exciting.
447. uzmakk - 4/7/2006 10:43:58 AM
Thumbs down on Ooze! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!
448. anomie - 4/7/2006 11:25:55 AM
Paco, his head cocked back laughing like a maniac suddenly became silent, his body shook and he opened his eyes. Fifi's face came slowly into focus. He felt the hand slapping his face..."Wake up you son of a bitch! You want that drink or what?" Another flashback he thought. It had been 10 years since he killed that other woman.
449. anomie - 4/7/2006 11:50:52 AM
He looked at Ooze trembling in fear. It wasn't a gun barrel he was holding. It was the bottle. "C'mon, have that drink now, old man", urged Ooze.
What happened all those years ago that made most woman scram when Paco came to town?
450. anomie - 4/7/2006 11:52:18 AM
Most women. But not Fifi LaBelle.
451. PelleNilsson - 4/7/2006 1:21:54 PM
For an instant Paco saw Fifi as she appeared that fateful day ten years ago: a trim, yet sweltering blonde still in posession of all her teeth. But he was not ready to face those memories, perhaps he would never be. "Pour it Ooze", he said, his muscular, sweaty chest glistening in the feeble light cast by the saloon's el foco nudo.
452. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:25:58 PM
Meanwhile, the curly headed lad recovered from the shock of seeing his father for the first time in ten years. Had his first words to him really been to go upstairs with the voluptuous Madame for his initiation into manhood?
"When did they let you out, Papa?" the boy asked.
Paco just lifted his head from his crossed arms, looked at him with contempt and said, "Chuey - don't ask you little bastard."
453. anomie - 4/7/2006 1:26:48 PM
(Glad you're not upset with me Pelle. Fifi was too good a character to kill off so soon)
454. PelleNilsson - 4/7/2006 1:29:28 PM
You're right, anomie. Great rescue job!
455. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:30:52 PM
Paco at high-noon
456. anomie - 4/7/2006 1:32:32 PM
I pictured him older. More like Paladen.
457. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:38:00 PM
Chuey, on seeing his father's horse outside the saloon.
458. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:39:26 PM
Ooze on his day off
459. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:42:44 PM
Fifi LaBelle seeing Paco for the first time in years
460. anomie - 4/7/2006 1:44:36 PM
458: That's Paladen.
461. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 1:50:51 PM
(Anomie - I know - that's why he's Ooze)
462. webfeet - 4/7/2006 1:55:51 PM
Bravo, bravo..that story really stunk! (In the best possible sense of the term)
It went from a poster of cliches to a hilarious romp! Nice farce.
463. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 2:16:16 PM
It can't be over, we never got to Felipe.
464. anomie - 4/7/2006 2:19:06 PM
Jen,
Good choice. It goes way back though. I'm surprised you remembered.
"Have gun. Will travel."
465. alistairConnor - 4/7/2006 2:52:47 PM
Paco woke up. Then decided he'd really rather not.
His brain was hammering rhythmically, painfully against the top of his skull. That was the dominant sensation. He opened his eyes. Closed them, opened them. It made no difference. Either he had gone blind (and with Ooze's liquor...) or it was tarry pitch black here... Where?
He was flat on his back on a hard surface. His fingers found a fairly smooth floor, neither cold nor hot. Other aches awoke to complement the hammering head. No sound. Deaf? No, he clearly heard his habitual rush of intestinal gas, a waking ritual.
But he didn't smell it... no, there were too many competing odours for the morning fart to break through. Ashtray mouth : normal. Acrid aftertaste of Ooze's villainous homebrew mezcal. Nostrils full of bile : bad sign. That's probably crusted puke on his clothes.
He licked his lips : a mish-mash of unpleasant residues. And caked blood : a badly split lip, and oh shit, a broken tooth behind it.
What the hell had he been doing last night? The saloon. Old Ooze, and old Fifi... she'd probably cleaned him out, she was never one to leave a sucker in funds. But... he'd had exactly $1.76 in his pocket, enough to pay for the first couple of drinks... who paid the rest?
And there were other smells. The deprivation of his other senses sharpened his olfaction, and it must be said that in this respect he was a symphony in a minor key, a mix of honest dirt and sweat and a bunch of less reputable reeks.
There's woman there too. A hint of feminine scent, body humours... oh yes, and sex. Must have been a night to remember. But I don't remember...
466. anomie - 4/7/2006 4:17:15 PM
Fifi wept.
467. Jenerator - 4/7/2006 8:40:14 PM
Just then Paco heard an intense meowing coming from behind him. He thought that perhaps it was the woman he had sexed in his drunken stupor, and so he listened more intently this time.
MEOW!
His brain tried as best it could to remember any woman who sounded that shrill post coitus, but he couldn't concentrate because of the hammering pain in his head.
The sound stopped.
Who the hell is that? he asked himself as he tried to sit up. The stench of the night before burned his nostrils.
468. Magoseph - 4/8/2006 11:33:08 AM
But it was no Fifi, it was Felipe, Chuey’s beloved cat. The son of a gun and Ooze brought me to that son of bitch Thaddeus, the source of all misery in this here place, he thought. Time’s come to tell the boy I ain’t his ole man, Thaddeus is---Thaddeus Hertz who took my beloved, that slip of a girl we Indians raised as our own. She ran away from that brute…
Suddenly the cat jumped on his back and before he could move, Thaddeus Hertz came in, torch in one hand, and riding crop in the other. Steely blue mean eyes, same hair as Chuey, his great bulk hovering over Paco, he snarled, “You didn’t find her and you never will.” The crop came down and the smell of blood filled the world.
469. PelleNilsson - 4/8/2006 12:56:52 PM
Paco's self-pity evaporated. The headache too. He bounced to his feet, his mighty chest glistening with blood. He grabbed Thaddeus's arm and broke it over his knee. "If you had a spine, I would break that too", he said. "Now just go away you f*cking useless bastard". And he added the fateful words that would change his life forever, just as it had changed a decade ago. "And remember this, mate. Chuey stays with me".
And with that he went in search of Fifi. Useless slut as she was, she could at least give him a hot bath and attend to his wounds.
470. PelleNilsson - 4/8/2006 12:57:34 PM
Good illustrations, Jen!
471. Jenerator - 4/8/2006 4:07:55 PM
Fifi heard the commotion from down the hall and she knew what was happening. Thaddeus told her long ago that if he ever saw Paco again, he'd be dead before sunrise. She leaned against the bed post and cried softly remembering back those many years ago when Paco had loved her.
The stranger in her bed commanded that she come back and earn her fee. She hated this part of her job. Her customer was old and toothless and limp to boot. She had never worked so hard for a dollar in all her life and hearing Paco get hurt made her surroundings all too real.
She returned to bed and tried to think about the first time she and Paco made love in the desert under the sun.
472. Magoseph - 4/9/2006 5:45:27 AM
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Thaddeus, his arm set by the vet, drank White Lighning to numb the excruciating pain. Reviewing the night’s events, he knew he had to resolve the thorny problems of Chuey, Fifi, and the girl. “The latter was safe now where he sent her” he thought, “but Chuey was gone with Paco, God only knows where. Fifi, ah, Fifi, my first love, and Paco’s too, must be redeemed somehow and forgiven by Paco who never misses a chance to abase her. There must be a way to reunite those two in time. Paco must realize that, even though his people raised her, the girl is too young for him.”
As he rose heavily, a thought struck him with such force that he reeled and sitting down smelled for the first time the vile effluvious emanating from his riding habit. “Never mind that, he said aloud, Ali can draw me a bath and scrub the night away while Mags makes breakfast.” However, he continued thinking about Fifi and wondered why she was reverting to her early beginning and taking on some old coot when she runs the place he started for her.
“Is she punishing herself? Was she heartbroken because Paco treated her so shabbily? Oh, hell and damnation, I’ll think about this tomorrow, after all, tomorrow is another day!”
473. Magoseph - 4/9/2006 5:50:59 AM
Effluvious= effluviums.
474. judithathome - 4/9/2006 9:54:13 AM
Across the miles, on the Indian reservation, the thoughts of the girl, Clarissa, drifted back to the days when she and her parents set out for the West to make their fortunes. Their hopes were high when tragedy cruelly struck down both mother and father, leaving the beautiful green eyed, auburn-haired little girl crying in front of the empty wagon, confused and terrified. How scared she was when the hunting party came by and swept her up, brought her to that place...
As she patiently recited the alphabet to the roomful of little pupils with shining eyes, she couldn't help the thoughts that intruded at times...a beautiful meadow, loving women who fed her and braided her hair, smiling men who taught her to find the animals in the starry skies...
Clarissa was immediately back in her years with the loving adopted family who kept her safe and guided her to young adulthood.
Other thoughts, too, came, forced themselves into her restless mind...thoughts of the handsome Paco and his scowl; of the courtly Thaddeus and his scent of pipe tobacco; thoughts of Chuey...oh yes, thoughts of Chuey.
475. PelleNilsson - 4/9/2006 12:12:37 PM
Clarissa. That brings forth memories. Was it vonKreedon or was it alistair?
476. Macnas - 4/10/2006 3:03:59 AM
Out on the alkaline flats, Cuelga sat in the thin shade cast over a boulder. He was looking at his horse, a piebald mare that he had taken 2 weeks before from a Tewa halfbreed. The Tewa had tried to knife him as he slept, 2 miles off the trail west of Paso de los Indios, or Laredo as some called it now.
He'd tried, failed, and Cuelga had a itchy cut under his jawline and a frisky piebald mare as testament to a the short and brutal fight that had ended with the Tewa's belly ripped open.
Cuelga was full blood Tindi apache, and proud of it. He had been schooled by the missionaries, near where he had grown up in Cibolo creek, so he spoke english passably enough, spanish pretty fluently. His father had rode with the Texans in the war against the Spanish, but he never held that against him. Truth be told, he preferred mexican company to any damn whiteman, thats for sure.
Cuelga never had much truck with white people, not like his father, who had counted some as brothers. Well, look what that got him, hung by the neck by some drunken posse who wern't even looking for him, just decided to rid the territory of one more stinking indian while they were at it.
He shivered, being hanged was one of the worse things the whiteman could do. Still, he's sworn his oath to find them, the ones who done it. He still had the scar on his hand where he'd squeezed out the blood that gave the oath the weight it deserved.
He'd got 2 of them so far, at least he was pretty sure it was them. He had another 2 to go, but he was in no particular hurry about it. Just as he was in no particular hurry to go into this damn tarpit his horse had got itself into. He'd been leading the horse when it happened, she'd got the smell of sweet water in her nostrils, and had jerked the reins from his had and headed off to get to it. After 2 days on the dry flats, Cuelga could smell the water himself, and took off after her.
He'd never seen this tarpit before, but that was nothing new either, these things could spring up overnight sometimes. Now, it wasn't very deep, or at least he didn't think so. she was only in as far up to her forelegs. But that was too deep for him, and he knew if he got in there he might not make it out again. And he was damned if he was going to end his days drowned in a stinking tarpit like some fool coyote.
So, the mare was stuck, and while he did not mind walking so much, he spent most of his life on foot anyways, the saddle she had on was worth a few dollars. He'd got it in the mountains near Santa Rosa, of'n the back of a dead vaquero who'd bled out after some gunfight or other. It had sliver chased into the leather, it was pretty enough to look at and might be worth 20 dollars for the silver alone.
He got to his feet, and went off to find some brush wood. He had to make do with tumbleweed, but it'd do he reckoned. He went to the edge of the tarpit and dipped the tumble weed into it, then broke some off and with his tinderbox and flint made a small fire. The mare snorted at the smell, but didnt move.
He took the tumbleweed and set it ablaze from the fire, then moved around to the front of the horse and reached towards her, slowly, with the burning torch he'd made. The mares eyes bulged huge and she threw her head, but slowly, surely, started to back away from the flames. After a short while she had her two hind legs out of the pit, and that was enough for Cuelga.
He cleaned her off as best he could, then, with his fingers around the brindle he walked her the last 100 yards to the water hole.
He checked the time of day against the sky, and decided he'd make camp a bit out from the next town. He knew some people there, or at least thought he did. He spat and thought about white folks again, never did have any time for them, save one girl, who he thought of as a friend, but hell that was a story he'd rather had never happened, so he did the next best and forgot it.
477. alistairconnor - 4/10/2006 4:08:07 AM
Felipe's insistent miaouling led Paco through the darkness, to a narrow door. Behind it was a steep staircase, with faint cracks of light outlining another door above. The air in the confined stairwell retained a bewitching scent that stirred a memory in Paco's mind... was that jasmine? ... No, Yasmine! He leaned against the wall, his head spinning, as the memories returned.
For it was she who had saved his life by bundling him down the stairs into the coal cellar, when Macpherson's men were seeking him, to finish him off.
478. alistairconnor - 4/10/2006 4:27:34 AM
He hadn't known, of course, that they were Macpherson's men. Not until Yasmine had told him.
They seemed fine enough fellows, rough but honest dudes. He hadn't asked himself why they were so keen to ply him with drink. Paco was something of a local legend, his reputation had even been enhanced by his long absence; and he had rewarded their generosity with a few guarded anecdotes.
Fifi had retired for the night, angry and bitter at Paco's rebuffal. Yasmine had appeared in the saloon shortly after that. The conversation had hushed, as the drinkers eyed up the young whore who dared to brave Fifi's ban; but Paco was too far gone to notice that. No, it was that scent that made him turn his head; and as soon as he met her eyes, he knew that he was lost.
No words were needed : he lumbered to his feet and meekly followed the beautiful Arab girl out of the cantina and across the street to her room in Fifi's bordello.
479. Macnas - 4/10/2006 4:33:54 AM
Arab girl?
Now wait a hayseed pickin' minute, where the hell did she come from?......never mind.
480. alistairconnor - 4/10/2006 4:56:09 AM
Paco was lucid enough to know that the girl was getting herself into a whole lot of trouble. She was stealing from her Madam, and doubly so : Paco was penniless, and Fifi's girls had no right to give it away. But such is my legend, he thought : the little doxies can't help themselves.
So he was astonished when she resisted his embrace. "Foolish man, do you know not that you are in mortal danger?"
She had explained what she had overheard and pieced together : Macpherson's minions were to arrange for him to have a nasty, untraceable accident. A fatal accident. "You must fly, Paco, to fight another day."
The whore with a heart of gold. There's one in every generation, he thought. One in every million, perhaps. But even then, some mysterious alchemy gone wrong slowly turns their hearts to lead. Like Fifi's...
He should have left at once, of course. Saddled Blueskin and ridden off into the moonless night. No shame in that. But Yasmine... How could a man leave such a woman, without...
So when he finally crept out into the hall, Macpherson's man was waiting. Paco kicked the knife from his hand, but the fellow had sent him sprawling with a powerful punch. That was when Yasmine had saved him, laying his assailant out cold with the chamber pot.
That'd give the son of a bitch something to remember me by, thought Paco with satisfaction : that pot was well-filled, thanks to me.
481. Magoseph - 4/10/2006 8:17:46 AM
Heart of Gold Yasmine
The Girl Clarissa
482. Macnas - 4/10/2006 8:49:15 AM
In the doorway of the livery, Cuelga leaned against the side post and rolled a puros. Through the smoke from the first drag he looked across the street, at a tall white man walking towards the cantina.
Fine figure of a man, thought Cuelga, you wouldnt put him down for a man who was so drunk as to be falling off his horse. But that's exactly as he remembered Thaddeus Hertz, on the day he directed his men to hang the old indian.
Cuelga drew in a lungfull of harsh Chole tobacco smoke, leaving it out slow, his eyes squinting as he watched Thaddeus pause outside the cantina. Looked like he'd be working out his blood oath sooner than expected.
483. uzmakk - 4/10/2006 12:53:18 PM
I'm curious. Is it possible that Yasmine has an associate named Penny Flambe? I ask because I know a Penny Flambe and if she is not introduced now she bound to show up later.
Ah yes... Penny Flambe, to others, the cheapest but most skillful practicioner at Fifi's; to me, the only woman I ever truly loved. Hey, I'm only a bartender in this stinking town and Penny was as high as I needed to set my sights. God, I loved that woman...or so I thought.
Where the hell did we leave Ooze? I forget. Oh yah, the printer started to crap out on me after 14 sections. I think maybe it just got tired, rather than being low on ink; I'll try again later. I ran out of paper too, and have to cut more. I remain very busy, but my wife knows that something is up what with the Mote lying around the house in sections. What fun.
484. Jenerator - 4/10/2006 2:53:05 PM
Fifi caught a glimpse of the mysterious stranger standing in the doorway of the business across the street. The shadow hid his face, but she could see an outline of his ominous physique. He smoked a cigar and the cloud of smoke futher obscured his identity. She strained to see who it was - his outline looked so familiar but she could not place who it was.
It had been weeks since Paco had broken Thaddeus' arms, but she still felt the pain of his hasty departure. She missed him even though they hadn't been together for so long.
She daydreamed about seeing Paco at the bar when suddenly, she was startled back to reality by gunshot. She looked down toward the stranger and saw that he was gone, but Paco's horse Blueskin was dead in the street. The cigar smoke still swirled in the air where that man had been.
She anxiously looked around and then ran to the other window. Everything was too quiet, too deserted. Where was everyone?
Panic crept into Fifi and then pure fear. She could feel her heart beat in her throat.
Everything was silent except for her heart and the click of spurs walking into the main lobby underneath her room.
She had sent the drunk sheriff home an hour earlier - he was in no shapre to be with one of her girls. Dammit. Verona, her book keeper had taken the girls up the soldier's camp to entertain them. Fifi was alone in the brothel.
She put her ear against the door to listen.
Click, drag, click, drag.
Whoever it was, was now making his way up the stairs.
Fifi blew out her lantern and scrambled to find a place to hide.
485. judithathome - 4/10/2006 4:44:11 PM
(that's low, Jen...killing the horse!)
486. alistairconnor - 4/11/2006 2:44:55 AM
Paco sat before the fire, enjoying the hot resinous odours from the burning ponderosa pine. Enjoying too the sickly sweet smell of the resin in the pipe which he handed back to the Chief. Yasmina's contribution : finest Moroccan haschisch. It seemed to be doing the trick : the elders of the tribe, despite their misgivings, now consented to keeping the Arab girl among them.
Yasmina had wanted to stay and tough it out in town, that night; Paco had simply thrown her over his saddle-bow and hit the trail. No time to explain, with Macpherson, Thaddeus and probably Fifi out for his blood. Had he left her there, he felt sure that Fifi would have taken vengeance on the girl : perhaps not killed her; perhaps only disfigured her with a razor. Another kind of death sentence.
So he had brought her to the safest place he could think of.
487. Macnas - 4/11/2006 2:55:44 AM
The shot had come from the back of the livery, and had punched a hole through the tobacco smoke as it whipped past Cuelga's head.
He ducked and moved around the side of the stable, making his way down the narrow alley, having to hop and skip to avoid the flow of manure and wash that slopped from the slatted floor of the livery. He had to be fast, and try and get to the rear of the barn without making too much noise.
He stopped and ducked down low again as he reached the end of the alley, looking under the posts of the back step to see any telltale pair of boots...nothing.
Easing out into the open, he looked around to see if the shooter had left any sign in the thick dust and feed chaff in the back lot. There, a fresh trail, leading from the rear fence of the lot to the back of the barn and back again, this time in a hurry.
Strange to say, Cuelga could nearly swear they were the tracks of a very small barefoot man, maybe a child even.
He went back into the barn and found the piebald, saddled up and rode out the back. Kicking the mare into a gallup he cleared the back fence and headed for the high ridge that over looked the town. He'd camp here tonight, Thaddeus would have to keep, and he had to watch his back if someone really did try to blow his head off back at the livery.
488. alistairconnor - 4/11/2006 3:48:30 AM
Clarissa was astonished to see how easily Yasmine adapted to the desert life. She seemed to know instinctively where she could find forage for the goats in her charge; where to find respite from the deadening heat of the midday sun; and unerringly, she found all the springs, without being told. She even found one, a good one, which was unknown to the tribe, after more than a decade on the reservation.
In truth, the tribe were not desert Indians; the settlers and the army had driven them off their fertile riverside meadows, and they had often been close to starvation. Yasmine, on the contrary, was desert-born, into a noble family of Bedouins in the North African desert.
She was eager to learn the tribe's language, and she made swift progress under Clarissa's tuition. It's easy to learn a new language, she explained, if you already know Arab, Berber, French, English and Turkish.
Captured at an oasis by Barbary pirates, she had been groomed for the harem of the Sultan of the Ottomans; but the ship which was taking her to Istanbul was intercepted by the US Navy. Ensign Kent Clark, the love of her life, had brought her to America, but the day before they were to be married, he had been arrested for desertion... Left without resources in New Orleans, she had been obliged to fend for herself, in the only way she knew how.
489. alistairconnor - 4/11/2006 3:55:37 AM
Yasmine thought tenderly of Penny. Of her magnolia perfume, of her ironic laugh, her airs of fallen aristocracy. Is there anything else I will miss, in this life I have left behind, she thought? Is there anyone else worth saving in that despicable town, if the tribe were to torch it, as some of the young bloods advocated?
490. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:17:20 AM
Cuelga could smell the fires from the reservation, the scent of mesquite making its way into the box canyon where he had hid himself that evening.
Mesquite, and cooked dog. He never cared for dog, too stringy, and he never cared for the damn Hopi's cooking it neither. A slave race, cooped up in that damn reservation with imaginary walls around it, eating dog and doing ghost dances while they could be out free, taking antelope and rabbit.
The fire pit stones were hot enough, so he set the nice fat coney he'd snared that morning to cook under them, no sense in having an open fire at this hour.
The piebald mare snickered once, then twice.
Cuelga backed away from the fire pit and into the darkness, drawing his knife from the supple leather sheath he'd made when he was a boy back in Cibolo.
The knife was forged by a 'smith he knew and traded with in Mexico. It was spring steel from a busted wagon, and it was still the best damn knife a man could have, took an edge easy and wouldnt snap if you had to use it as a pry bar.
He'd killed many men with it, fighting and killing were just a part of Cuelgas world, and he prepared now to fight whoever was out there, beyond the brush at the mouth of the canyon.
491. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:18:29 AM
"Ensign Kent Clark"
Did he have a big red "S" on his uniform?
492. Magoseph - 4/11/2006 6:43:36 AM
Following the delicious scents of vervain and jasmine hovering around the girls, Clarissa’s governess thought, “Such a contrast the two girls are, wandering about the camp in the dusky evening, arms enlaced, and shattering so animatedly!
Yasmine and Clarissa, here is west meeting east, ancient world and new world, Mags is correct, women can rule the world, if only the men were not so bloodthirsty murderous chaps... Good old Marguerite, I miss her, a little too revolutionary, but a good woman and a superb cook when she is not drinking the cooking wine.
When Thaddeus is coming, I wonder. Well, here is Paco, he may know something”
493. uzmakk - 4/11/2006 9:27:38 AM
Who Needs Fiction?
Marguerite,
Did you notice a new attendee at last night's meeting. He looked like Lucca Brozzi would have come in with me. He was waiting outside the Lookout House when I arrived. When I exited my car he approached me and asked if this was where 'RASQ or something like that is having a meeting'. Why wait for me; He could have tried the door any time. I never saw him before. He sat behind me and I paid no attention to him for the entire meeting . Did you notice him? Did he do any work? What was his demeanor?
All of these questions occurred to me just this morning.
Yours truly,
Jim
494. PelleNilsson - 4/11/2006 10:07:34 AM
After dumping Yasmine Paco made his way back to Ooze's and now he sat there pondering his future. Should he go back to Harvard? After all he was a tenured professor in European history, the youngest ever, an honour he won through his dissertation An Analysis of the 1890 Letters between Danton and Robespierre, in which he used the six extant letters, his masterful, orotund Gibbonesque prose and his powers of analysis to trace events in Europe from the fall of feodalism to the fall of the Berlin Wall. He had been on leave of abscence for "research" since that day ten years ago, but tenure was tenure.
As he pondered he saw Chico, one of Taddeus's thugs, tie up his horse outside. Paco leaned across the bar and picked up the baseball bat he knew Ooze kept there. When Chico entered he felled him with a well-judged swing and picked up the guy's gun belt He had been without a gun for too long. Stepping outside he saw that the horse was a beautiful one. "Topper", he said softly, and the horse brayed in response. Then he knew.
Fifi and Chuey had come downstairs, alerted by the soft fruity sound of baseball bat meeting human cranium. Paco forced himself to give Fifi a farewell kiss for old times sake.. "I loved her once", he thought as he controlled his retching reflex, "but since then the foul-smelling bitch has sucked a thousand cocks and swallowed a thousand loads". He swept up Chuey, monted Topper and rode off in the fading light. "Where are we going", the boy said. "Home, Chuey, home to the reservation. That's where it will play out."
495. uzmakk - 4/11/2006 12:19:51 PM
i.e., He looked like Luca Brazzi and would have come in with me.
496. Macnas - 4/12/2006 1:58:40 AM
Ah I'm bored with it.
497. alistairconnor - 4/12/2006 2:49:34 AM
Well it's only a warm-up, remember.
498. Macnas - 4/12/2006 2:50:28 AM
Oh god you mean there's more?
499. PelleNilsson - 4/12/2006 6:02:43 AM
I'm offended that Macnas gets bored after my latest instalment. I think it is a most excellent combination of character development, raciness (is that a word?), sentimentality, gratuitous violence and suspense. What will happen know? Apply your craft, Macnas!
500. Macnas - 4/12/2006 6:14:30 AM
It's not you Pelle....it's me.
Never thought I'd be saying that to another man! I'm just bored with myself writing like a 6th rate Louis L'amour, so,
to finish things off nicely:
While waiting to pounce on the intruder, Cuelga was unfortunate to be buried under a 6 ton rockslide that also killed his horse and whoever was poking around in the canyon looking for him.
Meanwhile, back at the reservation....
501. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 8:31:08 AM
...because the words were spoken at an open public meeting I don't suppose we should have any trouble posting--
Shiv sighting, checking reliability of sources.
502. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 12:08:30 PM
Things have been different since I started the cantina. Its a little money engine. I cover costs, take 50% of the net for myself and 50% goes to RASQ. This for 3 hours a day doing something I like to do. Of course I'm not zoned for it, but its a very personal operation. A bit of a secret, if you know what I mean. Things are starting to roll and when they do there's always a chance that those mob muttonheads will show, especially when one is dealing with the extractive industries in Pennsylvania. I have a limit of 10 for lunch, patrons pay what they feel, reservations only. WILKMOD@hotmail.com
503. webfeet - 4/12/2006 1:49:51 PM
Now that Cuelga has been killed off (I shall miss the cooked stringy dogs and piebald mares) how is the orgy to end?
Uzmak, your strangely anachronistic soliloquies..mob muttonheads, Luca Brozzi make me think you should lead the next group endeavor in something like Mob Notebook that could take place in New Jersey.
504. webfeet - 4/12/2006 1:58:01 PM
And the Arab girls? One also stops to wonder what else Yasmine learned at Clarissa's tuition; and Paco, will affirmative action take him to Cambridge or will his checkered past besmirch his restless spirit?
and, Fifi alors? Worked the cosmetic counter at Lancome--or--
Pelle, never doubt yourself. "SOft fruity sounds of a baseball bat" was inspired, really, by any definition.
505. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 3:05:03 PM
Anachronistic? My goodness webbie, you must be on a very very very fast track. Lingowise, anyway, I suppose.
506. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 3:12:27 PM
...also, some would argue that we are, in fact, a bit behind the rest of the country.
507. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 3:26:47 PM
If a man looks like Luca Brazzi and not Joe Peschi or Gandolfini should one not reference Brazzi? If a man looks like a particular 18th century depiction of Christ is it anachronistic to say so?
Muttonhead is anachronistic, but that's my business.
508. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 3:27:55 PM
I always liked "muttonhead".
509. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 3:47:06 PM
Also, Webbie, wrt the soliliquising:
I sort of jumped the gun. I was following Connor's instructions and reading this thread in preparation for a future contribution of exquisite quality and value when I got written into the current communal effort. At least I have a cantina.
510. webfeet - 4/12/2006 4:54:31 PM
You're not serious. You didn't actually follow his instructions? I thought that was Alistair trying to be Jimmy Stewart. "Go back to the beginning, my boy, back to page one" Gosh, let's not stop there. Let's start scraping the ground with sticks like our friends, the hunters and gatherers.
I had to google Luca Brazzi. He must have been a very nice guy. This is a sample from a Luca Brazzi greeting card on The Nonist:
Merry Fuckin’ Christmas!
My gift to you is although you still owe me ninety large, you got until the twenty-sixth before I break your fuckin’ knees and burn down that shithouse you call a diner.
Mob muttonheads is very catchy. We can only look forward to hearing more about them in your next cantina.
511. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 5:40:31 PM
I won't go back to read the post, but my recollection is that Connor's request was an honest and straight forward request for more participation. He mentions five or six moties, I among them. This was a bit before Jenerator started this last story. Are we talking about the same thing? Jimmy Stewart? "Let's start scraping the ground with sticks like our friends, the hunters and gatherers."
Webbie...Webbie...you seem so far away.
512. uzmakk - 4/12/2006 5:51:26 PM
Also, you should google the images page and not the text. Though there are no stills from the Godfather there, there are several pictures of a pitbull named Luca Brazzi who resembles the character.
513. webfeet - 4/12/2006 6:55:25 PM
Getting carried away in this thread must be a novel idea, I know, but I was making a reference with my images of primitive man writing with sticks--to going back to the 'word'. If you're going back as far as the beginning of the thread, then why stop there?
But I see that wasn't the least bit funny.
514. uzmakk - 4/13/2006 3:32:50 AM
Way over my head, Webbie. Way over my head.
515. alistairconnor - 4/13/2006 3:55:55 AM
Just follow your instinct, Uz. The cantina theme has legs. Pennsylvanian quarries, mines and mob, too.
The thing about the cantina is that absolutely anyone can walk in. As long as they are a friend of a friend.
516. Jenerator - 4/13/2006 3:52:10 PM
Webfeet,
You *have* to let us know when you are published. Or, you could just tell me and I will keep it a secret.
517. Jenerator - 4/13/2006 3:52:38 PM
Everytime I read something witty coming from New York, I always think it's you.
518. alistairConnor - 4/13/2006 4:08:30 PM
The first hole, dug on Sunday, was unsuccessful. I got down about a metre and knew I must have missed it. On careful reflection, I can see that where it comes out under the wall, it's at an angle, so I should be looking closer in, nearer to the wall of the house.
So here I am, scratching around in the garden at 8 on a Thursday evening. After a while, my pick strikes something hollow. This must be it.
I enlarge the hole, clean up a bit, and lift the big stone. This is what I'm looking for. I've struck... well not exactly gold. It flows fast and, well, not clear at all. Bits of toilet paper, half-disintegrated turds.
According to my plan, I need to excavate enough to insert several two-metre lengths of 100mm PVC tubing, into this ancient stone drain.
It occurs to me : I'm going to be inserting a long, rigid tube into this deep, secret, moist, explicitly cloacal hole in the ground. An unbiased observer would concede that it has to be done. It's the new law : individual houses not connected to a sewer must have normalized sanitation. But still...
What was my last major project? Inserting six metres of flexible stainless steel tubing into the chimney, to line the brick tubing. Again, a legal requirement. Straightforward enough, except that I first had to drop a T-junction down there, to link it up to the stove, and it got stuck halfway. So here am I, up on the roof, poking vigorously with a four metre pole down a sooty hole...
There is no particular reason to tie any of this to the current state of my sex life or psyche. But, gentle reader, if these two episodes were dreams rather than actual real life, how would you interpret them?
519. prolph - 4/13/2006 6:02:32 PM
White haired and wrinkeld Old Patsy sits by the smeaared and dirty window of the atic to try and find out what is going on the street below,The nights have been cold and her blanket is thin. She hopes that soon someone will rember her. She is hungty and hopes someone will remember her and bring her her meals on horesback,
520. uzmakk - 4/14/2006 6:04:21 AM
Connor, I found that post to be very easy reading. Language flowed, no strain, no obvious contrivance, authentic. Stainless pipe and bits of turds. Of course one can be authentic without turds, but not in this case. Can you possibly go anywhere with it? I have not yet read your Gisele stories. Read an installment quite a while ago.
Prolph, can you give us another installment?
521. uzmakk - 4/14/2006 6:10:58 AM
I'm not sure whether you recall that I'm breeding ponies for the U.S. Armed Services. Want your meals delivered on horseback? Horses abound in the current effort don't they?
522. alistairconnor - 4/14/2006 7:10:18 AM
I shudder to think what the Armed Services do with the ponies.
523. uzmakk - 4/14/2006 7:26:57 AM
It has to do with the fact that the Afgans -- the entire nation, Taliban and Western sympathizers alike -- found our incompetence with animals astounding. Perhaps, reprehensible.
524. uzmakk - 4/14/2006 7:27:46 AM
It has to do with the fact that the Afgans -- the entire nation, Taliban and Western sympathizers alike -- found our incompetence with animals astounding. Perhaps, reprehensible.
525. alistairconnor - 4/14/2006 7:56:30 AM
Oh, so you're in the animal sensitivity training business!
Ah, what would Mr Rumsfeld say! Replace those ponies with robots!
526. webfeet - 4/15/2006 10:50:38 AM
Jen
Publish or perish is first and foremost on my mind right now. It's made me rather testy. I am editiing and revising a few chapters to submit to book agents with the hope that the fish will bite. The question of marketability is always in the back of my mind. I've had some success marketing my writing for conferences and finance, but not in fiction. This will be my first try.
If that fails...well screw my tongue, as Lady Macbeth once said. Too bad Macbeth didn't have a plan b. Mine is to try to freelance on topics ranging from travel in France to offbeat, lively pieces for women's magazines.
I was encouraged recently when I read Cathy Horyn, a sensational fashion writer at the Times, talk about how she, a little nobody with a kid, freshly divorced, worked her way to front row fashion critic.
But thanks for thinking of me. OF course I will let you know! I've always appreciated yours and everyone else's feedback.
527. alistairConnor - 4/16/2006 3:17:29 AM
Screw my tongue! Did she really say that?
Plan B... I need a plan B for that drain. I only got it in about 1 metre, and it stuck fast.
528. PelleNilsson - 4/16/2006 8:37:30 AM
Any plan B worth its name involves dynamite.
529. Jenerator - 4/16/2006 9:21:55 PM
webfeet,
I bet even your financial manuals are a fun read as long as you're authoring them. And I am not flattering for the sake of being nice. I really think you have a talent - it's wit combined with succinct imagery that makes you so different than the rest.
As for your book, I will kill you if you are writing about a Shopaholic who goes to/comes from London and meets Mr. Right (who's wearing Prada) allthewhile fighting off feelings of insecurity and selfish ambition and partying all night with blonde friends in someone else's mansion who turns out to be your potential mother in law or boss.
Silliness aside, have you noticed how many books out now have something to do with: London, shopping, Prada, heels, promiscuity, promiscuous friends, and (again) London?
It's like the publishers found something that worked in a book and now all of them follow the same format.
530. Jenerator - 4/16/2006 9:23:47 PM
But now I feel bad for saying that. What if you *are* following that format to be published and you're writing about your trips to Paris to shop with your promiscuous friends and you meet your boyfriend (based on Frenchcat) who wears Prada and you live in a Chateaux owned by your boss at Vogue?
Only you could make it original.
531. uzmakk - 4/18/2006 10:10:59 AM
I wish Webbie the absolute best, Jenerator. Why shouldn't I? Heartily and sincerely. But, Jenerator, what was the purpose of that fauning?
532. PelleNilsson - 4/18/2006 11:46:11 AM
A faun:
533. uzmakk - 4/18/2006 12:37:51 PM
Got lots of time to play around these days, Pelle?
534. PelleNilsson - 4/18/2006 1:15:08 PM
Enough. You have a project in mind?
535. arkymalarky - 4/18/2006 1:32:15 PM
Why did I immediately get an image in my mind of two boys and a box of matches?
536. PelleNilsson - 4/18/2006 1:36:04 PM
Hahaha!
537. uzmakk - 4/18/2006 1:49:05 PM
Yes, a big one. Wheels turning on wheels.
538. PelleNilsson - 4/18/2006 1:57:14 PM
A Ptolemaic system, then? Epicyles and all that?
539. uzmakk - 4/18/2006 2:05:37 PM
No much humbler. Much simpler. Back to work; gotta getta package off today. I shall return.
540. Jenerator - 4/18/2006 4:00:12 PM
Uzzie,
You're asking me why I would compliment Webbie? It's because I think she's gifted and I really want to read her stuff.
541. prolph - 4/19/2006 1:19:43 AM
no reason not to faun 0n webfeet but not in this thread,
542. webfeet - 4/20/2006 3:47:08 PM
You know, someone will have to crochet that one and hang it above the marquee: No fauning allowed.
Perhaps uzmak? Once he gets his muttonhead shishkabob out of his teeth.
543. alistairConnor - 4/20/2006 4:09:08 PM
All very satyrical.
544. uzmakk - 4/20/2006 4:42:07 PM
The spelling on this thread is absolutely fabulous. The wit too. Really really really really good.
545. webfeet - 4/20/2006 4:45:42 PM
I thought it was more of a metaphor.
Jen, I didn't interpret that as fauning, but encouragement.
Have no fear, I'm not trying to ghostwrite the next Shopaholic in Paris novel. What I meant by marketability is that I have corseted some of the loose and freewheeling dialogue to give it more shape, moving the story forward to conform to a novelistic structure.
There is still adultery and plenty of bad behavior. Only most of it takes place in a children's world. And perhaps some of the characters are recognizable, stock figures of these books: the bohunk owner of a Vitamin Shop who is a secret object of lust for the Flowerpatch moms, the Flowerpatch school serving as a kind of fictional preschool in which I can satirize the worst of icky maternalism and competitive parenting. The treasonous best friend, in this case, she is french and her name is Gabrielle.
The climax of the novel takes place at a quack sleep institute/luxury spa run by a fraudulent doctor where the protagonist goes to be treated for a sleeping disorder. There, a lot of things go on from the loopy, comic and whimsical to a kind of self-acualization process that has nothing to do (or perhaps everything) with the bogus methods of therapy prescribed.
This part has been the most challenging to write as none of the characters are based on anyone I know (or despise)
A friend of mine who is an editor said, "I hope it's not just another mommy blog." And I hope not, too.
546. webfeet - 4/20/2006 4:48:45 PM
Uzamk, for the last time, you have lamb in your teeth.
547. uzmakk - 4/20/2006 4:49:14 PM
Faun away!
548. uzmakk - 4/20/2006 4:55:04 PM
Actually, Webbie, I am also here for some kind of encouragement or inspiration, but I intend to take it in the form of head slaps.
549. Jenerator - 4/20/2006 9:16:03 PM
Webbie,
Did you ever read The Nanny Diaries?
550. webfeet - 4/24/2006 3:59:25 PM
uzmak, come, come, I am encouraging. In fact, I have a track record of encouragement. And I am not here hiding out behind my shrub, waiting to shoot pellets at anyone's contributions from my bb gun. Oh, maybe just a little! What's the point, if not to have fun?
551. webfeet - 4/24/2006 4:03:43 PM
Jen,
It's rather hard for me to admit this. But I did, sort of, covertly at Barnes and Noble for as long as my children would let me. I think I muffled their protests with the delightful, ersatz madeleines they peddle at the juste a cote- starbucks. That gave me a full ten minutes.
They were handed an enormous amount of terrific material and they took every advantage of it. That's all I have to say on them.
552. Jenerator - 4/24/2006 4:12:06 PM
I am imppressed that you got ten minutes! You have mommy skills!
Are blogs being put into books often these days? (I am so out of the loop). I read Julie Powell's Julie & Julia which was based on her blog -- she decided to cook Julia Child's prolific and monumental Mastering the Art of Freench Cooking in a year and posted her aches and pains along the way. But that's the only other one I know.
As for Vitamin Shop, I think your story line sounds solid with enough humor and realism to make it an enjoyable read.
553. Jenerator - 4/24/2006 4:12:41 PM
Freench?
Ha ha!
554. NuPlanetOne - 4/24/2006 6:49:21 PM
The Chicken Piccata Test
Chapter 2 Asses
“You set for specials yet?” The office manager stood in the doorway of her cave at the far end of the back line prep area with two limp arms dangling by her side. Both hands held jumbles of paperwork.
“You are the only special thing I like to think of.” She had no clue, really, how hot she was. She was a plain Jane, as she liked to describe herself, but take my word for it; she was the kind of plain that could be transformed into any type or vision of beauty. Especially in the right hands. I wish I had the right hands.
“Carlito!” I need to be out of here by 4.” She banged her thighs with the papers as she spoke. And I tried not to look at those thighs.
“Carlito!” I trilled with the proper accent.
“Well Charlie, that’s what they all call you. And you don’t mind it when Rosalie coos it like a Spanish sex line operator!”
I sensed…I don’t know what I sensed. But I thought for half an instant that she was trying to be playful. She frowned with half her face, almost like she was going to attempt a sly or coy look. People were saying things.
“Rosalie,” I said definitively having complete and very well rehearsed control of my facial expressions.
“She,” I continued, “is just green card shopping. And what..19?” I don’t know why I threw that in as if that might be a disqualification.
“Well, like you always say to that perverted fish monger, you got to try it before you buy it.” Wow! She had wonderful control of her face saying that and her usual blue-sky eye twinkle matured into a leer, or a jeer, or almost something sensual. I was flabbergasted. Did we just have a conversation that included something deep?
“Green Cards?” She added with a new look of tell me more. It was like a drop everything and let’s talk about it tone. Like she really wanted to know the details and shit. Odd.
“Give me about 30 minutes. I almost got it figured out.”
“O.K.” She said morphing suddenly and completely plain then turned 360 as the papers in her hands fanned the circle.
“O.K.” I ignored the fanned circle and could only see her ass. My God! Was I thinking about Kara’s ass? I mean I often think about Kara’a ass, but these were confusing thoughts about Kara’s ass. I needed some air.
Outside the back door a beer truck idled and the stink of diesel made my cigarette taste like dog shit. I could see in the truck side mirror that the driver was on his cell so I banged the tail of the truck and waved bye bye at his image in the mirror. He gave a head jerk like a tough guy at his view of my reflected image then rolled the truck to the far end of the back parking lot and stopped to finish his chat. I heard hurried footsteps off to my left and before I could react Rosalie was smack in my face.
“Carlito.” She wasn’t cooing.
“Rosalita.” Said I. Stern and solid.
“Deed you have time to fill up the papers for me?” She threw a flow of black, purplish shining black, excruciatingly clean hair over her left shoulder. It fell like hanging satin and peeked briefly from around her right hip. I tried not to inhale, but unless there was a blooming lilac bush hiding in the trash dumpster, then the fragrance that hit me as she flung that velvet mane would have convinced Adam to eat the whole apple.
“Ah…oh..almost. Pretty soon.” I said like somebody else talking.
“Eeez no hooree. I kane going no places anyway.” She said with her incredible mouth. Aside from the accent she had a natural lisp or affectation in her manner of speaking and it was exciting to watch her shape the words.
“Why do you look so fooney at my face?” She brushed her chin as if trying to swat something.
“Funny? Oh, nothing, I’m just thinking funny things lately.” I got off her mouth but got stuck in her eyes. Her eyes were dangerous. That’s what I saw. I saw danger in there. It was like another world just over the horizon but to get there I had to pass through a molten black nether land with no guarantee there was a way back. I wanted to touch the spot between her eyebrows. It was time to get moving.
“Well, don’t worry Ro Ro,” I said matter of factly as I flicked my cigarette butt away and shook myself back to this portion of reality.
“We will talk later about the papers. You need to get hopping and set up in there. I want to run the cheese soufflé again. You did incredible with those last night. I know they are tricky, but you figured it out nicely. Teach Marcos. Then he will help when you are getting killed with salads. And don’t be afraid to ask Philip if he is not too busy. Just don’t bug him if he’s actually building a dessert. I don’t want him just standing there or flirting with Marcos. O.K?”
“Sim. Yes. Hoppin” She rocked her head up and down and rolled her eyes. I fell out of them. She slid past me and I swung my head after her. I don’t understand how all that hair fits into a baseball cap. But I did understand how that ass fit into those jeans. I needed a fifth special. I decided on the salmon.
555. NuPlanetOne - 4/24/2006 6:50:04 PM
First thing inside the door I caught Fabiano whizzing by heading to the walk in refrigerator. He was carrying a sheet tray of Risotto that I knew he had just spread and was going to lay it out to quick cool.
“Hold it,” I said. He rolled his eyes and tipped the tray toward me.
“Are these the new Porcinis?” I had ordered a new dried Porcini mushroom that promised to have no grit once they were reconstituted. I hated when the dust that crumbled from the dried mushrooms found its way into the rice. Even though the residue was a wonderful essence in other recipes and sauces, I did not want it discoloring my risotto. And if you’ve ever had this creamy Italian rice paired correctly with the Porcini, the only improvements you can render is getting the color and look right. Too much residue and a gray creeps in that stunts the contrast. Doesn’t hurt the taste really, but the base risotto is Milanese. This means that aside from genuine Parmigiano Reggianno cheese, there is a modicum of saffron. If you understand the power and intensity of this stamen, then you quickly learn that to master its use, you need relentless practice. The guy that taught me to make Risotto Milanese wrote the book. The pale, but unmistakable gold of the perfect Milanese the correct amount of saffron creates, blends almost perfectly with the yellow gold, quartered, grilled zucchini slices that are added at service. They are like seductive eyes silhouetted by the brown of the mushroom and field of creamy, luxurious aborio rice. The rice itself is an event on the palate that pummels and satiates the taste buds, let alone porcini, zucchini and saffron.
“Al dente?” I asked as he leveled the tray and continued on his journey.
“Don’t forget the polenta.” Was his answer that came out of the walk-in door as he went in.
“Shit!” I scurried to the freezer. I had a tray of polenta quick cooling that had to be cut and branded. Because well made polenta was so hard to grill I had devised a mini branding iron that seared in some grill marks without dissolving the polenta. That way it would just sear the top and cool quickly. Perfect grill marks and ready to cut to order. One could make a dry, oil free polenta and throw it smack on the fire. But real Italian polenta, well, it melts.
“Bastard,” I muttered as I came out of the freezer.
“Boss, you know that is offensive,” Fabiano grinned standing by the door in wait.
“My mother thought it was legal papers she had filled up. My brother Enrico is the real bastard you see, we did not know about him.”
“Very sweet story, my heart breaks,” I deadpanned. “I didn’t know you had a Mother.”
“Oh, sim. She loves me very much Boss” Playing along.
“Did she sign the papers?” I made my muffled chuckle that everyone tried to copy and time.
“Ha hup,” He got it right. Though not quite as guttural.
“Polenta,” I grinned.
“Done, all marked.” He lifted his right eyebrow. “Salmon?” He asked.
“Ya, do the poach over asparagus. Lemon dill. No temp.” As if he hadn’t figured that out too.
“Boss, I think Rosalie always keep one eye on you.” He had that concerned Fabiano face that I couldn’t always decipher.
“I like both eyes,” I said solid and filled it with my personal business tone while for a second thinking back into the shiny crow-black of the molten nether land I was afraid to visualize.
“Oh, of course, sim, ha hup.” His timing sucked on that nervous mime.
“Oh, grab the radicchio, and check the soufflé base for Rosalita, par about 15, I got a feeling they will move tonight.”
“Rosalita, ha hup.” Fabiano chirped. He was on the move.
556. NuPlanetOne - 4/24/2006 6:50:43 PM
I headed off to the office to finalize the night’s specials. As I approached the door I saw Rosalie squatting and reaching into the grill station line refrigerator. She looked like any other cook scrambling to get set up.
“You ready K?’ I asked Kara as I flopped into the seat behind her at the computer.
“K?” She echoed. “Wow, I got a pet name too.” She slid her chair next to mine.
“Oh ya, special K,” I said as I brought up the specials file.
“Clever. I get it. Specials, Kara, very sweet.” She was never right next to me like this. Stood behind me really. She was haired to take over the office duties out of the blue when Donna left suddenly to finish school. Standoffish and measured. Two months now and very little genuine or earth moving give and take. And now she was staring at me.
“You have a tiny speck of green inside the blue in your left eye,” I said after a few seconds passed during which I decided that unlike Rosalie’s eyes there was nothing mysterious or seemingly forbidden in these eyes. Certainly no danger or darkness to pass through. Actually, it was as if I could see clear through to the other side. I could drive right in, she just needed to mark the destination with an on ramp.
“What?” She said and blinked. “Oh, yes. It’s just an imperfection in the iris.”
“No, it’s a beauty spot,” I winked.
“No, hardly, I think,” she said as she pushed off from the desk a bit and opened both eyes wider. Now there was something in there. But it was forced or undecided and flashed away quickly. She pushed away a little bit further and played with her fingers and was all plain Jane again.
“Kidding aside,” she said now with kind of a puppy dog face. “Do these girls really go after guys just in hopes of getting a Green Card?”
“Definitely,” I said like a dad telling his daughter there was no Santa Clause. “Some of them will do almost anything to avoid putting up a little cash to buy a deal,” I monotoned letting it hang at the end in case we were actually having a serious conversation.
“And Rosalie,” she hesitatingly suggested, “Is she that kind of girl?”
I darted my eyes to her face and before she could adjust the blankness in her look I thought I caught something calculated. Or was it jealousy. Her eyes darted right, then down at her fingers. No ring. I hadn’t bothered to notice that before.
“Don’t know,” I said as if she had asked about the Easter Bunny.
“Rosalie is complicated,” I added. This time as I shot a look it was met with a pouting complacency and a willingness to stare back at me. I held the gaze to see if I could look through it, but now there was something different in there. It looked pleasant and friendly, seductive in a positive sense. Like I was considered for something, or needed for something. It even looked like affection or attraction. Whatever it was, she had the ability to flash on and off at will. But no enter sign. Signs pointing this way, perhaps, but no on ramp. She frowned and her eyes shaded a little green and watery and the speck became more noticeable.
“Complicated?” She sounded surprised as if she had the girl all figured out. And I know by that it meant figured out in the female sense. Clothes-wise, how she worked her assets, ok, her ass. Basically, how she performed as a girl as compared to how she, herself, went about it. The tone said, ‘Hey, what are you stupid?”
“Ya, there’s something going on there,” I said really trying to sound stupid.
“I mean, you know. Ah, more than the obvious.”
I watched her and she winced as if I was going to tell her a secret or something. Then she did the plain Jane thing and looked down at her fingers. But when her head came up her eyelids rose slowly like a curtain at a stage play. What looked out from her eyes now was unmistakable. It was dangerous, but not lethal. It only threatened to examine things in me like commitment, values, and sincerity. It suggested questions no twice-burned man likes to deal with. Moral integrity, ability to love, family and flag. And I could only look to the side of it. Why could I look into the mysterious and unknown depth of Rosalie’s eyes head on, but I shied from this pure and wholesome gaze that wasn’t sexual in the dark sense, but so sexual and sensual because it did not hide from the light of day? And why was I even looking at these kinds of eyes, I am officially sworn off these kinds of eyes. I have absolutely no luck or business in there.
“Sorry,” she said pushing away. “You are trying to type.”
“It’s O.K.” I said out of the corner of my mouth, eyes fixed on the monitor. “Since we are throwing around a few new subjects here,” I said to the monitor then turned right to look at her. “You not married?” And I looked quickly at her fingers.
“No,” she said looking down immediately stretching her fingers out straight for a second then back to plain Jane playing with them.
“I was engaged till about three months ago,” she said with a half frown.
“Wow,” I said jumping right back to my typing. “Honestly, I didn’t want to stir up any unpleasantness. Now I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, it’s alright, really,” she said. I knew she was going to talk about it. But she didn’t. Because just then Fabiano knocked on the open door of the office with his middle knuckle and leaned in with a side-glance and raised his right eyebrow looking at us.
“This is a bad time, my best friends?” He gave us the charmed look that made the dimple in his left cheek visible as both our heads swung toward the voice like alerted animals in the forest.
“Never a good time for you, ha hup,” I chimed turning quickly back to the monitor. Kara continued looking at him.
“How are you Fabiano?” She asked sliding away from me and toward him a little.
“I am very well, thank you. But I wish I got more beautiful every day like you,” he crooned. I didn’t look.
“Oh, I only wish,” she said apologetically. I snuck a peek and saw a little flush in her cheeks.
“But you are sweet to say that,” fully composed. “Come in.”
“Is o.k.” He said leaning on the doorknob then got down to business.
“Boss. What is this Scallops Istanbul?” I swiveled to face the door.
“Oh shit, the scallops. Is it on the Board out front? I jumped up, then plunked back down. “I’m gonna have to work sauté to start things off. Don’t worry, I got all the stuff. Come on, I’ll show you the set up. It’s a pan sear.”
Fabiano had that horrified look. Me, on the Line. In the rectangle. He didn’t mean for me to see it and talked about anything else as he followed me to the walk-in. He hated any changes to his routine. It was time I spent some time in the rectangle. Besides, I had no clue as to how I was going to do my Scallops Istanbul.
557. Macnas - 4/25/2006 1:30:48 AM
More damn you, more!
558. alistairconnor - 4/25/2006 4:02:24 AM
Lovely! Palpable sexual tension, and a hint of menace with the promise of the perverted fishmonger.
For those that missed it, Chapter One is here.
559. Jenerator - 4/25/2006 10:59:23 AM
She threw a flow of black, purplish shining black, excruciatingly clean hair over her left shoulder. It fell like hanging satin and peeked briefly from around her right hip. I tried not to inhale, but unless there was a blooming lilac bush hiding in the trash dumpster, then the fragrance that hit me as she flung that velvet mane would have convinced Adam to eat the whole apple.
Brilliant.
560. webfeet - 4/25/2006 2:57:32 PM
Nu planet, this is very exciting to read-- a quick, engaging tempo, spicey dialogue, and, some joltingly funny scenes that hint at wild copulation to come. I savoured the passages on food, particularly the Risotto Milanese; yet I think you can just go up a notch on that point, let all those fabulous tactile descriptions coalesce into something less Food network, and more Marquez.
And, you can have santa clause and the easter bunny, but not both. This is very entertaining, a real treat.
561. alistairConnor - 4/25/2006 4:39:01 PM
Oh I disagree, I thought the easter bunny as the punchline to santa claus worked very well...
562. webfeet - 4/25/2006 8:41:15 PM
Is that because you still believe in them?
563. NuPlanetOne - 4/26/2006 6:03:10 PM
Thanks guys. I love the comments and encouragement. I must admit though, I never dreamed writing fiction could be so difficult. Dialogue is so important, but all the punctuation! It’s tough for a one finger typist. Anyway, given the amount of time between the first two chapters, I will try to move it along. I have a few ideas of where I’m going with it, and I must decide whom to copulate with, of course, and to introduce a dilemma. And the food, web, pardon my ignorance, but whom or what is Marquez?
564. webfeet - 4/26/2006 9:50:07 PM
Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote "Love in the Time of Cholera," which has set a kind of superhuman standard for modern literature. I think what I meant was adding something more complex emotionally, a pinch of pathos along with that saffron.
There was something so sensual and intense about all those flavors--the earthiness of the mushrooms "the creamy field" of arborio rice, that it was something of a letdown to get to the 'silhouette' of zucchini eyes and then rice 'pummeling' the taste buds. It just didn't work.
I get the feeling that anything less than adulation on this thread is discouraged. It's either shove my tongue down your throat--or be ignored. I think it's kind of healthy to give real feedback especially when you have put so much care into it.
And Scallops Istanbul? I mean, I'm dying. I have to know.
565. Macnas - 4/27/2006 1:44:12 AM
Webfeet
I know what you mean, about feedback and such, and I agree to an extent.
But there again, it's a thread for a bit of fun, not much else. If I was to seriously review all that was written here, and if other did the same, I'd doubt it'd make any of us better writers, as we're only story telling for the amusement of ourselves and other Mote-o-naughts.
In Nuplanet's case, I might make an exception, as it's very very good. So good, that he might be better off with some critique. He might be an even better writer if he's given some sound advice.
But you're the only one here (sorry now lads, tis the truth no less) who would be able to do that. I read his story and thought it just good, didn’t see anywhere that needed changing or tightening up or whatever.
I've had feedback from alistair, from time to time, but for the most part have ignored it and have never done a re-write.
Because I couldn't be bothered. Nuplanets story is so good, maybe he should be.
566. alistairconnor - 4/27/2006 3:45:06 AM
The dialogues are good. In the rest, I like the density of the sentences, the imagery, and sometimes the rythm. The bits that would need redrafting, for me, is where the rhythm doesn't work, an occasional clumsiness or laziness with word order.
567. webfeet - 4/27/2006 8:19:06 AM
You're certainly right, Macnas. Much of it is for fun and it's not a fiction writing workshop. Part of the fun is the spontaneity of it; I love it when Jenerator starts to run around with a lampshade on her head and you all follow, outdoing each other as you created that crazy story about a hooker, a cat, and a mexican bandit with a ph.d.
Yet I can't help thinking, as you, that Nuplanet genuinely wants to aspire farther, and that just stroking his ego and shouting bravo! would be a disservice to him.
When I read his story, I really lit up and stood around it like a dressmaker, tucking pins and making mental adjustments. Because I have put myself in this zone, it is a reflex. But I promise not to stick too many needles into anyone's flesh.
568. webfeet - 4/27/2006 11:16:42 AM
So as I was saying, I find Maurice Sendak very sexy. I didn't realize it. Not really, not at first. Oh and it's not because --I know what you're thinking--that dirty title "Where the Wild Things Are" would make such a great porno movie put to music, but because he is really such a curious genius, a trifle dark--all that holocaust sadness informing his work. I read in an interview that he is obsessed with "milk" and "cake". Funny, so am I!
I spend a lot of my time deconstructing Maurice Sendak, since his world has intermeshed so completely with ours--all his storybook characters--"Little Bear" and 'Chicken Soup with Rice'. I remember being slightly terrified of the latter when I was younger, disturbed when they actually showed "Chicken Soup with Rice" on television. I don't know why.
So "Brundibar" one of his more recent books, is a story about the holocaust in which the children are forced to get milk somehow or else they will be put to death-- by someone who looks a lot like Hitler. It was first a book, then an opera, and i think it's either the opera orthe musical that I'm taking my son to see in a few weeks.
I don't think we're ready for a holocaust talk yet. I'm slightly nervous.
569. Jenerator - 4/27/2006 1:59:02 PM
webfeet,
I think critiquing is helpful and I appreciate it when it's done. I wish we could all be a bit more open to learning rather than being defensive and attacking.
Your suggestions to Nu are right on.
570. Jenerator - 4/27/2006 2:02:04 PM
By the way, I am intrigued by your (and Sendak's) admitted fascination with milk and cake.
571. Snowowl - 4/27/2006 6:53:04 PM
So as I was saying, I find Maurice Sendak very sexy. I didn't realize it. Not really, not at first. Oh and it's not because --I know what you're thinking--that dirty title "Where the Wild Things Are" would make such a great porno movie put to music, but because he is really such a curious genius, a trifle dark--all that holocaust sadness informing his work. I read in an interview that he is obsessed with "milk" and "cake". Funny, so am I!
My youngest daughter is doing a course at University in Sweden and she just wrong an essay on Where the Wild Things Are.
I wish I hadn't asked her to send a copy of her essay to me. I can never pick up and read the book with the same enjoyment again! I'm far too busy noticing all the things she discusses in her essay.
572. Snowowl - 4/27/2006 6:53:35 PM
wrong = wrote
573. wonkers2 - 4/27/2006 7:46:52 PM
All of my children loved Sendak. Especially "Where the Wild Things Are." They also loved Dr. Seuss's books.
574. webfeet - 4/27/2006 9:04:15 PM
Jen--While I simply have an irrational sweet tooth, I think Sendak's reasons go much deeper. I think there is something so inherently comforting about milk and cake that their presence belies a world of unspeakable horrors. Of children torn from their families and the safety of their bedrooms. They turn up everywhere in his stories; at the end of 'Where the Wild Things Are' Max wakes up in his wolf suit and what is waiting for him at his bedside? Milk and cake. "Little Bear" has quite a lot of cake for a cub--at harvest parties, duck's birthday party, there are dancing gingerbread men who run away in the snow. The comforts of the home, in all its forms-- but most notably in the kitchen, figure prominently in all the stories.
In 'Brundibar' milk is no longer a third party player. The novel is obsessed with the act of purchasing milk. It's life or death now. The children need to buy their sick mother milk or she will die. I'm not sure if Hitler is the milkman or not in this story. I've only leafed through it in one of those distracted moments at the bookstore, but there is a picture of a baker selling a smorgasbord of cakes and tarts. At the end, the children rejoice; there is enough milk and cake for everyone and they somehow shame Hitler into leaving them alone. The world is free of evil.
Sendak collaborated with Tony Kushner on 'Brundibar.' Kushner, who wrote the screenplay for 'Munich', is best known for writing 'Angels in America' and 'Perestroika.' He is, in a word, extraordinary.
575. webfeet - 4/27/2006 9:05:46 PM
Snowowl--you must cite examples from this essay! Please!
576. webfeet - 4/27/2006 9:10:51 PM
wonkers--loved the wedding photo, btw. Really elegant, and you wore it with such aplomb!
As the one who reads to my children near what feels like my own witching hour--at the end of the day Seuss is a tangle of words to get over my tongue and i want to throw the book across the room after the first page. But I do recognize his gifts at teaching language. All those gobbledeygook mouthfuls of rhymes really hit home to my son who is now a reader and delights in the language play.
577. alistairconnor - 4/28/2006 2:07:06 AM
But have a care. there's all that humanist, anti-consumerist, ecologist propaganda to plough through in Seuss. Some times, reading to my children, I found myself close to tears. What a subversive writer.
In Sendak, I never saw much of a message. Just the genius of his personal universe, immediately accessible, full of childlike wonder. But I'm probably missing stuff.
Milk in the batter! Milk in the batter! We bake cake and nothing's the matter!
My brother was in publishing at the time the Night Kitchen was published, apparently there was controversy over nudity, and the fact that the little boy had a penis, and pronounced the words "cock a doodle doo"...
Apparently Sendak had had a brush with cancer, and this symbolised his exuberant rebirth or something.
578. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 9:04:59 AM
I sent Arky an email.
579. PelleNilsson - 4/28/2006 10:13:53 AM
That's momentous. Nothing will be the same again.
580. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:15:49 AM
Not for me it won't, I promise you that, Nilsson.(!)
581. alistairConnor - 4/28/2006 10:16:25 AM
No, I think that's the opening line of the Novel.
582. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:17:11 AM
Snobby, intellectual Swede, MF.
583. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:17:46 AM
Novel in the form of interesting.
584. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:19:39 AM
Menu posted this weekend. Cafe opens.
585. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:21:21 AM
Nilsson, you have no idea what you're getting involved with here.
586. PelleNilsson - 4/28/2006 10:26:07 AM
Bring it on!
587. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:36:50 AM
Imagine, if you will, that I went to the trouble of posting
THUNDER in 20pt. type.
588. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 10:41:29 AM
Can I get you into the Cantina? Special today: Mother's Own Borsch w/wo a wedge of cave-aged brie plunked squarely in the middld.
589. judithathome - 4/28/2006 10:54:48 AM
Wow...that sounds very good!! A hunk of crusty dark bread alongside?
590. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 11:26:51 AM
Always good bread, Judith, as you well know.
591. webfeet - 4/28/2006 1:35:32 PM
It's 2 a.m and Maurice and I are laying in bed together, post-coitus. It's actually Little Bear's bed, and we are sitting up resting on the wooden headboard, with a tray between us. On this tray are two large pieces of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. We have just discovered that we both love Mozart. Now he is teaching me a little yiddish; what are mishigass again? I ask, sidling up to him as I take a bite of the cake. Mishigass, he says, are your phantasmagoria. As you're drawing you say "oh my goodness! A fish house!" or "oh my goodness a mushroom house!" * It's strange to see them on paper and to recreate them during a production, as I did when I was working on the set of 'Hansel and Gretel'
'Are they like your boogeymen?' I ask, suddenly aware that Owl, Cat and Hen are peeping at us, every now and then through the window. I shew them away. 'They can be,' he says, not noticing. 'They come from inside your head.'
"Maurice, tell me what 'Sendak' means again in yiddish?'
"It means fish," he says, helping himself to the reest of my cake. "I've used it emblematically in my stories, especially to give my father pleasure.**"
"And the moon?"
"That's my mother watching down over me," he smiles. He's tired. "I think webfeet, that I'm getting sleepy," he says, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
'Oh, Maurice," I say sadly, imagining the long shadows on the corridor back to my room. 'Bedtime already? When am I going to see you again?'
'How about the Peninsula Hotel?' he asks, turning over.
'Can we take a bubble bath together and eat warm croissants?'
'We can do anything you want," he says and I know, as I turn to go, pulling the covers over him and shutting off the night light, that he means it.
592. webfeet - 4/28/2006 1:36:54 PM
*excerpts from Backstage at Lincoln Center interview with Maurice Sendak
593. webfeet - 4/28/2006 1:41:14 PM
In Sendak, I never saw much of a message. Just the genius of his personal universe, immediately accessible, full of childlike wonder. But I'm probably missing stuff.
"The subject of all my work from the beginning, my books and everything I've done is-to put it simply-the extraordinary heroism of children in the face of having to live in a mostly indifferent adult world. Generally speaking, people don't understand what's going on in the heads of small people. I side with the kids all the time."
--Maurice Sendak, excerpt from Backstage at Lincoln Center
594. arkymalarky - 4/28/2006 3:51:12 PM
Uzmakk+Nilsson=innovation
Uzmakk+Malarky=REVOLUTION!
595. Jenerator - 4/28/2006 3:51:53 PM
webfeet,
That is so interesting. A friend of mine has older parents who survived the holocaust. When you're at their home, food is literally bursting out at you from every pore of the kitchen. They even have three deep freezers full of meat!
I asked the son why they had so much food and the dad heard me and responded, "My dear, we went without for so long, that we will never go without again. If you have ever starved, you will know how important it is to always have cake."
596. NuPlanetOne - 4/28/2006 10:28:35 PM
Web…then I definitely will not read Marquez. Truth be told, my ignorance of modern literature is profound. It is possible that I have not read a living author of fiction in 20 years. I have always entertained the notion that one day I might write a novel, or at least a collection of stories. At some point I decided I didn’t believe I could be original if I absorbed the desire to emulate, or conform to, or compare myself to what is considered exceptional prose. Fortunately, as with my poetry, I can exist in a vacuum here in The Mote with you guys and safely take a crack at it. And by all means, I am the one who attempted to write a serious piece, and you reacted with a serious critique on your way to encouragement. It reflected objective on this end and exhibited nothing harmful and merely pointed to some springs that could be wound a little tighter or loosened to help the flow. I admire your prose, so I will use the advice as the prodding of an editor, rather than react egotistically. I’m not sure how it works actually, these are first drafts, and I have also realized that first person narratives are not the darling of many publishers. What say you of that?
…thanks Mac. You’re right twice. The thread is for fun and it seems Web has the confidence to give real advice objectively. Forgive me Jen, but she’s my new best pal. (“At least till I sign a book deal,” he dreamed.) Anyway, I have scallops to deal with.
597. webfeet - 4/28/2006 10:29:28 PM
I hope your friends are always happy. I'd love to raid their fridge in the middle of the night.
With cakes I don't discriminate--sheet cakes, angel cakes, flourless cakes, carrot cake --all are delectable. The only cake, sadly, that sunk, literally off the crest of winners, was belle-mere's 'reine de sheba' or Queen of Sheba that she insisted on making to show off for a french family she had met here, in NY, while walking Juliette in the park.
"il faut que je fasse un gateau!" she said, as she ran to her suitcase to fetch her apron. I couldn't intervene; how could I?
Now, one has to be either quite a good chef to pull off baking a cake if a) you are in a foreign country b) you arrive without your livre de recettes which, if you are like belle-mere you never use anyway because you don't cook, and c) if you are unaccustomed to your daughter in law's kitchen--or--you are an ass.
The cake was disastrous. No-one touched it. It wasn't even the kind of cake you could just take a few bites of, and then leave politely to the sides. Pauvre belle-mere didn't understand my 'baker's chocolate' and it was impossibly bitter.
Apart from the cake, the company, a french bourgeois family who arrived bearing a grotesque assortment of flowers, a bouquet that was obscenely expensive and ridiculously unfit for the occasion--was even worse. The pere de famille, a stiff investment banker, prodded the gateau with his fork, as though it was a turd and then left it aside to the shame of belle-mere. after they'd gone, she couldn't stop talking about it, such was her offense.
It was possibly the most awful afternoon I've spent with anysingle group of people in my life ever. Dimanche apres-midi in hell.
598. webfeet - 4/28/2006 10:55:30 PM
Oh, Nuplanet. Another night owl..I'm just in this zone of writing right now, and editing, styling is what I do instinctively. I am like Karl Lagerfeld--fussy. only with words.
While I am no Marquez, I find that by reading great writers I instinctively become a better one without trying to consciously emulate their styles. The point is obviously to find your own voice. But first you have to have an ear.
I wasn't advising you to imitate Marquez, perhaps it was simply a glib way of saying go back and edit until what you want to say comes out. That was very Karl of me, I'm afraid. If I were to really give you advice, I would say resist the impulse to give a play by play commentary on the dialogue because it doesn't always need it. But that's what anyone would tell you what a first draft is for.
Your writing has a lot of exciting moments--or verve, as Karl would say. Anyway, this night owl must go to bed.
599. alistairConnor - 4/29/2006 3:45:42 AM
The visceral antagonism with Mère-Belle has such great potential, I hope it's in the novel. Not just as a running gag, though that could be very useful, but as a wellspring of subtle tragedy too. Like a cake of marvellous potential, baked with the best of ingredients and intentions, and which turns out disastrously wrong.
600. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 7:38:21 AM
Nu,
I won't be mad.
601. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 7:48:47 AM
Webfeet,
The Queen of Sheba is the quintessential French cake. I find it amusing and ironic that belle-mere was able to mess up something so traditional yet simple to make - I imagine that in her mind she blames our nationality (our inability to taste and our lack of real food) for the rejection of her gateau.
Ha ha ha ha
My MIL is a wonderful woman and despite her culinary quirks and idiosyncracies I am charitable with her cooking. Besides, I believe that all older woman have at least one great recipe in their repertoire. She insists on teaching me everytime she's down to visit. Last time she wanted me to learn how to make the best enchiladas this side of the border.
Ingredients - canned sauce, canned chiles, corn tortillas and velveeta.
!!!
I wonder what we will teach our daughters?
602. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 8:31:19 AM
And since it's early and my brain is prone to random thinking let me tell you an amazing story about my friend's parents.
Dad [Jacek - the father of my American friend Dan] was a small boy with three siblings when Hitler invaded his country. Jacek's father was an officer of some sort and the family had been preparuing for invasion "just in case".
Jacek was shown where the family's personal weapons stash was hidden (in one of the walls) and all the kids new where the best hiding places were in their home. They all just assumed it would be easier than how it turned out.
Mom and dad both practiced a secret knock for the children so that worst case scenario, if they were split up, they would recognize one another by the secret knock.
Jacek's home *was* raided and the stash was found and the family heirlooms and jewels were sent to Germany. Their father was immediately taken into custody because of who he was and then the wife and children were shipped off to various camps.
Jacek was sent with his mother (wish I could remember where), and his sisters were sent to Dachau. That was the last they ever saw of each other.
Anyway, Jacek went on to tell me that he was in the camps with his mom for years and he watched with horror all of the atrocities we read about in our WWII books. He and his mom became emaciated and louse ridden. Children starved to death, and old men and women just died around them. Nazis treated them all with rude indifference if they were lucky, fatal hostility of they weren't. In total, he and his mom spent time in three camps.
It was hell.
Eventually, the camp he and his mother were in last was liberated and they found themselves in Russia! Once "free", they moved and hid like nomads among the people who wanted to help them. No family really reached out to them emotionally because all were still afraid of what might happen.
I cannot imagine what it must have been like for them - speaking a different language, depending on the mercy of strangers who may or may not be their enemy, not having had any souce of income and really not knowing if they were safe, ever.
There had been rumors of retaliatory killings and raids throughout the part of Russia they were in and so Jacek and his mother were more cautious and nervous than ever. They had survived the camps, they had survived starvation and disease - yet now, they faced the possibility of being recaptured or killed on the spot.
The family they had been staying with kicked them out for fear of Russian military intervention and so they gave them a loaf of bread and sent them on their way. They luckily found a sympathetic farmer and stayed with him for the next two months.
One fall night, as the farmer and his family sat down to dinner with Jacek and his mother, they heard footsteps on the porch. The entire family froze dreading the worst. Jacek said that he could taste his heartbeat - and then the secret knock came.
Jacek's mom literally passed out and he ran to the door!
There stood his father, noticeably thinner and with completely white hair. He had found them after looking over a year in Russian countryside!!
---------
I just cried and begged him to write down everything he remembered.
603. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 8:32:52 AM
I forgot to mention that the family was/is Polish.
604. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 11:15:49 AM
Webfeet,
I meant to ask you, how did you find this out about Maurice Sendak?
I have the copy of Where the Wild Things Are that my mom bought me when I was little, it was my favorite book. I had no idea how prolific he was or how intense he was.
Have you been reading this childhood classic to your kids and did it pique a curiosity in you? Or do you smart literary types always know who the geniuses are?
;-)
I would have never known about Sendak if you hadn't brought all of this to the table. It's fun - thank you.
605. webfeet - 4/29/2006 1:18:18 PM
First of all, I'm extremely moved by that story, especially the part about not seeing his sisters again. Maurice often discusses the courage of small children. I think in that interview, which is all accessible if you google Sendak, he mentions Max's courage in "Where the Wild Things Are." The monsters were actually his eastern european relatives. I think many of them were killed. I say I think because those two thoughts are cobbled from two different interviews.
Secondly, that was a great subtext for discussing Sendak. It fit right into the emotional context of 'milk' and 'cake'.
Did maurice pique my curiosity? Not always. "Where the Wild Things Are" never really did it for me, to be honest. We bought "Gather Round' Songs from Kids and other folks' at Starbucks (that's what you get for calling me a 'smart literary' type. Im bound to disappoint you.) and on it Carole King, who does the music for Sendak, sang 'Chicken Soup with Rice.' To music, the lyrics really stood out. And by familiarizing myself through the entire video anthology of 'Little Bear' the themes stand out. There is also a little video of Sendak explaining how he draws little bear and I just saw him as a vital, sexy person all of a sudden. It took time.
But Roald Dahl? We spend a lot of time with him, too, but the same generosity of spirit never comes through. And he's quite a sadist. You feel like you've bit into a cupcake and are picking out the pins.
You know, I'm not in grad school anymore. I have a job but it's inside my head, so I don't know if that counts. It's up to us to generate ideas and keep discussions going since we no longer have college. That 's why it's great to have such a forum.
606. webfeet - 4/29/2006 1:30:37 PM
Alistair, I thank youfor recognizing the comic minefield that characterizes my relationship with belle-mere. She figures so prominently in my novel, in fact, that I'm afraid I'm going to have to join the witness protection program--if it ever gets published.
As 'Odile' in 'Sleep Camp', she is thinly disguised as a cosmetics saleswoman at a "Marionnaud" (you must know it--but it's that perfume and cosmetics chain that is in every single city in france I've ever visited from the blue collar like Narbonne to--well, everywhere.) Obsessed with my diet, obsessed with outdoing me at every turn, BM is a kind of star in this novel; she is a champ at clobbering my spirit, but at the same time, in the novel at least, she can hold the fort together.
Fortune has presented me with a nice package deal this summer: a week in a mobile home at some fucked up lake in Lelandes with belle-mere, ta-ta, beau-frere and his Italian girlfriend, Graziana, who is an art restorer. And don't forget les cousins! Those naughty little peeping toms who eavesdrop on my phone calls and make fun of my tits. I think "big mama" is what I was called. You can imagine what is in store for me. And then, I have like a month in the alps alone with mylaptop until michel comes.
The only tragedy is that my laptop doesn't have internet.
607. alistairConnor - 4/29/2006 1:51:46 PM
Les Landes -- one of the few French departements I have never been. Purely out of lack of interest. As flat as Kansas, with fuckin' pine trees everywhere.
Just think of it as raw material. Really, really raw.
What do you mean, your laptop doesn't have internet? We will find you a workaround. Every laptop in the world has a phone jack. If it's busted, get someone to lend you a modem, nobody uses them any more now they've got DSL.
608. judithathome - 4/29/2006 6:32:26 PM
It was possibly the most awful afternoon I've spent with anysingle group of people in my life ever. Dimanche apres-midi in hell.
How wonderful that the in-laws can provide such amusement...to think, the bitch mother-in-law, trying to provide a nice dessert for the pretentious assholes who thought to bring the wrong flowers...I guess these ignorant people should be properly ashamed of themselves. What fools!
Have you ever thought how you might appear to them?
609. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 9:14:20 PM
I remember when you told us about how belle-mere basically starved you to death at her place - dinner of salade du rien.
Make sure you bring treats for yourself when you're stuck in a trailer with the herd. You could even keep them hidden in a box of tampons in case their curiosity extends farther than you know. I mean, give them something to work for - ha ha ha.
Does she refer to you by any nicknames? I'm curious.
610. Jenerator - 4/29/2006 9:19:21 PM
My grandmother (the one I mentioned awhile back) insists on knowing how much people pay for the gifts they buy her and she must know where they were bought.
This used to frustrate me but now I play with it a bit.
Wondering how far she'd go to know how much I spent on her one Christmas, I intentionally hid the price tags in with some nasty wet garbage.
After I went back home, she called to thank me again for the gifts but said that one didn't fit so she was taking it back to the department store - she named the correct one that was on the tag!
Neurotic!
611. judithathome - 4/29/2006 10:03:17 PM
Which one?
612. alistairConnor - 4/30/2006 2:25:08 AM
Ding!
(counting points here)
Did I mention that I met Belle-Mère? But I have very little to report on her. She delivered Webfeet to my door and barely took time to shake hands before leaving again. I was mildly offended, put it down to snobism (bourgeois chez les ploucs) and lack of curiosity and elementary politeness. I thought I might have tamed her, had she consented to stay for a drink.
But, to be fair to her, she'd just spent four hours trapped in a car with her DIL, and no doubt was eager to start the four hour trip home rather than spend another ten minutes in her company...
613. alistairConnor - 4/30/2006 2:29:01 AM
One thing to bear in mind with Webfeet's writing is that it is necessarily slightly larger than life, for satirical effect, while remaining entirely plausible in the details. Evelyn Waugh comes to mind.
Thus, the culture-clash thing. She plays on the mutual cultural incomprehensions in a pretty deadpan way, as if she were entirely a foreigner in France and destined to remain so eternally... which obviously isn't so. (surely?)
614. Jenerator - 4/30/2006 1:22:07 PM
Speaking of oblivious, yesterday I was driving around for thirty minutes looking for a Chuck E. Cheese that we had been invited to for a birthday party. It was way out in a town named Rockwall which is by Lake Ray Hubbard.
After driving up and down the street the map said it was on, I decided to call the place. I couldn't get any reception and lost the call three times. I circled a parking lot hoping to find reception and finally found it.
I was out in the farthest possible area of this parking lot pressing the buttons.... "Press one if you would like to hear information in English"... out of nowhere came a royal blue porsche. Its driver circled *me* while I strained to hear where the damned Chuck E. Cheese was.
Then the passenger motioned for me to roll down my window.
I did and looked at the couple.
"Could you move please!?" the man shouted at me.
My jaw dropped. Out of the hundreds of parking spaces available, he wanted the one on the outer rim (furthest from the store.)that I was half-in.
615. webfeet - 5/1/2006 9:14:32 PM
that's really very funny.
616. webfeet - 5/1/2006 9:22:05 PM
Alistair-- I knew Lelandes was going to be dull, but if I have a bag of books, some crack and my laptop I won't be bored. As far as the laptop goes, I did it deliberately. Ididn't want internet access so I wouldn't be distracted.
So, the larger more pressing question is who are we going to set you up with? I crossed out my sister, because she already fell in love with a New Zealander and it would be in poor taste to set her up with another kiwi. so soon, at least.
I know a really lovely brunette in boston who works for harvard, writing science articles. Green eyes, good bones, an even finer mind. How are we going to get you to a city? Any city.
617. alistairconnor - 5/2/2006 2:14:42 AM
Good bones eh? Bring 'em on.
I'm in a city every day, my dear. And in the country at night. I am working out how to turn this to my advantage. She's got to live in Lyon. So we can meet for lunch, and so I can whisk her away for a weeknight in the country now that the days are long and the flowers in bloom in the spring, tra la. (but I must beware of the lazy man's tendency to shack up at her place during the week to save on transport, that's what killed my previous idyll.)
I am pretty much resigned to the fact that she's got to have children. Though this adds exponentially to the logistical complications, it hugely simplifies things on the psychological level, believe me. Also, with age comes wisdom, and the realisation that sex isn't a daily necessity. But a miraculous weekend when both are childless... I had forgotten about sex in the afternoon. It's the real thing.
Please bear in mind that I'm looking for someone to spend the next forty or fifty years with, obviously; but I'm (tragically) resigned to the fact that there will inevitably be some adventures on the way there.
618. alistairconnor - 5/2/2006 2:17:50 AM
New Zealand men. Gah.
A beautiful, vivacious 20 year old neighbour recently spent a year in NZ, and came back with no firm attachments. This confirms what I've always known. None of 'em are any good.
Pimping your sister on the internet? Really! How could I ever look her in the eye?
619. webfeet - 5/2/2006 6:56:43 AM
Pimping your sister on the internet? Really! How could I ever look her in the eye?
But she's spoken for, la salope! She would have been worth at least a donkey and a few euros.
I hope whatever femme enters your life, that she have really good horsepower on her little Renault...to make it up that cursed hill!
620. webfeet - 5/2/2006 6:59:45 AM
Message #608
First it was the t-shirts, now it's the flower arrangements. Why that could rouse such ire is a mystery to me. You're like a child shooting your bows and arrows around somebody's lawn, hoping to hit any mark, anywhere. Why don't you cross over to someone else's yard and play?
This is a fiction thread created for entertainment. Not for some heckler in desperate need of attention.
621. Jenerator - 5/2/2006 2:47:05 PM
Webfeet,
What are some of the books you've read lately and enjoyed?
622. Jenerator - 5/2/2006 2:48:36 PM
Alistair,
I have a dear friend who lives in Chicago and is a world traveler. She's well-educated, well spoken and comes from a great family. She's not a Christian, but she is my friend (don't hold that against her). Plus, she is the spitting image of a young Finola Hughes.
623. Jenerator - 5/2/2006 2:51:01 PM
624. alistairconnor - 5/3/2006 5:03:15 AM
Well let me check my diary ...
... second weekend in June is free.
But maybe we need a dedicated thread for this subject?
... Or to stay on topic, I could write a book about it. Chapter One : Raphaëlle. Chapter Two : Finola.
625. Macnas - 5/3/2006 5:16:44 AM
Finola = Fionnuala
We should rename this thread as "Get Conner Fixed Up".
Or we could still call it Fiction..
626. alistairconnor - 5/3/2006 6:21:30 AM
What you reckon Feet, there might be a niche for it :
A man's delayed adolescence, age 45. Going through the learning curve of courtship, romance, love, rejection; with a mix of wide-eyed wonder and self-mocking philosophy. And sex. Lots of sex.
Middle-aged sex, of course. Flabby bellies, wobbly bottoms.
... bit of a small niche eh?
627. judithathome - 5/3/2006 8:48:29 AM
This is a fiction thread created for entertainment. Not for some heckler in desperate need of attention.
Well, you hit the mark there, Webbie...that certainly entertained me!
I haven't noticed a tremendous amount of fiction in here from you lately but some chat that could qualify as entertainment. I thought we were all welcome to chip in but evidently not. I'll try to rustle up a little story later on, more in keeping with the purpose of the thread. If that's okay....
628. Jenerator - 5/3/2006 9:51:22 AM
A man's delayed adolescence, age 45. Going through the learning curve of courtship, romance, love, rejection; with a mix of wide-eyed wonder and self-mocking philosophy. And sex. Lots of sex.
The more important question is, do you look like Paco?
629. webfeet - 5/3/2006 11:39:49 AM
There's bad news. Maurice might be gay. It's not confirmed--but there is strong reason to suspect--not married, idolizes his mother--that I'm not his type.
630. webfeet - 5/3/2006 11:43:08 AM
What have I started? This is starting to feel like Match.com.
If he would shave and shower every other week, Alistair would be considered handsome. So you can tell Fionnula that a frenchified Teddy kazinksy, some peculiar warlock with long toenails and braided nostril hair does not await her in some remote chalet in France.
631. webfeet - 5/3/2006 11:47:32 AM
Go ahead, squawk away Judith. Write, post, do whatever you like. You're like a pigeon flying after morsels of conversation. I'll throw you some crumbs anytime you like.
632. alistairConnor - 5/3/2006 12:48:20 PM
Wait a minute. I just remembered that I am the, the putative host of this thread. And I would like to point out that Judith will always be welcome here, as long as I am in charge.
(... would be welcome here, if I was in charge?)
633. webfeet - 5/3/2006 1:07:14 PM
Of course you are in charge. Who would dare point out otherwise?
If you want disruptive and personal attacks spamming a thread intended for fiction or for telling stories tall and short, then let's turn this into the Fiction Inferno.
634. Adam Selene - 5/3/2006 1:48:35 PM
"... if I were in charge." Present subjunctive tense. Said the grammer policeman. :)
635. Jenerator - 5/3/2006 3:19:57 PM
grammar policeman
...scurries off...
636. Jenerator - 5/3/2006 3:23:36 PM
Alistair,
Judith's insinuations were disruptive and argumentative. No one is saying she should be banned, we're just hoping she'll shoot her rubberbands elsewhere.
And so are you going to start showering so that maybe you could meet our friends?
;-)
637. alistairConnor - 5/3/2006 3:50:28 PM
Hey listen, I shaved this weekend, by special request. So anything's possible, given the motivation.
I could do with a sartorial consultant. And a sponsor.
638. webfeet - 5/4/2006 8:01:55 AM
For what it's worth and I don't give a damn who'se putatively in charge, in charge or otherwise, I come here to exchange ideas and be a little playful. There's got to be a safe haven from that kind of boring 'banter'. I was hoping this would be it.
Jen--we should compile a summer reading list. I can't tell you what I'm reading now because I'm not committed to any one book, I've taken a peculiar interest in Stephen Crane's "The Blue Hotel" and the work of other American writers lately, Edith Wharton and others. But I can tell you who I'd like to read, and I think I've mentioned him before when "Cloud Atlas" was published.
No longer just a rising star, David Mitchell is the rockstar of the literary world-- at least on the other side of the Atlantic where people read more than the latest version of 'Opal Mehta'.
Remarkably, Time Magazine reviewed his new book "Black Swan Green" a week or so ago where he is referred to as the "most prodigiously daring and imaginative writer in Britan." He's hard to keep up with, but you will be blown away.
639. alistairconnor - 5/4/2006 10:21:13 AM
I'm reading Arundhati Roy, the God of small things. Rather disappointing so far, I find her too clever by about two-thirds.
Next up : Hanif Kureishi, Love in a blue time.
640. Jenerator - 5/4/2006 7:44:54 PM
webfeet,
I am "reading" about six books - I want something that hooks me in and makes me want to stay up all night, though.
Maybe we should look at Black Swan Green?
641. webfeet - 5/4/2006 10:08:05 PM
I don't know, Jen. When bumping smack into blinding genius, most people sputter the usual comparisons to Joyce so the receiving party usually nods and says, "Oh, right. Joyce."
In this case, he really is ahem, Joycean; he has an otherworldly ability to assume the consciousness of people so remote and bizarre and interweave their lives with a narrative that kind of expands like an accordion, with different dialects and vocabulary he's just made up thrown in, opening wider and wider then you wonder, is it ever going to close?
And then he somehow goes backwards and closes it in the opposite direction in Cloud Atlas--which is a remarkable read. And very funny.
So why am I hedging about reading Black Swan Green? Because it's an undertaking. At least Cloud Atlas was. But why not? I just hope I'm fit.
642. webfeet - 5/4/2006 10:15:16 PM
What you reckon Feet, there might be a niche for it
Don Quixote comes to mind, only you haven't completely disintegrated, teddy.
I have trouble with the 'wide-eyed and wonder' part. Then again, no-one should trust a first person narrator especially if they live in a remote chalet in a cow pasture.
643. webfeet - 5/4/2006 10:16:37 PM
..in france.
644. webfeet - 5/4/2006 10:29:57 PM
Oh, and the other thing. About the sartorial assistant position that you are looking to fill?
Ill waive the fee, no,no really. I insist. I will merely refer to today's NY TImes style section, their piece on 'second skin' blue jeans that are too tight in all the right or wrong places depending on how right or wrong your physique is. Now don't balk at the price. They run a little steep anywhere from $300 upward. But sex is an investment. Everyone knows that.
That should knock the milkmaids off their chairs, now wouldn't it?
645. Jenerator - 5/5/2006 11:12:27 AM
Alistair,
Just think of Webbie and me as Susannah and Trinny - we'll tell you what not to wear.
646. Jenerator - 5/5/2006 11:13:39 AM
Webbie,
Let's start of with something more light and fun - I don't know, something reminscient of Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing. (?)
647. alistairConnor - 5/5/2006 3:15:08 PM
Sincerely, to please you two, I'll not wear anything.
648. Jenerator - 5/6/2006 5:51:19 PM
Well, I went to Barnes and Nobles to buy my son a book he wanted and guess what was on the end-cap nearby? Black Swan Green! It hooked me - buy it Webbie. It's no so genius that it hurts.
Besides, I'll inevitably want to dissect it and it is your fault.
;-)
649. judithathome - 5/6/2006 7:14:19 PM
I will merely refer to today's NY TImes style section, their piece on 'second skin' blue jeans that are too tight in all the right or wrong places depending on how right or wrong your physique is. Now don't balk at the price. They run a little steep anywhere from $300 upward. But sex is an investment. Everyone knows that.
Are these anything like the jeans that inspired Karl Lagerfeld to lose weight so he could fit into the jeans? He has named the designer who inspired him but I can't remmember the name...do you know it, Webs?
650. wonkers2 - 5/7/2006 12:01:30 PM
Ishmael? C'mon Herm, call him Nate.
651. alistairConnor - 5/7/2006 3:19:35 PM
Bjarni, returning from the nearby driftwood fire with a pitch-pot, saw the ship lying there, almost ready for the water, in the early spring sunshine, though mast and gear all lay still in the brown shadowed shed behind him, and he felt a pang of delight at the sight of her. She was so beautiful, the unbroken sweetly-running line of her from stem to soaring stern. She had no dragon head but her carved and freshly-painted stern post ended in a curve that was faintly like a shepherd's crook, or maybe the arched neck of a swan. He had been told that her name, Fionoula, had something to do with a swan - an Irish maiden that had been turned into one, long ago.
That passage came up last night in the book I was reading to my kids - Sword Song, Rosemary Sutcliff's last novel.
She was a huge influence on me, when I was a little boy.
652. Macnas - 5/8/2006 4:35:58 AM
In the land to the west, there lived a King whose name was Lir. He had 4 children named Fionnula, Aodh, Conn and Fiachra.
They lived in his castle surrounded by a deep forest, and Lir, his wife, and the children were very happy there. After falling ill, Lir’s wife died, and his children were so overcome with sorrow that Lir married hastily to give them a mother. He did not marry well, as she was a wicked woman who in time became very jealous of Lir’s children. Her name was Aoife, and she was sister to the then King of Ireland.
She took them to the lake one day and let them swim and play. She then cast a powerful spell on the children, turning them into white swans. They found they still had the power of speech and asked their step-mother why she had done such a thing, and what was to become of them.
She laughed at them and said she now had Lir to herself, and as for them, they would stay swans for 900 years. 300 years would be spent here at this lake, the next 300 years would be spent on the sea of Moyle, and for the last 300 years on the waters near Inis Gluaire.
She returned to the King and told him his children had drowned in the lake. He went there immediately and knelt at the waters edge and wept for his children. A swan approached him and to his amazement began to speak to him as a person would. He then found out that his wicked wife had tuned his children into swans and had cursed them long into the future. He could not reverse the curse, but on his return to the castle he confronted his wife with her wickedness, and ignoring her weeping and wails, turned her into a spirit of the air, to be born on the wind in torment, with no rest, for ever more.
Lir lived out the rest of his days with his children, staying with them everyday, talking and singing with them. After his time had come and passed, the children remained on the lake until 300 years had reached their end, then they flew to the sea of Moyle. The sea was never calm and it was winter always, but they stayed on the sea for another 300 years, and then it was time to fly to Inis Gluaire.
The swans were weary unto death, but no rest from death would come to them yet. They forgot time and place, and became as mute as any other white swan, and did not sing or talk to each other anymore.
Then one day, a druid came to the island looking for plant and herbs, and as he worked he sang an old song to himself, a song as old as any could remember. He heard first one, then two, then 3 and 4 voices joining him in song, and he looked around to see who was with him, but he could see nothing but 4 white swans nearby.
He then saw that it was the swans that were singing, and he knew then who they were, for the legend of the children of Lir, turned into swans so many years ago was known to all the druids. He bade them come closer, and wading out into the water to them, laid his hands on them and told them the time of the spell was near an end. With that, the swans shrieked once and turned back into the children they had been as before. The druid took them with him, and bade the local chieftain to take them back to their homeplace. That he did, and the children of Lir lived long together, happy as the time before, when they played as children in the woods that grew around the castle.
653. uzmakk - 5/8/2006 2:40:09 PM
Is that yours, Macnas? I ask because it really strikes me. I like it very much.
654. uzmakk - 5/8/2006 2:41:46 PM
Oops. I didn't go back far enough. Excerpt from book, right?
655. alistairConnor - 5/8/2006 3:37:17 PM
I would imagine he was extemporising from oral tradition. He does that.
656. webfeet - 5/8/2006 9:21:04 PM
I had to go away for a few days...Easter Island.. again with karl.
It seems karl has become increasingly out of temper with me. Today, for example. Standing in front of my closet, not knowing comme d'habitude what to wear, karl taunted me as I tried blouses on..the agnes b. blouse was unironed and I wasn't young enough to get away with it,..the unstructured sweater made my breasts look bulky..when I suggested a white blouse, something fresh and springlike, he pointed to my head and said my highlights had oxidized and made me look in sunlight like a puerto rican.....then it was the freshly cut flowers I was trying to arrange in a bowl, 'so Ikea' he sneered, watching me from the window. Then he ridiculed me for being one of those people who are too lazy to change the garbage bags...and so on until he finally went to sleep sipping verbena and listening to Tchaikovsky's piano concertos. thank god.
657. webfeet - 5/8/2006 9:33:43 PM
Judith--karl is exceedingly discreet; though i did manage to make out that it's in the atelier of a young designer off the rue de Charonne, some japanese fashion students were recently chased by wild dogs trying to get there.
658. webfeet - 5/8/2006 9:45:50 PM
Jen--what is trinny a nickname of? or is it simply trinny? marvelous idea for reality show: trinny and susannah as apprentices with karl. who will survive? i'd waiger trinny. she doesn't need shinpads. she does need a mouthguard, however. and why doesn't karl have his own goddamn show?
Delicate. It's because he's too delicate, an orchid that would expire under the harsh lights of tv. and particular--about too many things.
alrite, I'll buy it. i'm not sure how i feel about this book--i'd like to just get this out beforehand, i think this novel is the equivalent of jodie foster's "Nell" and i'm too lazy and tired to go into it now, but i might try tomorrow. that whole thing about is stuttering voice..the muteness..or am i just a philstine?
659. Macnas - 5/9/2006 4:40:45 AM
I had to look up what extemporising meant, but yes, that is what I was doing. If you have a couple of hours to spare I could give you the story of the Tain, but maybe not.
Uz, that story, told here in a very simple form, is from pre-christian times. There are versions of it, where the children turn into ancient old creatures who die soon after, and of course there is the christian version, where the sound of a chapel bell and baptism breaks the curse.
The version I told is that which is commonly told to children.
The full version is far more complex and not as easy on young ears as this one.
The great thing about these stories is that they are mine, a gift to me from long ago, and indeed, they belong to anyone who cares to remember them and pass them on to others.
660. PelleNilsson - 5/9/2006 5:55:40 AM
That last paragraph, Macnas, remnds me, in some unspecific way, of Tolkien's world.
661. Macnas - 5/9/2006 6:09:01 AM
All old world story telling traditions have things in common, Tolkien invented a lot of his own, but, in my opinion, utilised Nordic styles much more than Celtic.
I'd never consider myself a seanachai (story teller/bard), but I do love to tell my children these stories when they care to listen.
662. Jenerator - 5/9/2006 1:24:04 PM
Webbie,
He [David Mitchell] isn't speaking a different language in Black Swan Green. And if was like anything like Nell, I wouldn't have bought it. Now, Cloud Atlas is a different story. Maybe I'm lazy or uncultured, but deciphering linguistic code isn't my idea of fun fiction. High brow Esperanto? No thanks.
BSG seems like a much easier and natural read.
663. webfeet - 5/11/2006 12:32:57 PM
Things are getting curioser and curioser...today at Barnes and Noble, shopping for Black Swan Green which-- and this is sad news for New York--was not displayed *anywhere* in the store, unlike Texas apparently--I encountered SuperVitamin Man, in gym shorts, fresh from his work-out, at the in-store Starbucks. He was with a chick, who was also in some kind of spandex. I suppose you could say she's his 'work-out' partner.
Serendipitously positioned behind him in front of the smorgasbord of unappealing, pasty cookies and cakes, I stood with Juliette, fresh from Baby Swim, on line where i could get a true-close up without seeming like a pervert, of the back of his neck. Hirsute and compact, Vitamin Man has the girth of a small, Italian sportscar. Perhaps he's just a little too au naturel in the neck hair department, with a few strange ones sprouting like tubers in odd places. He needed to be taken to, I don't know, one of those barber shops at Grand Central Station and get properly groomed.
I've always wanted to get picked up in a bookstore. But this wasn't one of those moments. And, I'm not sure SuperVitamin Man really enjoys literature. Although he does enjoy a certain type of round-the-year tanning salon gym bunny who looks like the seventh grade definition of 'slut'.
As I stood there checking him out, while he and spandex chick ordered their lattes, my daughter kept on shouting, "Darfish! Darfish!"
I didn't know what she was saying. And she kept on screaming it again. "Darfish! Darfish!" pointing excitedly at the cookies and cakes.
Head started to turn in our direction. And still, I didn't get it. Then, it hit me. Starfish! There was a cookie with yellow icing shaped like a starfish.
After ordering our darfish and a mint tea, we snagged a dirty table with a copy of the Village Voice on it. Then as SuperVitamin man and his spandex bunny, walked past us, I had to move the stroller which was blocking their passage.
664. webfeet - 5/11/2006 12:39:19 PM
The other bizarre part, which I can't even get into today or ever maybe, was that after leaving Starbucks, there was a dad wearing some kind of plaid cap standing in front of the book check-out, pushing a double stroller.
It wasn't clear whether he was actually on line, getting on line, thinking about getting in line--or what.
So I turn to him and ask, "Are you on line?"
He's about to answer, when I notice his beautiful green eyes and then I realize, desperately, madly, psychotically--all these emotions rising--that I made-out with him, stoned, in the women's room at the grimy sailor's tavern in our hometown when I was twenty! Then a second later, he realizes the same thing and we both kind of scattered as if someone sprayed napalm, in opposite directions.
I would have drunk supermarket sherry when I got home, but I took an advil instead.
665. webfeet - 5/12/2006 9:39:43 AM
Having endured all that to get Black Swan Green, it was worth it. I began a few pages last night--and was relieved that I didn't have to wade through strange dialects and tongues as in Sloosha's Crossin'--one of the chapters in 'Cloud Atlas' that is an exhaustive but mind-bendingly brilliant read.
The style in BSG is similar, even if it's the slang of british teenagers in the 80s instead of Hawaiian islanders in the post-nuclear age.
For example, "Moron grinny-zitty as ever. His bumfluff's getting thicker, mind." Or, "He pongs of gravy" --which I take it means he (Moron) is poor. Anyway, I like it. Mitchell is incredibly funny.
666. webfeet - 5/15/2006 10:31:18 PM
This is sort of feeling like vaudeville...now is this a book club, jen? Look me square in the eye: or, have you abandoned Black Swan Green for The Prada Murder Mysteries?
Since living inside Black Swan Green, and Mitchell's poetic, pastoral Lord of the Flies adolescence, I am starting to feel like an adolescent reading it. L'oreal hair gel, Thatcher, the Faulklands War, Reagan and Haig, the "dusty flute" from that Men at Work song..today I read it on the subway en route to my doctor's office while I ate from a bag of cinnamon hearts, like a seventh grader discovering Judy Blume. Oblivious.
667. Jenerator - 5/16/2006 12:24:23 PM
Don't be so gay~!
668. Jenerator - 5/16/2006 12:26:41 PM
We are a bookclub - a ya ya sisterhood of the Mote. I, too, am having flashbacks to parachute pants and Human League and am having fun with it. Just wish I could have more interruption free time and less screaming children!
669. arkymalarky - 5/16/2006 5:12:08 PM
Jen are you teaching now or are you still home?
670. webfeet - 5/16/2006 7:56:37 PM
Here, you wanker :Interview with David Mitchell
671. alistairconnor - 5/17/2006 3:12:28 AM
I'm not sure who the "wanker" is for, but I'll take it. (I can take it.) I'll take the Mitchell anyway. Next time I order some books.
672. Ulgine Barrows - 5/17/2006 3:16:46 AM
i'ts cold out here and rough
673. judithathome - 5/17/2006 5:37:00 AM
Yep, it's hard out there for a pimp, that's for sure. Or so they said at the Academy Awards.
674. Jenerator - 5/17/2006 3:10:11 PM
Arky,
Still teaching. How about you?
675. Jenerator - 5/17/2006 3:11:08 PM
Webbie,
Great interview.
------------
I love how subtle he is with the relationship between Mum and Dad.
676. arkymalarky - 5/17/2006 3:28:26 PM
I'm out for the summer after next week, but I didn't know if you were still on maternity leave. We've got three or four pregnant teachers, so next year's going to be a real juggle for the district trying to cover for them.
677. Jenerator - 5/17/2006 4:10:53 PM
I didn't get maternity leave - I had to take my once a life supplemental leave and that was for 6 weeks.
It was hard going back to work so soon.
I'm ready for summer, how about you?
678. arkymalarky - 5/17/2006 4:15:00 PM
Oooh. We work leave differently, evidently, and I accumulated enough days to take the rest of the year off after surgery in April. I had Mose around Thanksgiving and came back around mid-January, if I recall (21 years ago).
I'm ready for July. I have a 12-day, 12-hour a day seminar in June, as part of my Masters. But once I get it behind me I'll be halfway through and the rest of the summer will be nothing but fun.
679. arkymalarky - 5/17/2006 4:16:17 PM
That is the hysterectomy I had last April. I'd accumulated enough between having Mose and the surgery because I hadn't had to take off much in between.
680. Jenerator - 5/17/2006 4:18:40 PM
You're lucky you had so much time. We only get 7 days of leave per year and with a young child at home, taking 7 days off per year (or close to it) was easy.
681. webfeet - 5/17/2006 7:06:02 PM
Mirror mirror on the wall, who'se the scariest of us all?
Why...it's Ulgine!
Ulgine, instead of your usual vagina monologues why don't you charm us with a story?
682. webfeet - 5/18/2006 9:57:31 AM
On second thought, maybe you shouldn't. "If you show someone something you've written, you give them a sharpened stake, lie down in your coffin, and say, :When you're ready." --Black Swan Green
We're all vampires here..come join the dead.
683. webfeet - 5/19/2006 2:44:56 PM
NUPLANET-I think what I would really love to read is Chicken Piccata, part III.
I'm not going to critique--I promise. karl has the vapors again and will have to stay on his Louis XVI daybed and repose. I think, as macnas and alistair have intimated, that this might really be deconstructive to this thread.
Getting published for me right now is life or death. M.A.'s depreciate and children grow up and then what? Let's not answer that.
684. webfeet - 5/19/2006 3:15:04 PM
On second thought, yes, let's answer that.
Answering an ad in the pennysaver, I go to work as a bookkeeper in a mid-sized vacuum-cleaner company and play darts every thursday night with my colleagues, Roy and Cherish at a bar. My novel fossilizes inside a drawer beneath our income tax files and medical receipts. I don't look back.
On my seventieth birthday a spirit visits me in my sleep and whispers.."open it" then flies out again into the ethereal blue night. I bolt awake, or some approximation of that as I gather my dressing robe about my twiny shoulders. And, candle in hand, I reach inside the drawer, the burial ground for all my wasted emotions, and pull it out with a triumphant cry!
The clock strikes two, I sit down and then start from the beginning, all over again.
685. webfeet - 5/22/2006 8:51:38 AM
A few final thoughts as I approach the end of Black Swan Green. Even though Mitchell dislikes the term "coming of age story" when describing BSG, the name, too clumsy and pedestrian a term for a book that soars over the other titles in that category, it is nevertheless, a coming of age book, just not an ordinary one.
Mitchell is so intense and passionate a stylist---and his aesthetic sense is so far developed he is practically extra-terrestrial--that he can, with the power of words do just about anything. He recreates the poetry inside Jace's head with eye-popping metaphors that sometimes, however, pop a little like cherry bubblegum, landing in your face.
Sometimes I wondered if Mitchell was on crystal meth or lost in his own thought-tormented music under an I-pod when writing. With fresh intensity, Mitchell does succeed in capturing the tormented beauty in the mind of a thirteen-year old who writes poetry under the name of Eliot Bolivar and is bullied by the blowhard Ross Wilcox.
And talk about a book that smells this book reeks! Lots of evocative, sensual and, er, earthy passages.
That said, it's a novel that dazzles, surprises--but surprises in a formulaic way--that was actually my surprise-- in reading Mitchell. His plot twists lack originality even though they are brilliantly and imaginatively executed. Maybe the hitch is that Mitchell wrote each of the thirteen chapters as a short story, so that in themselves they work, but as a whole, the novel is disconnected, making you feel less for any of these characters than you expected to at the start. Which may be Mitchell's way of giving the finger to the ordinary coming of age story.
On the subject of schoolyard bullies--David Mitchell has a long way to go before he can get in the mud with heavyweights like Philip Roth, who pack more punch in a sentence than the light, effete jabs Mitchell swings. But nobody boxes like Philip Roth. Maybe Mitchell just needed to grow up in New Jersey.
686. Jenerator - 5/22/2006 2:31:23 PM
My God you're good, Webbie.
687. webfeet - 5/22/2006 2:52:28 PM
Do you agree, though? Help me out here. I want out of Black Swan Green! You are the only person, in the world, who has been there, too.
I bet the book is sitting under a baby blanket as we speak, and, if so, a part of me does not blame you!
688. Jenerator - 5/25/2006 10:33:57 AM
Webfeet,
I admit to not being as far through BSG as you are. IAnd you are right, it is addictive even while being mundane (in certain parts). I got chills reading about Hangman - all I could think about was Dylan's speech delay and if it will be like this for him when he gets to Jason's age.
I am new to Micthell and found him because of you; what a world you have opened up for me!
What I think I like best about Mitchell are two things: his *mastery* of the simile, and his rippling, resonating effect. His words remain after reading them and few authors do that for me.
Roth is an apt comparison because Black Swan Green is a hybrid of Portnoy's Complaint and Goodbye, Columbus with Mitchell's take on 80s adolescence.
689. NuPlanetOne - 5/25/2006 10:47:42 AM
Web...I am working on chap 3. Ah, but it is such work for a lazy poet. I understand now why novelists need benefaction and solitude.
690. webfeet - 5/30/2006 11:02:53 PM
It was really fun to read. Just go do do your voodoo. don't listen to me.
691. webfeet - 5/30/2006 11:12:20 PM
What I think I like best about Mitchell are two things: his *mastery* of the simile, and his rippling, resonating effect. His words remain after reading them and few authors do that for me.
This is now what I like least. In this book, anyway.
No, honestly, he's formi-dabluh, but 'Cloud Atlas' was what stays with me. Have you gotten to Madame Crommelnyck?
692. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:29:33 PM
Chapter 3 Joe Basil and The Ring
The idea was to use the incredible Turkish olive oil Joe ‘Basil’ gave me that he got from ‘doin dat ding’, you know, with Tony ‘Shishkabobs.’ Joe Basil was an unmade soldier. The stereotypical caricature of everyone’s idea of a mob wiseguy. He marched into the back door one day with a basket of beefstake tomatoes, a cache of young pristine arugula, and the most robust and piquant basil I had ever seen. This basil had an aura. Once you got your face next to it, the perfume, the unparalleled purity of the aroma had my eyes widening like an archeologist that had just dug up the missing link. I didn’t even flinch or ask who he was. He just plodded to the nearest open spot on a work bench, put down his treasure, and waited without a word or a sign. I looked up scrunch faced, then serious scanning face and sauntered over to check it out. It was a good season for tomatoes. His were the best I had seen to that point. I tasted the arugula; my eyes went immediately to his. He had the faked pained grin of a mother that knew her baby was about to be adopted. It was mild, no bitterness and the peppery afterthought was quick and inoffensive. Then I saw the basil. The sheen alone was worth the price of admission. It was like hearing Mozart for the first time, thinking you had heard a piano concerto before. Things raced through my head. We already did pesto the ancient authentic way, even though the commercial stuff made it a year round thing. But now, all in a second, I knew I could make my basil arugula pesto. My uncle Carmine invented it, he said, back in the old country. And to taste his, you could believe him. And as I remembered eagerly and tenderly fondling the basil that day, I remembered our first conversation when Joe Basil started talking.
“See, see how it rubs off,” he said with one eye frozen in a wink with his head nodding as he watched me squeeze a leaf. The resin was consistent and cloying. I cleared my sinuses and made a sweep by it with my nose like a crack-head doing a refresher line. The high was spontaneous.
“Ooof, Mingha,” he bellowed like he was verbalizing my reaction.
‘Nice, pure.” I sighed like a Drug Lord.
“Who are you?” I said as we savored the experience.
“Oh, scuza, Joe Giovanucci, Joe Basil. At your service. Joey D over at Fat Domenic”s Auto Body said I should swing by. Said you buy this shit. If it’s golden. Charlie, is this shit like ice cream, or what the fuck?”
Hearing him talk was like being home on the corner. Every other guy was just like him back then and back there. They always had a story. They might be in the middle of the most incredible shit in their day to day dramas, but they always had a story. A passion. An incredible slice of fiction or fact. Never about their personal business, the mob stuff, just an exuberant false analogy or coded allegory of some mischief or misfortune. And a bizzare logic bordering on philosophical truth. They would sum it up in a succinct maxim, then, like the coming dawn in the wake and residue awash after a sip of a true cabernet, it would smack you. They would then change the subject abruptly and coldly and fatally deliver the news. Might be you pissed someone off. Could be you had to double up on your payments. At worst, you might be shitting your pants the whole time knowing he would have to get to the point. Fortunately, I only got bad news like that once, and my brother just happened to be nearby. I got a pass, but even though it was over a woman, I knew I didn’t have the stomach or right stones for that kind of work. And even though that life killed my brother, the big son of a bitch saved mine. I didn’t understand the way it worked, but he used up one of his big favors with The Ghost, his boss, everyone’s boss. In the end he went down for some other shit labeled natural causes, but I don’t care what the coroner said, because at that point I learned to stop asking questions. I walked away on good terms, that is, I walked away.
693. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:30:14 PM
“Giovanucci.” I said blankly. “North Shore, or South Shore?”
“Sout Shore.” He said nodding behind him. Then shook his head with a firm lip and pointed at the floor. “Right here, don’t like to go up there. Rat bastids everywhere. Dooshbags. No matter anyway. I’m a fuckin farmer now.” He chuckled under the big sarcastic grin with the automatic wink.
“Ya, how you know me?” I said with the make believe worried look of the guy with unbeatable hole cards.
“Fat Domenic,” he answered and grabbed a tomato as if he was about to raise the pot.
“Ya, what he say?” I picked up a tomato and weighed it with my hand.
“Dom, he don’t say nuthin. You know him. But we get talkin. I knew your brother back in the day. Nobody liked to see him come down here. He was like the god of bad news with the winged feet. Never came to see me, but we cooperated on a couple a tings. I loved the big prick. Sad what happened.”
“Sad? No, it’s sad when a baby dies. My brother’s death was the sadness of a wasted promise. The sadness was in no sadness. Nothing left behind. No tears. No tragedy.” I put the tomato back in the basket and grabbed another one I had been ogling.
“Oh, oh ya,” he muttered as if I just played my hole cards. “Absalutely! He coulda been anything. What a waste.” He screwed his face up like a pug.
“So what’s your deal?” I just dropped the subject and his face fell to normal with a thud. I could tell he wasn’t ready to go down that path.
“My old man ran the west side down here. I was like the Prince who couldn’t be King. Couldn’t be a made guy either. Trouble on my muther’s side. Just like you, well, your brutha.” He made the pug face for a split second. “Anyway, that shit’s done. I’m out. I survived the Feds, they got what they needed without me, and I did some easy time. First class accommodations. But it’s all gone. Now, I got my little spread out in Stonefield and almost two fuckin acres to grow shit like this.” He fanned out three bunches of basil like he had just called the pot and was going to lay down his cards.
That’s the part I remember. When he held the basil there was a look of genuine affection. I could see, I could feel; that part was sincere. It was his identity. People that have done things all their life that they didn’t believe in always had that one real thing that made them glisten. Gave them their connection to reality. Gave them the tranquil solitude in which they could debate their morals or identify their spirituality. I’ve always had the notion that sanity was the result of successfully managing a dual personality. Realizing that contentment lies in understanding our individual interface with this so called reality we exist in. And because you can not really know what lies on the other side of a person’s eyes, you have to decide on what to let in. You know it can contaminate. You know it can wreck your world. Yet, if you are solid in your identity and have tweaked the firewall, your sane self will survive. It might even prosper. You might even be happy some of the time. And I would see this connection, this sanity, on my old man’s face when he worked in his garden as he meticulously manipulated his tomatoes.
694. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:30:47 PM
As for me, it was in kneading bread. That having got the dough right, I was now tenderly shaping my creations. I have a memory of each loaf, it would seem. But in the whole process from flour to oven, in the quiet of watching and guiding each step in the process, I could dwell in a place where thinking things through, daydreaming, making plans, was like a cathedral. And most important, I could analyze stress. In settling into my little house of worship I could avoid the combustion of my adrenalin glands and slow it all down. That is actually when I thought about food. I know most Chefs that pursue cooking for glory or fame or financial reward might have started out truly engrossed in a love of food. And, like myself, had stayed loyal to that motivation at some level. But any Chef worth his salt shaker eventually becomes driven by the sheer force of his success. You start to believe you are special. Even the cook at a greasy spoon enjoys some measure of celebrity when he hears the phrase ‘compliments to the Chef.’ Getting a nod of respect and satisfaction from smiling patrons who exist in the front of the house make the chaos and hell of the back of the house appear connected. You become a slave to their expectations and just cooking what you know is right and simple, becomes impossible. Even when you open your own place you insist you will do it your way, and then the slow nights come. But this time the bank has your ass just as tightly as the customer’s expectations. And before you can pronounce a new French syllable describing that recipe in Food and Wine, you are back to trying to decipher what your actual check paying buffoons are demanding. Everyone from the mute dishwasher to the crisp maitre’dee watch for you to get off your high horse and get on with the 2 for 1’s and family specials, and perhaps even that vulgar piano bar thing. They had watched you spend 3 hours delicately working your confit and lamb stock demi-glace and wondered just how the fuck you were going to get all that other shit on those stupid looking plates you special ordered on line. So you fight it and little by little you let the Sous Chef get back to basics. Before you know it he has things humming again as somewhere along the line you take over credit for the plan and make it your own. You become the owner. The manager. That euphemism called the Chef/Owner that vendors and working Chef’s pronounce with a wink and smile and a head nod toward the office. At that point in your career you buy the golf clubs, nice car and try to screw every new hostess you personally hand pick. Then you die. Or write a cook book.
But I’m alive and still chopping onions, even if I got one eye on the hostess. As for now, the other eye was looking tenderly at the faux boutique bottle containing the exquisite Turkish olive oil. And it was an elixir to be sure. For once you have acquired a taste for good olive oil and find a consistent source, you wonder why anything other than just good bread, fresh garlic, salt and olive oil are necessary to sustain a worthwhile life. Where I grew up, everything else was just dessert. That is, if I may insult the tomato and cannoli gods, not to mention Bacchus or beasts, or fowl and fish and fruits and French. Yet, the point is, if one must break bread, one should dip it in something rich and luxurious. And rich and luxurious were in that bottle. And Joe Basil didn’t get the stuff by accident. It is available if you know about it, as Joe explained it to me as he rushed in one Sunday morning desecrating my bread making solitude.
695. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:31:19 PM
“Ooof, Madone, I can smell fresh loafs.” He went right over to the rack holding the batch I had just pulled from the oven.
“Don’t even think of touching those,” I spit without moving a muscle. It was like I woke up in a dream that I wanted real bad to go on with. I hoped that if I held my pose and kept the rapture I could jump right back in.
“Oh, yes. Definitely. They gettin quiet, the music is dyin down.” He had his ear to a loaf at head level and looked like the guy in the motel with his ear to the wall who heard good sex going on in the next room. The frozen wink, then the pug face.
“Take one of those,” I said pointing at the lower rack holding yesterday’s bread. “What are you doing here? You know I hate interruptions on my bread day.”
“Chahlee, I know, but this couldn’t wait. I got some oil that is like nectah. The nectah of the olive laurels. The ones they put on the gods in Rome.”
“What are you talking about?” I said giving in and dropping my stance.
“Olive oil, compadre, olive oil.” He placed a pint sized fancy looking bottle on the edge of the bread bench. “And we gotta have a fresh loaf!”
“OK, let me shape these last loaves,” I exhaled. He watched nodding in approval as I quickly finished the process then lay the proofing blanket over the 24 balls of dough. I grabbed a loaf from the first batch below the fresh ones and spun and grabbed a knife.
“Like a fuckin machine! You gotta teach me this shit C.” He pulled a garlic bulb out of his top pocket. I sliced the bread first then grabbed the garlic and made a flat paste out of four cloves and a pinch of salt. I pulled out a squeaky clean ramakin from the cabinet below the bench and Joe opened the bottle of oil.
“Let me do it, don’t touch the bowl! I can see shit all over your fingers.” I held the bottle and ramakin up to the sunlight coming in the back door. I poured it slowly and was damned if I could see anything but pure golden cleaness. I got out my tasting spoon.
Joe looked like the crazed soul assisting Dr. Frankenstein. I knew he lived for simple pleasures like these, but so did I. I dipped the spoon, looked sideways at Joe, then tasted. I know my forehead might have appeared to frown in some kind of disappointing shimmer. But it was amazement. It was a fear, an innate fear, a fear of disappointment, that tickled quickly at my left side, like an allergic reaction, and I scratched it. And now Joe was Edison, and I was Watson, and I could hear him loud and clear. This was not a thing of aftertaste. Not a decision of which parts and when they occurred in the perplexity of a bouquet or bite. The purity and freshness pervaded instantly and you could chew the thickness and distinct olive flavor while not for a second feeling boulders of bitterness rolling through the effluence that get trapped as residue like flies in amber. This was the nectar of Joe’s gods. And we had a pint of the shit.
696. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:31:55 PM
“Talk to me. Where’d you get this stuff?” Joe was reaching for a slice of bread. “Wait, get a clean bunch of flat leaf. Top shelf down the back in the walk-in. His eyes said nice idea, pug face, and then back before I could double check my rising loaves. I took the parsley and chopped some perfect leaves and sprinkled a little in the oil. I lightly pressed a chunk of bread into the garlic paste and handed it to him. He took up some oil onto the bread and chewed off a clump. The frozen wink looked like it was trying to squeeze out a tear. A happy one.
“Tony the Roache,” he said after savoring the last bite. “He does collections for The Ghost. Just da big clients. Special rates. Only prime. Just like da juice the real banks charge each other in that overnight bullshit.” He watched like the little dog that waited for the big dog to move away from the bowl. I got my chunk oiled and he lapped what was left on his next slice.
“So,” I said after a blank reverie of chewing in which I wondered if Jesus and the apostles had oil and bread like this at the last supper. Thinking, what good are supernatural powers if you don’t zap up this kind of purity and flavor.
“Well, me’an the Roache, I went along cause I knew Shishkabobs. He had some unpronounceable name, so they named him Tony Shishkabobs. Big, ugly fuckin Turk. Soupastar or something in the opium trade in Istanbul. Owns a joint there. Shishkabob heaven.” Joe peeked under the bread proofing blanket and took a sniff. “These gotta be close,” He said.
“No, 10 minutes,” I said as I moved passed him and opened the first tier of the top oven. I grabbed my oven broom and swept out the burnt cornmeal. Then did the second tier.
“Anyway, I know Tony Shish on account’a he is stuck here in the states for 3 months. Heard about my basil, plus the other shit. I owe The Roache a favor so I go along cause Shish is paranoid about wiseguys he don’t know. The Roache said Shish got money movin problems cause of the war in Ganistan. So they hold him here and I’m sure they are lookin afta his old lady and daughter back in the homeland. You know the drill.” He shrugged with his hands in front of his crotch. “Gabeesh?”
“More than I need to know,” I gave it a sincere tone out of respect and an understanding that the possible bad parts were collateral expectations.
“So, Shish gives me this olive oil cause I bring along some basil and a basket of tomatoes that could be the balls on the gravy god himself. Meanwhile, I’m shittin bullets cause The Roache tells me to be ready in case it goes bad. An the fuckin Roache ain’t afraid of nuthin, but he was edgy. I’m afraid of everything, but my gift is I go calm when shit might be happenin. So the Roache comes out, tells me Shish can go home and the big ugly prick scrambles out and kisses me on boat sides of my face. The Roache is by the car on his cell smiling like a whore that fell on a football team and waving for me to saddle up the horses. He gives me ten large and drops me in the next town.
697. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:32:27 PM
“Ten fuckin large!” I looked at him
“Ya, tens and twenties, solid pocket candy.” The unwinked eye had a glint of focused admiration, like a pirate in a cartoon picturing gold and jewels with the treasure in a cloud above his head. “I had to give it back, course.”
“Back?” I said halfheartedly absorbing his tone.
“I tried to give it back. I’m out, can’t do no more work. Feds made that clear. If shit gets back, I go bye bye in the real shit can. So on the give back the Roache says him and me are square. All even. Then gives me the ring.” He looked side to side as if he was going to whisper in my ear and slid off what looked like a highschool class ring. “See, class of 56.”
“OK, what’s that mean?” I held it and confirmed his description acting keenly interested.
“It means, my compadre, I have his sincere gratitude.”
“The Roache?”
“No, fuck The Roache, that scumbag, The Ghost! He only gives these out when he is truly pleased. For some reason Tony Shish gave me credit for coming to terms, whatever the fuck that means. Bottom line izz..it was something fuckin huge to the Ghost. I guess he stole a whole box of those rings when they booted him outta highschool. The legend says you get one, you graduate. Dat means made guy or not, long as The Ghost lives you are untouchable. I mean, if you don’t cross the lines. Anything else. You are golden.” He made a flourish in the air with his arm and a nodding pug face.
“What if The Ghost dies?” I said looking side to side in a hush aping his superstition about the subject.
“Hey, amico mio, deer’s no pension plan in dis shit, you know that. But the guys who got these rings, we’re a club. But I can’t talk about that, suffice is to say, the rings live on. Gabeesh?” With a smarmy yet not offensive self confidence he gave me his best straight look in the eye.
“Wow,” I said without the wow. “Who knows about this shit?”
“Just the guys with rings.” He was watching me as if he had heard thunder in the distance and was now waiting for the lightning strike.
And it struck. My brother had a ring. I only noticed it in the last few months of his life. But he always wore rings. And gold chains. He kept a locked box at my place in which he swore he would never put anything that could harm me or our family. Just his personal shit. Legal papers like everyone else, his excess chains and items only special to him. He always opened it in front of me and told me to use my key if I ever was short on cash. Sometimes he had a lot of cash and always some kind of document to cover the amount. When he died there was over forty K in the box along with meaningless little keepsakes, 2 decent sized diamond earings, some rings, gold and jeweled, and several gold chains worth enough to start a small company. The lightning flashed a snapshot of the ring. I saw it in my mind at the bottom of the box sliding against the little cache of gems. Joe watched my brow furrow and eyes dart up to his as the flash snapped to the ground and left a smoking hole in the conversation.
698. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:33:04 PM
“OK. I get it.” From nowhere my testicles were tingling like I had just been given the news. “You guys want the ring.”
“Depends.” Joe looked mildly confused but mostly cautious.
“Joe, c’mon, I’m further out of this shit than you are. You’re scaring me ova here. I’m not even sure I got that fuckin ring of his.” I found myself slipping into the vernacular of the corner.
“Hairs da deal,” He stood up close, not menacing, but like the guy he used to be. No pug. Pitbull.
“OK,” I half whispered.
“If you die with the ring on, and you wasn’t whacked, it stops there. It is collected and next to the initials inside the band The Ghost etches a double X. But, while you are still breathin, you can ask to pass it on. The members vote and dat decides if it’s allowed. Your brother gave up his ring and we OK’ed it. Almost unanimis. One veto. Fuck him! Look thru ya bruther’s shit closely. Along with the ring there will be a piece of tin that looks like a business card. On the front it will say Cabal Enterprises, on the back some numbers and a bar code. If you got the card and the ring…well, compadre, gabeesh?” His eyes twinkled like he had cornered an adversary. Then the pug returned. And it waited like it expected a biscuit.
If I tell you, I will have to kill you, echoed in my mind. But it all made sense. After my brother bailed me out of my jam he was hardly ever fully relaxed or as confident as before. Meanwhile, I never heard a peep from that other life. Even about money I owed. Nothing. Until Joe Basil waltzed through that back door. So that was it. My brother gave up his membership to save my ass. I remember the day he sat in my apartment and said, ‘Charlie, you can go away over this thing. This guy wants you taken for an appointment. So I fixed it. You gotta move. Start fresh.’ And by giving up the ring, he must have been an open target. I felt a love, and a desperate sickness swimming in my gut. I knew I had spent my life taking hits for that big shit, giving up stuff, always there at all the bottom outs. But this… he knew the only thing that mattered to these guys was some imaginary and ancient honor. And the only abuse of their earthly vow of honor was the passion and embrace of vengeance. You followed the sacred rules of omerta, but vengeance allowed for discretion, and the rituals of vendetta could be sanctioned if they didn’t threaten the silence. I stole a made guy’s woman. I knew too late. And I thought it was real. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I never heard from her again. I got out, and now I knew how. I wondered if Sofina Maria was alive. She felt alive at that moment.
699. NuPlanetOne - 6/3/2006 4:33:45 PM
“Yo, C. Come back!” Joe was looking at me just like he was before I went blank and wandered into my daze of recall.
“Ya, ya, capisco.” I focused. I tried to picture the lock box with its phone book covering mixed in with the phone books at the bottom of the end table along with the stack of newspapers. Clutter. It would take a dedicated ransacking of the place to happen upon it. They could get in the building easy enough, but it would take noise to get through that door. Sixth floor. 2 dead bolts, rods going into the wall. The latest thing in apartment security. It could be done, and just because I was paranoid at that moment, didn’t mean someone wasn’t out to get me, as the saying goes.
“Good. You bring me the card, I turn it in, then you can wear the ring,” Joe said precisely as if I was waiting all my life for the instructions.
“Why did this news take so long to find me?” I said as it dawned on me.
“Your brutha died, what, a little ova a year ago, right?”
“Right,” I said trying to look like I wasn’t paranoid.
“Well, while you was tuned out amico mio, big shit was goin down.” He was nodding up and down like I had slept through the apocalypse.
“Fill me in.” I lifted the proofing blanket and looked over at the timer.
“Well, feds, finks and people dyin. The Ghost was outta the country for 9 months. And he wasn’t knocked up. All business was on hold. It all cleared up when Tony Shish put the wheels back on. That’s why I got my ring. Then I get my orders. Now you been told. The game’s back on. New business, same old fuckin rules. Plus, you need the fuckin ring. There are people that will be lookin to finish old business. Like I said, The Ghost is breathin, so you’re safe.” He lifted the blanket where he stood and gestured down with a severe pug face.
“OK. It’s time. Spread out.” I peeled the proofing blanket up and off the dough. With three folds I tucked it away and had my bread paddle dusted with cornmeal and took hold of my pastry cutter. As I placed the loaves on the paddle I said, “Top oven,” and Joe pulled open the top tier. I slid four balls of down evenly spaced along the back wall horozontically.
“How the fuck they come off that smooth!” Joe jumped back because I was right back in with four more.
“Practice, so what about this oil, will you be able to get more?” I had twelve balls in and snapped open the second tier of the oven before Joe could react.
“Ya, I guess it can be had on the world web thing. And, a few tight-ass goodie shops can get it too. Shish tells me it is hand pressed by some Turk Doctor who is a afishanado, or a fish some-fuckin-thing about being a snob olive oil lover. Half the Olive oil outta Italy comes from Turkey, accordin to Shish. This Doctor dick-up-his-ass only makes a small batch and until he saw the dolla signs, he only sold it local. Now he’s expandin. I asked Shish for details, acetera. He said to go google it. Fuckin Turk bastid. I let it slide.”
“You crack me up Joe Basil, now scoot. I gotta get shakin.” I slid the paddle back up above the rack. I couldn’t wait for him to leave so I could collapse in private.
“OK Chahlee, have the card Tuesday when I deliver the tomatoes. Leave the rest to me.” He stopped by the door and stood there holding up his left hand. He wiggled the finger with the ring. “Never leave home without it.” Wink, pug face. “Ciao bambola faccia.”
Anyway, that was the idea. Use the incredible olive oil and build my scallop entrée. I mean, I had cooked up most of my ideas with even less time to play with, and shit, I had at least a half hour for this one.
700. webfeet - 6/5/2006 10:53:39 PM
Bravo! More roses fly down from the third and the fourth rings. You would be crazy not to pursue this. A fishinado! You have the mob thing down beau-ti-fully. You have an insider source. I know it. No-one can just channel that. It's fantastico!
Um, excuse me. Doesn't anyone here have a pulse?
701. Magoseph - 6/6/2006 5:08:25 AM
Web, I do, see this: Message # 19584 in thread 142
702. Macnas - 6/6/2006 7:31:16 AM
What a great first thing to read after my few days away from the Mote!
If it was a book, I'd buy it.
703. NuPlanetOne - 6/10/2006 1:39:41 PM
Well then, I have decided it will be a book. Written entirely in here. Imagine how long that might take! Then, with the blessing of The Mote copyright police I will set off and option it out. Perhaps when I get my first huge advance, I will open my own Bistro and become fabulously wealthy! In any case, I will hopefully entertain you all as I plod along and actually fashion a plot somewhere amidst the food and fodder simmering on the surface.
704. webfeet - 6/13/2006 8:45:36 PM
Yes, and I will look on, proud from my post as a part-time bookkeeper in a vacuum-cleaner company. Then, I will later wrap up my opus in a neat little parcel, and drink myself to death with Cherish and Roy and throw darts at my NuPlanetOne kewpie doll.. And, oh nevermind.
You have a very good ear for dialogue. And that is half the battle.
705. concerned - 6/23/2006 9:51:03 PM
Say, what's a 'herione'? I've heard of 'heroines', of course.
706. Ulgine Barrows - 6/24/2006 2:54:14 AM
yeah right, Let's get together on these 'heroines', of course.
Before we get much older
707. Ulgine Barrows - 6/24/2006 3:04:58 AM
mmm
fuck me now
or fuck me later
strategy
708. webfeet - 6/26/2006 10:55:27 PM
Well, ding dong dell..who do we have here?
I hope that wasn't a haiku. Because, if it was, I've never heard such a strange little melody put to music. Yes, yes it might actually be a haiku! Lovely, ulgine. Unprecedently lovely.
709. webfeet - 6/26/2006 11:08:58 PM
I suppose I should be telling you all now. Get out your hankies.
No, no, I'm not not published, yet. What I'm doing is leaving the country Friday to spend ete en provence with belle-mere and it is highly unlikely that you shall hear from me for the entire summer! All those 4th of July Barbecues I will have to miss, oh, I can't stop sobbing. City heat inthe dog days of summer. Please, someone hand me un mouchoir while I dab my eyes.
Of course, I am landing straight into the jaws of death. But, what's a fool to care? There are tartes everywhere! And I can dance in the street every time her back is turned and dream under the parasol of a small cafe, in total silence.
710. alistairconnor - 6/27/2006 2:45:14 AM
Middle of Aix en Provence if I am not mistaken?
Classy big village. Plenty of pretty fountains for the kids to splash around in. Though perhaps Aix is a bit prim and strait-laced to tolerate that.
I hope les grands-parents have enrolled the progeniture in a centre aéré, so they can tough it out with the locals?
Perhaps Clément is old enough for a week in a summer camp? That would be formative.
711. Magoseph - 6/27/2006 4:43:03 AM
What I'm doing is leaving the country Friday to spend ete en provence with belle-mere and it is highly unlikely that you shall hear from me for the entire summer!
Why is the ordi’s sacrosanctity still in effect, Web?
712. webfeet - 6/27/2006 7:23:59 AM
No-one plays in the fountains, alistair. Not even frogs. OH GOD WHAT HAVWE I SAID? UM, that's a big no no.
We're not staying in Aix the whole summer..keep in mind Aix is now akin to Burbank or Cheddar Cheese, WI as it's perhaps the 17th time I'll be going there since the magical yeear of 1998. I usually fall captive to its charms in the late evening
And all of Europe and 'The Americans' flying in for the 'Cezanne' exposition which took 20 years to get afoot, at the Musee Granet. Looking forwarsd to it. No really. An un air conditioned little museum smaller than the Frick with hundreds of world class breathers in my face as I bend to peer into each portrait, rubbing buttocks with Italians. Oh, alrite, it does sound like fun. I'm thirsty just thinking aboutit.
Cezanne is buried, incidentally, in the cemetary behind BM's jardin gardenc omplex and you can see just the tippy tip of Sainte-Victoire, if you stand at the head of that colline, in the distance. I expect someone is going to force me to go on a hike there.
And thenit's down to the sud-ouest to Pau and its environs to have a small reunion with the second-generation paysans and their off-spring in bm's Bearnais clan. Everyone is exceedingly polite and I am carted before them like a circus animal..for their entertainment. An American! In our living room!
This is going to sound mean, and by golly, it is. I deliberately picked out espadrilles that put my already tall frame at a good inch or so taller than usual.Normally I never wear any shoe with even the slightest hint of a heel. A tiny one, just to give a little grace to my ankle, but not really. I did this especially to vex BM. When she orders me around, she will have to look up to me!!! Can you believe anyone could stoop so low? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
713. webfeet - 6/27/2006 7:29:27 AM
Well, I'm awake now. There!
And mags, the ordinarteur is in theory welcome at any time for my use, except that it never seems to work when I go near it. And whathisface, phi phi my beau pere, can play the 'mad professor' and shake his head and shrug, but he is more savvy than he lets on. He has a fucking imac laptop for god sake.
Never works. Never. When I'm near it.
That doesn't mean that I can't try.
Now I have to go. My children are away, my husbandis in paris and I have been blissfully alone for 2 solid nights. And I have no time to waste.
714. webfeet - 6/27/2006 7:32:16 AM
...the valise is open and they're coming back today.
715. wabbit - 6/27/2006 7:44:09 AM
I am already looking forward to your return and the host of stories I've no doubt you will have to share!
716. alistairconnor - 6/27/2006 8:42:37 AM
I was only joking about the fountains. Sort of.
My kids would be up to their armpits, and I'd probably get a ticket from the municipal police. You should have seen them tearing across the Bridge of Sighs against the flow of traffic, fearlessly facing down finger-wagging Germans.
Well I presume they were Germans. Perhaps they were Swiss. Or Aixois.
717. arkymalarky - 6/30/2006 6:20:06 PM
This remind anyone of a certain American short story?
718. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 9:12:55 AM
Chapter 4 Scallops Istanbul and The Big Moon Clock
Being under the gun as we approach the dinner service was routine. Fabiano following me into the walk-in while getting last minute instructions was, in effect, me completing a thought. Throughout the course of the day and day before any service, nightly specials were discussed on the fly, pretty much in unison as we went along according to the daily prep sheet and informal daily meetings. It could seem complicated to an outsider but just based on the advance ordering for any particular week, as well as the daily order for seafood and produce, Fabiano always could figure out where I was going in terms of specials. He knew that morning upon seeing the seafood order that I had bought 4 gallons of Nantucket Bay scallops. My main fish guy, Jimmy, ‘Fishee Man’, as we called him, was a one man independent distributor. He had been in the business for forty years and now pretty much just kept a handful of customers so he could have something to do with himself since he sold his big fish house down in New Bedford. He was like seventy years old and had a million ailments peculiar to the trade, but had a robustness and optimism of spirit that could keep a fox hole of bleeding soldiers from realizing they were oozing entrails; just from the strength of his resolve and unshakable matter-of-factness. If I needed facts about fish, Fishee Man had them. If you needed something out of the ocean, Fishee Man could get it, describe it, and tell you every restaurant and Chef that has bought it or even asked about it recently. I say could, but only if he decided you were his pal, and I was one of his best pals. And during scallop season getting the very best real McCoy’s from the myriad coves and lagoons along Cape Cod and actually out of Nantucket Bay, you needed someone who knew someone. Fishee Man knew everyone. If he said he had Gold Nuggets, my mouth watered. Nantucket Bay scallops were prized, and they deserved to be, and aside from perfectly handled and indigenous muscles, Alaskan King Crab, or Wellfleet oysters, these little balls of flesh were like an aphrodisiac of the deep. They made you horny for seafood. No other way to put it.
“I got’em Fab,” I grunted as I pulled the scallops from a lower shelf in the walk-in.
“You gonna run’em out, or save one for tomorrow?” Fabiano was gently poking the risotto on the opposite side of the walk-in where three sheet tray racks held everything important for quick service pulls. “This is good now.” He said as he eyeballed the rice.
“What, oh, I haven’t seen the reservation list yet, but I’m betting all four gallons gone by 8.”
“Ya, this is ready,” I said as I lightly felt the bottom of one of the sheet pans holding the risotto.
“Why you wear that ring now? You never wear that before?” He gestured at my hand that now hung onto the side of the speed rack that held the trays and held me as I leaned there thinking.
“What? Oh, a good luck charm from my brother.” I looked at the ring and got the twinge of fear mixed with the flash memory of slapping my brother’s face when he was 12. All he did for the smack was cry like a girl because a bully threatened him. He never really forgave me.
“Who Boss? The dead one, yes?” I had three more.
“Oh ya. Loco grande.” I lampooned. He smiled the big dimpled pose as he recalled his own flash images.
“The Grip.” He raised his arm and formed an open hand like he was going to try to take hold of a basketball. On more than one occasion I had seen my brother smother the face of a loan client, and depending on the information that had been offered in terms of repayment, he squeezed in varying vise clenches until the new terms were understood. His hands fit around a human skull like a normal guy holding an orange. He was ‘The Grip.’ At 6’5, he was a mountain, and good speed might keep you out of reach, but if those talons snatched you, the only reason he didn’t snap your neck was because he wasn’t supposed to. I never saw him kill anyone on purpose. No one did.
“Ya. The Grip. Big stupid shit.” I muttered
“Boss, that time he picks up Julio by the head!”
“Ya, poco cabasa.” I grinned and shook my head at the memory.
“No one see his other hand hold him by his belt from behind, ha ha!”
“Bobo. Forget that. Here’s how it’s gonna go.” I gestured him out of the walk-in as Brian my pastry chef pushed in. Bingo. I had an idea. “Get some basmati going.” I said as I held the walk-in door slightly ajar and Fabiano drifted off backwards with the stress face that said he was not having fun. He knew I had assumed command and his comfort zone for the night was in jeopardy. “Oh, and tell Julio to clean 2 extra bags of muscles. Just shuck’em and save all the juice.” Almost a smirk and then he spun around the corner. But the head came back around.
“Boss, psssst…she is wearing the tuba.” As he hissed his eyebrows flickered then he rolled his eyeballs in a circle.
“Blue one?” I asked as if I was totally disinterested
“Beee…yankoo!” He sang in an exited drone.
“Bianco.” I said interested.
“Bianco,” he said with a head gesture to follow him.
“No. And that’s tube. Tube top. Now get hopping. We gotta move.”
“Signore Boss. Silver dollars for everyone to see.” I knew he just wanted to get me to abdicate and stay behind the scenes. Although the thought of Rosalie running around in the tuba made me think of moonlight and wanton silhouettes. I resisted. No time now for that. But it pulled hard.
“Fab. Focus. Go with the flow. Basmati, muscles.” I went all business on him then turned my head into the walk-in.
“Brian, I need some plain Anglais.” I barked it and he turned and stood with his snob face and smirky stare behind his thick framed, retro Buddy Holly glasses.
“What!” He looked like he was reacting to an imbecile that had made its second request for an explanation after the first one was exhaustive and precise.
“Hello, remember me? Executive Chef. Kept you. Got rid of Annetta. Anglais?” I grinned like an overfed fat man.
“On the left, back, behind those figs. What for? May I be so bold?” Still with the condescension of self absorption.
“Scallops Istanbul. Lobster Anglais. It’s all about to be invented.”
719. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 9:13:28 AM
He had that worried look he gets when he senses I’m about to trounce on his overly sensitive cuisine ethics. Brian is a food purist. Perhaps even an intellectual in a food history sense. And because he won’t ‘trend’ his desserts, as he calls the fusing and stretching of classical recipes, he remains on the outskirts of the downtown scene even though he is more than qualified and abundantly creative enough to land a job in one of those top kitchens. I love his end of the line and even did most of the desserts myself for six months, but trying to do both ends was hurting things in the middle, even if Fabiano loved having me diverted. Now, with Brian firmly in place, Fabiano feels crowded when I just step right back in and commandeer the rectangle on a busy Saturday night.
“Good Lord,” Brian half muttered. “Scallops aren’t necessarily a Turkish staple. They tend to favor muscles. And anchovies seem to be rife across all regions. Hamsi, I believe they are called.” He spit that out like he always does as if at some imaginary audience versed in encyclopedic recall.
“No kidding?” I never heard of Hamsi. “Julio is shucking muscles as we speak. Basmati pilaf is contemplated. I am thinking a minature Kabab vrs a Metze. The little fish don’t fit but eggplant and cumin are on board somewhere.” I waited for the smirk, besides I needed to know if I forgot anything perceptually Turkish.
“I see,” he said with the eyeglass magnified squint and blink of blond eyelashes that always precluded the smirk.
“The kicker, Sir Brian, is the olive oil. God neckta. Just a splash over the steaming scallops before the ride to the table.” I realized I had it worked out as I now saw shrimp on my mini Kababs. Piece of eggplant, poached muscle, baby mushroom, small shrimp, red onion. On the plate, 8 o’clock going clockwise: Pyramid of bay scallops. At noon, round mold of pilaf. Then at 4 o’clock the Kabab lying with one end at six to three o’clock. The Anglaise would flow out from under the pyramid from 9 to 5 o’clock. Figs.
“What are the figs for?” I interrupted Brian’s punctuated smirking by grabbing his Black Mission Figs from in front of the Anglais sauce.
“Take them,” he said somewhat expecting it. “You know the meringues didn’t move,” he added as if the world was all wrong and he was all right.
“Oh, ya. The fig apricot beauty. Hazelnuts. Damn delicious. I loved that thing.” We both knew it was world class.
“If it isn’t chewy and gooey, this crowd is not buying it. Generally speaking,” he deadpanned, but brightened.
He was pleased. I won him over. He knew I knew his talent. As long as he prepared the standard classical desserts he was free to do one he really felt inspired about. Besides, he was pretty much in the restaurant six days a week, which meant he could monitor everything that transpired, and he loved to tell me about any little thing that caught his notice. It was his cross in the face of the ‘vampires’ at the other end of the line, the thugs, he said, that manned the grill and ovens. Grill guys tended to be loud, boisterous, machismo fascinated individuals. And Brian, being somewhat delicate and gay, actually, was adept at using my admiration of his skills and importance as his weapon to neutralize their homophobia. Plus, he was the smartest guy in the room, which could actually help in a physical conflict, at least if you were aware that one were imminent.
720. NuPlanetOne - 7/9/2006 9:14:00 AM
“I hear that. And I know my attention to something actually resembling Turkish cuisine will mean nothing to 80% of our diners tonight. They will read Nantucket Bay Scallops, and that is all they will need. Toss in the words lobster and shrimp and voila, instant hit. It’s the other 20% I have to be careful with. They spend the real money. Alfred will do an exit poll as usual. I say we move 20 extra bottles of the Spottswoode Sauvignon Blanc Donna is featuring out there. And it’s fabulous. And they scoff at the mark-up.” Brian just nodded and reemphasized his agreement with some fresh fluttering of his lashes.
“How do you poach a muscle?” He asked. Worried there was a new way.
“Simmer it in something nice, out of shell. I use shrimp stock, lemon grass and garlic as a base. Tonight I add the muscle juice. Then cook it perfectly.” I said as if we were one brain talking in turns. “That way the succulence is guaranteed.”
“Suck who?” He grinned. “Where the figs going, skewer?”
“No. Pilaf molded in a ball. Figs, small dice. Pine nuts. Olive oil, a bit of garlic and cumin for color and a hint of flavor. The ball of rice sitting atop granny smith wedges that have been poached and impregnated in an intense Marsala reduction. And now that I’m thinking about it, grilled marinated asparagus sticking out from under like a house fell on them.” I pictured the extra asparagus I was going to pair with the salmon.
“And the Anglais?” He was holding 2 quarts he had fished out from his main dessert shelf.
“Simple. Double boiler back left corner to loosen it. Swirl in my lobster roe paste, salt and white pepper. I got a ton of baby lobster claws I save for garnish. I heat’em in the swirl and lay a few at the base of the scallop pile.” That was the picture I wanted in my head. “OK, make sure Rosalie is all set with the soufflés. What time you got?”
It is impossible. Futile really, to explain, to try to explain how the feeling takes hold. Something clicks somewhere within your inner ear, an alarm, a wash over of adrenalin, brief terror, a shortness of breath. Suddenly a big clock face sits above your eyes like a magnificent moon over a sparkled glittering sea with huge hands ready to tick off the seconds in a countdown in reverse time. You know that now your actions control the fall of the hands. Each thing you do, each task that you control from that point on keeps the clock from ticking. Any wasted action or distraction allows the clock to tick off one more second. You also know that if you let the big moon clock tick with the real clock instead of keeping at least a half beat behind, real time will take over. And people die in real time. Hardly anyone dies a beat behind. It is anti-time. If the two meet there is annihilation. Manipulating real time is what we all do. I mean, time doesn’t really exist; it’s just a local measurement of an orbit. It has nothing to do with the actual condition of the universe. But it is real time. The obvious acknowledged condition of our universe. The space we warp and inhabit. And the trick to getting things done in real time is to ignore the people or things measuring it. Just you and the big moon clock. And controlled breathing.
“Two minutes to four.” Brian stared at his wrist like he just set the fuse at Hiroshima. His alarm went off. He looked through me and was gone with an armful of artillery.
“Tell Fab the salmon is going over spinach.” I told his back.
He waved his left hand. No more words. I surveyed the walk-in with the eyes of a circling hawk. I would be able to see every inch of it in my mind for the next five hours. I instantly stacked the next half hour’s tasks in my inner cabinets like an efficient shopper putting away groceries. I noticed suddenly it was cold. Real world condition in a walk-in. I noted it and headed out to the dance.
721. Macnas - 7/14/2006 1:55:44 AM
I still like it.
722. alistairconnor - 7/27/2006 8:50:21 AM
That "scallops Istanbul" thing played out much as I surmised. Means I'm getting into the narrator's head, I suspect.
723. Jenerator - 10/11/2006 6:28:41 AM
Webfeet?
724. NuPlanetOne - 11/30/2006 9:50:38 PM
Proof it Existed
Tony stood looking down into the poolroom from the main level of the bowling alley. He was leaning on his arms, hunched slightly forward, with his hands pointing like he was praying in a pew. And he was preying. He was looking for a live one. A possible quick score. Not one of his regular marks, but some new blood. And Tony could spot them. It was better if they had heard of him or had seen him play, especially, if they had seen him win. Because Tony was always careful to never win convincingly. He would appear to win easily, at times, but he always left room for doubt. And that was the key aspect of hustling pool. Never destroy anyone. Leave them with the dignity to accept defeat, that way they held firmly onto the belief that they could win the next time. And there was always a next time. Because Tony would in fact lose sometimes. It was his working overhead. He had to allow losing as a fixed expense. A reinvestment in the business. A calculated loss that would eventually bear dividends. It was hard work and to lose in just the right way was the difficult part, the real skill necessary, because shooting nineball for Tony was like scratching your ass for you and me. He was the best. And everyone from here to Vegas knew it, that is, except the live ones. And the liveliest of all the live ones, were the ones with money. For them, the concept that they could be hustled out of some money, chump change, never entered into it. They lived for the oos and ahhs. They lived for that one crowning moment that might occur when they execute a really spectacular shot, that surreal feeling as they stood chalking their pool cue and surveying the table as if they were the Master of the universe. And Tony always acted dumbfounded. He not only gave them the moment, but he seemed genuinely startled. And if they believed he was sincere, if everyone around them saw the legend graciously acknowledge the accomplishment, well, then it really didn’t matter, in the end, how much money they forked over. They could slap the c-notes onto the felt table top with the expression and smirk of a boxer that had just been stripped of his title by a rigged decision. And although it might have taken four or five hours, Tony looked like the undeserving victor. The bad guy in the whole ordeal. I mean, Tony didn’t make spectacular combinations and reverse English two rail cross corner shots, they would say. No, in fact, it seemed that Tony hardly ever got fancy at all. And that was the other hard, easy part for Tony. He could literally make any shot or combination or trick shot that was conceivable on a pool table. But he had to make it look simple.
725. NuPlanetOne - 11/30/2006 9:51:08 PM
You see, the thing about nineball is there really is a pure element of luck involved. Sometimes in attempting an intended and legitimate shot on the object ball in question, providing you hit the object ball first, a missed shot can actually result in the sinking of some other ball out of sequence, allowing for a second life, as it were. Ultimately, a missed shot could awkwardly go awry and knock in the nine ball, resulting in a sudden win. So this idea, this belief that one might get lucky, built up, in the wanabe’s mind, a real belief in luck. Yet, as Tony knew all too well, luck really contributed a fraction of a fraction to the final outcome. As on the other hand, he encouraged people when they would describe him as ‘being born with a horseshoe up his ass.’ Because for that matter Tony would exhort and apologize and just plain draw attention to the fact that he had just made an obvious lucky shot. Even if he did plan it. The point is they needed proof it existed. So he gave it to them. That way they could tell themselves that not even Tony could stage an incalculable ordering of caroms and careening that deliberately resulted in a desired outcome. But in that spatial globe where Tony saw things as an idiot savant processing the outcome of deflections and combinations and probabilities was, for him, tunnel vision. And aside from the margin of error, this unconscious gift, allowed Tony to recognize the percentages. Couple that with a rote memory of every shot he had ever played or witnessed, and only his ignorance of these unusual powers kept him from maybe being truly diabolical. And the fact is that he really only had this one special gift. That is, aside from an infectious and disarming charm that usually made anyone he chose, well, want to be his friend. And that is why, dear reader, I was only a few feet from Tony as he leaned in and surveyed the fish that night on that iron railing looking into the pond. I needed to be his friend.
726. NuPlanetOne - 11/30/2006 9:51:34 PM
“Tony, isn’t it?” I said staring straight ahead and sliding a half foot closer. I felt only his pupils slowly track the origin of the question.
“Ya, who wants to know?” He said shifting his weight to my side without appearing to move.
“Let’s just say, the friend of a friend who is a big fan,” I said then quickly put my eyes up for contact. He looked into them then straight back at the fish pond.
“And?” Tony moved his fingers from praying to interlocked.
“You see the guy four tables down on the right?” I let my leaning arms gesture minutely in that direction. I knew his eyes found my guy.
“Ya, what about him?” Tony took another look at me then went through the process of fumbling out cigarettes and lighting up, then back to leaning with a butt between his fingers while leaning in exactly the same posture.
“How much is he good for?” I asked like we already got to the point.
“Three, maybe four hundred. If I don’t get bored.” He took a drag and blew a succession of smoke rings that drifted out then down into the poolroom.
“See the guy with him, sitting, holding the coats?” Again I gestured carefully.
“Yup, hard to miss.” Tony said describing the hard edged character of considerable bulk that sat stone faced waiting for orders.
“OK, here’s the deal. I work for the guy holding the coats. The Boss knows the legend. The Boss doesn’t believe in luck. The coat holder makes the Bosses wishes come true. Sometimes people get hurt feelings, or just plain hurt. I make sure you don’t get hurt.”
“Go on,” Tony said as he put his cigarette out in a floor ashtray to his left. Then he pretended he was laughing at something off in the distance and waved. He turned back to leaning. I went on.
“You convince the Boss he won. You get five large.” I tapped five times quietly on the railing. Tony didn’t move for three minutes. Then he tapped ten times and put his hands in his pants pockets.
“He gotta believe it,” I paused and looked him in the eyes. “Beyond any kind of doubt and my end is guaranteed.” Then tapped seven times. Four minutes went by. Tony stepped away, lit another butt, and talked on his cell. He settled back in next to me.
“Go to the snack bar,” he said. “Tell the blonde sitting on a stool nearest the coffee machine you are my uncle John. Give her the dough. She will give you my pool stick.” Tony turned to his left and headed for the restrooms. When I got back I handed him his pool case. His cell rang and he told the blonde what to do.
“OK, sell it,” I said.
“Does the guy holding the coats ever smile?” Tony asked with a serious burrowed brow.
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said as if it were common knowledge.
“What’s his name?”
“Lucky Louis,” I said quietly as Tony started down the stairs into the poolroom.
“Perfect.” Is all he said.
727. Magoseph - 12/2/2006 9:50:57 PM
Nu,
If Proof it Existed doesn't bring Macnas to the Mote, nothing will. Do not wait too long to continue, please. For my husband and me,the suspense is too unbearable to stand at this time in our lives.
728. Macnas - 12/5/2006 5:03:12 AM
Ah now Mago, these days, with things to do and people to avoid, I'm out of sync with the things on my usual orbit.
Nu's writing reminds me, in parts, of Seth Morgan's Homeboy, and it's characters like the Barker, Quick Cicero and the Fat Man.
Nu's writing is, for all that, wholly his own. But I love the way it's as if his character inhabits the same world and knows the same people.
729. NuPlanetOne - 12/8/2006 10:28:54 AM
Thanks Mago & Mac. I was thinking of kinda just ending ‘Proof’ as a short story right there, but I think I’ll go for one or two more scenes. All the while keeping ‘Piccatta’ on a back burner. (Excusing the pun, if you will.) I am surprised at how much I enjoy writing fiction, but it really is, if one were serious, a full time job. At any rate, growing up in a poolroom, cooking in an Italian restaurant and being around the Mob are things I know. The rest I will make up as I go. Wherever that may be. Ciao.
730. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 11:11:15 AM
Tony Chapter 2
Tony hit the bottom stair, turned his head up at me and winked. It was Showtime. He had his pool case under his arm like the longshoreman heading off to the docks with his lunch box. Three steps in and the chatter picked up and followed behind him like the sparkle trail off Tinkerbell. And in his environment, his element, Tony did have an enchanted aura. He was only twenty eight years old but in the fifteen years since he first saw the inside of a poolhall he had personally shook the hand of every wiseguy that was in anyone’s who’s who of infamous thugs, lugs, bosses and assassins. He had crossed them, fleeced them, embarrassed them and even stole a couple of girls. But he did it all on the felt surface of a pool table. He did it in a way and in a venue that was non-business, non-personal and he always did it right. If he had to lose, if there was any chance the dark side could seep in and cross the line, then he would lose in a spectacular way. And later, when the time was right and the bad guy had had his feast and wore out the brag, there would be a rematch and in a close finish Tony would get paid. And that was the legend. A compilation of seemingly convincing defeats followed by a masterful return bout. And hopefully Tony saw this deal in just that light. Lucky Louis did not return things with a receipt looking for a refund. He tended to smash the hell out of an item he had purchased if it didn’t perform according to manufacturers’ expectations as he understood them. Tony needed to perform as expected. Lucky Louis paid cash. No receipt was involved.
Tony’s first stop was by table one. It was Saturday night and that meant old man Pappy was playing Kelly Pool with a few of the old timers and anyone else who had the patience to wait while Pappy waddled around the table giving diatribes and advice to anyone who so much as looked at him. Kelly Pool was an elimination game. Every pool hall rat played or watched it at some point during their days closed off from the real world or from afternoons skipping school. In Kelly there were 15 pills inside a container representing the balls 1-15. Each pill resembled a billiard ball and had a flat face with the pill’s number. You shook out a pill for each player and the highest number broke the rack, then, after putting them all back in and re-shaking, you got your secret pill telling you which ball you needed to pocket in order to win. You sank the balls in numerical order and any incidental balls you buried, stayed buried, providing you made the object ball in sequence. If a guy had that pill, that guy payed up for being buried. Otherwise incidental sinkings were respotted into play and you lost your turn. If you made your secret pill, game over. All the players fork it over for the win. If someone buried you, you try to kill someoneone else on your next turn, because even though you are buried, you are still in. You can’t get everyone’s cash, but you do grab the cash from the pills you eliminate. Twenty bucks a pill, twenty bucks a kill. If you got ten players, that’s three sixty a rack. It can add up. But it’s like roulette. Hard to control that many variables, fun, but not set up for serious hustlers. Not even Tony could control that many contingencies. Even if he could get nine other guys to play with him.
731. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 11:11:59 AM
“Eh, minchone,” Pappy barked at a young kid playing eight ball with two of his friends on table five across the way. “You play the eight in the side, you scratch. You lose!”
The kid frowned and thought about it. Then tried it and watched hopelessly as the cue ball sailed down into the corner pocket.
“Pappy!” Tony chirped as over his left shoulder the kid’s cue ball banged side to side in the pocket then fell in like a golf ball teetering on the edge of the hole.
“Ah, stupido.” Pappy snorted over Tony’s shoulder. He smiled big at Tony and Tony faked two kisses on both sides of his face. It was an inside joke between him and Pappy from when Tony was a kid at Zazee’s Billiard Lounge, the Mecca of pool halls back in the day. Back then Pappy was the man. The Underboss. Guys had to greet him like that. Kiss both cheeks. Hope that Pappy might do this or that thing for them.
“Hey, I used to be that stupid kid ova there,” Tony said as he gripped the old man around the shoulders.
“Bullshit. At that age you was on the tour. I remember when you was fourteen. You ran 167 balls in a 200 pointer. Lefty stood up and ran 200. The next day I had Shaky teach you Three Rail Billiards. Two days later you beat Shaky. Lefty’s guys put up ten large. I covered and you ran 16 three railers in a row. And I know you remember each and every one of those shots like it was yesterday. Switch, you ever play Three Rail?” Pappy looked over at a demure gaunt guy sitting rigid and holding his pool cue with the tips of his fingers as it stood vertical in front of him. Like he was hiding behind it.
“That the one with no holes on the table.” Switch coughed onto the empty chair next to him then sucked a big drag off his cigarette. Smoke seemed to exhale out of every hole in his head.
Pappy ignored him and finished the Three Rail story. He explained that Three Rail was the Mother of all Pool games. Bigger table. No pockets. Three balls. Bigger than normal. Two white cue calls and one red ball. Maroon really. But fuck the color. You know what I mean, he said. It’s all about English and finesse and thinking inside the head. And I don’t mean the fuckin English language. I’m talking about the spin you apply. I mean seeing the cue ball like it had buttons on it. Instructions. Like those computer things that tell a million things what to do. Except the computer is in your head. And this kid had the head. I knew it when I saw him play those fuckin pinball machines back at Zazee’s. I thought he was retarded. And any pool player, no matter how fuckin good they was, especially if they were just shot makers, shied away from Three Rail. They had no holes to hunt. Sure, they could play position and line up shots in their heads and maybe never miss in pocket pool. But in Three Rail, the world ain’t flat, my friends. We are talking astrogily, what’s that greaseball’s name, Galaleyo, Galupo, what ever. You had to see the planets moving. Things goin through curves and circling around shit. Taking screwy turns and goin opposite ways. Ways you don’t expect. You had to push your white ball into one of those other two balls, then make your ball hit three rails and then hit that third ball you didn’t hit the first time. Or you could hit three rails first then hit the other two balls. Boat ways, it all had to add up in one big dance around the table to hit one ball, three rails, then hit the other ball. Fuck the order. And this kid, at fourteen, did it sixteen times in a row. With ten large on the table.
732. NuPlanetOne - 12/23/2006 11:12:34 AM
“You understand physics, Switch?” Pappy asked as he finished his rant.
“What, physical? Like at the Doc’s?” Switch said and looked around the pool cue as if he just come into view. He waved at the smoke around his head as if he was looking hopefully into a burning toaster to see if the toast could be saved.
“Ya, physical,” Pappy snorted. “Keep suckin on those fuckin things. You won’t need a physical. Just an autopsy.” Switch hid behind the stick again.
“So what’s the game, Pap?” Tony asked as he eyeballed Switch and made sure Switch wasn’t getting pissed. Switch was Pappy’s bodyguard. Nothing Pappy said ever pissed him off. But it wasn’t safe if you were anybody else and you pissed him off. His real name was Angelo Anzoni. He got the nickname Switch on account of his weapon of choice was a personally fashioned switchblade knife that was honed almost to a razor sharp ice pick. According to who you talk to, his method of taking care of business was a thrust into the back of the neck, or a clean slice across the throat. They say he was in that business. The back of the neck meant you had already had a face to face, and the slice meant you deserved a hug, from behind, and a final word in your ear. Tony shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?” and threw a sincere glance of respect and rolled his eyes. Switch raised the hand with the eternal cigarette a tiny inch. This time he moved the stick to the side and nodded through the smoke. He liked Tony.
“Kelly. That’s the game. What else is there now.” Pappy broke free from Tony’s grip and starting chalking his pool cue with the wrong side of the chalk. Switch coughed and Pappy snorted, then righted the chalk.
“How bout you? You got a game yet?” Pappy added smiling now at Tony. Tony looked sideways down at Lucky Louis who sat like a brick holding the coats on his lap.
“Me? Ya, any second now.” Tony put his index finger to his lips to shush Pappy as a guy on the next table stepped into their space to make a shot. They froze in position and watched the guy make a cross corner shot on the three ball. Pappy shook his head approvingly. Tony shook his head with a slight grin. He knew how it ended. It was a straight on bank shot. The guy played it straight on. His cue ball stopped dead at the point of impact. He stuck it there with bottom English. Now his shot on the four ball was partly blocked by the six. All he had to do on the three was suck it back with a little lower right hand English and he would have been sitting comfortably by the side pocket with a clear shot on the four. But this showed the guy was somewhat typical of the above average player. Stopping the cue ball was less challenging than making it do things after hitting something else. Even striking the cue ball dead center and easy still required a prediction as to how far it moves after impact. Never mind drawing it right back at you and using the rail and spin to stop it so it splats instead of bounces. It meant his mind had to watch the other ball going back and forth and he just couldn’t deal with that and making the cue spin at the same time. Not that I could either, consistently, but there was a time when I was way above his level, at any rate.
“What? You thinking the guy down on table six?” Pappy and Tony had turned back my way facing the railing with Louis and the Boss behind them. Pappy talked into Tony’s left ear like he wasn’t really talking to him.
“It’s all set up. I just gutta make it happen,” Tony said, paused, then added, “You know these guys?”
“No. But Switch says they are out of Phoenix. The Boss guy is connected to South American stuff. The pile of rocks is Lucky Louis. Used to work outta Vegas. New York connection. Nobody to fuck with. Switch seemed nervous saying his name. Anyway, nobody I know.” Pappy reached under the table and brought up the bridge to rest his cue on. His days of stretching down the table were over. “Six ball,” he barked.
Pappy cut the six ball into the right corner pocket and sent the cue ball around to the left and took a little piece of the huddled balls down center with the ensuing movement. The seven ball hung in the right side pocket and he had just enough room to sneak through the opened balls, giving him a clear shot.
“Ha! Who’s gut the six. Cough it up!” Before anyone could move he slammed home the seven and stopped his cue ball dead. “Rack’em Scratch! That’s my pill. Dig in. Toss it ova here! Everyone. Let’s go!” Pappy winked at Tony then collected the twenties that the other six players put by the corner pocket. Except for scratch who threw down a fifty. “We draw pills for the break, right Pap?” Scratch asked as he started to pull balls out of the corner pockets to set up the next rack.
“Bullshit, we called winner breaks. Ain’t that right,” Pappy demanded in his unthreatening expecting agreement tone. “And what’s this fifty shit ova here. I got no fuckin tens. Go change that at the snack bar, that better be tobacco you’re smoking ova there. And get me a Reeses. No, that asshole neva has the Reeses. Get me a Mars Bar. Go.” Pappy motioned with his head. Scratch was Gone. Pappy motioned to Tony to come stand with him at the head of the table. “Hey, Rocco, you still with us. Rack’em. What, you got like three fuckin houses down the Cape. Show a little life.” A squat huge bottomed guy with a greasy stupid looking hair piece begrudgingly lifted the side of his fat ass that fit in the rigid plastic seats lined around the walls and headed around the table to finish the rack up. Tony joined Pappy.
733. Magoseph - 12/27/2006 5:00:54 AM
Boy, this story has me on pins and needles--How long for Chapter 3, Nu?
734. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 10:48:06 AM
O.K Mago, Chap 3. I wish I had more time to do this, it's getting easier, but the patience required makes for some slow going.
Tony chapter 3
The bowling alley was actually a sports complex. The bowling end of the business was the main draw, but it also had indoor tennis and a health club in an adjacent wing, as well as a sports bar, restaurant, game room, and of course, the poolroom. There was also a swank Motor Lodge on the North end of the property which brought the whole megaplex into one tight world of intrigue. I left Tony and Pappy to tail Switch and see if the blonde was still hanging about. From the railing I had watched Switch head toward the snack bar but he took a quick right in toward the main desk, then, after about five minutes, came back into sight and continued on toward the open snack area. The blonde was scrunch faced staring into a laptop all alone at one of the scattered tables and Switch was standing behind a square block of a woman in a massive New England Patriots team jacket. She might have been a linebacker and Switch stood on guard with antennae up like he was behind an ox that might step back and crush his foot. The cash register made its digital flurry of beeps, she got her change, then headed off toward the lanes with a tray of food packed to feed a small catering event. Switch sashayed with all her movements then eyed her as she strode off. She took a look back at him after a distance. It was a fuck you look if ever there was one and Switch smirked then shook his head. The blonde stayed in her own self absorbed world and Switch ordered a Mars Bar. The background noise was a steady squelch of balls sailing down alleys and muted shrieks and the ping crash of bowling pins being scattered. But the foreground noise was crisp and serene by comparison. I took a stool to the left of the cash register and watched Switch leave with the Mars Bar. Nothing was said about changing a fifty. He headed straight back to the pool hall and disappeared down the steps. Either he already had change of a fifty or that was his reason to stop at the main desk. Even if he wasn’t standing at the spot in front of it when he floated out of sight as I watched from the railing. From my angle now looking toward the pool room I could see a sitting area with a huge selection of bowling balls and other paraphernalia and a door marked office, all of which were the part he disappeared into from my previous angle. Could mean nothing, but I have survived many things sweating little nothings.
735. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 10:48:56 AM
“Uncle John,” the unbelievable mouth and smile of the blonde said as she noticed me sitting there looking past her into open space.
“Oh, hey. Hi.” I tried to match the smile.
“Uncle John. Right. My code name.” I grabbed the other plastic chair at her table and made myself at home.
“Ya. He calls the ones he takes a dive for his Johns.” This she said in a childlike way but it came from a place that was effortlessly sensual and mature and flowed like an air freshener that would never run out of scent.
“What does he call the other ones?” I asked then watched her throw a handful of blond hair over her right shoulder, totally grown up now, allowing a better look at her face, not to mention a quick peek at her somewhat boney chest but wonderfully shaped breasts. I promised myself not to mention those under any circumstances. At least not in that conversation. She showed a wry grin.
“Well, they are all various kinds of fish to him, but when he is paid in advance for his services it can make it a little less interesting,” she said softly through the grin. “Although, when he is paid well, it does improve the performance.” She added with an emphatic coo.
“What’s a girl looking at in a laptop meanwhile?” I said affirming the coo and nodding down at the laptop.
“Oh, real estate. I’m actually working. It’s what I do.” She said then spun her head toward the wall clock in the snack bar. This time she threw all her hair behind her. Wholesome is what she was. Not a line or wrinkle. The kind of skin that would tan perfectly and never age. Perfectly matched blond hair that would cost a fortune to duplicate, except she got hers for nothing. It grew right out of her head. And if the faint golden down that was on her forearms covered any other parts of her I decided I might have to hate Tony just a little, if only to allow me to imagine those other parts.
“Need to be somewhere?” I gestured at the clock. Although I wondered how she could miss the little clock down in the corner on the laptop.
“Ya,” she drooped. “I have to slip out and go over a showing for this weekend. Have they started playing yet?”
“No, he’s warming up to it though. Talking to an old coot that seems to be his Grandpa or something.” I watched her arm as it closed the lid on the laptop then looked up and saw a healthy diamond stud in her left ear. There was a gold star above that.
“Oh, that’s Pappy. He’s known Tony since he was twelve. Pappy gave him a job at his poolroom cleaning up the place. Took him under his wing. Made sure he stayed clear of trouble. Pappy was…” She kind of blinked upward and trailed off a second as if to omit knowledge of inside information. “He was connected to the Mob.” She declared leaning her head in a bit and not really whispering, like it was a secret.
“What about his sidekick? The skinny guy?” I figured since we were telling well known secrets it was worth a shot.
“Oh. That’s Angelo. He goes everywhere Pappy goes. I call him the Boogey-man. He gives me the creeps. He never makes eye-contact, but he’s always staring at you. Weird though, he really likes Tony.” She searched for my eyes. I had to look. We looked at each other for a long minute.
“Everyone likes Tony,” I said. I had to say something to break the spell. Look too long in there and all kinds of things start to percolate. Hormones being born. Yet you felt like little accomplices were sneaking around in the background taking unguarded stuff.
“Ya, Tony,” she breathed. Her eyes sparkled and everything fled from everything. Kind of like it was a wonderful problem that made a bigger problem more bearable. “Thank God for Tony.” She blinked then touched my wrist to straighten it and seemed able to read the time on my watch upside down. Her fingers were warm. I felt it in my toes.
736. NuPlanetOne - 1/6/2007 10:49:29 AM
“Not gonna stick around to root for our boy?” I said once I stopped analyzing my feelings.
“Well, he never hangs around while I’m working. He’ll call with an update. I’ll be at least two hours going over the details of this house with the owners. If they don’t change things.” She grimaced. “But that would be a first.”
“Be careful with the pay stub,” I said alluding to the tidy sum I had handed over earlier. She tapped her open briefcase sitting next to the closed laptop.
“Safe and sound. Right here,” she said and tapped the briefcase again. “Paid in advance,” she added. “Not worried Tony would run out on you?” She feigned mock concern mildly across her face.
“No one runs out on Lucky Louis. Not much future in that, but I suppose,” I pretended to exaggerate an expectation of an offended reaction, “that you could run out on Tony.”
“Well,” she said flatly unoffended, “then I would be cutting my losses. I make more than that little paystub selling just one property. Even if Tony did care about money. And he really doesn’t. If I didn’t look after it for him, he’d be happy living in his car. Or one of those rooms next door at the motel.” She glanced north as if there was something there that really bothered her. “They give him a room there. Whenever he needs one. He brings in the players.” She finished and stared through the walls toward the motel. I could tell she didn’t like that accommodation.
“Sounds pretty sweet. Everything under one roof. Like a big cruise ship.” I said it quick to keep her going.
“Ya. He helps pick the poker players. The high rollers. There’s always a game over there. And a few pool tables. The game here moves there after hours. The House skims everything. And Tony settles for scraps and leftovers.” She made this last point like she was beating the skeleton of a dead horse. Then quickly brightened as if I had heard it all before.
“Well,” I said as if I had actually heard it all before, “That’s Tony. And don’t tell me about that place, I’ve left more than a few bucks sitting in one or more of those rooms. And I don’t mean the happy ending rooms.” She only considered that part.
“Well, a girl can have her happy ending too,” she said gathering up her gear. She gave me a look that made me want to go to confession and pray I was included in that happy ending. To say she was sexy, missed the point.
“O.K. I’ll go root for our boy.” I said trying to appear neutral in a court proceeding. She nodded and moved away like a schoolgirl lugging books in front of her forcing her hips to sway in response to no arm movement. I remembered why confession required an act of contrition. You could think a sin. I decided to interrogate the snack bar guy. He was holding an empty soda cup and a straw and was staring at me. I smiled.
737. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:44:24 PM
Proof it Existed Chapter 3
The bowling alley was actually a sports complex. The bowling end of the business was the main draw, but it also had indoor tennis and a health club in an adjacent wing, as well as a sports bar, restaurant, game room, and of course, the poolroom. There was also a swank Motor Lodge on the North end of the property which brought the whole megaplex into one tight world of intrigue. I left Tony and Pappy to tail Switch and see if the blonde was still hanging about. From the railing I had watched Switch head toward the snack bar but he took a quick right in toward the main desk, then, after about five minutes, came back into sight and continued on toward the open snack area. The blonde was scrunch faced staring into a laptop all alone at one of the scattered tables and Switch was standing behind a square block of a woman in a massive New England Patriots team jacket. She might have been a linebacker and Switch stood on guard with antennae up like he was behind an ox that might step back and crush his foot. The cash register made its digital flurry of beeps, she got her change, then headed off toward the lanes with a tray of food packed to feed a small catering event. Switch sashayed with all her movements then eyed her as she strode off. She took a look back at him after a distance. It was a fuck you look if ever there was one and Switch smirked then shook his head. The blonde stayed in her own self absorbed world and Switch ordered a Mars Bar. The background noise was a steady squelch of balls sailing down alleys and muted shrieks and the ping crash of bowling pins being scattered. But the foreground noise was crisp and serene by comparison. I took a stool to the left of the cash register and watched Switch leave with the Mars Bar. Nothing was said about changing a fifty. He headed straight back to the pool hall and disappeared down the steps. Either he already had change of a fifty or that was his reason to stop at the main desk. Even if he wasn’t standing at the spot in front of it when he floated out of sight as I watched from the railing. From my angle now looking toward the pool room I could see a sitting area with a huge selection of bowling balls and other paraphernalia and a door marked office, all of which were the part he disappeared into from my previous angle. Could mean nothing, but I have survived many things sweating little nothings.
738. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:45:00 PM
“Uncle John,” the unbelievable mouth and smile of the blonde said as she noticed me sitting there looking past her into open space.
“Oh, hey. Hi.” I tried to match the smile. “Uncle John. Right. My code name.” I grabbed the other plastic chair at her table and made myself at home.
“Ya. He calls the ones he takes a dive for his Johns.” This she said in a childlike way but it came from a place that was effortlessly sensual and mature and flowed like an air freshener that would never run out of scent.
“What does he call the other ones?” I asked then watched her throw a handful of blond hair over her right shoulder, totally grown up now, allowing a better look at her face, not to mention a quick peek at her somewhat boney chest but wonderfully shaped breasts. I promised myself not to mention those under any circumstances. At least not in that conversation. She showed a wry grin.
“Well, they are all various kinds of fish to him, but when he is paid in advance for his services it can make it a little less interesting,” she said softly through the grin. “Although, when he is paid well, it does improve the performance.” She added with an emphatic coo.
“What’s a girl looking at in a laptop meanwhile?” I said affirming the coo and nodding down at the laptop.
“Oh, real estate. I’m actually working. It’s what I do.” She said then spun her head toward the wall clock in the snack bar. This time she threw all her hair behind her. Wholesome is what she was. Not a line or wrinkle. The kind of skin that would tan perfectly and never age. Perfectly matched blond hair that would cost a fortune to duplicate, except she got hers for nothing. It grew right out of her head. And if the faint golden down that was on her forearms covered any other parts of her I decided I might have to hate Tony just a little, if only to allow me to imagine those other parts.
“Need to be somewhere?” I gestured at the clock. Although I wondered how she could miss the little clock down in the corner on the laptop.
“Ya,” she drooped. “I have to slip out and go over a showing for this weekend. Have they started playing yet?”
“No, he’s warming up to it though. Talking to an old coot that seems to be his Grandpa or something.” I watched her arm as it closed the lid on the laptop then looked up and saw a healthy diamond stud in her left ear. There was a gold star above that.
“Oh, that’s Pappy. He’s known Tony since he was twelve. Pappy gave him a job at his poolroom cleaning up the place. Took him under his wing. Made sure he stayed clear of trouble. Pappy was…” She kind of blinked upward and trailed off a second as if to omit knowledge of inside information. “He was connected to the Mob.” She declared leaning her head in a bit and not really whispering, like it was a secret.
“What about his sidekick? The skinny guy?” I figured since we were telling well known secrets it was worth a shot.
“Oh. That’s Angelo. He goes everywhere Pappy goes. I call him the Boogey-man. He gives me the creeps. He never makes eye-contact, but he’s always staring at you. Weird though, he really likes Tony.” She searched for my eyes. I had to look. We looked at each other for a long minute.
“Everyone likes Tony,” I said. I had to say something to break the spell. Look too long in there and all kinds of things start to percolate. Hormones being born. Yet you felt like little accomplices were sneaking around in the background taking unguarded stuff.
739. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:45:46 PM
“Ya, Tony,” she breathed. Her eyes sparkled and everything fled from everything. Kind of like it was a wonderful problem that made a bigger problem more bearable. “Thank God for Tony.” She blinked then touched my wrist to straighten it and seemed able to read the time on my watch upside down. Her fingers were warm. I felt it in my toes.
“Not gonna stick around to root for our boy?” I said once I stopped analyzing my feelings.
“Well, he never hangs around while I’m working. He’ll call with an update. I’ll be at least two hours going over the details of this house with the owners. If they don’t change things.” She winced. “But that would be a first.”
“Be careful with the pay stub,” I said alluding to the tidy sum I had handed over earlier. She tapped her open briefcase sitting next to the closed laptop.
“Safe and sound. Right here,” she said and tapped the briefcase again. “Paid in advance,” she added. “Not worried Tony would run out on you?” She feigned mock concern mildly across her face.
“No one runs out on Lucky Louis. Not much future in that, but I suppose,” I pretended to exaggerate an expectation of an offended reaction, “that you could run out on Tony.”
“Well,” she said flatly unoffended, “then I would be cutting my losses. I make more than that little paystub selling just one property. Even if Tony did care about money. And he really doesn’t. If I didn’t look after it for him, he’d be happy living in his car. Or one of those rooms next door at the motel.” She glanced north as if there was something there that really bothered her. “They give him a room there. Whenever he needs one. He brings in the players.” She finished and stared through the walls toward the motel. I could tell she didn’t like that accommodation.
“Sounds pretty sweet. Everything under one roof. Like a big cruise ship.” I said it quick to keep her going.
“Ya. He helps pick the poker players. The high rollers. There’s always a game over there. And a few pool tables. The game here moves there after hours. The House skims everything. And Tony settles for scraps and leftovers.” She made this last point like she was beating the skeleton of a dead horse. Then quickly brightened as if I had heard it all before.
“Well,” I said as if I had actually heard it all before, “That’s Tony. And don’t tell me about that place, I’ve left more than a few bucks sitting in one or more of those rooms. And I don’t mean the happy ending rooms.” She only considered that part.
“Well, a girl can have her happy ending too,” she said gathering up her gear. She gave me a look that made me want to go to confession and pray I was included in that happy ending. To say she was sexy, missed the point.
“O.K. I’ll go root for our boy.” I said trying to appear neutral in a court proceeding. She nodded and moved away like a schoolgirl lugging books in front of her forcing her hips to sway in response to no arm movement. I remembered why confession required an act of contrition. You could think a sin. I decided to interrogate the snack bar guy. He was holding an empty soda cup and a straw and was staring at me. I smiled.
740. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:46:49 PM
The snack bar was deliberately stuck in the fifties. For newcomers to the game and alley allure it was retro. And retro was back at the forefront of in. To the hip and almost cool it was like that plastic pink flamingo on their Grandma’s lawn. Extinct, but wicked cool. To the old-timers it was an oasis in the middle of a techno-modern world that they tried to master reluctantly, especially since bowling alleys went from the fifties to the eighties in one jump, if they jumped at all. There were two long sky blue plastic benches that formed an open right angle completing a box finished by the snack bar counter and long window overlooking the parking lot. The open section at the corner of the benches that didn’t meet provided a doorway area. It was like a kitchenette in a studio apartment, all part of a big room, but sealed off by the idea. Everything from the long menu board with hand positioned letters to the lemonade percolating in the bubbler near the snow cone machine reeked of ’56 and had that Technicolor purity that precluded pastels. Only the cash register looked out of place. But there was nothing retro about money.
“You gonna fill that cup, or just hoping for a sale?” I asked the snack bar guy as I slid back onto my stool next to the register. He put the cup down.
“No. The cup. No. You want a soda?” He tipped the cup at me then toward the soda machine.
“Naw. Just hangin out. Talking to pretty girls.” He threw the cup and straw into the trash at his left. I guess it was tainted now.
“Isn’t that Tony’s girl?” He asked as his eyes slid over toward the path the blonde had taken to the door. He straightened some straws near the register.
“That’s what they tell me,” I said gloomily. “Why, someone say she wasn’t?” I gave him a look with a slight befuddled air of being out of the loop, like I would need to know that.
“Oh. I don’t think so. She just hasn’t been around lately.” He pushed the tip of a cap up a bit. It said Freddie’s on it. He looked across the way toward the main office. I ignored that. He straightened the cups up and reached under the counter and brought up some lids and stacked them next to the cups. Two swinging doors pushed open in a hole in the wall behind him next to a long flat top grille and a slender, squinting female came out wiping her hands in a wad of paper towels. She was dressed like the snack bar guy except for a black apron covering her front. Her cap had a pony tail sticking out the back with the name of the snack bar, ‘The Alley Grille,’ emblazoned across the front. She ignored us and got busy stocking things around the grille. The snack bar guy asked her if the burgers had thawed. They had.
“I guess you would have to notice when she is around, ha?” I colored the innuendo to invite a mutual mental ogling. His eye brows rose a bit and he made a face like a kid thinking things up for Santa. He checked it twice by letting his eyes again wander after the path the blond had marched to the door.
“Not hard on the eyes,” he said revealing toy number one.
“You think?” I said. “Hard? The hard part is easy for you, you’re standing behind a counter.” He relaxed and laughed shaking his head slowly up and down. The grille girl smirked over her left shoulder and showed two green eyes mildly amused. Maybe she thought we meant her. Though I suspected she was on his wish list.
741. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:48:00 PM
“Ya, Tony can pick’em,” he nodded. “And choose!”
“Who you talking about, anyway?” The grille girl demanded.
“Tony. And Tony’s girl,” he shot off to his right.
“Oh. Tony,” she pursed her lips and I could see an impish grin on the side of her face as it turned our way. “What about Tony’s girl?” The face was hopeful. “They finally split yet. ‘Bout time. Hey! Could be your big chance Ollie. I know she likes you.” She made sure she had his eyes and flashed an o.k. I’ll stop look and whooshed some water onto the grille. The hiss of the steam bellowed up into the fan hood and she scraped at the surface with a grille brush. Ollie watched that then looked at me and rolled his eyes.
“Couldn’t blame a guy for at least thinking it over,” I leaned in to say with my eyes suggesting the possibility.
“Ya, well,” he nodded his head toward the grille behind him. “Nothing to say on that, actually.” He grimaced like a donkey clenching its asshole. I expected a bray if I dug any deeper.
“Oh. Ya. Sure,” I said like he actually had something to report on his chances with the blond. It seemed doubtful he even had a chance with the grille girl. She was looking at me like she had a secret. She pulled her cap off and fussed with her hair. She looked different. It was worth watching.
“So, you want a sandwich,” Ollie asked signaling defeat on his chances with the blond. He snuck a look at the grille girl and saw her facing the grille readjusting her cap.
“Na, not right now. Gonna head back down to the pool room in a bit. Probably eat later on.” I decided I couldn’t work him over with an audience. Instead, I’d make a move on the main desk.
“ Oh, sure. O.K.,” he said as he slid a pace to his right and scooped up some crumbs that had been aggravating his peripheral vision. He scanned the length of the counter to make sure he had them all, slid back, and leaned comfortably on the register like a spider that had just run down the web on a false alarm.
“Who run the desk over there?” I jerked my head over my right shoulder.
“Vinnie Rocco,” He said. “He’s probably in the office right now” He stopped leaning after saying the name as if he just remembered he was really standing out in the middle of a treeless desert with nowhere to hide.
“Vinnie Rocco,” I repeated. I locked eyes with the grille girl and the area around her eyes tightened into severe curiosity. Then she turned away. I spun off the stool and headed over to the main desk.
742. NuPlanetOne - 1/18/2007 9:52:35 PM
....just adding on to chap 3, sorry for the replay. just a few minor changes.
743. alistairconnor - 1/19/2007 5:21:51 AM
It was worth reading again. The ambience is really palpable.
Do you know where the story's going, or are you winging it? It seems to be heading for a climax with the game itself, but now we've got Tony's girl who surely has to make another appearance... Intriguing.
744. NuPlanetOne - 1/19/2007 9:07:50 PM
No, not really Alistair. But I am going to dive into the pool match soon. The cool thing about fiction is little scenes suggest other little scenes. And definitely, Tony’s girl must return. At any rate, a few more loose ends to tie before I head back into the poolroom. Beyond that I will try to keep you guessing.
745. NuPlanetOne - 2/5/2007 9:43:41 AM
Proof it existed chapter 4
“How you doin?” Vinnie Rocco said by way of a greeting as I approached the main desk area as he emerged from the door marked office. It confirmed for me that the mirrored panels and Vegas style globes discreetly hung about the place monitored via video everything going on throughout the complex. From the shape of the overhang above the main desk it was obvious that the office was up a small flight and had direct sight over to the snack bar and into the pool room. And I would bet that above that there were walkways to everywhere to peek in on every little thing.
Two guys stayed busy dealing with customers and nodded to Vinnie with the closest one handing him a phone. He told the phone he’d take care of it and tossed it near its cradle. The other guy hung it up without daring to look at Vinnie. I smiled at him. Vinnie waved me over to the area with all the bowling ball displays and told me to take a load off in one of the plush chairs in the mini lounge at that end of the reception desk. He opened the door to the office and stuck his head inside and yelled something upward ending with a stress on the word now, then calmly turned and shrugged his shoulders with his hands cupped at his thighs.
“Whadaya gonna do wit these fuckin’ melon heads?” He was right out of Hollywood casting. At least to the movie going public, anyway. Where I grew up the accent and stresses didn’t separate you from anybody. They all talked like Vinnie. The butcher, the mailman and the parish priest.
“Me? Nothin, you keep’em,” I said and brushed the top of the back of my fingers out from under my chin. He gave a heavy headed smirking nod and sat on the edge of a faux ornate leather sofa that hugged the short wall to the right of the office door.
“So. I told Louis anything you want Big Guy. Anything. Spell it out. He says, ya. See Marco. He’ll come by. So, name it my friend. Whatever you need.” He waved his hand in the air like he had just cast a spell.
“The Boss is gonna play a little pool. Louis picked out Tony. It could take a while. Set up a few rooms for later. Keep the girls away unless they get invited. Track down a 30 year old Sandeman Tawny Port. Room temp. And tip me off if Tony’s girl comes back in the building.” Vinnie got up and grabbed a pad off the desk and asked me to spell Sandeman. Then looked at me kinda cockeyed.
“Tony’s girl?” he rubbed the tip of his nose. “Darlene, the blond, right?”
“Right. The blond. Somebody say she wasn’t Tony’s girl?” It was starting to seem like everybody thought so.
“Ha? No. Who the fuck knows? Eh? Tony. We’re talking fuckin Tony here. Right? He’s always bangin something. O.K. What else?” He got over the request with the girlfriend thing.
“That’s it. I’ll tip off one of the boys here or at the snack bar as the night progresses. Is it safe to eat over there?” I swung my head quick that way and Ollie pulled his head behind a customer standing in front of the register. The grille girl was watching from inside the swinging doors and slid quickly out of sight. I turned back to Vinnie.
“What? The grille? Oh, ya. Good greasy shit. They got no brazjole, or managot. But nice burgers. Good fuckin Rueben too. But hey, next door we got everything. Cooks, or chinky food, delivered. Doesn’t matter. You name it.” He was totally pleased with himself. He gave a hand gesture toward Ollie.
“The snack bar guy seems a little on the goofy side,” I said and threw my right arm up and sent my thumb Ollie’s way like I was hitchhiking.
“Fuckin dope head. Gutta watch him like a hawk. Gino’s third cousin. The kid’s Grandpa was the Boss of everything once upon a time. Gino says he’s my fuckin problem. Little shit. I otta crack his fuckin brain open.” There was definitely homicide percolating in his eyes. Then stillness.
“Gino. He upstairs?” I made it sound like it didn’t matter. Like I was perfectly happy talking to the second in command, as it were. And to avoid a pause while his homicidal hormones were sautéing.
“Gino? Oh, ya. He’s around somewhere. He’ll be next door. Later. You know that fuckin guy. He’s like a ghoul. Bang! There he is. Outa nowheres.” He did a phony ducking response like something was coming at his head.
“And the old man in the pool room. Pappy. What’s his deal?” Again. I made it sound innocuous. It could mean I really didn’t know him, or of course I knew him, but what’s his status.
“Pappy? No problem there. He’s still retired. I think he gut his paws into some odds and ends, you know, just to make the ends meet up.” He made a face like a hound dog trying to look complacent. “Boat ways tho, nobody in his right mind would fuck with that guy, just on principle. Not even Gino.” He added shaking his head saying yes but meaning no.
“Who else is Tony banging these days, if I might ask?” As soon as I said it Vinnie’s eyes shot toward the snack bar but quickly back at me.
“Hey, c’mon, who the fuck knows. Why, what that fuckin meathead ova there say. Fuck him. T and Darlene are like two grapes on a vine.” He didn’t know where to take the idea. Or how to brush it off. Then his eyes opened wide. “Why, she part of dis business tonight?” Then a scrunched worried look.
“Her. Could be. Later. Don’t worry about it. And the kid didn’t say anything. Cause I didn’t ask him. Just tip me off if she shows.” I stood up and watched him bounce himself up. Spry. He had about two inches on me. 6’4, maybe 6’5. Twice as wide. He squeezed my hand without trying to hurt me. I made my way toward the pool room.
746. NuPlanetOne - 2/5/2007 9:44:33 AM
There were two guys standing at the wrought iron railing talking back and forth about a hockey game. I went right by them and continued straight down a short hall toward two large glass doors that led outside into the side parking lot. To the left of the doors was another short hall with restrooms on either side and beyond that two big wooden doors with chrome handles. An intricate neon sign above the doors lit up the word lounge and bounced colors off and around a glossy gilding strip of sheet metal that ran along the top of the wall up to the restrooms. It created a surreal ambience around the lounge doors that would assure a drunk that he had made it safely back to Shangra La. I turned to the right of the exit doors and saw a door marked staff only. I went out into the side parking lot. To my left was the front of the building facing the main drag and off further up, as the road headed north, a parking lot width away, was the Motor Lodge. You would have to walk over there. Unless there was a secret passage. Or unless you were a ghoul.
I thought about that and went to my right and followed the building to its end at that side and decided the back wall of the poolroom ended at about that distance. I walked past the end a bit and studied two heavy metal doors with lighted exit signs and no door knobs that were spaced about twenty feet apart with the one furthest away marked receiving. It meant there probably was a back area behind the wall at the far end of the poolroom. There were no obvious cameras, so that meant they had the good ones. Anyone joining the party from out there would have to be let in. Unless they were leaving it.
I eyeballed the rest of the back of the building that stretched at least five hundred feet then climbed up a story, went on several hundred more feet, then turned the corner. That would be the health club. There must have been at least sixty cars parked behind it. Some of those were probably restaurant overflow. The restaurant fronted the health club. The area was well lit. People coming and going. I decided to check it out later then walked back to the side doors and headed back in. The two guys talking about hockey were gone. I went straight past the iron railing and over to the main desk and told the guy I had smiled at to light up table fourteen. He made a professional patronizing face then handed over a small wooden box with three balls in it. I went back to the railing and took my original spot and stood there.
Pappy was talking to the big assed guy who had somehow managed to wedge his whole ass down into the narrow plastic seat. An image of him taking his next shot with the chair clamped onto his butt jumped into my mind. And he looked like a guy that should have a chair clamped on his ass but he was smiling and enjoying whatever it was that Pappy was gibbering about. Switch was racking the balls and making an intense grimace as he lifted the rack off like he dared any off the balls to so much as breathe. One of the balls must have sighed because he jammed the rack over them and went paralyzed with his upper body and held it all down and steady like he was strangling an octopus and didn’t care how many arms were flailing before it died. Then he lifted it off with a sick grin and stepped back slowly and searched corner to corner and eased backward into his chair. He grabbed his pool stick and his crotch then hid behind the shaft and watched the balls. They were dead alright. This guy scared me.
Pappy said it was about fuckin time and broke open the new rack. Across to my left the kids were still playing eightball and two tables down on the right, after Pappy, my boy Tony had begun his mission. The table after them and the one between them and Pappy had racks of unbroken balls sitting ready, but no players. Rented buffers for leaning and watching. Louis looked like a grizzly bear napping with one eye open while still clutching the coats on his lap. The open eye noted my appearance then went back to watching Tony. The Boss was half leaning on the buffer table on that side chalking his cue. I looked past him into the far right corner and noticed the outline of a doorway with a lighted exit sign above it. The back three tables on that side were unlighted and the last four on the left side were lighted, but unused.
747. NuPlanetOne - 2/5/2007 9:45:18 AM
I went down to my table which was midway between Pappy and Tony on the opposite side. I dumped the balls out of the box with a wrist jerk and let them sail around the table as I sifted through the sticks on the wall rack. It was a pretty decent collection. Well run pool halls have good house sticks. Serious players always scout out a house stick to break with and to use in an emergency or tricky situation where using vertical massé might damage their custom made pool cue. I dumped my coat on a plastic seat then rolled my chosen stick on the table to see if I could still pick out one by sight that was even and straight. It passed and I grabbed it up and went through the motion off holding it on the table and pretending I was getting ready to stroke a shot. I slid it through the fingers on my left hand fast, then real slow, then fast again. Then I pulled up and stroked it quick in the air a few feet above the table to feel for any unevenness after having leaned hard on it to practice my set position. It felt good so I chalked it quickly and snapped off a shot on one of the two white cue balls without looking to see where any of it went then stood the stick straight up and checked the tip. Solid. Fairly even. I spotted a ratty looking piece of steel wool in one of the built in ashtrays between the connected plastic seats and honed the shaft carefully to get that superfine sanded feel that meant all the factory varnish was gone. This time I ignored the crisp new cube of blue chalk that came in the box with the balls and rounded up a couple of used ones that were all broken in. I cleaned off the tip of the cue with spit on my finger then roughed it a little with the wool and chalked it properly.
“Wow! We gut a player ova here.” Pappy stood with his left arm hanging off the tip of his cue with his right arm crossed over that. He had taken in the whole warm-up routine, as I had expected, and stood shaking his head approvingly.
“Player? No, not quite. Even when I could play I wasn’t all that good.” I shrugged like I meant it. Then I stood there with my stick diagonal across my front, chalking with my right hand while an occasional squeal of nails on blackboard sounded as I ground tip into chalk to fit the tip perfectly. My left hand held the butt end and turned the stick opposite my right.
“Oh. But you played. I can tell. And Three-Rail. Nobody fucks with that game round here. Cept’ Tony. Hey T,” he yelled off in Tony’s direction. “We gut us a billiard player ova here.” All the eyes in the room hit me for an instant and Tony quickly shooshed Pappy, then after a minute he gave him a look and a head shake saying do not disturb. Pappy made a mock astonished face then turned it toward me and loosened it to a disinterested jeer.
“Easy now,” I cautioned quietly like I was respecting Tony’s suggestion. “I stopped plying years ago. Bad eyes. B player. Jumpy nerves.”
“Ya, wher’d you play? I knew all the players.” Pappy eyeballed me from head to foot. I gave a little whooping guffaw.
“That’s why you never knew me.” I added with a hoot.
“Ya. But you look familiar. Where you outta?” I knew he couldn’t place me. Back then I was just more scenery. But I had been in his joint quite a few times. He had 36 tables. Cash-in pinball machines. A bookie-joint and card parlor all under one roof. All the while running all the action north of Boston along with his hand in every pie along the east coast.
“Switch. Where do I know this guy from?” he lifted his right arm off the stick and motioned to the smoke cloud Switch was sitting in.
“Ha? What guy? Who?” Switch moved his head to either side of his pool stick and put his eyes on me. It was like a CAT scan. Negative. But he left the stick tilted to his right like he wasn’t hiding. “Don’t know,” he said matter of factly.
“Fuckin guy. He don’t tell you nuthin.” He tossed a piece of chalk from his left hand toward Switch and he watched it sail. It was going wobbly to Switch’s left, head high, and in a blink he snatched it like a lizard’s tongue that darted lightning fast out of a camouflaged background. His eyes moved to Pappy to me to Pappy. He kept the stick to his right.
“Come on. It’s your turn. Shoot the balls.” Switch put his eyes on the table. Pappy jerked around and studied the layout. I turned and got busy hitting my balls around. It was time to listen in on Tony’s business.
748. alistairConnor - 6/24/2007 11:05:39 AM
I'm accumulating some fabulous material these days. Too bad I won't be able to use it. Not for ten years at least I suppose.
Otherwise I suppose, one needs to re-write it several times until the autobiographical dross floats out and leaves the universal essence. If anything is left.
Nu, I'm still holding my breath waiting for the rest!
749. arkymalarky - 6/24/2007 12:01:11 PM
All right now, that's not fair. You dangle that in front of us and tell us we'll have to wait ten years and then separate fact from fiction? I say you write the first draft here. We won't tell.
750. wonkers2 - 6/24/2007 6:46:03 PM
Shades of Minnesota Fats!
Arky is right, cough it up Alistair!
751. alistairconnor - 6/25/2007 3:03:31 AM
Well, part of it is that I've been hanging out with women who need more in the way of psychiatric help than the banal psychotherapy thing. I have concluded I'm way out of my depth.
But now I'm in love with a woman of sound mind and body who happens to be an international terrorism expert. The possible fictional ramifications are of course endless.
I could tell you more but then I'd hafta killya.
752. NuPlanetOne - 6/26/2007 6:07:11 PM
Alistair…funny thing is I too have accumulated so much, that is, toward the idea for my ‘Tony’ story. I’m only somewhere around 80 pages but the thing is coming together…so slowly. I was just going to blurt it all out and see where the pieces fell, but I figured if I am ever going to get serious about writing, I had better at least re-write as I go along. An unpolished polished first draft. But it has to be a full length rendition, I’m afraid. I’m thinking 350-400 pages. Fortunately, time does not seem to exist here in The Mote.
753. alistairConnor - 6/26/2007 11:49:28 PM
Wow. Feel free to work on the drafts right here, that would be a real privilege... post it raw then re-write it... try stuff out on us.
Whatever suits you. Time does not exist, but I'm always impatient.
754. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 5:00:29 AM
Time for some new talent on this thread... come on people, you know who you are... do I need to start naming names?
755. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:31:57 PM
Well then, it has been some time. But it is high time I continued with my novel here. I should point out that I have decided that the begining as I have it in here, will in fact be preceded by several chapters. I'm just not sure yet why, but some ideas I have about an ending will require some history and information that will tie it all together. Or something like that. Again, this really is first draft stuff, experimenting, even if I don't eventually change a whole lot.
756. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:33:01 PM
Chapter 7
Nineball is at once elegant, violent, mesmerizing, thrilling, excruciatingly tense, yet wonderfully simple in the hands of a skilled shooter. There is not much to it, actually. Nine balls, a cue ball and six holes in a bed of slate covered by felt and cushions along four rails laid out on a perfect rectangle measuring 100 inches long by fifty inches wide, cushion to cushion. The player who breaks the balls must contact the one ball and force at least four other balls to hit a rail. The nine balls are racked in a diamond with the one ball on the spot at the far end intersecting the imaginary balk line from side to side from the middle diamond on each half rail of the long rail at that end. If he pockets a ball on the break he continues to shoot until he misses. If he commits a foul the other player takes over and gets to place the cue ball anywhere he chooses. The first one to pocket the nine ball wins and also retains command of the break. The balls are pocketed in numerical order but you may sink the nine at any time as long as you hit the object ball first. If you do not have a clear shot you can play a safety, that is, hit a piece of the object ball and then a rail, or rail, then ball then rail. Alternatively, you can just push out without hitting anything, but your opponent can force you to shoot again, or he can accept the position and take his chances. And this is where Tony splits the hairs of atomic nuclei.
It is in this process of exchanges during a series of push outs where the two players act as one analyzing simultaneously the layout and possible landings of the intended stroke. Your opponent walks about examining every possible angle and deflection he can imagine. You are in the other guys head and space, sometimes standing close enough to touch, and all the time aware that your opponent might be seeing something that you are missing. And having looked it all over together, though processing quietly by yourself, you can become convinced and actually certain that your opponent cannot be hiding an unseen advantage. Yet because you are sure that luck exists to a marginal degree, you allow for the possibility that he might, by accident, wiggle out of the space he has been wedged into. But your mutual examination of the possibilities and impossibilities assure you that, in fact, luck is his only opportunity to defeat you in this particular moment in the game. So the marginal possibility becomes what you will give him; there is no skilled way he can climb out of the hole. You look it over one more time and retreat. Or you take the bait.
757. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:33:46 PM
And here is where Tony stops time. Here, the marginal degree is an entire universe. For him, it might as well be the space between stars, because what he sees in a grouping of tightly packed balls or balls scattered as solid obstacles blocking pathways, is an emotionless ordering of things. Confined even. Subject to simple physical and observational laws that once a trajectory is defined, because there are many, the real trick is in creating a leave, an image of a conceivable shot that your opponent will take a whack at. For if he is tempted, if he swallows the hook, then the disaster is now in his hands. In that case, Tony has shifted it from himself having to make unbelievable shots, to his opponent missing one. And to win that game becomes the result of another’s failure, rather than Tony’s superior skill. In effect, it is the base theory of hustling pool. Yet, a perfect version because it avoids telltale emotional detection. Tony appears to be grinding out his strategy; because he is. He is not occupied with sleight of hand or bullshitting discourse. He is watching only the ongoing sequences as he imagined them, at times worried even, that his calculations could be wrong. And as such, if anything, he can appear indecisive. And if an opponent wriggles free from a hook, he might spend several minutes afterwards rewinding time on the other side of his brain so that he would not forget the variable he had previously overlooked.
And of course, there is the execution. The stroke. The hand eye co-ordination and feel necessary to make it work. Seeing in several dimensions is one remarkable thing, but having the touch and control to manipulate those spheres, is quite another. It was rare that an individual had both.
“Nice shooting.” Tony said as he moved toward the side pocket and pulled up the seven ball and let it trickle gently down to the rack end of the table. He looked over at The Boss who stood chalking his cue at the opposite side while the kid playing eight ball rushed in and started racking the balls. He got a crisp buck a rack that Louis held between his fingers as the kid finished and spun away to his table, the long way, up and around. Just like a ball boy in a tennis match. Occasionally, either Tony or The Boss would wave him off and do the rack up themselves. The Boss would grab the buck from Louis and drop it on the kid’s table. Tony would just smile and leave the waving buck in Louis’ fingers that Louis dared Tony to grab onto. Louis didn’t smile, but there was a look in his eye that suggested he was highly amused.
758. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:34:24 PM
“It was a good break. Never in doubt. No twos.” No twos meaning no two ways about it. Actually, No Twos was his nickname. Joey ‘No Twos’ DeLuca. Early on in his career he was an enforcer. Then, after overseeing collections and consistently managing a positive flow, he became a special capo of internal affairs. If there were discrepancies in financial areas surrounding money moving or laundering operations, he was your guy. He was so good at it that he became the money moving operation itself. If they sent him in and he determined something was amiss he sent back his now famous ‘ain’t no fuckin twos,’ and heads rolled. It is why, even a top dog like Gino might be shitting his pants and why The Boss was getting anything he wanted on this particular visit.
“Yep. Clean rack,” Tony said as he took a seat two down from Louis with his head nodding and his eyes darting a bit from side to side in recalculation. It was the third time I noticed the eye thing as if all of his other parts were locked on the mission but a separate scanner was busy sifting through data for something.
“Where we at Louis?” The Boss said in passing as he grabbed his house stick leaning behind the empty seat to Louis’ left.
“Four zip this race. Two zip total,” Louis said then threw his eyes toward Tony. Tony shook his head stiffly, shifted his upper body to his right elbow and agreed. Louis pulled a pen out of the inside pocket of his blazer with his left hand and pulled his right hand out from under the coats bunched on his lap and scribbled on a little pad that had been sitting atop the coats. He put the pen down to his left next to a little pile of one dollar bills and tucked his other hand back under the coats. Then he put the pen back in his blazer and pressed the pad into the coats so it would stick and went still with his bottom lip pursed up a bit.
“Two zip,” The Boss repeated as he slammed the cue ball into the diamond rack of balls at the far end of the table. All in an instant the snap propelled a few outer balls on the diamond with such speed that you only caught up with them once you had managed to determine the follow through of the cue ball. And The Boss played a power force follow stopping the cue for a nano second on impact after delivering the bang, then like a wounded bull the cue put its head down and charged on through the center of the retreating balls in search of a second strike. If it got a clean charge through the exploding pile and caught a ball coming off the rail still full of the initial slam, it could force that ball and itself to change direction and start an uncontrolled chain reaction, that not only increased the chances of the nine ball going in, but also could create a wider dispersion and more often than not, multiple sinkings. It is a risky break strategy because the cue ball is basically out of control, but when it works, it piles on momentum and feeds into a players confidence allowing them to find a temporary zone where any shot seems logical. The Boss was in that zone.
759. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:35:03 PM
“Nice,’ Louis chirped with all the emotion of a store front Indian. Tony turned his head slightly and up and looked at Louis like he was trying to recognize someone from far away.
“Very nice,’ Tony said respectfully and tapped his stick butt on the floor.
“Very nice,’ The Boss repeated as if he had not heard Tony and was saying it in response to what he now had in front of him. Four balls went in on the break and the other five were sitting patiently out in the open like rescued sailors. The Boss chalked up and quickly pocketed them without saying another word.
“Three zip,” Louis announced and was putting the pen away again having scribbled the score even before The Boss had finished. The kid playing eight ball was already whizzing around the table collecting balls and sending them toward the rack he had tossed up near the spot. He grabbed his buck and was gone. The Boss reloaded his house stick and slammed the cue ball with a snap into the fresh diamond. Balls ricochetted wildly while amidst all the flying objects the nine ball was on a slow ride toward the corner pocket to The Bosses’ left. The six ball came at it from behind and in a split second was kissed by the three coming across from the side and the collision bounced the three into the side pocket and sent the six off the rail cross corner and it smiled as it banged into the corner pocket while just after it, the nine, never deviating from its steady roll, fell in on top off the six.
“Five zip,” Louis said weirdly then cleared his throat. “Five zip.” He said clearly. They were playing double on the break if the nine went in. It went in. Tony popped up and grabbed the rack.
“Let me change my luck,” Tony said and waved off the kid.
“By all means. But it ain’t luck my friend. No twos.” The Boss stared in at Tony like he was telling the next person in line some obviously bad news. Tony continued to rack the balls nodding his head then paused with the rack just above the diamond and stared for a split second at The Boss, forced a smile, hung the rack under the table, and stepped back as the cue ball rammed into the pile. Then he looked at me with a face that asked if I was up to something and I looked back with a face saying all was well.
“Luck,” The Boss declared, “is how a fool explains good fortune. Me. I make my own good fortune. That’s why a goddamn fool has no good explanation for failure.” Again, it was like he was talking to the situation in front of him. This time three balls went in on the break but the cue ball was stuck on the right side rail facing the stairs with two balls blocking it. He needed a shot on the three ball which hung in the pocket by the right corner down in front of Louis on the same side. He had a clean stroke on the cue to play it off the top rail to the opposite side rail then down to the three. He would have to hit the top rail to the left of the center diamond because the eight ball blocked out just enough space to forbid a simple two rail come around. This meant he would have to stretch the angle coming off the side rail by using some right hand spin. Easy enough, but the three was hanging very close to the rail by the pocket. If you hit it on the side away from the rail it would not go, unless you got a lucky double kiss which would bounce it in off the cue ball.
760. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:35:44 PM
“Look at the hit, if you would, please, my friend.” The Boss stood staring down at the cue ball.
“You going around it, or straight up?” Tony asked without getting up. The Boss’ eyes went quickly down to the cue then circled around the table. I couldn’t be sure but I didn’t think The Boss had considered the forced massé because it never occurred to me either. Looking now, it was playable. If you curve it around the eight with a slightly raised snap it would slide off the second rail on a string down toward the three. All feel, of course, but it gave you the quarter inch to the left of the center diamond on that top rail. And that brought the cue ball down dead inside the three and would pinch it right into the hole. Tony was up next to him now.
“I’ll go straight up,” The Boss said while getting down to stroke the shot as Tony moved out of the space with the movement. He moved the cue smoothly in a controlled level stroke like he was going straight up then lifted his set position and his posture changed as if he was feeling out a possible masse. Then he stood straight and chalked the stick deliberately.
“Safe.” He said. “Watch the hit.” Tony hung at the rack end with an interested look on his face and The Boss got back down over the cue. He sent it directly up toward the corner pocket on his side with a little puff of a stroke and a nudge of left hand English on a slight left to right slant and it met the rail and came back down crawling steady on exactly the same line. You could count the revolutions as it tickled the rail a hair before the eight ball, tickled the eight, then nestled in behind it and stuck to the rail, buried. Perfect safety. I knew The Boss could play, but this suggested a level I was unaware of. Tony’s face no longer showed interest. His pupils were locked in a tight dance of a circle centered on the cue ball. He came around and leaned over the cue and then stepped away and looked on a line toward the corner pocket opposite the three ball on Louis’ right side.
“Good hit,” Tony said with a head shake and puckered lips, mocking exasperation, then a smile.
“I thought you might like that,” The Boss quipped as he came toward Tony and took a look at the line Tony had studied toward the far left corner. He forced a harmless, yet disbelieving smirk and moved down to Louis’ left and stood smiling back at Tony. Tony was standing with his head directly over the cue again and had a genuine look of bewilderment on his face. I was thinking he must be thinking it was too early to pull a rabbit out of his hat. Or, he was wondering why he was hired to hustle a guy who apparently knew it was a hustle. But on the other hand, if The Boss was as good as it now appeared he might be, the safety play might just be a message telling all those concerned that it wasn’t a hustle at all, but a real challenge. A dare. But why?
761. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:36:25 PM
That is the pang of fear I got as I studied Louis and The Boss and looked at their expressions and posture for a sign or signal that all remained as it was before. I tried to catch Louis’ eye but both of his eyes went up and he grinned as he looked at The Boss. It was The Boss’ deal. Louis never said it wasn’t. I just assumed he was arranging some entertainment. I didn’t like the smell of it. It was going to be a long night. I had guaranteed Tony I had his back. That part seemed incidental and minor. I hated trusting Louis in the first place, and now I had two guys to keep safe and sound. Although, they could just be fucking with me, because they could, and hopefully Louis had me set up Tony just in case The Boss couldn’t actually beat Tony straight up. That had never happened, as far as I knew. And I thought everyone else inside the inside circles was aware of it too. I wouldn’t be able to tell if The Boss was that good. You would have to be that good to see it. Or better. It made sense that Tony already saw it which would explain the strange looks on his face. I had to know what he was thinking. Hopefully he might piss soon.
“What’s to like?” Tony said to The Boss after studying the layout from every angle. He was nodding his head and returning The Boss’ smile as he backed away from the cue and tapped his cue on the underside of the adjacent table. Pool room applause. His body language seemed playful now and the scene felt less tense. I exhaled and smiled and relaxed my butt onto the rail of my table. I caught the face of Pappy with a strained look on it staring at me from across the way. As soon as I returned the look he motioned with his eyes and a slight head jerk up toward the iron railing. There were a bunch of people now watching Tony’s game and I realized that all the tables had pretty much stopped their matches and stood quietly taking it all in. Same as me. On my glance at the group at the railing I had noticed a very attractive young lady looking wide eyed in my direction. Even from where I stood the green eyes of the grille girl were unmistakable. That sent my head and gaze back quickly in her direction. She made an ‘it’s about time’ grimace and motioned for me too come to her. Slightly befuddled looking I nodded and put up my index finger without fully turning her way. She then turned and headed away in the direction of the snack bar. I looked at Pappy and he was expressionless now watching Tony from over the buffer table next to his. Switch was in his favorite chair hiding behind his cue. His eyes darted my way quickly as I moved to go. He sent a plume of smoke out of the side of his mouth. I went after the grille girl.
762. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:37:08 PM
Chapter 8
By the time I got up to the railing level and started toward the snack bar I could see Ollie was busy working the grille and another guy was off to his right pulling up a basket full of French fries. A well coiffed older woman was busy with a handful of people at the register. Her cap looked like a space pod that had landed softly on an ashen lunar surface without stirring a molecule of dust. Most of the tables were full of Saturday night bowlers having their evening gorge of grilled grease and boiled oil. A few kids flitted about doing a sugar dance holding cups of syrup flavored water and shrieking at nothing in particular. No grille girl. I looked past that scene and down toward the far end where the last lane hit the huge wall covered with league banners and local ads and just before the end wall I caught sight of her torso hanging out of a doorway. She waved me down.
As I walked I was thinking that the wall on my right must be the back part of a section of the restaurant and I was wondering why Sophina, that was the name on her snack bar badge, was drawing me to a secluded rendezvous. But then again, my life was full of secret rendezvous. My life was full of secrets. My life was full of shit. I was full of shit. Everyone involved all around me in this thing was full of shit and secrets. And as usual I had to sniff around and head butt the muck like a truffle pig and dig out the big secret. Even if the biggest secret, for a change, was that no one was paying me or assigning me to uncover the big secret. I had the secret up front, and I was getting paid to protect it. If I did the double-cross, my evolving big secret, I would have some serious heartless mother raping killers dedicated to mutilating my sorry corpse, who, like wild chimps, would probably then eat the carcass. Uncomplicated thugs with a very narrow imagination.
On the other hand, the Feds scared the living shit out of me. Creative and career killers with legal papers. No one to buy out or stand down. Guys and gals like me, my colleagues, as it were. And any one of them, like me, could be right in the middle of this and I wouldn’t know it unless there was an afterlife. A final recollection before I descended into hell. I stopped and put my back to the wall and brought up my right knee to brace myself and felt again for the gun that wasn’t there. Fuck the gun. If I needed a gun it wasn’t going to happen. I will only need a gun when I made it happen, if I could make it happen. I knew I needed help. No, I needed luck. I needed help. I needed focus. Put it together Marco.
Out in front of me the alleys were abuzz with a dizzying array of neon lit bodies lost in a panorama of action and repose. Heads peering up at electronic scorecards and hands stuck in bowling balls. Set position, running approaches, choreographed marches toward the release, groups sitting behind watching or chatting or jumping for joy. Towels waving. Whizzing spirals hooking into shiny white pins. Balls sprouting out of carousels and picked up and rubbed and inspected. Swooping gates gathering pins to fall off the edge of the waxed wooden surface. Smirks, total concentration, lackadaisical gutter balls. An hourglass of diversion and forgetting. Somewhere I had not been in a long time. The grille girl broke the trance. I looked down her way and she stepped into view and waved me down. I looked back out at the alley and pushed myself off the wall. She made sure I kept advancing then raised her eyebrows and ducked into a doorway.
763. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:37:50 PM
The door had a small sign saying ‘Private: No Admittance.’ I looked up and down and around the immediate vicinity and no one seemed to care. I caught sight of the square woman in the football coat coming out of the snack bar area and it looked like she frowned and beaded her eyes at me, but then again, I was ogling the new tray of food she was lugging. I grabbed the door knob. No give. Then gave the door one rap. The knob turned and the green eyes twinkled and I pushed my way in. The grille girl was striding down a brightly lit hall powered by a couple of legs that shot out of a short skirt and would have got a yelp out of a Trappist Monk celebrating a lifetime of celibacy and silence.
“Follow me,” she said jerking her face over her right shoulder. A face, it seemed, that might always be immersed in some vague, self contained, personal amusement.
“You bet,” I told those legs. She turned right into an open doorway.
“The private chamber,” I said as I eyeballed what appeared to be some version of a conference room. Banquet table with a handful of sturdy folding chairs placed around it in the center of the room. A room splashed with white fluorescence that would easily crack a make-up mirror obliged to reflect every wrinkle or blemish it received. Although, my new friend had little fear of such things as either her youth or pure confidence outshone any diminishing factors. But I could tell she was closer to thirty than twenty and I wondered why that mattered.
“You thirsty?” she asked waving a right hand that jangled as several gold hoops moved across a slender wrist with the motion. She was seated at the head of the table closest to me and threw her right leg up over her left as she spoke and I was hoping I didn’t watch that too closely as I let my head survey the rest of the room.
764. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:38:31 PM
“A taste wouldn’t ruin my judgment,” I deadpanned as my eyes took me over to a small sink with several bottles arranged next to it acting as a kind of mini-bar on a silver tray.
“Well, feel free to ruin mine,’ she shot back.
“This one?” I said touching the neck of the Johnnie Walker Red. She made an impressive pout and shook her head no.
“The Jack,” she grinned. That showed a tiny dimple in her left cheek.
“Two Jacks,” I said and grabbed two old fashioned glasses. “Rocks?”
“Underneath.” She motioned at the space below the Formica counter top that looked just like plain matched facing. A four finger sized hollow near the top let me pull out an under counter freezer drawer. Plenty of ice. The jangle of cubes infused everything with something and the thickness and purity of sound suggested some pretty good soundproofing. No calling for help in here, I thought.
“Look good?” I asked holding the finished glasses. She nodded.
“You work for Pappy?” She said with folded arms plopped on her tummy and her top leg wagging like a puppy waiting for a biscuit.
“Pappy?” I regurgitated mildly surprised. “No, one of the other guys.”
“Ha,” she yapped like the puppy cocking her head having seen the biscuit. “That really narrows it down.”
“Well, I thought we all worked for the same guy, you know, not counting side deals and private desires.” I handed over her glass and settled into my seat. A fascinating look of allure settled across her face as she reached out and took the glass. I remembered why I loved women.
“O.K. Then here’s to personal desires.” She offered her glass for a tap.
“And, let’s not forget side deals,” I added without conviction and clanked my glass into hers.
“O.K. Here’s to deals we desire, personal and otherwise.” Her right eyebrow went up and framed a look like a peep hole opening onto a quiet countryside. It looked inviting, but there were shadows.
“Very well, to desires.” I said, ignoring the shadows and curious about the stuff in the open. We stared till she blinked closing the peep hole and she got on with thinking.
“Vinnie wanted me to inform you that a certain party was in the building,” she said waiting to measure my response.
“Really?” I showed nothing. “All the way to the private lounge for that, O.K. What else?” I leaned back and took a sip of my drink. She watched that and sank down and back in her seat a bit.
“ Oh,” she said like she had the real news, “I just figured you might want to fuck my brains out.” She sat up straight like she was ready. Our eyes connected in a way that felt unrehearsed. Then she laughed, blushed a fraction unnoticeably, and propped her chin on her chest and showed a neutral grin.
“Wow! I hope that was your idea, and not Vinnie’s.” I chuckled and let it lay there. She lifted her head and pushed her fists into her sides like she was resetting her spine. It pushed her breasts out and stiffened her neck. She was definitely itchy, or something.
“Well, Vinnie often gets that idea, but he’s disgusting. He smells.” She pinched her nose with two slinky fingers on her right hand. She was pure femininity in that pose, fingers on nose, left hand buried in her side. Cleavage bulging. Scrunched pout. A total distraction.
“I smell O.K.” I said pretending to sniff my underarm. “You know, in case I got that same idea,” adding with a voice that came from my mouth but was encouraged by inspiration below my waist.
“Ya,” she cocked her head, “sometimes it’s good to put all your ideas right up there on the table.” She relaxed back into her chair and uncrossed her legs. Her knees banged together like she was holding in a piss.
“Definitely. Lay it right out on the table.” I said watching those knees in a robotic tone mocking the subliminal.
765. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:39:13 PM
“Yup. Always best to get right down to the thrust of it. Grab the thing head on.” She made a sweet little chuckle and popped forward and rested her arms on the edge of the table. She swigged down the rest of her drink and tipped the empty glass in my direction. I looked at my drink, fearlessly examined her sudden cleavage, then downed my glass. I adjusted my inspiration and headed over to the mini-bar. I could hear her knees swooshing behind me.
“Double up cowboy, I’m feeling kinda goofy.” She told my back. I couldn’t tell exactly what level of sincerity I was wading into, or, was it some kind of bonding? I had decided I needed to trust her, even if the way I was thinking was influenced by two lovely, knocking knees. She hated Vinnie. That was real.
“So,” I said as I splashed the Jack onto the ice, “This certain party I’m interested in. Where in the building is she exactly?” I turned and strode back to her carefully like I was carrying nitroglycerin into the mine shaft.
“Vinnie didn’t say,” she warbled as she took the handoff a little rough like she didn’t care if the mine exploded. “But, I happen to know she is next door having a workout. Probably all lathered up in a sweat right now.” Her eyes rolled gleefully as she nibbled off the top of her drink. I nibbled mine.
“Well, then. Good for her,” I said then got back into her eyes as if to be rid of the subject. Her knees were quiet. She stared me down. It felt like she was trying to decide whether or not to prolong the distraction. Her eyes were beautiful, an incredible color. I watched them. Her knees started banging. She had the grin back and the irises softened.
“Yes, screw her!” She glared narrowly like she was locating the crosshairs in a rifle sight. “We don’t need her at this little gathering!” She pushed back and swung the leg back over the other one. She was all puppy again.
“So what’s the deal with Ollie?” I just threw it out there. Kinda like I was curious about the competition.
“Oh, poor Ollie,” she said. “Don’t know what I’m gonna do with that boy.” She let go a sigh like a mother that just got the news that the lad had bee suspended from high school.
“Ya, Vinnie seemed crazy about him too.” I said it like I had just realized it.
“That fuckin greaseball! He treats Ollie like shit!” The glare was laser like. Like she was a sniper with a shot. She just needed to pull the trigger. “Nothing better happen to that kid!” Her eyes put the crosshairs on me. I could tell, I had seen that impersonal determination before, she could pull the trigger. “What’s Ollie got to do with anything going on?” She half demanded with a little tinge of dread. Then a cool threatening stare. “Is he part of your business here, tell me!”
“Don’t know, nothing I’m aware of,” I said as if I was genuinely surprised by her declarations. And she searched me. Tried to look all through me. I tried to look like I knew nothing. I tried to look like I was captivated by her every expression. It was easy. I was captivated. We sat and stared.
“O.K., sorry. It’s just, Ollie is important to me.” Her head tilted away a bit as if she was trying to hide a piece of her face. The part with her soul.
“I understand,” I said with eye movement following her eye movement.
“No. No you don’t,” she stared straight ahead. “It’s not that. It’s not romantic. It’s personal. It’s important.” She let out an exasperated sigh and let her arms drop to the floor as she slunk down in her chair. She put her chin on her chest and her hair fell forward. She started laughing then quickly sat back up and delicately picked up her glass. I watched every moment of it. I tried not to think too hard about Ollie. Or what could happen to him. I was real busy thinking about her.
“O.K., it’s important. I’ll remember that.” I said it like I took note of her insistence on Ollie and her hatred for Vinnie, but swung it over to Tony.
766. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:40:12 PM
“What is more important right now is where Tony’s focus is this evening. He is part of my business tonight and I need him to follow the script, even if I’m still writing it. Your boy Ollie is fine with me. Your word that the kid is O.K., is plenty. Because you are O.K.” Her eyes followed the speech with a slight blink at the mention of Tony but locked on to my stare concerning Ollie and herself. It was like an agreement with contracts to follow. She unscrunched her shoulders and put her left hand on my wrist.
“Are you hungry?” She asked like she was really concerned about it. I put my other hand on top of her hand. Her eyes went up to mine immediately then back down to the hands, then up again. As soon as our pupils locked on each other I felt the twinge. I knew nothing else mattered at that moment in time. And the twinge was a kind of adrenalin drenched fear and exhilaration. I have never been able to understand why it only happened with certain women, why I couldn't conjure or force it when I needed it or thought I was in love or felt an attraction. And I could count on one hand and a thumb how many times in my life I had felt it. One time it cost me my marriage, another time it cost me my best friend, and once it nearly cost me my life. And all these things buzzing around the glass bubble of this sudden enchantment, rapping on the glass, unable to shake my focus from even considering the consequences. For as her fingers moved just slightly up my arm every pore and folicle and strand of hair in thier path exited a pleasure and wanton anticipation like she lit each one and anything literate or consequential belonged to another reality.
"Sure, let's eat," I half whispered. Our eyes ebbed and flowed as in the same tidal surge obeying the moon.
"Wait," she said while the waves settled to foam to bubbles knowing the next crash is coming. She slid out of her chair and came around and went by me keeping hold of my hand. Her other hand hit a wall switch and the naked hard edged flourescence was gone. A soft night light off in a corner, the mild glare of a microwave, the red glow of an exit sign and a splash of light from the hall turned the room into a place that matched the lure and circumstances, at least, in the bubble I was in. Then she stepped into the bubble. And it was warm.
767. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:41:57 PM
She came back with my hand and put it on her right thigh as her left leg slid past my chest and her butt rested on the table edge where a plate of food would belong. I faced the plate and slid my chair back a bit then pulled her slowly down onto my lap. Her back was rigid against the table and in a dense slow breathing moment our mouths found each other. There is no way to describe, really, actually, how intense and carnal that first bolt of electricity can reverberate and override any logical thought or priority. It is like the life force that is pounding beneath the surface of all living things explodes into existence and moves the mind and body in a dance of greed and cooperation that each gender neccessary to mix the primeval elixir submit and engage in the profound exchange of cells and fluids, so that the force might continue. Lust, however described or pronounced floods chemically from the most ancient spot on the Helix and washes away pain and suffering and fear and holds them in stasis so that the host may survive the moment and create, in the short blip of time allowed, one more life. I have thought of these things, afterwards, of course, as now I was paralysed by the smell and sounds and taste of the wonderful creature writhing in my arms. And the kiss, her toungue, her breasts squashed hard into my chest, her bottom grinding into my crotch; me, trying to force the motion of our heads, gain control, quide her to the table, sense her thoughts, prolong each second forever. Her, receptive, forceful, reluctant, pliable, recoiling, unrelenting, gushing with anticipation. Pushing her torso onto the table, her hands pulling my hands to her breasts, forcing her top up. Exposing her perfect nipples hard against my soft fingers, buttons that I flick and press and take into my mouth. Smothering and suffocating my head with wonderful arms holding me onto her chest while pushing down slightly, then pulling me up in a shudder, pushing me down, then up, as my hands, each one holding and molding a breast now pushing against the pull. Holding her back onto the table letting my toungue find her stomach. Tasting the top of a hip, finding the tiny zipper on the back of her skirt.
768. NuPlanetOne - 11/14/2007 7:42:43 PM
Not once wanting to go fast or slow or wanting anything specific, just instinctively gliding the skirt over warm flesh and getting it off and away. Kissing her abdomen and sensing the moisture and suspense of the impending exploration and aware that my own genitals were hungry for inclusion. Then feeling with a hand for my belt but quickly putting that hand on her thigh and letting two fingers ride slowly up the edge of her panties just slightly disturbing her pubic hairs that waited at the outer limit of her vagina. Like a knee hit with a hammer she jerked up and looked quickly down as if she had surprised a thief, then jammed back down onto the table grasping my head and hair like a tether to soften the landing. And I went quick to the task. Panties peeling, holding legs aloft, then spread, inner and upper thighs tasted and teased. Torturing the outer rim and circumference at the center of those legs until, like a cobra, a strike. Having seen, and knowing how ferociously a woman can experience an out of body other worldly orgasmic phenomenon, hardly prepared me for how fierce and possessed Sofina now felt under my darting toungue. It was like I was holding down a cyclone I had managed to wrestle to the ground. As in waves with thighs trying to squeeze the thing to death she locked and unlocked her legs about my head and I gasped between bites and breaths for air. She would pull me out and stare trying to communicate or recognize or decide how to absorb the pleasure and persistence of my eager generosity. Until she did decide and clamped my head tight and moved my face all over and into her center a final long second then pulled me out and up and rubbed my lips and chin all over her tightened stomach muscles. Again our mouths locked and I felt her hands quickly getting my pants down and with both hands moving she began to relieve and massage my aching errection. She jerked her head from mine and slid her arms through my armpits and tried to pull me up. I rose and stood and felt her warm fingers come round my waist and buckled slightly as she moved her mouth up and down and over, gliding and sucking. And I braced my self against the table to endure excruciatingly the will to hold it back. And as I fought her off me and pushed her back to the table her eyes flashed open unblinking and she said, "No. Fuck me.Yes." Her eyes never closed like the gaze of the newly deceased startled to death. And as I moved myself in and out of her the gaze became a magnificent grimace and she crossed her hands on her chest and I could feel her legs stiffen and toes separate and point. Her head rocked side to side slowly and I prayed I could have one more second. And it hit. "Oh. Oh. Now. Yes. Oh! Now!" And she jerked and pushed her hands at my chest and froze and as I let go with all my might she froze an eternal second as then in a series of shudders and moans, it was over.
769. alistairconnor - 11/15/2007 3:53:58 AM
It was over...
Seems a shame to break the silence.
OK I admit I flipped the pages, now I'll go back and read the pool game.
Well actually I'm at work so perhaps it'll wait. In any case, the organic process of a short story growing into a novel is a beautiful thing to behold. Your prose has a luminous quality, Nu. Interesting that it seems to fuse with your poetry when you're on the subject of sex.
770. NuPlanetOne - 11/17/2007 7:41:16 PM
Thanks alistair,
It is a laborious thing, especially with limited time. I can see oh so many flaws that would need fixing, especially one huge one concerning the safety played during the nineball game. It was really a push out maneuver, and I had begun the fix, but I forgot to include it. Anyway, writing about sex without being literal or pure graphic is very difficult. I hope I can get better at that. I hate when writers avoid it. On the other hand, there is actually money to be made writing about that paticular primal necessity.
771. webfeet - 1/7/2008 11:53:45 PM
I don't know if sex actually sells, Nuplanet, or the illusion of it, but I am compelled to mention that when a sex scene brings to mind fight scenes in 'The Trail of the Pink Panther' between Jacques Clouseau and his black belt valet, it may be better to airbrush those dangerous liaisons zip zip from the lens.
I think that's why many writers shy away from 'the act' and go for stolent moments and the soft lens fading discretely, like in a Cary Grant movie. Cowardly? Oh, oui. And, yet, no-one would want to steal those moments away from Sofina. Not me. Not you. Not anybody. But it might be wise to compare her to a cyclone or a python or a barnacle-tearing octopus--but not all three.
Anyway, I enjoyed it. Especially 'No. Fuck me.Yes."
772. alistairconnor - 1/9/2008 10:48:50 AM
Well if that was so lousy, Bibiche, why don't you give us your version? Hmmm?
Or anything else... How's your fictional life these days?
773. webfeet - 1/10/2008 1:31:35 PM
Seems only a fortnight ago I last wrote..and yet the calendar, chunks of which have been torn out, tells me otherwise. Since it's only 1:17 here in New York, I think I'll resist opening the decanter of Madeira and tipping some down my throat in toast.
Cher, alistair, I wasn't calling Nuplanet lousy. I love Nuplanet. I mean that. That's like calling myself lousy, you try out new things; that's part of the creative life, and anyone who is creative and holds the arts sacred, as I do, knows that. Ilove all creative people because the world is populated with dullards. And parents are the dullest people of all. Or, at least the ones I seem to meet.
I would say ribbing if it didn't make me blush, or gently teasing--is probably a better word, since it made me laugh more than a little. I mean, sex is notoriously difficult to write about--there is some award, is there not--for the lousiest, most ridiculous sex scene?
I was going to write my own insane version of a round robin Christmas letter here, called Goodbye Xanax, but I decided it was late..and I went to bed. Without xanax, that is.
Through sheer will, intense discipline and the circumstantial privilege that my daughter is now in nursery school full-time--all have enabled me to write a manuscript worthy enough to attract the eye of a literary agent in NYC. She is pursuing a 2 book contract instead of one which means I have a lot of tap dancing to do in double time.
It's like being an ingenue from the sticks arriving on Broadway, "Throw a steak at me! I can dance, I say!" And then, dancing, dancing, dancing off a cliff..
Part of what I realized when I actually got brutally serious was how much more fun I had writing here during frivolous periods in my life--and how much better at times it was--rather than when I had to put my foot to the pedal and really, really work.
Anyway, it looks like you have a new cherie and are spry as always, and I only hope you and the girls are happy and well.
As I wish that for everyone else here on the Mote! Especially you, Nuplanet!
774. webfeet - 1/10/2008 1:35:58 PM
And the example of when I wrote effortlessly well is not the above-referenced snippets. That's garbage. Actually for a vain writer/stylist like myself, those passages--maybe a sentence I actually kept- are poor examples of my work.
The 'Murder of the Goth' story I began in 1999 which I just re-found--and I am eternally grateful because I'm so careless with technical things; and that ugly cheap computer broke down, my notes were lost, and I never saved it, I thought it could never be retrieved. That was a good story. I may one day go back and finish that!
775. alistairconnor - 1/11/2008 8:14:36 AM
well shit, pick a random page from a chapter you're pleased with and post it as a teaser...
Have you erased yourself from the novel with successive drafts, or is it still autofictional?
776. NuPlanetOne - 1/15/2008 8:08:09 AM
Thank you Webbie, if I may. I guess I was trying for eroticism, yet pornographic overtones and undertones, if you will, do ambush less prurient depictions, I suppose. My problem is that giving Sofina this lusty portrayal is necessary to contrast with Tony’s girlfriend once I have decided which of the two will be the Heroine in the plot. If and when I actually develop one. In any scenario, I will have to sacrifice one or the other. That aside, your point is well taken. I do not want to leave the graphic out of the sex, but it is hard to keep the porno totally at bay. Having studied the sex scene I can see how it needs to be in there, but I also can sense that perhaps I could describe it in a less than orgasm-worship kind of way. I want my hero to appreciate the mysterious side of femininity, yet not be naive about it. He knows that both sexes cheat, steal and murder. Yet, unfortunately, he is hopelessly attracted to women. Not as equals, but as an only hope for an equal companion. The world he moves in is dominated by testosterone driven alpha males and various other dogs in various stages of alpha-in-waiting type conspiracies hoping to instigate a coup. So pretty much all the women he encounters will be a suspect co-conspirator. The roles for women in his world are waitresses, bar maids, prostitutes, and the girlfriends and wives of wiseguys and law enforcement. He can’t trust any woman any more than he can trust any man mixed up in any of his business, even if he sleeps with them along the way. My goal might be to find him one he can trust completely in his world, because there comes a time, I believe, when a person realizes that they can’t change who they are or the world as they perceive it, but they can change it into an approximate perfect world and can find a perfect companion with whom they could share it. I want to believe that it is possible to come somewhere near that ideal.
In any case, I am rewriting the scene so it fits a little better. Oh, and yes, Sophina must retain the ‘fuck me’ utterance. If only for your sake
777. webfeet - 1/18/2008 1:39:26 AM
You know, I'm not really in the habit anymore of throwing my charms out so carelessly these days. At least, I just don't feel like it. As an alternative, I can be the fiction. I can be a character here.
Yes I've erased myself. Is that what I'm supposed to say? I took this gigantic pencil and now I am just this dot. here. You can't see me.
Nuplanet, remember, you have got to hang all those thoughts onto a plot. A real one. Unless we're breaking out into new sci-fi territory here, I don't follow the alpha conspiracy idea, but romantic disillusionment, however, is always workable as a theme.
Why not put Sofina into a pasta pot, alla vongole and get back to the food writing, which you excelled at? Sex and food. That's easy. Try to pare it down to easy. Think of it that way.
'naked hard-edged fluorescence'. excellent. You always have these really eye-popping descriptions. And, unless you're planning on killing Sofina off (which wouldn't be a bad idea, she sounds dangerous!) don't compare her jouissance to a corpse.
I think there is really nothing lonelier than writing.
778. alistairconnor - 1/18/2008 6:36:39 AM
I think there is really nothing lonelier than writing.
Is this a measure of maturation as a writer, to make the transition from exhibitionism to ... pudeur?
Probably just a measure of your professionalization. We're probably not able to provide any useful feedback. Not without some serious effort, anyway.
The whole question of exhibitionism/voyeurism is obviously central to the autofiction genre : this is perhaps why I was wondering if you've grown beyond it.
I sort of agree with you with respect to Nu's orientation : I've played enough pool to enjoy that side, but I've never really related well to the "alpha male" theme, in life or in art, so it doesn't grab me in the same way the "Chicken Piccata" thing does. Possibly the food descriptions are true pornography : I know how to cook, but I'll never be able to cook that well, so I enjoy it vicariously, projecting myself into the protagonist...
On either theme, I agree that plot is essential, once you've left the short story format.
779. webfeet - 1/19/2008 2:23:06 PM
I never wrote here for useful feedback. I wrote to entertain and because people asked me to. I don't think that makes me an exhibitionist.
Part of the development of the voice, is to test its resonance with your readers. This is either something you have or you don't. Most writers have a voice, or they wouldn't go into writing but need help, like Nuplanet and I do, with structure and in harnessing their thoughts together into a cohesive, narrative form. But yes, the mote did help me define and develop my voice, certainly. The more everyone enjoyed it, the more of an incentive it was to create. It's very simple.
I'm not a shy violet these days, it just doesn't interest me to share this unless it's a finished product.
And as for plot, you begin to realize how useful and how very okay it is to use literary devices in order to round your ideas out, and to put all the uneven parts together. The writer who I quoted here, David Mitchell, compared characters to hangers, upon which you can hang your thoughts.
There has to be an unconscious message that must bear upon the reader, subtly, with every chapter, and it has to be consistent. I find you can get almost pathologically analytical when you try to make everything gibe, but that's how it works. Ohherwise, you have no believability and will lose the reader in the shadows of your own thought.
780. webfeet - 1/19/2008 3:30:29 PM
You know what would be fun, Alistair, to read your dating tales!
Ha! Got ya. Who'se the autowhatever it is now?
781. alistairConnor - 1/20/2008 5:15:10 PM
You know, I've been dying to do that... I'm certainly enough of an exhibitionist. And it would be cathartic, now that that part of my life is over. It would put some distance between now and my belated adolescence. And there is certainly enough raw material, even if I stick to the literal truth, for some pretty amusing writing, stuff I would never have dared to invent. If I can find the voice.
But I think I would need some sort of theme or moral, something to make it more than mere anecdote. These tales are certainly not exemplary : cautionary, perhaps? How about an anti-manual for the middle-aged divorcé?
How about "The low testosterone lover"? Do you think that would sell?
782. webfeet - 1/21/2008 10:31:58 PM
Well, no.
But I do see an amuse bûche about a coureur du jupon who was once a happily married vegetarian living in a pasture? Something like that?
Only you can define the theme, but you might not know what it is until you start writing. You're not just going to find it out in the mulberry bush. It's probably better to go into it not knowing; otherwise, it's likeyou're writing a third grade book report, and you have this assignment hanging over your head: what's my theme?
I would start out by making a sketch of three disparate women you've dated, either recently or in the past. Really sit there and take out the charcoal and let your thoughts wander a little, without purpose as you contour their form, letting memory work itself upon your canvas. And then you'll find a theme within yourself.
Or, start with something painfully funny, a sex scene, perhaps, and work it backward.
783. judithathome - 1/22/2008 2:23:08 AM
It shouldn't be so difficult to write...just start out and let it flow. You needn't worry about or follow the rules. The thing is, get it started and go from there.
These days, writing doesn't even need to make sense...collect a bunch of short pieces and call it something and you're good to go. Doesn't meed to be true or real or even literate.
The secret is to get Oprah interested. ;-)
784. webfeet - 1/22/2008 10:05:33 AM
If you have such a dim view of the literary world, you're either not reading in the right places or reading at all.
785. judithathome - 1/22/2008 10:38:33 AM
I see you skipped humor in your studies.
Jesus, can't anyone take a joke?
I am reading in the correct places, trust me...I read YOUR stuff, didn't I? :-)
That smiley face denotes humor...guess I should have used a few of them earlier.
Webfeet, I don't know where we got off on the wrong foot but I read AND write, also...I know about how difficult it is to come up with ideas and I know about story cards and outlines and "flow" and plot and all that sort of thing. So there is no need to insult me just because you didn't get that I was making a joke. I suspect others who write (even simply to entertain themsleves) got it. The Oprah remark should have tipped my hand.
From now on, I'll warn of jokes to follow so you'll not think me such a prig.
786. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:24:28 PM
Webfeet!!!!
Promise us you will let us know as soon as you are published!?
Love,
Your Number One Fan
787. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 2:29:12 PM
Well, yes, there is the plot thing Web. And your suggestions do match that little voice near the back of my brain that continually asks ‘where am I going with this.’ The fact is I really do not have a plot in mind as yet, but your castigation is accepted and to the point. (Although I could use your lucidity and decisiveness which resonates when your prose is tooled toward critique.) Here again I respect your advice because you cut right to the heart of the exercise. I do have to start connecting a few dots. And I will have to sacrifice either Sofina or Tony’s girlfriend and decide which or the other will be the eventual Heroine. As for the sex scene, and in light of the fact that I am crafting on the fly, I feel I must include it even if I am still naïve about the graphic aspect of it, so I will rewrite it and you can judge the contrast. Now, concerning the food writing, that is in fact my goal. I deliberately stopped writing Piccata because I am pretty sure about how I want it to go. Beyond that, I am blocked. So I am writing this Tony thing in between little blurts of progress on the other thing. A lonely business, ha! I would suffer a continuum of opaque and deleted moments wedged between the yeasty clothes hamper and tub as the baby squirted me with her rubber ducky for the umpht-infinity infected time than stare hopelessly and alone at an unfinished sentence I can’t complete in my quest for a plot. Yes, I feel you on that description. Though, thank God, as it were, for the wonderful moments, lonely though they are as well, when the writing is fun.
788. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 2:30:22 PM
Hey Jen….thought you were my #1?
789. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:33:04 PM
P.s. the last time we interacted (I think), I was pregnant. Here she is, Miss Precocious, age 2!
790. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:33:39 PM
Nu,
I am your number one fan as well!! I can love two of you, ya know!
:-)
How are you?
791. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 2:36:22 PM
We interacted….you got pregnant? Hmmmm……
Oh, you were pregnant already. I was going to say she could not be mine. Way too cute! Doesn’t look Italian at all.
792. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:38:57 PM
You are Italian?! I didn't know that, do you speak Italian, too?
793. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:40:58 PM
Here's my son Dylan (speaking if cute - he has three girls who want to "marry" him already.)
794. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 2:42:28 PM
I’m half Italian. My dad was born there. I am not fluent, though I can read and write it passably. I can speak it well enough with relatives. And I am fine, these days, mostly.
795. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 2:44:05 PM
We're all at home today because the little man is sick. So I cleaned out my closet and found all sorts of artifacts; at least I did something productive.
I wish I had the literary talent that you and Webfeet possess; I could have written an award-winner this month.
I will spare you the details - suffice it to say it's been one of the most emotionally weird starts to a new year.
796. alistairConnor - 1/24/2008 2:44:41 PM
ah... shadows under the eyes... too many late nights drinking Dr Peppers?
And WHAT has that boy been eating...
797. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 2:50:46 PM
Beautiful kids Jen. Keepers both. I will say that having talent to write does little by way of making it at all easy. But you did hit on the correct notion, that is, having the time, any free time to attempt it. Bad emotional times? Sorry to hear that. I hope it clears out soon
798. webfeet - 2/13/2008 6:28:10 PM
Bienvenue de la France... I am on a cold stone mountain in the alps, inside belle-mere's lair. (we're amies, at the moment). I scored a lot of pts tonight with an apple crumble..the key is crude brown sugar, or sucre roux. Maybe I can bake my way into the family's affections..
IN order of posts, Judith, if you knew how much work and obsessive re-writing I do, a casual remark such as your own, is enough to send me raking through the drawrs to find the key to the rifle cabinet. At the moment, I'm only hunting rabbits now..and other game from my perch in the attic.
Jen, I was delighted to hear from you. It seems like--yesterday that we trucked through 'Black Swan Green.' ANd, thank you. It was very nice to read that, now, as I am having a really blue day concerning my work. It's funny how kind words have a way of popping up when you need them.
To read someone who is a genuine literary talent, however, pick up "A Charmed Life: Growing up in Macbeth's Castle" by Liza Campbell, the daughter of the 25th Thane of Cawdor. It's an astonishing work, not just because the writing is brilliant, but the nature of the story, of a childhood that is far from a fairy tale, is so sad and yet so compelling to read.
It's not about a thirteen year old boy with a speech impediment.
And I love your bravado in posting photos of children (adorable ones) drinking from soda cans with lips smacking of bad-for-you blue food. I would be exiled in my neighborhood. Mothers would shun me. Actually, I love it because one of my characters does this very thing. She gives her daughter yoohoo and fritos at playgroup while the other moms unwrap organic super foods and the like in a competition for healthiest mom/tot lifestyle duo. New York mothers are hyper-conscious about snack. Snack is a snapshot of your life. What is disturbing is how mothers, at least the ones I know, prefer a snack that is air tight, sealed and factory made, (even in an organic, peanut free one) over a homemade cookie. There's this anxiety over food in general, with snack as the most obvious example of how people with too much in life can find so much to be miserable about.
Nuplanet, baths and babies, and yeasty laundry sacks take up a lot of time when you're trying to write and be creative. And, yet it's funny what we think of as 'inspiring' moments. Take now. I have a snow-peaked mountain outside my window. When I open my eyes in the morning, I have this glorious Kodak Gallery montage to wake up to. Is it inspiring? Not really. It's like looking at a picture of Keira Knightley. It's perfection. But then, so what? It's actually deadly boring. There's probably some kind of book written by Mitch Alboun like "More Pearls of Wisdom From Maurrie" that offers these little gems, like finding inspiration in small things, that says the same thing with bon bon simplicity, but it is true.
799. wonkers2 - 2/13/2008 7:01:14 PM
Jen, beautiful children!
800. NuPlanetOne - 2/13/2008 7:53:08 PM
Web,
This much I am certain of, waking up *with* Keira is a thought I find inspiring. I would forgo views of all sorts, perhaps windows altogether. Yet, I am a lover of mountain scenery and morning mist, so I envy you that. But yes, inspiration, however small or truly simple, is difficult to contrive or concoct. I remember being inspired once by a bug on a box whilst sitting next to a dumpster outside a kitchen door. I scrambled to find a scrap of paper to jot down a few lines. I remember thinking at the time how that one little rush or glimpse stimulated a series of days when words and images flowed freely. It would be sweet if such a nudge were to coincide with a panoramic view, coincidently, as it were.
801. alistairconnor - 2/14/2008 4:33:01 AM
Knightley? I think not.
But three times a week, for example...
802. alistairconnor - 2/14/2008 7:12:57 AM
I have reached the conclusion that the Beast with Two Backs is actually the highest form of human spiritual experience.
Pretty banal, I know. But at least I worked it out for myself. And it only took me three decades or so.
I used to Believe in Fusional Love, the permanent full-featured model. I conceived of myself as an utter failure because of my manifest incapacity to get anywhere near that ideal.
I will not bore you with the story of my life as an emotional toddler. Let's just say that I came to terms with the fact that the fusional thing is not only impossible, but philosophically inept and fundamentally undesirable. 24/7 controlled fusion is just impractical : even the nuclear scientists acknowledge that it's still at least 40 years away.
So having learned to live with the exhilarating freedom and sidereal loneliness that derive from this conclusion, I decided that three times a week was about right. And, let's be perfectly clear about one thing : I wasn't getting any.
Enough philosophy. Cut to the chase :
At the age of forty-seven. I realised I'd never been through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair.
And I thought : Why the hell not? Fighting back the tight-arsed Calvinist maternal grandfather who, according to my womens' magazine notions of pop psychology, was angrily dictating my moral consciousness, I decided it was time to Have Some Fun.
After all. People told me I was well-preserved. In a sort of, low mileage, only ever used by a little old lady on Sundays, never classy or sporty and now downright quaint, but not bad looking, cheap to run and look at the price, an incredible bargain sort of a way.
Figuratively, I was in good shape. Literally? ... well ... That is where the gym idea came in.
I'd never done anything resembling a regular sporting activity. I often run, but that's because I'm always late. Don't get me wrong - I'm capable of hard physical effort, if there's really no way to get around it. But the idea of doing it gratuitously in one's spare time has always struck me as grotesque.
And so it proved to be. I signed up at the new gym just around the corner from my office. Luckily they were offering a cheap starting rate (my inner maternal grandfather is tight-fisted as well as tight-arsed).
I saw it as a strictly utilitarian thing : get into shape, despite the suffering. But it also crossed my mind that, if I chose my hours carefully, it might be an interesting place to mingle with the local population of Desperate Housewives, or cultural equivalent.
803. judithathome - 2/14/2008 6:02:15 PM
I'm finding it very difficult to read anything in this thread...will be back when whatever is causing the margins to be oversized moves off the page.
804. alistairconnor - 2/15/2008 3:46:48 AM
Nah don't blame Jen's kids... I think it's because I'm posting gibberish.
805. NuPlanetOne - 2/15/2008 10:08:09 AM
Judith, cut and paste. It’s quick and easy.
alistair, gibberish? But very interesting. Sounds like material that might lead into something needing only a plot.
806. NuPlanetOne - 2/15/2008 10:08:58 AM
O.K. I’ve toned down the graphic element in my sex scene, which was hard with all these visions of the afore imaginings of the lovely Keira K. She must portray Sofina in the movie production!
“What is more important right now is where Tony’s focus is this evening. He is part of my business tonight and I need him to follow the script, even if I’m still writing it. Your boy Ollie is fine with me. Your word that the kid is O.K., is plenty. Because you are O.K.” Her eyes followed the speech with a slight blink at the mention of Tony but locked on to my stare concerning Ollie and herself. It was like an agreement with contracts to follow. She unscrunched her shoulders and put her left hand on my wrist.
“Are you hungry?” She asked like she was really concerned about it. I put my other hand on top of her hand. Her eyes went up to mine immediately then back down to the hands, then up again. As soon as our pupils locked on each other I felt the twinge. I knew nothing else mattered at that moment in time. And the twinge was a kind of adrenalin drenched fear and exhilaration. I have never been able to understand why it only happened with certain women, why I couldn't conjure or force it when I needed it or thought I was in love or felt an attraction. And I could count on one hand and a thumb how many times in my life I had felt it. One time it cost me my marriage, another time it cost me my best friend, and once it nearly cost me my life. And all these things buzzing around the glass bubble of this sudden enchantment, rapping on the glass, unable to shake my focus from even considering the consequences. For as her fingers moved just slightly up my arm every pore and follicle and strand of hair in their path exited a pleasure and wanton anticipation like she lit each one and anything literate or consequential belonged to another reality.
"Sure, let's eat," I half whispered. Our eyes ebbed and flowed as in the same tidal surge obeying the moon.
"Wait," she said while the waves settled to foam to bubbles knowing the next crash is coming. She slid out of her chair and came around and went by me keeping hold of my hand. Her other hand hit a wall switch and the naked hard edged fluorescence was gone. A soft night light off in a corner, the mild glare of a microwave, the red glow of an exit sign and a splash of light from the hall turned the room into a place that matched the lure and circumstances, at least, in the bubble I was in. Then she stepped into the bubble. And it was warm.
She came back with my hand and put it on her right thigh as her left leg slid past my chest and her butt rested on the table edge where a plate of food would belong. I faced the plate and slid my chair back a bit then pulled her slowly down onto my lap. Her back was rigid against the table and in a dense slow breathing moment our mouths found each other.
There is no way to describe, really, actually, how intense and carnal that first bolt of electricity can reverberate and override any logical thought or priority. It is like the life force that is pounding beneath the surface of all living things explodes into existence and moves the mind and body in a dance of greed and cooperation that each gender necessary to mix the primeval elixir submit and engage in the profound exchange of cells and fluids, so that the force might continue. Lust, however described or pronounced floods chemically from the most ancient spot on the Helix and washes away pain and suffering and fear and holds them in stasis so that the host may survive the moment and create, in the short blip of time allowed, one more life.
I have thought of these things, afterwards, of course, as now I was paralyzed by the smell and sounds and taste of the wonderful creature writhing in my arms. And the kiss, her tongue, her breasts squashed hard into my chest, her bottom grinding into my crotch; me, trying to force the motion of our heads, gain control, guide her to the table, sense her thoughts, prolong each second forever. Her, receptive, forceful, reluctant, pliable, recoiling, unrelenting, fraught with anticipation. Pushing her torso onto the table, her hands pulling my hands to her breasts, forcing her top up. Exposing her perfect nipples hard against my soft fingers, buttons that I flick and press and take into my mouth. Smothering and suffocating my head with wonderful arms holding me onto her chest while pushing down slightly, then pulling me, staring wildly, pushing me down, then up, as my hands, each one holding and molding a breast, now pushing against the pull as if love were nothing more than clutch, grab, and ecstasy. I heard through a heart pounding muffle, “No. Fuck me. Yes.” The rest of it was wonderfully unnecessary to depict. Then in a series of shudders and moans, it was over.
807. alistairConnor - 2/15/2008 6:58:55 PM
The rest of it was wonderfully unnecessary to depict. But fun to read. I preferred the first version. I want Sofina in a pasta pot, alla vongole, as Webfeet so memorably said.
808. webfeet - 2/15/2008 7:10:20 PM
..and did you take a motrin? Or, did you padlock the doors and call the cops.
Sorry, I couldn't resist. You know, I'm not the best judge of sex scenes. But what I see you wrestling with is not Sofina's head, but a match between your overdeveloped brain and your carnal sense. Seems like the brain is winning out.
809. webfeet - 2/15/2008 7:10:52 PM
Oh, not at the gym?
810. webfeet - 2/15/2008 7:13:14 PM
We're on the same time zone now..I have jet lag as an excuse.
You were next on my list. I have a hard time picturing french women ona stairmaster. Enlighten us sometime. Do they actually hop on a treadmill?
811. webfeet - 2/16/2008 4:36:09 PM
If you haven't already ensnared some hapless french woman unused to the flap on the treadmill, then I have a hottie for you.
C'est la maitresse-nageur at our municipal pool here in this little alpine town. If I were going to write a titillating BBC production of some Inspector Linley episode, I'd cast her as either the victim, (the sexy ones usually are) or the murderess. Set to the backdrop of the deadly boring alps in winter, she's come back from vacances, somewhere tropical. Or, maybe she still has a tan from all those afternoons in the sun watching other people's children en ete. She's not so young anymore, but she's definetely got a way to go before she looks like Johnny Hallyday. Manu, her babacool boyfriend, owns a husky breeding farm at the ski station, and takes British tourists for sleigh rides during the winter. Unfortunately, he's fallen in love with one of his clientes, a waifish British student, who decides to fulfill her dream of raising huskies with him in the alps forever. After breaking up with la maitresse-nageur, she goes out for a cigarette in the snow while behind her you can see the children inside the pool splashing through the window.
Thats when you come in with your sportscar. Park, strip and go in for a dip. Perfect, non?
812. NuPlanetOne - 2/16/2008 8:07:28 PM
Actually, comparing both versions of the sex scene now, and mindful of plotting it all together, I’m inclined to leave the second version intact as a teaser for perhaps a more splendid encounter somewhere else with another partner or with Sofina within a different context.
My overdeveloped brain and my carnal sense. Oh…the big head and the little one. Ya, you might be right Web, and it is a rare victory indeed, when the big head wins.
813. Jenerator - 2/17/2008 1:13:19 PM
Webfeet!!
I meant what I said upthread. I sincerely hope that when you are published, you will let us know. My fingers are already itching to buy your book! In the meantime, I will go and check out Liza Campbell's book. Thanks for the recommendation.
814. webfeet - 2/17/2008 6:08:38 PM
Nu, it's hard to be Steven Hawkings with particles of life 'exploding into existence' and Bob Guccionne with nipple buttons at once. Either Bob or Steve. But not both.
Publishing is slow, Jen and I also have a second novel to produce, which takes place in France (one of the reasons why I'm here. Kids ski, I write. In theory) And, speaking of sex scenes, even though I am sitting here wearing pajamas, I am contemplating writing one myself. Yet, they always veer toward the comical. I can't help it, so I am not going to play against my strengths and am keeping it audacious, but light and funny.
Actually, I am mortified to reveal a few things..but I know that those are the gems of this book. I once gave a french boyfriend a blowjob and he compared me to Monica Lewinksy!
How could I leave something so hilarious out?
Hi, dad. I sold my first book. Aren't you proud of me?
815. Jenerator - 2/17/2008 7:15:36 PM
You naughty little vixen!
816. Jenerator - 2/17/2008 7:24:37 PM
Webfeet,
So, I wonder if the Mommmy Gangs in NY are like the ones here. It's all about name brand (on everything from the stroller to the diaper bag to the baby lotion) and the size of the bow.
817. jexster - 2/17/2008 9:19:40 PM
A budding Jesse Plemmons!
818. arkymalarky - 2/18/2008 10:48:05 AM
So, I wonder if the Mommmy Gangs in NY are like the ones here. It's all about name brand (on everything from the stroller to the diaper bag to the baby lotion) and the size of the bow.
Bob's niece was featured on a Fine Living program a couple of days ago--I forget the name of the program and forgot to watch it--but they're all about organic, and how natural and organic everyone needs to be. She changed her baby's diaper and turned their compost pile. Fortunately the family taped it, so I don't have to miss that action.
819. NuPlanetOne - 2/19/2008 8:22:28 AM
Web,
My my, the things that come out of your mouth! And for that matter, the things that go in! I’m thinking, what’s not to like about this girl? She tears right to the heart of my amateur attempts at erotic portrayal and deciphers the superfluous philosophizing and separates the fauna from the flora. A mentor is born! But must I totally sacrifice the intellectual asides altogether? Surely you were thinking more lofty thoughts whilst laboring through your oral performance with the aforementioned French boy. I could not stand it if your mind were trained solely on the task. But, as there is no such thing as a bad blow job, I suppose describing one could wind up as bad writing. Alas, I need more guidance! You will have to elaborate.
820. alistairconnor - 2/19/2008 8:43:28 AM
there is no such thing as a bad blow job
Sounds like a challenge to me. I think I'm going to write about one. (That is, more or less, my current project. The gym thing is just setting the stage for Webfeet's "Bad sex scene" challenge.)
But, now I think about the scene I have in mind, the badness is more metaphysical than strictly erotic.
Stay tuned.
821. alistairconnor - 2/19/2008 8:45:21 AM
Tell you what Bibiche... tell me the name of the station, I might do a drive-by to have a look at the maîtresse-nageuse. Got to take the kids skiing next week or they'll kill me.
822. marjoribanks - 2/20/2008 10:21:50 PM
What a pleasure to read this thread over the past hour. Great stuff, all around.
Webbie, congratulations on your book contract! I always knew it would happen for you, the style and sparkle was all there online, even, what, ten years ago?
And, I suspect I will be seeing you at some lit fest or similar-type jamboree before too long, because I'm right alongside you....
Anyway, I liked these two comments about the Mote and writing, and feel the same way:
"I never wrote here for useful feedback. I wrote to entertain and because people asked me to.
Yes. Old fashioned writing for a specific audience of friends and acquaintances. It has its advantages, not least of which is an appreciative audience. I'm grateful to this forum and its predecessor for that.
the mote did help me define and develop my voice, certainly. The more everyone enjoyed it, the more of an incentive it was to create.
Yes. Remember the El Foco Desnudo stories, for example, delightful writerly interactions which I have never approximated anywhere else with anyone else.
823. marjoribanks - 2/20/2008 10:24:47 PM
I've had bad, amateurish blowjobs. Or at least I did, until I realized that the esistential purpose of the blowjob itself wasn't what I'd naively imagined it was.
824. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 6:38:33 AM
That's too much information, or not enough.
Weekend assignment : an essay on the metaphysical implications of a bad blowjob.
Open to all... comers.
825. Magoseph - 2/21/2008 10:46:37 AM
May I respectfully point out that this conversation should be in the sex thread where we women can compare our sexual experience with you guys, metaphysically or otherwise?
826. alistairconnor - 2/21/2008 12:09:49 PM
Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So please, tell us a story, and feel free to pretty it up, or make it sound funnier than it seemed at the time.
827. NuPlanetOne - 2/21/2008 8:03:23 PM
I think it is hard to talk about blowjobs without eventually being in jeopardy of inviting accusations of being chauvinistic. At some point the one performing the deed is patronized and marginalized as an object rather than as a willing sex partner. Especially when it is a conversation between men. Should you wax metaphysical, say, during a long wait at some hole on the back nine, and tell the guys that the blowjob you received last night at the hotel was surrounded in an aura of subliminal transcendental awareness, that further, you attempt to liken it to the Allegretto in Mozart’s Piano Concerto #24 in C minor. Declaring passionately that the effervescence of oboes commingling with clarinets signifying at long last a fusion of the divine deep within the soul of the abyss, has led you to redefine your faith in spirituality. Fore! And no one ducks.
Anyway, this is an interesting subject. That is, writing about the sex act specifically, without being specific. That is why I agree with Alistair, Mago. Hearing different takes on the subject in general, oral or otherwise, and how it could pertain to the fiction at hand, could be helpful. (Besides I want to know what other kinds of sex Webbie’s into.)
828. Jenerator - 2/23/2008 9:45:19 AM
I used to wait tables when I was in college and one of my colleagues was a very sexually active nymph. She told everyone some crazy stories, and we still remember them. But they're too gross or pornographic to make for good fiction. Sorta like Chloe Sevigny with Vincent Gallo - not sexy.
829. NuPlanetOne - 2/24/2008 8:02:59 AM
Jen,
Aye, but there’s the rub, if you will. Being in the company and context of the nubile nymphet, and being familiar with the more jocular aspects of her promiscuity, you found humor, not grossness, in her descriptions of her sexual encounters. Now, were you to relate these very same tales of tails writhing in ecstasy, in the wrong hands or even in the best of hands, oiled or otherwise, those hand jobs and that handholding would triple x into gutter moans and groans of dismay as the humor and context would dissolve. Webbie as editor saw this at once, whilst Alistair almost appreciated my attempt to intellectualize the graphic depictions of my lascivious consumption of the lovely Sofina. Hence the dilemma, go porn or be sworn to leaving it more to allusion, more to the imagination. How to proceed, indeed!
As a Chef, I have known so many waiters and waitresses like your friend from long ago. When I get back to my Piccatta story, I will try to introduce a major character to represent that part of the restaurant. Chicanery between the front and back of the house is what makes for most of the fun and friction in the daily workings of a busy kitchen. Webbie had her French boys, come on Jen, tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
830. Magoseph - 2/24/2008 10:53:14 AM
...tell us about that sauté cook you followed into dry storage!
If she does, Nu, then I'll have to link to her post here from Sex & Gender. Remember what Ali told me: Absolutely not Mago. I mean, certainly, go ahead. But here it's fiction, remember.
So, hurry up, Jen, tell us more and fictionalize!
831. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 1:16:52 PM
Hahahaha
I didn't take any sauté cooks into dry storage - though I kissed a gorgeous bartender in the walk-in freezer! I always had strong (free) drinks after that! :-)
Probably the most comical, sexual situations at that restaurant involved Ramón. He would flirt with all of us waitresses. For me, he would position oysters on the half shell in such a way that they resembled a woman's genitalia. While working the line, he would lick the oysters and slurp them down for us in a show of what "could be" for the lucky lady.
Guh-ross!
832. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 1:17:23 PM
Mags,
I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender?
833. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 1:22:26 PM
As for chefs, cooks, preps, and washers, I have learned that they are the horniest bunch in the world!
Managers and bartenders are part of the mix, too, though, they are usually somewhat more discreet about their conquests in that regard; but not much.
When I worked at the Hard Rock Café, I was shocked as to the language that was used in the kitchen, and the amount of sexual action that took place. All sorts of orgies back there and on the Beatle's paraphernalia.
834. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 1:51:59 PM
The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
835. judithathome - 2/24/2008 2:58:53 PM
I forgot what I said in Sex & Gender?
I think Magos meant she would have to link your story of actual work sexperience back to Sex&Gender because, alas, such a tale would be NONfiction, and this is the Fiction thread. In other words, if you posted something "non-fiction" i. e. your real life adventures...it could no longer qualify HERE as fiction.
I thought hers was a clever little post, myself. ;-)
836. alistairConnor - 2/24/2008 3:19:42 PM
The next time you see this, think of Ramón!
No Jen... I'll think of you.
Mouth-watering!
837. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 5:09:46 PM
Ah, thanks Judith!
838. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 5:12:31 PM
What about this one, Alastair - you flirt!
839. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 5:14:48 PM
I find myself transported back to the restaurant circa 1993. I can see Ramón now, carefully placing this oyster on the ice saying, "Baby, your order is ready. I like-a to eat this one."
840. Jenerator - 2/24/2008 5:17:49 PM
Too bad none of us had access to some trumpets to terrorize Ramón with!
841. alistairConnor - 2/24/2008 5:53:28 PM
And sure enough, the Desperate Housewives were there.
In the target age group of, say, 30 to 45, I found them almost all decidedly palatable. Mostly brunettes, which was a pleasant surprise, of varying skin shades. The overall impression was of an squadron of trim, prim Juliette Binoches aligned on the exercise bikes.
For my part, I was taken in hand by a skinny blonde trainer who showed me the ropes (and the weights) and jollied me along, introducing me to the variety of elaborate machines, numbered from one to twenty-seven. Most of them looked like some variation of a cross between a dentist's chair, an ironing board, and a birthing bed; a modernized Spanish Inquisition might use such apparatus, I speculated. Or the Gitmo people.
And from there, I confess, I rather took my eye off the ball. The Binoches seemed to disappear from my field of vision, and for the first few weeks, I was completely absorbed by the struggle to dominate those infernal devices. For it turns out that the fitness gym is an intensely narcissistic activity, a sort of mano a mano between mind and body, where the combination of real suffering and verifiable progress brings a sort of corporeal gratification that I had been entirely oblivious to. This reaches a sort of paroxysm in the case of one particular machine, which, I found, after a particularly painful set of exercises, induces a rather orgasmic sensation in certain muscles. I will not tell you which machine it is, gentle reader; you will have to seek it out for yourselves.
842. judithathome - 2/24/2008 8:26:23 PM
What about this one, Alastair - you flirt!
Oh yeah...he's the flirt! Ha!
843. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:25:29 AM
I’m a bit blocked on the novel thing, let’s try a short story.
The Crane Beach Massacre
Not everyone involved understood exactly where we were going as we climbed aboard the open boat. I will never forget how it looked there in the expanded and willowy distance as anything shiny sparkled and beckoned in the intense moonlight as between wispy clouds the full moon shone bright. We hung back as Arthur explained the moon was rising precisely in the east as it should, though we didn’t know east from west. Just looking down the beach was distracting enough, and, as their chosen Captain, I was sizing up my would-be crew rather than watching the sudden taunting moon with the rest of them. I knew Arthur would wander off in a few minutes to scout around and perhaps just get all caught up in some visual explosion that only he understood as he has done so often recently on our other loosely organized trips together. Now he stood several yards away with his arms stretched skyward and said the tide was still ebbing. “It is ebbing. It is ebbing!” He said jumping around. Everyone followed him with their eyes and leaned in that direction and then looked about to each other’s eyes to see if it made any sense. Tracy’s eyes fell into mine and she kissed me intensely and when I started to kiss back she stopped and started brushing her hair. I told Arthur to go to the boat and see if it was seaworthy but he had sat down in despair and was shaking his long tangled hair on his lap. The boat was our only chance, I told them. They watched my words float in the air and nodded eventually in unison, except Daniel, who shook his head no, but that meant yes to him. Richard began speaking to me in Italian and I remembered I had taught him some simple phrases so we could have a code language if things went bad. Because if the trip went badly we could ignore the others and make it safely back to our starting point, or at least we could retrace our steps and find a way out. Tracy poked me and asked what Richard was saying. “Why did he ask you if the cheese was fresh?” She demanded. I held her and kissed her nose and she smiled and took my hat and put it on her head.
There were eight of us there on the sand where the tangled rise of beach grass we had crawled through seemed like a barrier from another world. But the dunes that stretched before us on this side of the rise appeared to us as our only way out and only direction to go. And there off in the distance was the boat. And I knew we must take it and set off to make the trip back home. Aside from myself, Tracy, Richard, Daniel and Arthur, were Debbie, Maria and Linda. Maria was my girlfriend, but she was with Daniel now, so I was with Tracy. We knew it had to be that way because that is how it went. Tracy and I were together when the whole thing hit, and we bonded. That bond is vital, even if it meant leaving someone behind. Besides, Maria never intended to come on this particular trip, so I was hoping she and Daniel had made a similar bond so I wouldn’t have to worry about her. Tracy was emotional and affectionate; Maria knew that, I just hoped it wouldn’t bum her out or drag her down. But she was strong and might even survive being abandoned should Daniel disappear or go all solo on her. Anyway, that was how it was, and all seemed well. So I decided the boat was the plan. There was plenty of room in it and the sides seemed high enough should we encounter any waves or rough seas.
844. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:26:07 AM
“What if some others come through the brush?” Linda asked looking back at the waving wall of grass and bayberry shrubs behind us. Linda was beautiful. She had a clear, light olive complexion and pitch black eyes that had a gleam of seduction always glistening just near the center. Maria said she had never bought an ounce of makeup in her life and those were the teeth she was born with. I didn’t know if that was significant but I often just stared at her like everyone else. “The others? No. They didn’t see our escape. They might come, but not soon,” I said as I thought her worried look made her seem more beautiful. She looked at me and half smiled and I forgot what I was thinking. “The plan,” Tracy said as she threw my hat in the air and we all watched it land softly upside-down next to her feet. “Oh. The plan. Right.” I told them we could take the boat around the sand bar and come out on the other side near the mansion. “The whaaahhhaaat?” Daniel drawled oddly like his words suddenly fell into another current that flowed along side the rest of us. “The mansion, the museum,” I assured him. “That’s where we started. Remember?” Everyone stopped looking at other things and each other and looked at me. The Stuart Mansion had belonged to the Crane family I was thinking, they named the beach after them, but didn’t say it because it looked like they all started to remember. “O.K.,” I went on. “We need to get down to the boat. You guys ready?” There were nervous vibrations and squinting and no one seemed inclined to move. And there was the drone and the blink. The drone was getting more sinister, it seemed, and was starting to have an actual location. Which was good. “It’s getting louder,” Maria said. I noticed she was sitting in front of Tracy now square legged and they were holding hands at arm’s length. “You can hear it, too?” I said with some relief. “Yes,” said Richard as he stretched his head up toward the moon. It looked like his neck was unusually long. “There,” he said as he pulled his head back to normal. “It is moving out along the water.” I rubbed my neck and asked him if the cheese was fresh in Italian. He zeroed in and just nodded. Then he looked past me at the swale before the rise and flinched like he saw something unpleasant. I turned my head and looked over my shoulder and it did appear that several bushes in the beach grass kind of all had menacing faces. I checked the moon then turned to him and he waited for an explanation. “You alright?” I asked. “Comes and goes.” He said. “Me too,” I assured him.
845. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:26:36 AM
It might have been the moonlight but the whole area seemed nicely lit like a bright summer’s day. Everyone had tossed their jackets and it was actually quite warm and comfortable. Shivering would have been a disaster. There is nothing worse than cold on one of these trips, especially if someone were to go overboard. I searched the scene near the water and realized the blink was now clearly visible offshore and I remembered it was the beacon that marked the outer shoal on this side of the lagoon. Little glimmering lights now moved gradually through the steel blue of the seascape carrying with it the drone of some kind of engine. We didn’t like that and hoped it would move away soon. Arthur sat head in his lap making a series of groaning guttural harmonies that sang in tune with the drone. That was a good sign. He was having fun now. I told him again to go check out the boat. His head came up like he was surprised there were others with him, then he slowly got up and began his way down. Linda followed and I watched them as they both touched the bow together and put their heads inside. For a second I thought the boat had taken them, but soon they stood facing us and waved and nodded steadily. I stood up and waited for things to level off then headed down the sand to join them. Suddenly I was there and was holding Tracy’s hand and realized she was with me. I was right. There would be plenty of room and it was big enough to crunch down inside to brace against any treacherous seas. The sand felt like it was pulling hard on my feet and the occasional slap of waves made it seem like we had been transported to another location.
It appeared the boat was lower at one end, so Tracy and I got in. Some kind of port hole toward the bow gave me a clear view of what would be in front of us and the bench seats were all intact with oars beneath them. There was some water at the bottom and sand but we could bail it easily and Tracy said there was a raised berth at the bow all dry with a cushioned seat. She sat on it facing me and I told her that when we launch she would have to sit aft with me. She laughed hysterically then went quiet. She said she loved that word, aft. She told me she was going to rest her head a moment on the port bow then laughed all over again and said she will remain aft. Arthur and Linda squeezed by me and joined Tracy on the bow seat. I climbed back out and called to the others. I thought something moved through the swale but I decided it was probably just a piece of trash blown by the wind. My shadow surprised me and I felt it wasn’t really obeying my movements but I kept waving and calling until they all stopped what they were doing and looked down at me.
846. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:27:12 AM
It’s a good boat I yelled at them. Come on down. Maria was draped over Daniel’s back and they began wrestling in the sand but sat up quickly after I yelled their names. Debbie was standing over Richard singing something and slowly moving her arms. Richard was looking at me the whole time but I wasn’t sure if he knew what I was saying. I never liked Debbie, or any of Richard’s girlfriends, but he was my best friend, and at least Debbie wasn’t threatened by that. She was actually very bright, but I had caught her lying about several things and Richard was stuck on her. That diminished my advice and she knew it. I hoped she wouldn’t be a problem on this trip. She finally stopped singing and Richard stood and after a long embrace they started down. I felt a squeeze around my mid section and Tracy’s face was looking up at me from my right hip. She slid up and in front of me and kissed me and it seemed to go on for a long time. She slid down and back into the boat and Maria was there. She was looking at me like she wanted to say something but Daniel pulled her by the hand and they stepped aboard the boat.
Richard tapped my shoulder and asked me in Italian to eat the clump of seaweed he was holding. It looked like a wet mass of tangled wires and I just took it and shook water all over him and Debbie. They didn’t notice and just climbed clumsily on board near the bow. I stepped back in and took my place on the bench furthest aft. I told them we need to balance the craft and sit two to a bench. “I shall come astern Captain, oh my Capeetan!” Tracy bellowed and zig-zagged down to me as the others got two to a bench. Maria grabbed her leg as she went by and Tracy looked down and her mane of brown hair slapped across Maria’s face. They smiled a weird smile at each other and Maria put her arm across Daniel’s shoulder and sat quietly looking forward. “O.K., that’s good,” I told them. I told Arthur who sat in front of me to grab an oar and pass it back. “Will we go now?” Linda asked from the bow cushion where she had hopped up to face us. I had a flash of a vision that she would be connected to the bow like a colorful and wood carved mermaid and would rise and fall as we bounded through the waves. It looked like she was reaching into the vision as she spoke and now everyone was staring at her too. And it got quiet. The drone was audible but only slightly and the port hole off Linda’s right shoulder allowed the blink to filter in and lit her hair aglow at the same intervals. A wave hit the hull and we felt it ride down the sides of the boat and made it shake a bit. We fell back into our private world modes like back up on the sand and it was getting comfortable and safe again. Tracy was telling Arthur about the time she got lost all by herself during the camping trip early in the summer but Arthur was busy guiding Linda over to his bench using one of the other oars. “Remember that, Captain?” She asked me now and added, “That wasn’t a fun trip for me. But this is good. I won’t get lost.” I told her no one gets lost when I organize a trip. She took Linda’s other hand and helped her down to the bench.
847. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:27:46 AM
Now it was good. Daniel had lit one of his pocket candles and stuck it up on the bow seat. It gave the boat the aura of an amphitheatre. The moon was gone behind a marvelous thickening of darkish clouds and I wondered what they called clouds at night. Beams of light didn’t seep out like in day time but actually seemed to seep in. And while I was watching, a sudden flash behind it all made it swell like someone had blown an enormous breath at it. Strange, I thought. Excellent sight. Daniel was leaning on his elbow at the bow seat and Maria did the same and watched the candle. A bigger wave hit the bow and rushed quicker along the sides and crashed further behind us. “I’m going to push off,” I said and took the oar and stuck it in the sand behind the boat. There was water over the sand. I felt another wave and everything was flowing by me toward the shore. It felt that now we were moving and I sat back down and told Richard to man his starboard oar and for Daniel to watch the port side. Daniel spun and looked over the port bow and said all was well. Richard looked confused so Tracy reached down and brought up his oar. It looked jagged but he took it and laid it at his feet. I leaned over my port side and saw the beacon. I would keep it there I thought and navigate to the right of it. Debbie said she thought someone up on the beach was waving at us. “I knew they would come,” Linda said. “They will ruin everything.” I said forget about the others, we will sail over to the mansion and be there before they get back. “You think so?” She said surprised. “How far is it?” She was getting a panicky tone to her voice. “Oh, I love you Linda!” Tracy said as she reached over and pulled Linda onto our bench. She rubbed her head and said soothing things. Linda looked up at her and said she was fine. I was watching the beacon and a sudden crack of light snapped out of the darkish hole near the moon. Everyone jerked and look over the port bow. “Whooooaaaa, I mean whoaaaaa!” said Arthur. “A storm.”
I thought, we couldn’t have gotten too far. Then the rain was upon us. And a shattering boom then flashes. Things had an intermittent orange red outline, and the whiteness in the light bursts was like someone was taking snapshots with some bizarre omnipresent flashbulb. But the rain was warm. And there was the intense smell of pure ocean and each time a wave hit the hull the sides of the boat rattled yet the bottom remained solid and fixed.
848. NuPlanetOne - 3/9/2008 10:28:19 AM
Maria was yelling but it was hard to understand her through the commotion and the harder I tried to hear her, the more distant the sound became. Arthur slid from side to side on his bench swinging his oar into the sea on each side of the boat. He had a wild look on his face and a jubilant smile and I knew he wouldn’t let me down this time. He would keep the boat steady, and Tracy had Linda. But I was worried about Maria. I waited for Arthur to stop as his side to side motions and through the slanted rain made out Maria leaning over the starboard bow looking into the water. No sign of Daniel. I searched my side for the beacon and could only see rain pelting the water like little bombs hitting the surface of a violent whirlpool. It was something to see and I got lost in it for an eternity and wanted to stay there, but I needed to find Daniel, or at least get Maria aft to safety. I pulled my head to look her way and saw a wind tossed spray of surf plummet out of the hull and felt a huge wall of water go whooshing down the length of the craft. Maria was turned my way now and holding fast to the top edge of the boat. She was drenched and I moved slowly along the starboard wall until I reached her. “I lost Daniel somewhere,” she said. “I think he went over.” I pulled her onto the bench in front of Richard and Debbie who were just sitting in a clench under Richard’s sweat shirt and they were singing a muffled version of ‘All Along the Watch Tower.’ Maria buried her head under my chin and held on fast. I turned and poked Richard and asked about Daniel and he pushed at me with his hand without saying anything. That was it, Daniel was gone. I spun around holding Maria tight and Arthur was still busy keeping the boat from spinning out of control. I screamed his name and felt Maria dig her nails into my sides as the noise came out of me. Arthur stopped briefly, looked toward shore, then at the sky, and laughed like an amused lunatic and said, “aye aye, Captain, on course, on course!”
So I sat. Then, after a long time, it seemed, the rain stopped suddenly. And like the vacuum after a retreating evil invasion, the confusion and intensity that got sucked out with it, made the memory of it seem a bit ridiculous. Maria purred like a kitten as if she were a bundle left in my arms by a distraught and desperate mother. And through the port hole I caught sight of the beacon as it pounded like a heart restored to full vigor after a grueling attempt to save a dying heart attack victim. At least the boat stayed the course, I thought. But I knew we must have been further away from the shoal than I had thought. We might have to abandon ship and just swim back to shore. If Daniel had dared it, I knew it was safe. He was not one to risk anything, and that meant it was still a short swim. And it was calm now, as a balmy wind was already drying my hair and the shoulders of my shirt. The choppiness and slams were gone from the water and although the boat was still intact, turning it seemed somehow impossible. I explained to the others what we must do and they nodded. Arthur said he would test the waters and went off the back without hesitation. Tracy and Linda popped up and hung like puppies on the aft wall and watched. Maria’s head came up and watched them over my shoulder then she put her face in my face and smiled. We kissed and everything went warm.
“He says it is easy,” Linda said as she went over and into the water. Tracy looked at me and Maria with a puzzled look and stared, then went over following Linda. Debbie was standing now in front of Richard shaking her hair and they were talking intently about the colors in the flashes during the storm. I hated to admit it, but they really enjoyed each others company. I wanted to tell Maria about what I saw when the rain was hitting the whirlpool, but I knew she wouldn’t get it. She said it was a massacre.
Back on the beach, I awoke first. Richard and Debbie were locked comfortably in what looked like an old fishing net. Maria’s head was wrapped in her sweater and I got loose and walked to the edge of the surf. The boat seemed a lot closer, stuck there in the flats. Richard came up behind me. “You O.K.?” He said. “I’m fine, what was that shit?” I asked not really talking to him but wondering in general. “Orange Sunshine,” he said after a chin rubbing pause. Then added, “The storm fucked it up.” Daniel was wandering our way from the swale. Richard asked him what happened to him. “I’m done tripping,” he said and looked pale and tired. “Let’s go.” “Bad cheese,” I said in Italian.
849. webfeet - 5/22/2008 8:07:38 AM
Cuckoo.
I'd like to point out how immensely entertaining (and gratifying-awful pun) all the last posts following my Lewinsky confession were to read. Lovely to hear from you, too, banks but I must correct you--I don't have a contract yet. I have an agent who is reviewing my first manuscript as part of a 2- book contract now and I am hotly working on a second and even a third.
I have to deliberately compartmentalize my life or else I will never get anything done. I am too easily distracted.
And now, wish that I could read more of the Crane Beach Massacre (I think I have actually been there. Mass no>?), but I have to go to the dentist, an awful appropriate punchline (delivered three months late) for my blowjob post.
And, jen, thanks for the post of les hûitres, a nice accompaniment to the fictive orgy.
850. webfeet - 10/14/2008 8:37:29 AM
Where are the clowns?
851. NuPlanetOne - 10/21/2008 10:44:59 PM
Well, been months since I reread the Massacre. I need to polish the ending and part of the middle. I’m so lazy and fiction is such work. Anyway, since you popped in here too Web, what is your connection to Crane Beach? Was that you waving to us from the swale?
852. wabbit - 11/12/2008 8:28:38 PM
Oh.Mon.Dieu.
Not Mote fiction, but this is how I imagine our own webfeet must have been as a child, and how I imagine her own children will be. Wonderful.
Once upon a time... from Capucha on Vimeo.
853. alistairconnor - 12/1/2008 1:19:17 PM
So how about some soap opera.
He's a good kid. A bit scary sometimes.
His mother and I have been in a love cocoon for a couple of weeks, preparing for separation : she was to have two weeks with her family, then the day after her return, my kids and I take off to see my family, for a month.
I was all set to take her to the airport, Friday at lunchtime. But on Friday morning she called me in tears : the trip is cancelled. He's been thrown out of his high school.
This is a Catholic boarding school. In the final term of last year, we had to beg and plead to get them to keep him : three times he had been caught smoking, or with tobacco. Three strikes. You're out. They kept him, on probation. But this time, it wasn't tobacco they found in his pockets.
Panic stations. We repaired to my country estate for the weekend. The immediate question is to get this highly influenceable fifteen year old away from his hoodies. That's why we sent him to boarding school in the first place : it's out of the question to send him back to school in the city. (During the last school holidays, he sneaked out after midnight and broke some wing mirrors with his gang : they ended up in the cop shop overnight.)
Thankfully, my daughters are pretty cool and accepting about the whole commotion, and go out of their way to be inclusive and accepting with him. (We didn't tell them what they found in his pockets, but they probably guessed.)
I take him for a walk in the woods. He talks to me readily enough. So, where does he buy this shit? When he tells me about borrowing brass knuckles and a can of teargas to go talk to his dealer, I feel I'm out of my depth. It was all so much nicer in my day. Anyway, he's scared too, which is a good thing. Except that he doesn't seem to be resolved to cut out the adolescent risk-taking behaviour.
It seems unlikely that another boarding school will take him. We enviseage sending him to the public high school in the little country town, where my daughter goes. They would be in the same year, quite likely in the same class. (She's four years younger than him. They get on pretty well together.)
His mother is on the phone all weekend with her parents, brother, sister, everyone cries, the boy is furious with her for telling on him. She's supposed to lie to protect him. I talk to him a lot about what family is, how it works. How they love you, but you have to take care not to do things that reflect badly on them. He has no self-confidence, and a negative self-image, a lot of this comes from his status as a bastard. A well-loved bastard, but a bastard nevertheless. (This is technically incorrect, his mother divorced his father shortly after his birth, for good reason, but for her family, the father never really counted anyway, because he was a foreigner.)
[...]
854. alistairconnor - 12/1/2008 1:19:34 PM
So she explains to her mother that she's thinking of moving out of the city, of moving in with me permanently, for the good of the boy. That sounds sensible, says her mother; but of course you'll have to marry the gentleman.
As it happens, I've been pestering her about this for a year or so. It's nice to have an ally. And who wouldn't want a Jewish mother in law?
855. wonkers2 - 12/1/2008 5:54:00 PM
Tough situation, ali. We had a similar but much less serious problem with one of our three children--skipping class, drinking, not doing his homework, getting poor marks. He finally woke up when he realized he wasn't going to get into the college where his great grandfather was a professor and both his maternal grandparents studied. He went somewhere else for two years, got good grades and transferred to his first choice university and did very well. Now he's a successful lawyer.
856. webfeet - 12/19/2008 11:28:46 AM
But France doesn't work that way, wonkers. Pas de tolerance for bad students, even those with promise who are going through a virulent crise d'adolescence. However, Alistair as a beau pere gives hope.
I have to go make sablés, put them in the oven for my art class. I'm doing an unpaid atelier for my children's school on french impressionists and I actually love it. All those clichés about working with children (provided they are not your own) are, in fact, true. And that little raconteuse in the video, alistair, has a stunning imagination. Enchanting moment. Thank you.
I'll write more later. Really.
857. webfeet - 12/22/2008 12:56:58 PM
It's a golden time for books, it is. With the publishing world half extinct and book sellers begging to give titles away--I've never seen so many markdowns as sales plummet, and yet there are still one or two reasons why it still feels good to collapse at the end of the night with a text in your hands, as opposed to squinting at the screen.
Jonah Lehrer's "Proust was a Neuroscientist" is one such work; it's a collection of essays that credit various artists such as Elliot, Proust or Cezanne with discovering truths about the mind before neuroscience. I have only begun to read Proust and the infallibility of memory but each essayis promising -Igor Stravinksky, Elliot and Positivism, Escoffier and the discovery of umami. This is an enlightening, thought-provoking work that illuminates some of the mysteries of creativity through an exploration of art and its contribution to science.
So take your little B&N 20% sticker and give it to someone for the holidays. I can't think of a better gift.
858. webfeet - 12/22/2008 1:05:01 PM
My daughter recently learned how to write two words: the and me. Then she put them together, and invented a secret club called The Me (since I wasn't allowed to join, I don't really know anything more about it except that she is, naturally, the only member). Sometimes I feel like The Me when i post here.
Now I have to bake Christmas cookies again. These are not great. These are not even inspiring. These are Martha's silly thumb prints from her eezy peezy holiday issue. I'm going to smear some hershey kisses inside a blob of dough and call it a day.
What sort of lovely holiday offerings have people made?(Webfeet's attempt at Not being The Me)
I was a hit (of course) at a Hanukkah party saturday after bringing Jewish Egyptian food writer Claudia Roden's Clementine Cake (as adopted by one Nigella Lawson). one word: divine.
859. alistairconnor - 12/24/2008 7:33:04 AM
Well I got a $25 book voucher from Whitcoulls today. Unfortunately those are $NZ so it's only worth one book.
"The Me" is a good theme. My theme is coming to terms with the adolescence of one's daughter. Luckily NZ boys are hopeless so there is nothing to fear.
My offering to the family feast (buffet for 25 or so, indoor/outdoor if it doesn't rain) is some French delicacies : pate, fromage, fois gras etc : and a shitload of smoked fish of the finer varieties, which is what I miss most in France.
860. judithathome - 12/24/2008 9:13:57 AM
This me and her husband are going to deliver gifts to the neighbors tonight...I'm so happy to include Steven, the "little" boy next door who grew up, joined the Army, and arrived home for 2 weeks leave before shipping out the Afghanistan.
Our gift boxes are filled with dark chocolate pomegranate, almonds, milk chocolate raisins, cinnimon encrusted macadamias, and hulled, salted pistachios.
861. webfeet - 12/30/2008 8:56:02 PM
Welcome back to 'the me' with your host, webfeet.
tonight, i am unfortunately out of wine and feel too lazy and irky (is that a word) from not being able to write well this afternoon. this, in fact, is better for the bad writer, not to be able to drink anything. The choices are either Goya cooking wine or St. Germain, a heady liquor made from (WINK WINK) elderflower, that is like the Elysian fields of booze. Neither fits my mood. And i don't have any prosecco which is just as well because I should be reaching for a homely tea bag of twinings and pining into my laptop sober.
Today I went to Whole Foods market at the Time Warner Building to shop for New Year's Eve and felt like I was entering a church. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling. The Time Warner building is like the vatican of malls; it's huge, and feels a little austere and there are whole families of europeans walking around with cameras. and there are probably pigeons outside in the plaza. Gimmicky and over-priced, everywhere in WF there are jumbo boxes of gumdrops and peppermint marshmallows, and there is something sour and unfestive about an underground market in New York City. And then I went off on this whole loose tangent about missing New York of the eighties and wished I'd see homeless people with brightly colored ski hats--instead of screechy touristas who literally heckled me with 'la la' when i reprimanded them in the fitting room of bloomingdales to stop moving from cabin to cabin leaving behind clothes, like gypsies, on the floor and banquettes. And then, actually, when I went to complain, the sales woman was tone deaf. No, literally tone deaf, in that she was literally a mute and started to do LA LA back to me, only it was louder and I think her tongue was forked and no-one except the small, disinterested que was even listening to me. so i left, still wishing i could find new york of the eighties. I'm never going to find it. I did find, however, a gory hunk of bleu d'auvergne which is the best thing in the world.
So, I take it, alistair, that you didn't strangle the geese yourself, like michel's now deceased pauvre tante emilie, so tell us, where do you buy your foie gras? and from what region?
I praise you for your classic good taste, Judith. It isn't really the holidays until someone sends you one of those.
862. Jenerator - 1/1/2009 4:56:41 PM
I have missed you Webfeet!
863. webfeet - 1/1/2009 7:17:51 PM
And I you, Jenerator. I told you I liked the oyster shots. I think that was, sadly, like a year ago. I must have a different sense of time because that doesn't feel that long to me.
Not that anyone cares (except perhaps fans of The Me) but I will be posting more frequently as opposed to let's say letting gaps of six months go by at a time before I lure myself out of the brillo pad of my thoughts and post here. I'm fond of this site, after all. Perhaps I have reached the age where things that are constant take on a greater meaning. Oh, who knows? Isn't that boring to analyse it?
In anticipation of your next question, Jen, The Me has generously offered to conduct a brief tell-all interview.
The Me: So, webfeet, why don't you have a book contract yet?
webfeet: [Caresses her throat, as if swallowing a lozenge.] Is attempted to reply in convoluted french parce que..and then stops. The truth is so much funnier. I mean, it wasn't funny. Not back in June, at least. My agent decided to go vampire. Fantasy, pornotica, romantica, all these new genres that ended in the letter 'a' took precedence over my manuscript (which, as you know, you know nothing about deliberately). And she asked to see my manuscript, after launching a racy romance on-line venture, in January. Now, had I known she was going to be the boogie night's agent, I would never have queried her. And, rather than wait, I decided to plow on, depressed and saddened at having come so close at having missed the chance to be able to brag at my h.s. reunion, and played the field instead, and am now waiting for a callback. When you snag an agent on only the second query, things really are too good to be true. That is the lesson I learned.
The Me: [nods sympathetically] how did you cope with this, this setback?
webfeet: I crammed myself with cakes this summer in the south of france. and worked. and worked. and worked. And that's where you find me now...
The Me: A mess?
webfeet: No, I like to say wisened, no longer a vierge. Well, time's up The Me. I have to finish my calvados and go running on this arctic night with my husband and celebrate the last teeny weeny seconds of that fleeting, depressingly ethereal feeling called the holidays by looking at my parents' neighbors Christmas lights. It's been great.
The Me: Anytime.
Stay tuned for our next segment of The Me when webfeet, smarmy now at having lost her innocence in the world of publishing, namedrops that she actually had lunch with someone who was close friends with Harold Pinter. In Paris.
864. Jenerator - 1/2/2009 10:26:12 AM
Webbie,
The solution was/is simple: just alter your manuscript!! Change the heroine into a Jane Austen reading Lycan and the antagonist into an espresso wielding obsequiousness vampire who feels conflicted about it all. Throw in some gratuitous sex and voilà - publishing contract!
865. Jenerator - 1/2/2009 10:27:57 AM
Make that a vampire who struggles with his obsequiousness.
866. Jenerator - 1/2/2009 10:30:15 AM
If you need any more advice, I am always available!
:-)
867. alistairConnor - 1/2/2009 10:30:54 AM
No, I didn't strangle the geese; the foie gras was Labeyrie brand, such as you could find in any big supermarket in the midwest, and probably canned in Bulgaria.
I have spent the last couple of weeks, lacking oxen to sacrifice, in pouring out copious libations of French wine to the gods to celebrate my return with pomp and prodigality. Ensures a warm welcome, and masks the fact that I am broke. Sponging off friends and relatives is the name of the game, and it's all going swimmingly, sun burns and good beaches galore.
868. webfeet - 1/5/2009 5:10:38 PM
Welcome back to The Me. Today's theme was going to be addiction and penance yet it's been modified to offer constructive ways of dealing with post-holiday letdown with the addition of the new guide, 'Creative Ways to be Frugal in 2009'. Anyone who cares to offer a frugal tip is welcome to participate.
Now, living in an agricultural region, with livestock all around you, Alistair, it's like an open-air market. First tip on the list: offal. Yes, offal. Cheap, plentiful and good foryou albeit an acquired taste for many--offal is vastly underrated. Whether it is tripe, head cheese or coeur du mutton, if the French didn't invent clever ways of turning organ meat into appetizing concoctions fit for kings, than Escoffier was merely a one-trick pony, deglazing his way to culinary repute. Even the most squeamish can overcome their fears with a good reduction sauce and a stick of butter. Bon appetit. A very funny blog, which I am not going to bother hyperlinking, sorry, is Year of the Glutton. Written by a brit, it's all about organ meats and is well-written and very funny.
Frugal tip #2. Write vampire fiction; any kind will do, whether it's paranormal vampire fiction; or 19th C vampire fiction, or any genre you can think of, it is probably going to take you to the top the slush pile. When you envision your characters, just think fangs and channel Anne Rice, who is now a born again Christian.
Frugal tip #3: Root vegetables. From Julia Child's French Chef Cookbook:
Navets A La Champenoise
(turnip and onion casserole)
2 1/2 lbs yellow turnipsor rutabagas
2/3 cup finaly diced pork butt (or 3tbs butter)
2/3 cup finely diced onions
1 Tb flour
3/4 cup beef bouillon
1/4 tsp sage'salt and pepper
2 to 3 TB fresh minced parsley
Peel the turnips, cut into quarters,. then into 1/2 inch slices; cut slices into 1/2 inch strips, and the strips into 1/2 inch cubes. Drop into boiling salted water and boil uncovered for 3 to 5 minutes until tender. Drain.
If you are using the pork, sauté slowly in a 3-quart saucepan until very lightly browned; otherwise, add the butter or oil to the pan. Stir in the onions, cover, and cook slowly for 5 minutes without brwoning. Blend in the flour and cook slowly for 2 minutes. Remove from heat, beat in the bouillon, return to heat and bring to the simmer. Add the sage, then fold in the turnips,. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Cover the pan and simmer slowly for 20 to thirty minutes, or until turnips are tender. If sauce is too liquid , uncover and boil slowly for several minutes until liquid has reduced and thickened. Correct seasoning. Fold in parsley and serve in a hot dish.
Tip #4 (write a cookbook with a dead culinary legend.)
869. webfeet - 1/7/2009 4:59:56 PM
Tip #5 Stalk your own goose and make your own foie gras. The pastry chef and owner of the bakery in my parents' village was recently arrested for catching a goose in the town green; witnesses saw him running after the animal and then stuffing it into a bag. Poor goosey loosey. No doubt she was going to be fattened up and jarred. He was Danish, actually.
The idea could be the basis of a lovely vegan children's story, a genre, in case anyone has missed it, that is slowly emerging. It could be called, 'The Goose That Got Away' and you'd see the evil chef hiding madly in the bushes with a bag stalking it. Vegan lit is as probably as boring as vegan cuisine. We read one recently about a vegetarian dragon that was unbearable; he made tofu kebabs and converted all the other dragons.
Incidentally, my father once saw two frenchman on the golf course running after a goose with a bag. Thought this time no-one was arrested and the poor goose didn't get away.
870. Jenerator - 1/7/2009 7:08:30 PM
Okay webfeet, I have come up with a Plan B since obviously you didn't like my other idea.
How about this - change your manuscript to tell the tale of the blonde and lusty village cook who is well studied in the classic French techniques and who longs to make the perfect dish that will impress the town's lone millionaire. She decides to make foie gras with the neighbor's pet goose; however, she discovers along the way that the millionaire doesn't eat meat, or légumes du pays - in fact, he only drinks blood!! She must now decide how to cook the illegal meat without the town knowing of her crime and whilst simultaneously saving them from the fiend who hunts them all at night.
871. Jenerator - 1/7/2009 7:09:55 PM
You can then throw in some espresso, Jane Austen, soft porn and Prada.
Maybe *I* should be your agent!
:-)
You know I adore you!
872. webfeet - 1/8/2009 11:57:38 AM
Pas mal. You know, honestly, you better keep that to yourself because it may work. Why don't you write it? And I'm not being flip when I say that. Write the next fois-gras inspired 'Twilight'. her love for offal makes her want to try human flesh... It can be like Sweeney Todd meets Juliette Binoche's 'Chocolat'. You went to brigham young, didn't you, or one of those loony christian academies? Use your theological background to write
a vampire satire. But you better move fast if you don't want your goose to be cooked. There are plenty of greedy chefs hiding in the bushes with their knives poised, waiting to strike.
Just to be boring and self-righteous for a minute, the central conceit is I like my work. So did my vampire agent. She called me, she emailed me all the time, we were this--'this' close to having lunch. Everytime I emailed her, boom, right back at me. SHe taught at NYu for god's sake! And, then, it was like pussyland. She was soliciting books for the next kinky shoe memoir, and I just thought, oh fuck. this is simply too depressing. But guess what? Am I going to walk around with my nose in the air? Oh, no. Am I going to privately mope and eat frangipane and say, "I'm too good for that?" oh, no. Heavens no. She asked to see it in January. And, oh, look at the clock. Why it's...janvier.
I really think I should be more promiscuous (or unstupid) and send it out to more than three agents.
Anyway, I just had frangipane from our three king's cake (la galettes des rois) and I feel much better.
So, get busy!
873. NuPlanetOne - 1/8/2009 2:37:02 PM
Webbie...
I have been following your food tips with great amusement and with the mention of Julia Child I must boast of my brief association with that celebrated culinary icon. I had the pleasure of assisting Julia in two cooking demonstrations while at cooking school so many years ago. She was an intense and gracious personality, and although it was law by contract that no pictures were allowed to be taken without her express permission, she did allow my girlfriend to snap us working together once during the evening. Mainly because upon being successfully entrusted with her starter doughs, which I guarded with my life, and having found the ideal spot to hold them in just the right climate conditions, (A spot in the bowels of the school discovered by the school's director and I and kept secret), we managed to bake the perfect baguettes, live, in an electric home style oven, as that was a specific feature of the evening's demonstration.
She actually chose my name from a list of perspective assistants forwarded to her for a subsequent demonstration, referring to me as that 'Charlie who protected my dough.' Which gave me the nickname 'dough boy' for the rest of my time at school. Anyway, I have an excellent picture to document the experience. That is, aside from the permitted staff photo shoots behind the scenes supervised by her secretary.
Which brings me to the evil Chef in the bushes. I am reminded of a seemingly evil old Sicilian woman from my neighborhood growing up that would skulk about in the early Spring dawn to collect dandelion greens for her 'cicoria' soup and other assorted recipes, as well as for medicinal purposes. Most people thought she was creepy, as did I, but she eventually befriended me and taught me to prepare an excellent stuffed, braised honeycomb tripe. Better than my Old Man's, which tended to be somewhat bland. (The tripe tying in with your offal discussion, which was far from awful.:) Her secret being raw fennel.
So I'm thinking, apropos of your advice to Jen to get going on a vampire angle, my Old Sicilian could figure in as a slayer who knows the secret antidote to the bloodsuckers infectious bite. They rule at dusk, she toils at dawn. I think I might have to attempt a short story somewhere along this line. Anything to unblock my lazy aspirations concerning prose. Whaddathink?
874. Jenerator - 1/9/2009 6:02:01 PM
Nu,
I am delighted to hear about this encounter with Julia Childs. I have read so many books about her and have cooked a great portion of her recipes. In fact I have very early memories of watching her on TV with my dad - I feel as though she is an old family friend.
Perhaps you and I, in an effort to cheer up our depressed friend, should attempt to write a short story about vampires, Sicilians, and chefs, one paragraph at a time.
875. NuPlanetOne - 1/9/2009 9:02:29 PM
Jen...
Yes indeed. That is an excellent idea! I am a fan of all things vampire, but I've been watching HBO's 'True Blood' and was disappointed that it followed the usual route through vampire lure and law. It started well but the guy cast as the main hero just seemed way too weak in contrast to Anna Paquin, who is excellent, in a kinda slayer role, so we must go unorthodox and maybe even as campy as 'Buffy' but establishing some new mutations on the original theme. Even though that has been done as well, as in 'Blade,' where some vampires could survive by day. I say anything goes, as long as it is blood we are after! Maybe a 24 hr vampire that transports globally and visits night wherever it is present. So, how shall we begin? Also, once Webbie is alert, she must contribute as well, or at the very least, edit and direct. As well as anyone else here that needs to add his or her 2 cents.
876. judithathome - 1/10/2009 12:47:22 AM
but I've been watching HBO's 'True Blood' and was disappointed that it followed the usual route through vampire lure and law.
Oh please...that show was the best thing to happen to vampires since Frank Langella's ultra sexy Dracula in the 70s.
I must admit that I am a vampire purist and the Buffy saga left me as cold as a Civil War vampire widow.
True Blood had my attention from the first airing of that intriguing theme song...I loved the connection of vampires being the new gays. And I adored Layfayette, the vamp lover and purveyor of their most precious commodity, V.
Alan Ball created this romp to comment on society's main drugs: meth, sex, and religion. He has done an excellent job of nailing all three with a bonus of hypocrisy thrown in..."a little something special from the kitchen", which all good cooks know to do in Louisana.
877. alistairConnor - 1/10/2009 7:31:43 AM
Now that it's 1am, I can finally get near the household's one internet connection. The competition during the daytime is too intense for me. All of the girls here (mine and my sister's) are addicted to the "Twilight" book series, and the fourth volume is out of stock. So they are taking turns reading a pirated copy on the internet.
Frankly, vampire literature leaves me cold, but I am at the mercy of a bevy of vampire-loving adolescent girls.
878. arkymalarky - 1/10/2009 12:52:59 PM
Haha! It does me, too, Alistair, as did the little passage I read from one of the Twilight books, but the kids love it, and Mose, who now teaches 7th grade (I both laugh and cry at that) is reading the series, and many of her students are as well. Like the Harry Potter books (which I've never read) the Twilight series literally appeals to all ages.
879. Jenerator - 1/10/2009 5:15:07 PM
Thank goodness he finally cut that mop on top! Ick!
880. judithathome - 1/11/2009 9:50:45 AM
Who IS this fictional person?
881. magoseph - 1/11/2009 12:54:02 PM
882. NuPlanetOne - 1/13/2009 2:03:52 PM
And so.... Jen, here is a beginning for our Vamp story. Comments first, or just spit out the next installment. We will need some technical fiction perhaps, so you may pass the next part off, then jump in thereafter. Thoughts?
Perpetual Darkness
“It is said that the mutation occurred as the result of a transplant. A young woman dying of leukemia received bone marrow from a Changer just a mutation removed from becoming a 'Perp.' Now, as you may or may not know, a Changer is a vampire that has a limited hereditary ability to stay 'lit,' as it is described, perpetually for several days before the need to go dark and re-enter Death-mode, or 'Coffed.' No one is exactly sure when or why the Coffed mutated into the 'Un-coffed,'(Un-coffined) but one thing is for certain, once a vampire becomes a Changer, it will eventually become a Perp. That is, in a perpetual state of being lit. Instead of following and fearing the sun, it follows and re-enters the darkness. Why we are here today, of course, is to discuss the recent claims that some of these Perps seem to have the ability to transport west to the nearest night zone, somehow during the exact second before dawn where the sun will break the horizon. So far, it appears that they are limited only to jumps back and forth to the point from which they could actually see the horizon, but the physics of it is why I have invited Dr. Kronen here today to try to conjecture precisely as to how this 'transport' ability can be accurately understood and explained. I will then turn the discussion back to how the creatures can rejuvenate without a need to un-plug and go Coffed. Dr. Kronen, sir, if you will?” Brief applause escorts Dr. Kronen to the lectern.
883. judithathome - 1/14/2009 11:12:28 AM
(Nice start...one suggestion for more ease of reading...paragraphs, please.)
884. webfeet - 1/15/2009 12:37:08 PM
NuPlanet,
I just adored your post. Honestly, you should really be writing the great foodie vampire story, or anything else on the subject of dandelion greens, sicilian widows..(i simply can't tell you how delightfully vivid that image was) or any other offal-related subject. Your natural style is always extremely entertaining.
Frankly, 'True Blood' is porn with barbecue sauce. I just think it sucks. And the sociological commentary dimension that is offered by way of elevating this estranged genre for Anne Rice refugees, has always seemed rather thin to me..as thin as the papery thin neck of an anemic tween, starved of "true literature."
I will check on the vamp camp later.
885. Jenerator - 1/15/2009 8:20:42 PM
"Zank you all, ples be seated, " Dr. Kronen said in a thick German accent.
He eyed the audience of young academics who had gathered to hear him speak in the dimly lit underground meeting room.
"Ze Apostles, eh?" he thought to himself.
Cambridge had been the University he had wanted to attend as a young man, but his parents had kept Kronen home and insisted he attend the University of Tübingen.
Tonight's secret meeting thrilled Kronen, and at the same time made him sick to his stomach. He never felt safe talking about Sophie and the Changers, even though he wore the cross underneath his shirt.
886. judithathome - 1/16/2009 7:27:15 AM
as thin as the papery thin neck of an anemic tween, starved of "true literature."
So you watched and got nothing of the social commentary linking it to gay culture, corruption in politics, small-town rigidness, or anything like that? Or rather, thinking that was considerably less than "meaty"?
I guess this "tween"...'tween AARP and the grave, steeped in true literature and the schlock we all delve into from time to time, was impressed enough to take it for what it Alan Ball was trying to convey. Silly me.
887. webfeet - 1/17/2009 12:02:45 AM
Nuplanet, I didn’t get a chance to respond to your post on Julia. Cherish that photo. I would do anything to hear that distinctive voice in person, to this day I can’t see a rolling pin without thinking of her. Part of my mid-day pause, those solitary moments of happiness in the kitchen, are inspired in part by her. The genius of her kitchen repetroire is its simplicity; with miracle ingredients you can find in the homeliest of pantries, it’s surprising what magic a little store bought bouillon cube and a hunk of leftover pork butt can yield.
That said, Navettes à la champenoise is a lovesong to the turnip: yes, a lovesong. with mandolins and tender weeping pauses over its syrupy consistency. Particularly good if you're a root vegetable cross-dresser, you could totally add a parsnip or two.
Today I made a lemon curd cake to celebrate the bracing bold flavors of January. Lemon curd is brazen: lemon curd is so ‘do you want me? Yeah?” It was a little too ow, lemon curd. You’re going to have to be a little less lemon. I preferred my version with buttermilk; but I only had sour cream.
Guys, thanks for the vampire trib; but it’s getting slightly disjointed and weird, like we’re twelve and playing vampire mind games in my parents dark living room and jenerator is speaking through a styrofoam cup attached with a string à la homemade walkie talkie to nuplanet..and so on…
888. Jenerator - 1/17/2009 6:07:18 PM
It's Nu's fault. I wanted it be sexy and funny and he had to make it all cerebral and well written!
889. Jenerator - 1/17/2009 6:09:33 PM
PS - Yours truly with her fabulous new best friend Nigella!
890. alistairConnor - 1/18/2009 7:32:08 AM
What nobody at the Cambridge seminar knew at that time, was that this transport ability had been extended by certain Perps, with the involuntary help of second parties. Alistair's case is the first which has been unequivocally documented.
Whatever the active principle of the infection should prove to be -- virus, bacteria, amoeba, or some esoteric life principle from beyond science, as many, inevitably, still claim -- it can be diagnosed by physico-chemical blood analysis. It is still controversial whether the "Changer" and "Perp" phases can be distinguished by this means, but frankly the question is rather academic, as comportmental clues are generally quite sufficient.
The origin of Alistair's infection cannot be traced. The contemporary vogue for vampire fiction and films provide ample cover for individuals of idiosyncratic complexion and dress; quite likely, it was while picking up his daughters and nieces from the vampire flick at the mall in Auckland that the targeted infection occurred.
891. alistairConnor - 1/18/2009 7:50:01 AM
The first of the return flights, overnight from Auckland to Hong Kong, went about as well as these things ever go : they all got at least some sleep. Rather than hanging around the airport from 6am to 1pm, they headed into town to visit HK Central and the Peak Tram.
Wandering around in SoHo as the city started to emerge from night, Alistair suddenly sat down hard on the pavement and hunched over. He described it later as being suddenly and entirely emptied of all force and intelligence; his sensory perceptions were unimpaired, but he was, for a couple of minutes, deprived of all his motor and cognitive means.
The girls did not panic, were calm and supportive, and soon he was on his feet again. The younger girl later claimed that she saw a cloaked figure emerge from a nearby darkened doorway, but she has always had a well-developed imagination.
The rest of the return journey, Hong Kong-Frankfurt and Frankfurt-Lyon, was apparently uneventful. In fact, unbenownst to both, Alistair and Dr Kronen crossed paths in a busy Frankfurt restroom, Kronen entering a stall thirty seconds after Alistair had left it. It was long thought that respiratory aerosols were the prime path of transmission; later research has shown that they are hardly infectious at all, but that skin contact with other bodily fluids can be exceedingly virulent. So most likely, Kronen caught it off the toilet seat.
892. alistairConnor - 1/18/2009 8:06:19 AM
Having got home and to bed at midnight, Alistair was up before dawn, feeling fine, but unsurprisingly not adjusted to the cumulative twelve time zone changed. He was slouched on the couch channel-surfing when it happened again.
A few minutes later he was fine again, and didn't know what to make of the whole thing. Logically he should have seen a doctor, but he was supposed to be working that day, and reluctant to take the route of sick leave after an extended holiday.
And in fact, he was fine all day. The following day it became clear that he had the flu -- pretty much inevitable, as his entourage in Lyon had all had it during his absence -- and, although that certainly did not explain the Hong Kong event, he gave it no more thought.
893. Jenerator - 1/18/2009 10:01:47 AM
Dr. Kronen, however, was not fine. After that quick layover in Frankfurt, he noticed a sudden onset of burning on his buttocks - a feeling he was all too familiar with during his quest to find the origin of the infection that caused the change in the Perps and his beloved Sophie.
He had hoped that the London flight would be quick, but the delays forced the plane to sit on the tarmac an extra 2 hours. Dr. kronen's burning intensified, and at one point he was afraid that perhaps he, too, had been infected intentionally by a Changer.
His mind searched through all of the faces he had seen that day, and one stood out in particular. He was an average guy with soft grey hair and a nice red sweater, but there was something definitely sinister in the way he glared at Dr. Kronen when he left the stall in the Frankfurt airport restroom. Perhaps this mystery man was the Perp who had been following him since his stay in Vladivostok. That same, impenetrable stare was certainly familiar in the men's restroom.
Dr. Kronen knew he needed to drink some of his homemade antiserum, but the vial he had smuggled it in exceeded the 2 oz size limit that was currently forbidden on planes.
894. judithathome - 1/18/2009 10:35:49 AM
(Jen, great shot! And great STORE!)
895. alistairConnor - 1/19/2009 12:57:19 PM
"Good morning, Dr Cascu!"
"Good morning, you're looking..." Cascu didn't finish the sentence.
"Yes I know : nice tan, but I'm looking terrible. Divine retribution for taking a summer holiday in the middle of winter : I got the flu from hell."
Alistair had been sad when his previous doctor had retired, and initially rather suspicious of her young Rumanian replacement. It seems young French doctors are too lazy or too greedy to take on a little country practice; whereas the miracle of the European Union opens the jobs up to all comers, as long as they speak French. Hence the veritable onslaught of Rumanian doctors in rural France: it helps, perhaps, that their principal alternative is a career at 300 euros a month in the Rumanian health system.
And Cascu, in any case, was a goodun. Alistair had grown to respect and trust him. Always he would go the extra distance, look at the big picture, ask probing questions unrelated to the original subject of the visit. Alistair liked that.
Most doctors would now go through a perfunctory "Say aaah" routine, then write a scrip for four or five palliatives, sign the sick leave form, then ching ching, next please! Cascu, he knew, would not let him off that easily. So he stretched his aching body out on the examination table.
But the examination was over rather quickly, as it happened. Examining Alistair's skin, the doctor's eyes narrowed, then widened, and he took a step backward, and asked if he had experienced any symptoms other than the classic flu ones.
His tone and manner were still friendly and professional, but something there conveyed a clear subliminal message to Alistair : something like "please don't be alarmed, but you're in really deep shit now." As he related the strange "jetlag" episodes in Hong Kong and Lyon, Cascu broke out a couple of surgical masks, put one on, and gave the other to Alistair. Then he filled the air of the consulting room with an antiseptic aerosol spray. At least now we don't need to keep pretending to smile, thought Alistair.
"So, what's it all about Doc?" Cascu explained that there was a need for specialised blood tests. "I don't think they can be done in France. Germany perhaps. Your girlfriend : you live with her in town during the week, yes? Have you ... excuse me, have you made love since your return? Yes? Then she will need to be tested too. And I'm putting you both on a month's sick leave."
"WHAT!" Alistair hit the roof. "You're going to have to fill in a few more details before I can agree to that!"
"In the first instance, you should both be quarantined until we get a blood diagnosis. I suggest you should go to your place, out here in the country. I really don't want to be mysterious, but I promise I will tell you more tonight, I'll make a housecall."
Well that's something, thought Alistair. A doctor in France making a housecall. Wonders will never cease.
896. alistairConnor - 1/19/2009 2:43:46 PM
Sorin Cascu spent most of the afternoon on the phone to Rumania. He was something of a rarity among his generation of Rumanian doctors, in that he actually had a detailed working knowledge of the medical aspects of ... the subject. It had been in decline for decades at the Bucarest medical school, becoming a little-chosen optional subject, and had been completely scrubbed from the curriculum during the European Union normalization process. For this is the other side of the coin concerning freedom of movement for European professionals : the body of knowledge imparted must be standardized, from the Atlantic to the Urals (or nearly. To the Carpathians, anyway.) So European committees lop off any trace of folk remedies, esoterism, empiricism or anything else not "rigorously science-based".
However a couple of the older professors continued to teach the subject, not exactly clandestinely, but informally. A Transylvanian himself, Sorin had considered it an essential part of his medical education, and attended all the evening classes, despite his heavy workload. In his fifth year, they were denounced by the modernists for misuse of university premises, and were obliged to switch to private venues. This had created no great logistical difficulties, since there were fewer than a dozen students in the class, out of a cohort of six hundred. But it had certainly facilitated the development of his relationship with Dumitra...
897. alistairConnor - 1/20/2009 5:08:23 AM
Dumitra! Their love had seared his soul, and, as a wise friend had noted, perhaps made his heart inaccessible to ordinary women.
Among the study group, she was always the most engaged, inquisitive, and as Sorin soon realised, her interest extended well beyond the medical aspects of ... the phenomenon. She was involved with other groups on the subject, not medical at all, and tried to take Sorin with her on her journey of discovery. He resisted firmly, wishing to stick within the medical domain. She interpreted this as weakness and fear, and began to despise him a little.
The final betrayal and break-up happened days before their final exams. This timing is probably what saved him from the depths of howling despair : discipline, rigour and hard work enabled him to shut her into a tiny corner of his mind.
Alistair's case brought her back in full force, by association. He persuaded himself that she could be a useful resource in his research.
Professor Albu, his old mentor, was delighted to hear from him, and eager to help. He remembered Dumitra, of course, but had no news of her since medical school. He gave Sorin a number of contacts among those of the medical profession who were still engaged in the surveillance and control of ... the phenomenon.
For the centuries-old networks were breaking down. Part of the social fabric through the centuries of feudal and imperial regimes, the struggle against vampires had continued, in one form or another, throughout the twentieth century. Of course, the Communists had attempted to wipe out this superstition, subjecting exorcists and potion-brewers to severe re-education; but the Party itself had been infiltrated to the highest level, and following a narrowly-averted coup d'état, they changed course and medicalized the phenomenon. By discreet sanitary measures, they locked down vampirism to tolerable levels.
Now, only the older professionals took the business seriously, and had no funding. Although official statistics were no longer collected (move along, nothing to see here), there were clear indicators that the phenomenon was on the rise.
898. alistairConnor - 1/20/2009 5:27:32 AM
[Sorry for being The Me! I was severely jetlagged when I read Nu's post, and it sparked something. And now I'm sitting around having the flu, with nothing in particular to do... I'll try to leave openings for others.
Perhaps we need to decide on a common thread for the story? An emerging worldwide epidemic of vampirism and how it was defeated, or a love story, or ???
Sorry Nu, on re-reading it's clear I've fkuced up the science already. The infectious thing can't propagate the Changer status, obviously, which appears to be hereditary? It must be a third, ancillary, category, of Enablers. Our out on this is that medical science cannot distinguish between the three categories through blood analysis. Perhaps you could take up the technical fiction aspect?]
899. alistairConnor - 1/20/2009 9:11:39 AM
[OK how's this for the overall plot : a conspiracy of vamps, perhaps California based, are propagating the Enabler epidemic in a plot for world domination. Nobody knows yet what the prognosis is for Enablers, nor how exactly the Perps can use or control them...
Not all vamps are on board with the conspiracy : some are traditionalists, pining for good old blood-sucking feudalism. Others are new-age types, wishing we could all accept our differences and just get along (Sophie's group?). Plenty of room for loners, renegades, confused adolescents etc.
Meanwhile, individuals and groups who become aware of the menace need to network and organize to overcome it...
What do y'all think?
For a vampire hater I'm taking it all far too seriously. That's what the flu will do for you.]
900. NuPlanetOne - 1/20/2009 2:34:46 PM
alistair...
By all means, you have moved the story along quite nicely! It does seem more logical to write bigger chunks at one time, as the muse dictates. And your plot outline will expand mine, but we must not lose sight of the transport aspect. And don't worry about being too serious, we can have a Bela Logosi impersonator leading a Vamp cult fan club behind the whole thing, or something equally outrageous to tie in the traditionalists. And definitely some new fangled excorcism-ish rite totally untraditional. Anyway, you are on a roll. Carry on!
901. Jenerator - 1/20/2009 7:50:55 PM
I guess I am just invisble!
902. alistairConnor - 1/21/2009 11:07:53 AM
Good lord Jen, I'm longing for you or someone else (Judith!?) to get their teeth into the actual vampires. I won't be touching them with a bargepole (or even a stake) because I know nothing of the genre.
I've got some ideas for Dr Cascu, who will soon be in touch with Dr Kronen, of course. And I'm afraid I'll have to develop "Alistair" further too, to establish him as the sceptical outsider (but not the reluctant hero : I suspect he'll miss all the action and remain unconvinced to the end.)
In other news, I have finally managed to see my (Rumanian) doctor. And he put me on sick leave for the whole week. (And he was wearing a surgical mask.)
903. NuPlanetOne - 1/22/2009 6:58:18 PM
Jen....
You are totally visible, you followed up as promised but alistair just caught the ball and ran with it. I think you set the stage for Kronen and introduced Sophie, so you must sketch them into the plot. At least before alistair has a second wind.
904. alistairconnor - 1/23/2009 4:59:22 PM
Alistair and Halima spent much of the afternoon speculating as to what cruel and unusual disease they were subjected to. "Some sort of tropical fever? Malaria?" she guessed. "No, nothing like that's endemic in New Zealand." he replied.
"Rabies then? Been bitten by anything?"
"No, NZ is the cleanest place on earth for all that nasty stuff."
"Oh really. Then I guess it's some obscure sexual affection. You'd better come clean with me. Or should that be : you'd better come cleanly with me?"
"At last! The doctor's here!"
"Don't think that'll get you off the hook my dear..."
Cascu had, by arrangement, brought some groceries. They had agreed to make the quarantine as complete as possible, at least until they had some test results.
"So, Doctor : what have we been tested for exactly?"
"Well." Cascu looked uncomfortable. "It's a phenomenon that is often associated with Rumania..."
"Child gymnasts?"
"Creepy dictators?"
"Deplorable orphanages?"
"Vampires?"
"The last one, I'm afraid."
"..."
"Oh come on Doc. I never got bitten by anything bigger than a large mosquito. There were pretty young women dressed as vampires in New Zealand, but none of them even tried to kiss me in the neck. I don't understand it, I gave them every opportunity. But all joking aside, you expect social security to pay us sick leave for ... suspected vampirism?"
"Actually, that is a non-trivial problem in itself."
"Ah, so you and I and Halima are likely to end up being prosecuted for fraud because of your crackpot ideas?"
"No : you and I and Halima are likely to end up being prosecuted for fraud because social security will never admit to such a medical condition, even if it does get identified and categorised scientifically. Which is far from being the case at the moment. Yes, I'm afraid we're all in for financial difficulties if my tentative diagnosis gets confirmed."
"Doctor, frankly, if we're to turn into vampires, financial difficulties are not the most pressing of our worries!"
"I wish you wouldn't laugh when you say that. On the other hand, there's no harm in it. As long as the worst is not certain."
905. webfeet - 1/23/2009 5:11:03 PM
So, how is "Alistair" feeling today?
Not bad for flu-inspired prose, mon cher, especially the odd part about your doctor wearing a surgical mask. I like the eerie way you wove that in, coupled with the detail that he is Romanian, Transylvanian or whatever. You know, garlic is very good for warding off colds as it is vampires...
Jen, adorable shot. Now, who is the texan? You should follow Nigella's lead and whip off the denim and show off your hooters. One question: what is that Nigella has on the table, brandied toads? Did you sample one?
Hmmm..I wonder what sort of Guerlain-inspired wonder dust does Nigella sprinkle all over to get that glow. We could use some in dismal, sub-arctic New York. Although today was like spring in comparison. It went up to 37.
Well, carry on vampires. With Jen's agile plot devices, you are actually getting somewhere..I think..although i confess to be being perplexed by the 'changer status'. This sort of jargon eludes me.
906. alistairconnor - 1/23/2009 5:30:35 PM
In the meantime, Alistair and Halima were both on ten-day sick leave for the flu : an unusually long break but not unheard of. In fact, Alistair's flu was severe, and incapacitated him nearly that long; Halima had already had it, but during her holidays, with no time off work, so there was technically fraud, but again, nothing implausible.
Alistair and Halima had decided to suspend their disbelief, for the ten day period, and co-operate fully with Cascu and any other experts who could elucidate the matter. At the end of that time, if nothing conclusive turned up, they would go back to work and regard the whole thing as a fairy story.
Cascu had explained that the "vampire" infection was distinct from actual vampirism, which itself was a strictly hereditary condition. There were few observable symptoms of the infection, and no harmful effects, other than the little detail of being the slave of the vampire who originated the infection.
How did the vampire take control of the victim, and to what end? Evidence was very fragmentary and anecdotal on that score.
"The doctor who will be analyzing your blood samples was very interested in your episodes in Hong Kong and Lyon, especially when he learned that they happened at about dawn. He is convinced that you were used in some sort of teleportation mechanism. Ok, go ahead, laugh. I'm getting used to it. I confess I wonder if he's right in the head myself, I've never heard of such a phenomenon, but he claims to understand the physics of it. Kronen, his name is. He should receive your samples in Tübingen tomorrow. In the meantime, it seems likely -- to me, anyway -- that there is a vampire hanging around Lyon who has control over you."
"Well, I've been on a salary most of my life." Alistair remarked.
907. alistairconnor - 1/23/2009 6:09:57 PM
The following day, after a few more tries, Cascu had located Dumitra : she was a staff anaesthetist at a provincial maternity hospital. She was to start her shift that evening at eight o'clock.
In what was to become a regular routine, he went to see Alistair and Halima as soon as he closed up his surgery. They had spent the day scouring the internet for any useful information about vampires.
"How can you filter anything useful out of all this crap?" said Alistair. "Well, 99% of everything on the internet is crap", remarked Halima. "This is no different." "Well, maybe in this case it's just 100% crap!"
In fact, 90% of the hits were references to modern vampire fiction, which they discounted completely. Most of the rest was older fiction or folklore, a few anthropological or historical accounts, and pretty much zero scientific study.
"There is a reason for that." explained Barzu. "People who really know about the subject keep it secret. Either because they are vampires themselves; or because they know that any attempt at publication would result in them being tracked down and killed by vampires."
"Sounds plausible," admitted Alistair. "But Occam's Razor tells me that the more plausible reason for the absence of scientific literature is that the phenomenon doesn't exist. Sorry if I sound like a broken record."
The discussion was interrupted by a call on Cascu's mobile. It was Kronen, with the first results of their analyses.
"The tests are quite rapid to execute, and quite conclusive, concerning the "A" and "H" samples : both are positive. The "S" sample is negative, however."
"Thank you, Doctor Kronen. The S sample was mine, I included it as a control."
"I'm afraid the test isn't very specific : it's quite binary in nature. It indicates that the subjects are either vampires themselves, or have been infected by contact with vampires' bodily fluids. I have developed a serum which appears to negate or attenuate the... imperative effect, do you understand me Dr Cascu? Yes? It requires cultivation from the subject's own blood serum. I believe I ought to confide the formula to you, Doctor."
"That would be an honor, Dr Kronen."
"Bloody hell, so there are two crackpots now? And we're to be their guinea pigs eh?"
908. alistairconnor - 1/23/2009 6:29:40 PM
Still, it seemed like some sort of breakthrough, or milestone at least, and required a commemorative drink. During the ensuing discussion, Cascu noticed that it was eight o'clock, tried to excuse himself, and was warmly retained. Then found himself telling the story of himself and Dumitra, to a receptive and sympathetic audience. In truth, she was a sort of ghost that he dreaded facing alone. Halima took his hand and said : "Well, are you ready to call her now?"
"Doctor Dumitra Nicolu? This is Doctor Sorin Cascu."
Silence.
"Sorin? ... What can I do for you, Dr Cascu?"
Without a doubt, she sounded shaken, full of emotion. Then mastered it with her habitual hard, biting tone.
"I ... I am working on an unusual case, involving vampires. Since we once shared an interest in the subject, I thought it might be possible to collaborate. Also, this offers an opportunity to inquire as to your health, your employment, your happiness..."
"It's all shit, Sorin. All of it. This job. My happiness, very amusing. And as for my health, thanks for inquiring... I'm HIV positive. Intravenous drug use, don't you know. Oh yes, give me the bourgeois moralist lecture on that, could you please Sorin dear? How could I? Well guess what, shit happens. I'm off the morphine now thanks. Nearly got struck off for that. Now I do crystal meth whenever I can afford it. I did some tonight. It's what keeps me alive."
"Are... are you with anyone?"
"Ha! You should know me better, Sorin. Only a loser could want me. Oh, plenty do, believe me. But I don't do losers, as you know. And as for your vampire story, forget it. I don't know any vampires. In fact, there's no such thing. So get out of my life again now, OK honey?"
Sorin blurted : "But, but I love you!"
But the line was already dead.
909. Jenerator - 1/23/2009 10:06:56 PM
Dr. Kronen pushed the button overhead for the flight attendant; he simply could not wait any longer to take the antiserum. His legs were now burning and he felt as though he might pass out.
Within seconds one appeared, and she looked at Dr Kronen and noticed that he was moist with perspiration.
"Are you alright, sir?" she asked.
"Err, I am fine. I need a lavatory, now," Kronen replied.
The flight attendant looked him over and saw that the man seemed nervous, in a hurry.
"Hmmm," she thought aloud. "Passengers are supposed to remain seated while the plane sits in taxi. We should be taking off soon. It's best to keep your seatbelt fashioned."
She looked around and spotted another passenger who pressed his overheard button. Off she went.
Dr. Kronen knew he needed to act soon, so he stuffed his attache case down his pants and made a dash for the lavatory. What he didn't realize, though, was that the flight attendant was watching his every move and had radio'd security.
910. Jenerator - 1/23/2009 10:25:08 PM
[Webfeet. Thank you! I have been a Nigella fan for 10 years now and was pleasantly surprised when I heard that she was coming to Dallas for a book signing. She was very friendly and we chatted for several minutes - she complimented my watch, and that was when the picture was snapped. Honestly, she really is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I bet Saatchi views her as his most valuable piece of art.
Nigella is quite a bit smaller than I imagined, too. Her waist is tiny and her impressive bust is not as enormous as it looks on tv. She's 49 and I am 37, and I would pay good money to have skin like that!
She served all of us various goodies from the book Nigella Express - those 'toads' were chocolate mint cookies, and they were actually very good.
I was one of only a handful of women waiting in line to meet her, and I think she was quite relieved by that. ]
911. Jenerator - 1/24/2009 1:28:56 PM
That sounds weird. What I meant was, Nigella seemed genuinely relieved when there was the occasional woman in the line. Most of the men there were hoping to land her affections, others were gay but sill gobsmacked by her stunning beauty - all were mesmerized by her sensuality. Just sitting there in her simple pink cashmere sweater and long black skirt, she had an ethereal quality. I have never seen that in/on (?) any one else.
912. alistairconnor - 1/26/2009 11:24:37 AM
Courtney felt dumb.
She also felt cold, hungry, tired, lonely and depressed. But most of all, she felt really dumb.
She was sick of lurking around Lyon in the rain (it should at least be snowing!). She had no-one to turn to, and she really needed to go Coffed. And now she was going to have to call her mum, to sort it all out for her.
And it had seemed like such a great idea at the time...
The thing about being a teenage vampire -- an honest-to-god, hereditary one, not a fashion victim - was that you could have a lot of fun with it these days. Especially with the kids who took it seriously.
Not that she ever exploited that in a nasty way. It's just that she could flaunt her difference rather than having to hide it. Nobody ever took her really seriously on that stuff anyway, which was all part of the fun.
But this transport thing -- and it had been a really big thrill, the most exciting thing in her short experience as a vampire -- had gone sour on her.
Her mother was a Californian vampire, and I mean that in the best possible way. Really into personal development : transcendental meditation, transactional analysis, Zen buddhism, you name it, Lara had tried it. Courtney laughed at that stuff, but really it formed an integral part of her culture and values. Lara's inner seeking had lead her to New Zealand, where she had met and married Ted, an eccentric carpenter (who now did a nice little sideline in coffins). They had had Courtney, then divorced ten years later. She had returned to California with Courtney, but two years ago, because of her involvement with vampire politics, where she was increasingly branded as a dissident, she had sent Courtney back to New Zealand to live with Ted.
Mixed marriages were frowned upon in vampire culture (and in some subcultures, punishable by death) but were much more common than was generally acknowledged (children of mixed parentage were even more common, but that's another question). There is no way to predict if a half-caste child will be a vampire or not : the canine tooth thing is completely unreliable. The only way to know is to wait for the child to reach puberty, leave a nice comfy empty coffin open, and see if they take to it.
What were Lara's feelings when fourteen-year-old Courtney started sleeping in her coffin? Joy or heartbreak? She never would say more than : "I love and accept my daughter totally, as she is".
913. alistairconnor - 1/26/2009 12:30:48 PM
But she must, surely, have been relieved when it turned out that Courtney was a Changer, like herself. Of course she would still have loved her if she had had "special needs". Such as the need to stay in her coffin except at night time, like an ordinary vampire. But a Changer was much easier to live with, if you had chosen the route of integration into "normal" society, as Lara had chosen, for herself and for her daughter.
===========
"Courtney! Do you know what time it is in California? It's 4am! What the hell is so important?"
Courtney was already having trouble fighting the tears back. She just went with the flow for a couple of minutes. Her mother was quickly into supportive mode, and coaxed the whole sorry story out of her.
She had found the transport story on the internet. She had found that there was a surprising quantity of true vampire lore available among all the rubbish one could trawl through; not in the fashionable vampire fiction itself, but in the net culture surrounding it. Apparently she was not the only young vampire who liked to dabble, behind the safe anonymity of the net. She had identified three or four genuine vampires on MSN, among all the prattling make-believers.
So when "Jake" claimed that he knew how to teleport, she had taken him seriously, and she had learned to brew the potion and recite the incantation. And one night, she had climbed to the peak of one of Auckland's volcanic cones, and awaited the dawn while concentrating on a place a couple of hundred metres down the hill to the west, in an open field.
And it... had worked. No fireworks, no funny noises. No definable sensations either. She was just, suddenly, over there.
She'd been so excited she'd forgotten to be scared. And she'd forgotten ... sort of... to tell her mum about it. OK, so she knew her mum would disapprove. Lara wanted her to be knowledgeable in vampire lore, but to abstain from exercising it, as she herself did.
And she'd gone the extra step. The one that Jake had described as experimental : the use of a helper. He was evasive as to whether he had tried it himself. But the principle worked well, he claimed, and caused no harm to either party.
The opportunity had been there : her best friend's uncle was returning to France after a month's holiday. She'd never been to Europe, and, at seventeen, that was starting to become an affront to her cosmopolitan self-image.
The potion she needed to brew for herself required some organic material from the helper. That was easy enough : from the amount of hair on his pillow, you'd think he was on chemo. Then the contamination : easy to manage during a barbecue, a drop of her urine in his wine glass. She couldn't help thinking that by that stage of the evening, he probably would have drunk a whole glass of it if she'd asked him nicely. Still warm. With a pube floating on it. Then she slapped herself mentally for having such thoughts.
914. alistairconnor - 1/26/2009 12:32:03 PM
It had all gone perfectly, on a technical level. She had felt remorse in Hong Kong, seeing Alistair slumped on the pavement, and had nearly gone over to help him, but he had recovered pretty quickly. She had seen a lot in her thirty-odd hours in HK, but she was ready to move on by mid-afternoon the second day, when, according to her calculation, the sun was set to rise in Lyon.
But after twenty-four hours in Lyon, she'd had enough. Being able to stay Lit for several days was great -- she was legendary for her ability to party like no other -- but with all the walking, she was physically tired out. And the 50 euros she had changed didn't go very far. And most of all, she knew nobody and she didn't speak the language.
No problem : the return trip was supposed to be easy. The plan was to hang around the airport, befriend some New Zealanders, and brew a second potion with their involuntary help. It had been going pretty well with Barry and Keisha, she had easily gotten an organic sample, but then she realised that they were heading for Copenhagen. Her second try turned sour : they must have thought she was a bit weird, they shook her off. In truth, she was already unnerved, and that finished her off.
"So, Mum, what do I do now?"
915. NuPlanetOne - 1/26/2009 12:51:24 PM
Many things wafted through Dr. Kronen's mind as he continued his lecture. All of the strange circumstance and coincidence, Cascu, Alistair's blood samples and credible tales of teen-age vampires. These, as well as the incident on the plane, combined to keep him ill at ease. He felt bad about injecting the stewardess, and hoped she would be fine, but it got him off the plane and more importantly, he was feeling himself after taking a dose of the anti-serum. His theory that blocking electrolytes in the central nervous system, especially the specific ones he had isolated, (and partially omitted from the formula he gave to Dr. Cascu), interfered with the process of teleporting as he now knows Alistair survived being taken at dawn and was instead still safe under the watchful eye of Cascu and his staff.
He would need to win over a majority of those present at the meeting, he decided, most prominent of which was Dr. Errin Davidson. She alone was the only living human being, he felt, who understood the concept and math involved with Super String Theory, as well as having been the only person entrusted to decipher Einstein's unpublished notes and personal scribbled rants against Quantum gravity. Here, she pieced together a startling revelation superseding the Master's published conclusions, Field Theories and all the implications derived from his Special and General theories of relativity.
She insisted that in analyzing his private notes and calculations where he sought to establish a 'Theory of Everything,' a quest that consumed all of his later years, she identified a few, apparently anecdotal revisions to his original Field Theories all with solutions that ended in futility and infinite dead ends. Yet upon having spent months trying to decipher each step within these side bars, she suddenly, as if in a trance, and with a slight perturbation in one double set of integers, a set the genius had highlighted, a whole series of cascading proofs washed over her like waves in the Bay of Fundy.
And she would have missed it, had it not been for the work she had done in helping to explain his work on capillary motion and critical opalescence, which, suffice to say, together, and in the context of transporting physical molecules intact, had a bizarre connection to some exotic anomalies he had conjectured in some equations he had worked out in describing his world shattering work in photoelectric effects.
The larger point, of course, was that if things such as worm holes and parallel universes could be derived as by products of his monumental equations and independent solutions to his Field Theories, then why not his daydream doodles concerning teleportation.
916. NuPlanetOne - 1/26/2009 12:51:38 PM
Kronen knew these things would excite Ms. Davidson. He would just have to convince her of the biological framework of which he was the accepted authority, and she was aware that he had been a lone champion of her most recent work, panned universally, suggesting that at the quantum level de-materialization and re-materialization, in fact, occurred all the time. And ultimately, her assertion that a naturally occurring holographic effect inherent in photons allows for any object once illuminated to have a permanent frame by frame existence, observable, if you know how to detect it.
In other words, when you look at a hologram, it is not just a three dimensional reproduction you are viewing, rather, it is an actual object that exists within a phantom super string trail of that object as it moves about. For our Dr. Kronen, knowing that the Holographic Principle is the most profound insight to the basis and new foundation for string theory, getting Dr. Davidson on board, in all actuality, was his main priority. He believed she was the only theoretical physicist alive that would condescend to even hypothetically use her expertise and talents on a subject as arcane and fantastic as teleporting vampires. And as the lecture neared its end, from the look of intrigue on the unadorned, though quite attractive face of Errin Davidson, Kronen started to feel he might get the young genius to at least examine his evidence and assumptions.
917. alistairconnor - 1/27/2009 12:33:57 PM
"Iancu, I have summoned you here to offer you a difficult and dangerous mission, if you decide to accept it."
"Thank you, Master Mirca. But I am here to do your bidding without question, whatever the nature of the mission."
"Thank you for your loyalty, lad. But please listen, and reserve your response."
Hank had never been to the top-floor Boardroom before. The empty room was imposing in the darkness, with its massive table and dozen ornate, heavy chairs. The impressive effect was somewhat weakened by the banal Bay Area nightscape visible from the panoramic windows.
Here, then, was the nexus, the very soul, of the small network of Silicon Valley start-ups that constituted the Organisation. Within these walls were determined, not only the economic orientations of the all-vampire business group, but the social and political actions that defined the Organisation's aspirations to leadership in vampire affairs.
Hank had had his first summer job in the Organisation, as a trainee programmer, when he was fifteen. As a Changer, he had no need to follow that route; he could, like his father, become an ordinary "good citizen", seamlessly integrated into American society. Probably it was loyalty to his mother, Coffed all day, a prisoner in their suburban house, that fuelled his adhesion to the Organisation, and made him passionate about the Mission : Vampire Liberation.
"Iancu, the Board is aware of your prowess : in technology, in traditional lore, and in the arts of ... proactive self-defense. Your are the cream of the crop, Iancu, the best of your generation. We expect great things of you. And I will not hide anything from you : this mission will be a test, not of your abilities, of which we have no doubt... but of your loyalty to the Organisation, and to our Higher Cause."
Hank knew that Master Mirca was one of a minority of "ordinary" vampires on the Board. Inevitably, the Changers and Perps, those who could freely navigate between the two worlds, were at an advantage in business experience, and in money matters. Despite the egalitarian priciples and social vocation of the Organisation, it surely rankled that the others were largely confined to subsidiary, technical roles. But the Organisation gave them such freedom, compared to their exceedingly limited opportunities in the outside world, that the "Coffers" (as some Changers and Perps disparagingly referred to them) were, without exception, fanatically devoted to the Organisation. And, by the same token, always inclined to doubt the loyalty of their Changer and Perp comrades.
"No, don't protest, Iancu. Listen. A renegade vampire has misused one of the Organisation's secret technologies. For the Higher Cause, it is essential that we keep the technology secret, and that we retain a monopoly over it. The acts of this renegade has imperilled the Organisation's very existence. To say nothing of the patent violations."
918. alistairconnor - 1/27/2009 12:36:17 PM
Hank guessed that he was talking about the Teleportation technology. He knew that it was the brainchild of Master Mirka himself, or Mark Davidson, as he was known to the wider world (or more accurately, to that select circle of nuclear physicists who were aware of the work of the brilliant, secretive researcher).
"The mission is limpid in its simplicity, my boy." (Hank kept just enough ironic distance to laugh inwardly at the florid pomposity of the vampire in full flight; but at the same time, he was genuinely thrilled, caught in the moment.) "You are to track down the renegade and kill ... her."
"I will eliminate the renegade woman, Master Mirca."
"To be more precise : the renegade girl. The subject is seventeen years old. Some on the Board objected that you might fall in love with the girl, and turn renegade yourself! What do you think of that, Iancu?"
"Ridiculous, Master. I serve a Higher Cause, and the decision of the Board is absolute." His heart was racing.
"Good, Iancu, good... You know, of course, that should such an absurdly romantic thing occur, I would be obliged to track you both down and eliminate you myself."
Hank's blood ran cold. It was no empty threat : Mirca was the absolute master of their "proactive self-defense" training, a veritable killing machine. He realised then that Mirca envied and hated him, and had put him up to an impossible dilemma in order to destroy him.
Three options :
Track down this girl and kill her (Mirca clearly didn't think him capable of it).
Go renegade, with or without the girl. And they would both die.
Or turn down the mission. And lose the confidence of the Board, of the Organisation.
919. alistairconnor - 1/28/2009 1:03:30 PM
While waiting for the bus, Courtney noticed a shop on the other side of the street, called "Pompes Funèbres Générales".
She spent several minutes looking wistfully at the window displays. Almost drooling, to be honest. People passing by started giving her funny looks. But then her bus arrived.
Her mother had told her off, of course. Not for being on her own in Europe without authorisation -- that was just a prank -- but for using powerful vampire lore. She had sounded very scared indeed to Courtney, and wouldn't explain why. She had absolutely forbidden any repeat attempt at the teleportation trick.
"Well, what about this guy, Alistair? Is he reliable? He's Ruth's brother, right?"
"Yes, he's OK - a bit whack, but ... well, Ruth trusts him and all."
"Then you'll just have to throw yourself on his mercy. Turn up on his doorstep and tell him some bullshit story about a ski holiday that went wrong. The hardest part will be getting a coffin. My poor darling, you must be feeling awful..."
During the journey, she started getting alarmed that they weren't getting very close to her destination... She asked the driver, in attempted French, which stop would be the closest to Marcenod.
He answered in bad English (but better than her French) : "That last one, I think. About ten kilometers. But I'm going there myself after work, I can take you."
At last, a break, she thought. Unless he's a creep?
920. NuPlanetOne - 1/28/2009 7:50:14 PM
alistair,
Nice work. You're 'write on the fly' ability is becoming quite impressive! I love the valley girl vamp angle, it will allow for some super-slayer-like girl type options, and I already get a sense that Courtney will be on the good side of the dark side of the plot. Is your Mr. Davidson and my Ms. Davidson a coincidental naming? Or do you have a plan there? When you take your next break from scribbling refer back to the present scene in the underground meeting and Jen or I will wrap up and tie in the lecture to the narrative. Carry on!
921. alistairconnor - 1/29/2009 1:19:26 PM
When Hank came back the next day to pick up his equipment for the assignment, he was received by another Board member, a Perp, Peter Brown.
"This laptop, Iancu, looks like an ordinary Dell. And it functions like one too, well-loaded -- roaming internet, GPS, and so on -- but most of the electronics in the case is in fact a miniaturised directional vampire detector. It only has a range of about ten miles, but the software integrates with Google maps, so once you are in the area, you should easily be able to target your subject."
Hank booted up the computer. Nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary one... "Yes, it will fool airport security easily enough", said Brown.
Airport security? Hank had hoped -- naively, he now realised -- that they would allow him to teleport. But no, here were his tickets to Lyon, via London.
The portable coffin was pretty cool too. Quite heavy, and it filled most of his backpack, but the hinged, bevelled panels snapped together in seconds, and the solidity and comfort were astounding.
The weapons and accessories were also of the finest quality.
"Er - Master Petru? I see I have one week in Lyon, to accomplish my mission. But then, one week in London on the way back?"
"Ah, yes, you have a second mission in England : to eliminate a nuclear physicist, a certain Dr Errin Davidson. She has been getting too close to certain domains on which we intend to enforce an effective monopoly."
"But Master Mirca did not mention this second mission?"
"The Board decided to exclude Mark from this particular decision, because of a potential for conflict of interest. Dr Davidson is a non-vampire, but nevertheless his sister."
922. alistairConnor - 1/30/2009 5:00:43 PM
After the phone call to Dumitra, they couldn't leave Sorin on his own. Some old bottles were cleared out from the back of the drinks cabinet, and significant bonding occurred.
Alistair was of the opinion that he should go and get her -- drag her by the hair, if necessary; kicking and screaming, preferably; back to France. On the basis that she, at least, didn't believe in vampires, and was therefore the only sane person they had been in touch with all day.
Halima was more pragmatic. "Crystal meth is a bitch. Not impossible to break away from, but really really hard. Requires lots of motivation, and preferably a clean break from the old environment. We can look after her while she dries out, if she wants to. But can she get a job here, Sorin?"
"The French hospital system is very hard to break into, for foreign doctors. It might take us a long time to get her a job. I'm not sure she would be motivated enough to wait."
"What about the vampire-hunting business?" said Alistair, serving another round. "Is there any money in that?"
923. Jenerator - 1/31/2009 9:18:06 AM
(I have some serious catching up to do!)
924. Jenerator - 1/31/2009 9:43:19 AM
Kronen was exhausted from his incredibly long journey. First the incident at the Hong Kong airport, and then the confrontation with the flight attendant on route to London - all of it seemed like a distant dream.
He had presented his theories with such vigor and enthusiasm that he knew that he needed to get rest soon, or the effects of the antiserum would weaken. He hoped that Ms. Davidson would offer refuge in her flat, but he knew that that would be too forward, and she was not the type to sex up a stranger - though that was what he secretly wanted.
She was tall and slender. Her stylish black glasses accentuated her prominent cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. Talking about Holographic Technology had never been so exciting to him before. Davidson's youth, beauty and naivete added a new dimension to his quest. Perhaps she would fall in love with him?
He was getting slightly delirious, and it must have shown because Davidson ran back to the doctor and asked him if he was alright.
"Do you have a place to stay tonight, Dr. Kronen?" she asked.
"My agent forgot to book a room and I don't know my way around London. Perhaps you could recommend a place," he said.
"Well, I live in the country, about an hour's trainride from here. Come with me; there is a tiny bed and breakfast in my village," she smiled at him.
"Alright, but please, call me Gustav," he said.
925. alistairConnor - 2/1/2009 9:20:42 AM
[Just a note about the timing, before we go off the rails, which is easy to do in a collaborative effort. For me, everything described so far has happened in less than a week, mid-January. i.e. Kronen was on his way to his London conference when he crossed paths with Alistair in Frankfurt.
One little error already: Courtney must have spent at least 48hrs in Lyon, not 24 hrs.]
926. alistairConnor - 2/1/2009 10:13:33 AM
At breakfast the following day, Alistair, still completely sceptical about the vampire affair, challenged Halima :
"Well, what about your fabulous international address book? Surely, among all the high-placed officials you know, you can find a friend or acquaintance who knows something about vampires?"
She took the bait, and spent most of the day busy with her Blackberry. The results were somewhat disappointing. Gunter, a friend in the Austrian police, had a story about immigrant-sniffer dogs who found six occupied coffins in a refrigerated truck from Rumania. By the time they were transported to the nearest morgue, the coffins were empty. "Inconclusive", ruled Alistair.
A friend in the FBI seemed to know something, and offered to find out more, but when he called back it was clear that he couldn't say anything for security reasons. Intriguing and frustrating, but "still inconclusive".
Then, in the late afternoon, Halima said : "I might as well try Svetlana, she's highly placed at the World Health Organisation. Who knows, perhaps they have a relevant program ?" "Probably an affirmative action program for vampires", Alistair suggested.
She called Svetlana, and they spent five minutes shrieking and cackling about a night, or several nights, on the vodka in 2006. Alistair had come to expect and accept this kind of introductory ritual, when Halima called old friends. It was that sort of address book.
Svetlana snorted and giggled about the vampire thing, and said that it was not unlikely they had something, she would call back after checking with a friend who managed a whole branch of the organisation which ran dozens of outlandish and unlikely programs, from African bush doctoring to Native American spirit healing, and a highly-politicised European Wiccan program.
She called back with the news that there was indeed an allocated budget and offices in Geneva, but that no credible takers had responded to the published expression-of-interest process. There had been a Serbian group, but some of them had documented links to organised crime, and another was a wanted war criminal. Despite insistent invitations, the governments of Rumania and Hungary had declined to participate or to sponsor any national organisations or individuals.
"So, ther's a budget of several million dollars there for the taking, if Sorin can put together a solid business case!" said Halima.
"And perhaps a job for Dumitra, if she can get over her prejudice against vampires." suggested Alistair.
927. alistairconnor - 2/3/2009 7:17:43 AM
That evening, as they were preparing dinner, Alistair suddenly became restless. He paced up and down, sat down and stood up abruptly, held his head in his hands.
"What's wrong?" asked Halima.
"I need to... I need to... "
"Vomit? Have a pee? ..."
"I must...."
He bolted for the front door and went out, bumping into a girl who was standing forlornly in the courtyard.
"Courtney! What the heck are you doing here? Come in, you look exhausted!"
He took her inside and introduced her to Halima, who had seen her in photos from Alistair's recent holiday.
Courtney told some barely-coherent story about hooking up with some boys from New Zealand who had been snowboarding in Austria, but there had been a mix-up in the dates. She did indeed look exhausted, perhaps ill. They told her that a doctor would be dropping in soon, which seemed to alarm her.
Alistair was looking very contented, but soon became agitated again. Cascu arrived -- he was invited for dinner. He immediately took Alistair aside, they went to the living room : "Are you aware that this girl is a vampire?"
"WHAT? Oh stop it. This is Courtney! She's practically family. And she needs ... I have to get her ... some wood. Something... a box. A wooden box?"
Cascu almost giggled. "Yes, she visibly needs a coffin, very badly. Let's go and get one, your van will do the job. I'll make a couple of phone calls on the way."
They came back to the kitchen to find Courtney sobbing in Halima's arms. "She claims she's a vampire, and that she followed you here from New Zealand."
"We'll talk about that later!" said Alistair urgently. "We're going to get a, a coffin!"
They were back in little more than an hour. In that time, Cascu explained about the Imperative effect, which was visibly working very strongly on Alistair. "She didn't even need to express her wishes. That would seem to indicate that her natural vampire powers are very strong."
"Then she could make Halima do anything? She's infected too remember! Is it safe to leave them together?"
"No, infection is not enough. The vampire also has to prepare and ingest a serum, using organic material from the infected person... The girl is visibly in no state to do that."
When they got back with the coffin, Courtney was trembling, and barely able to walk. They installed it in one of the girls' rooms, and Courtney eagerly laid down in it and ... went out like a light.
"I didn't have time to ask her about her cycle : depending on individuals, vampires of her type can stay awake for anything from a day or two to a week, and their coffin time is proportional. Considering what she's been through in the past week, I would expect her to stay in that state for at least 48 hours."
"That state... " Halima touched her face. "She's cold, doctor! Can you check her pulse?"
Reluctantly, Cascu replied : "I don't expect I'll be able to find one. Don't be alarmed, it's part of her natural cycle."
928. alistairconnor - 2/3/2009 7:27:08 AM
The phone rang. "It may be her mother, I left a message on her cell phone." said Halima. Alistair answered, almost screaming : "Courtney is dead!"
Lara answered calmly : "You mean she's lying in a coffin?"
"Yes! and she's..."
"And her skin is cold, no pulse, doesn't appear to be breathing? That's OK, Alistair. I understand your distress, but please believe me : Courtney has done that, two or three times a week, since puberty. She generally wakes after ten or twelve hours, but in the circumstances, it could be a couple of days. Listen, I'm a friend of Ruth's, you can ask her about me."
"Does she know about the vampire stuff?"
"Well... Not really. She knows there's something unusual about Courtney and me, she's covered for me before, and she keeps an eye on Courtney, but she knows I'm reluctant to talk about it and she has never asked for details... Ruth is good like that. A good friend. And Courtney is a good girl, you have nothing to fear from her... directly. But what she has done is very stupid, and may have dangerous consequences."
Alistair felt seriously out of his depth. He explained that Dr Cascu was on the case, and handed her over to him. His head spinning, he asked Halima to hold him tight... "I think I need to vomit. Or maybe I just need to pee."
929. webfeet - 2/3/2009 11:45:25 AM
Dawn broke over Manhattan as the dark sedan glided up the empty avenue. It was a ghost city, the half-dead walking among the living at this hour; the early risers and dog walkers out for jogs in between the derelicts and madmen who haunted the city while it slept. A silent, invisible workforce moved among them like shadows, vanishing into the air, like the gray steam rising from the potholes. A belching, blackened underground terrain beneath them, the land of the dead, stirred quietly as the city came to life and the black sedan continued its silent course crossing the potter’s field, that was now midtown.
Her papers and files spread next to her in the backseat, Susan continued to work. The jolting pace of the morning already put her in a foul temper. Rising at four am to feed Maximus, she’d felt the pinch of her nipples, as the tiny baby sucked, reminding her of the painful early days of breastfeeding when it wasn’t milk that she produced but colustrum. And she wanted to scream. She’d wanted to pluck him from her teat and and put him back in his crib while she climbed back into bed and block the sound of his shrieks with the ear plugs she’d been given on the flight home from Japan. But she hadn’t. After being fed, she burped him, and sat, restlessly checking her messages on her blackberry while Jonas stood in his robe, sleepily making her coffee. Then, showered and dressed, a half hour later, she’d slipped out into the dark morning into the waiting sedan and left. And now, the familiar, faint sour odor of breast milk rose from the lace nursing bra under her jacket, nearly overpowering her usual scent, “Poison” by Dior. It seemed she could never escape.
The sedan came to a halt at the stoplight, and she glanced at the driver. She could only see the thick stub of his neck, reminding her of a Chechnyan torturer, like the one whose face she’d seen in the paper Sunday morning his eyes locked with the cameras. Two sockets staring back. Now the driver met her gaze through the rear view mirror and Susan looked away, annoyed, sending him a glance of subtle disgust. A moment later, the light changed, the car lurched forward and Susan felt the familiar jump to life as the sedan turned onto west sixty-sixth street.
The driver pulled up to the curb in front of the studio. She gathered her papers, tucked her files into her Vuitton attaché, then wrapped the trenchcoat around her, as the driver opened the door from the sidewalk. But the belt of the trench had come loose, as she’d stepped out, and the driver caught a luxurious glimpse of her silky legs which appeared barelegged in her flesh-colored hose, and imagined them twisted around his neck, while he took her on the dark red carpeted floor of the car.
930. webfeet - 2/3/2009 11:48:56 AM
Wrapping the trench tightly around her, Susan walked purposefully past him as if he were a lamppost, and felt the exhilarating rush as she swung through the doors of the studios, as she’d done for the last fifteen years. The guards greeted her as she entered, beaming “Good morning” as she breezed past them toward the elevator doors, which opened, as if waiting for her. As cozy as a club, one in which she was an exclusive member, having worked her way up after college as an intern, she smiled to herself at the comfortable thought of her desk, her notes, and the thrill that lay ahead of lining up another show. This was it. This was what made it worth it. It was the one true place she could call home.
“What’s the line up?” she asked, stifling a yawn as she sat at her desk, facing Robin, her production assistant. “Fatties, sex addicts or that fat little chef, the one who looks like a muppet.“
“Vampires.” Robin said, pressing the edges of a folder that sat on her lap.
Vampires? Weren't we all vampires? Hadn't she been the one to wake before the crack of dawn and want to disappear into the silken folds of a coffin that morning?
“Give me that folder,” she sneered. Lowering her eyes, Robin handed it to her boss, who, after snatching it from her hands, roved the memo impatiently.
“Who is this quack? Dr. Kronen? Great. Another panel of weirdos..”
Her phone lit up. It was Ken, her secretary, on the line. “Sue, you’ve got a call.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s your nanny.”
She paused, weighing for a second whether or not to pick up. "Tell her I'll call her back," she said, hanging up. Then, she turned to Robin. "Now talk to me about vampires."
931. alistairconnor - 2/3/2009 12:17:35 PM
[Ahaaaa! Working title : Revenge of the vampire-haters!]
932. webfeet - 2/3/2009 2:43:25 PM
[yes, I decided to come out of my coffin...crrreeeaaaak. followed by flapping sounds. It's like being in Ricky's Halloween shop,just hold on a sec while I put on green make-up and stick on my black press-on nails.]
933. alistairConnor - 2/4/2009 4:34:08 PM
[I now realize I have egomaniacally centred most of the action on my place. I will send them all away soon, and you other authors can have some fun with the characters. I will just launch one more thread, wrap up the business at my place, then wait for you people to create some openings...]
934. alistairConnor - 2/4/2009 5:48:53 PM
Master Petru tried to relax. The flight was going to be long.
It had all come together so quickly, over the last few days. The Board had decided that the opportunity was too good to miss : the Master Plan was to be executed, years sooner than anyone had anticipated. The risks were great; the rewards greater. And so much depended on him : Peter Brown, Chief Technology Officer of the Organisation.
The Organisation had been aiming for an invitation to the Davos summit for a couple of years now. An honorable ambition, to be sure : the outside world saw a fast-moving tech start-up, doing cutting-edge research, partnered with some industry heavyweights; but too small to have a place at the top table, in normal circumstances. A number of things had come together over the past year, to make the invitation possible : those research partnerships with several Fortune 500 companies; some well-publicised technological breakthroughs that frankly nobody understood the science of; Brown's carefully-nurtured friendship with one of the West Coast's best-known business figures. But in the final analysis, it was the financial crisis that made the difference : a certain number of Davos invitees had been either too broke, or too embarrassed, to turn up, and some wild-card invitations had been given out at the last moment.
So here he was, hitching a ride in his friend's corporate jet (this well-known friend shall remain nameless, because he is an innocent tool and victim, in no way implicated in the events that followed). He was not admitted to the inner staterooms; he was with the second circle, with the staffers, and the journalists who, like him, had been invited to tag along.
Two of the three journalists were generalists, who would be writing papers on geopolitics and global economics. The third, to Brown's irritation, was a technological writer who was very curious about the Organisation's activities. He tried to shut him down without offending him, but found himself having to say more than he wanted : unusually, the journalist was no idiot.
There was plenty of legitimate stuff going on in the Organisation that he could have talked about, but Brown's principal problem was that he, personally, was involved almost exclusively with the occult side of its work. In fact, the Organisation was a great deal bigger than it appeared (to its partners, to the municipal authorities, to the tax department, among others). More than two thirds of its employees were Coffers, vampires who never saw the light of day, and whose legal status was roughly equivalent to that of undocumented Mexican workers. Likewise, three quarters of the research and development was not only secret, but downright clandestine.
935. alistairConnor - 2/4/2009 5:49:19 PM
Brown managed to break off the discussion by claiming he needed to sleep. Nothing could be further from the truth : as a Perp, he not only had no need, but was indeed unable to sleep, and had not done so for nearly thirty years. But he knew that he would have to go through the motions, to avoid raising suspicion. He wished he had paid more attention to the self-mastery lessons of that pompous twit, Mirca. If he were able to put himself into a trance state, that would be good enough to fool these people. But he was annoyed at the waste of time, when there was so much to prepare.
Although he had no staffers with him, he had two operatives infiltrated into the Davos organisation : one a humble kitchen hand, another a room-service waiter. They were already well aware of the work to be done, but would need a detailed briefing when he arrived.
936. alistairConnor - 2/6/2009 6:52:56 PM
What with the commotion of Courtney's arrival, they had completely forgotten the World Health Organization's proposition. The following day, Halima briefed Cascu, who immediately began making phone calls.
The people at the WHO were very keen, and encouraged him to move quickly : if the budget was not allocated by the end of the fiscal year, it would be lost forever. They promised to expedite the paperwork, and assured him that it would be possible to pay salaries for half a dozen staff in February.
Professor Albu was the obvious person to head the project, and he was enthusiastic. "I know exactly which minister and which bureaucrats will have blocked the dossier, so that I never got wind of it. But I'll have the last laugh now. I have to retire from the university this year anyway. My wife died two years ago; my children are adults. There is nothing they can do to me now... Sorry to be so melodramatic, Sorin... I realise it's not like the old days. We won't be risking our lives."
"Well... not by defying the Rumanian government." said Cascu. "But there are other risks..."
He outlined Lara's warnings, of a militant Californian vampire organisation linked to business interests. "Does Kronen know of this outfit?" queried Albu. "He's starting to get some publicity, I'm sure they won't like that. We must warn him. And also try to enlist him for the WHO project."
Sorin broached the difficult subject of Dumitra, omitting nothing. "I'd be pleased to work with her, Sorin. She has an excellent mind. But she will have to deal with her toxicological problem first, you understand."
Sorin knew now he had a mission. He arranged for a locum to replace him in his medical practice, and began making travel arrangements.
937. alistairConnor - 2/6/2009 7:23:51 PM
A couple of days later, Hank was operational in Lyon.
The Organisation's worldwide vampire-monitoring instrumentation was still approximative and patchy, and of low resolution. The last fix he had, from the day he left California, indicated a vampire to the southwest of Lyon, with margin of error of fifteen miles. (Vampires were few and far between in France; perhaps because of the prevalence of garlic?) He had a hire car; the idea was to criss-cross the zone until he got a directional reading from his portable detector.
He tried hard not to think about the consequences of his actions, of his future. He was serving the Cause. He was prepared to die for it. He expected to die on this mission; that didn't bother him, in itself. What ate him up, what he tried not to think about, was that he would most likely die at the hands of his own people.
By not thinking about these things, he tried to keep himself on the straight and narrow course of his mission. He would accomplish his mission. All of it. And then, logically, die at the hands of Mirca, who would not leave his sister unavenged.
The other options, which he was trying, and spectacularly failing, not to think about, were less honourable, and had no more favourable outcomes. Kill the girl, but not Davidson? Mirca would leave him alone, but presumably the Organisation would send someone else to eliminate him for his failure. And not execute the mission at all? Refuse to kill, and accept death? Unthinkable. Yet he couldn't get it out of his mind.
After several hours of driving, he finally got a reading in mid afternoon. The device gave a directional signal, but no indication of distance. In concrete terms, it overlaid a vector on the Google Maps display (though he kept losing his mobile internet connection in the hilly terrain).
He could see no town or village in the vector's path. Is she wandering about, or hiding in a forest? Then, another reading from a few miles further : the two vectors crossed, right on top of an isolated house.
He drove past it slowly. Centuries old, he guessed; picturesque, rather dilapidated. A couple of smoking chimneys. After careful consideration, and detailed examination of maps, he drove several more miles, around the other end of the valley, and parked the car inconspicuously, near where the tiny country road deteriorated into a stony farm track. He was about a mile from the house. He would approach it on foot, through the woods.
But first, he needed to go Coffed. He was at the end of his tether physically, in no condition for a mission that required skill, precision, force and speed. He took the backpack, and set off down the track into the forest. Finding a suitable site on a thick carpet of fallen leaves, out of site of any passing tractors, he snapped the portable coffin into shape, settled into it, and pulled the weatherproof nylon cover down onto its Velcro fasteners.
938. alistairConnor - 2/9/2009 7:41:28 PM
[I'm not sure what's going to happen in Davos,in detail.
The plot is obvious : Brown is carrying a couple of transfusion bags full of the blood of the Board members; he wants the world leaders in Davos to ingest it, and to gather organic matter from their hotel rooms... then, after brewing potions, the vampires can teleport at dawn to their victims, and take control of ... the world.
If anyone feels inspired... Good kitchen potential there, Nu!]