What sold Jasper Rollins was the shape her eye makeup took when she looked at him. He could never remember after that night what the conversation was about, but he did remember being especially witty (or so it seemed to him), and each time he quipped successfully, she curled her eyes into a semi-circle and twinkled them at him.
A belly full of rum, beer, and a dram of absinthe, Rollins was more confident than usual and found he could manipulate the eye-liner easily. The day after the party he wouldn’t be able to recall a thing Karla said to him, but she sure as hell found him fascinating, and Jasper’s ego enjoyed that. He called her a few days later.
Jasper wouldn’t see her again for several weeks. He wrote for a New York newspaper; she worked for a Washington public relations firm. Their mutual friend in the capitol rarely threw parties. Jasper and Karla talked on the phone most nights for hours, though, and soon he forgot what she looked like. He never forgot her eyes, but as the shape of her face and the length of her hair vanished from his memory, he created new features for her.
Even though he didn’t notice at first meeting, Jasper fell in love with how sharp Karla was. She kept up with him intellectually—something he had longed for in a woman. When Jasper lay down to sleep at night he thought about their conversations. He mostly remembered the things he said and was generally pleased with himself and how his remarks were received. He remembered less of what she said, but his overall feeling was that Karla was quick to the draw and smart.
Two months went by like that. When he wasn’t talking to her, he was thinking about her.
After two months, Jasper was covering a story in Washington, and he and Karla arranged a meeting. It had to be brief—coffee or something—because Jasper could stay only a day. So they met at a café near the capitol building.
Karla had already picked a table outside on the patio when Jasper arrived. At first he didn’t recognize her, partly because she didn’t look like he remembered, and also because she offered no signs of recognition to him. Her complexion lacked the brilliance he envisioned. He saw in his mind a portrait with no more and no fewer strokes than necessary. He saw before him a person.
Even when they were finally situated, the conversation was contrived, unnatural. Not like on the phone. Not like what he replayed in his head. Jasper tried hard; she had nothing to say.
And Jasper swore it had to be the lighting. Her eyes were lusterless.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Dying Cat: A Short Story
They must not see me this way. Oh, the mice I’ve caught. The kittens I’ve birthed. I can’t let them see me like this.
It will be today that I die. I’m sure of that. My instincts are slow, worse than ever before. The cloudiness over my eyes comes all the time now. Yes, today I’ll die.
But no one must know. They have been watching me. They know I’m sick. But I can’t let them see me. I’m ashamed. I’m vulnerable. I know: All living things die. Of course I know that. But how embarrassing!
They will find me eventually, wherever I go. Wherever I hide. I’ll start to smell, like the mice. But to find me lying on the floor, not moving… That won’t do. I am strong, quick, smart. I must hide. I must not let them see me.
That is why I will slip underneath the porch. That is why I will die alone.
It will be today that I die. I’m sure of that. My instincts are slow, worse than ever before. The cloudiness over my eyes comes all the time now. Yes, today I’ll die.
But no one must know. They have been watching me. They know I’m sick. But I can’t let them see me. I’m ashamed. I’m vulnerable. I know: All living things die. Of course I know that. But how embarrassing!
They will find me eventually, wherever I go. Wherever I hide. I’ll start to smell, like the mice. But to find me lying on the floor, not moving… That won’t do. I am strong, quick, smart. I must hide. I must not let them see me.
That is why I will slip underneath the porch. That is why I will die alone.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A Medium
A medium
Is all I need.
Just a receptacle for my thoughts;
One or several Ciceronian friends.
But what would I say?
What words could represent the
Pulsing surges of...
Is it emotion?
Desire?
Love?
What is it that floods my heart
And clouds my mind?
For certain, though,
It’s good
And it wants expressed.
Is all I need.
Just a receptacle for my thoughts;
One or several Ciceronian friends.
But what would I say?
What words could represent the
Pulsing surges of...
Is it emotion?
Desire?
Love?
What is it that floods my heart
And clouds my mind?
For certain, though,
It’s good
And it wants expressed.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Overwhelmed By Human Splendor
The moments are rare and fleeting
And overwhelm the soul when they strike;
Induced by human splendor,
The heart swells with a laugh and a sob
All at once,
With no words to interpret the thoughts
And no thoughts to interpret the feeling;
And so my mind’s bewildered
By my heart’s recognition of beauty
In the achievements of man,
Until again I am astonished
And rejuvenated.
And overwhelm the soul when they strike;
Induced by human splendor,
The heart swells with a laugh and a sob
All at once,
With no words to interpret the thoughts
And no thoughts to interpret the feeling;
And so my mind’s bewildered
By my heart’s recognition of beauty
In the achievements of man,
Until again I am astonished
And rejuvenated.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Beauty in the City
The beholder’s eye for beauty is only as good as his willingness to look for it.
Cincinnati, Ohio has an aura surrounding it. Smog, that is. The air pollution is visible, and when the wind stirs the sewage just right, it’s smellable. And even in stagnant wind, olfactory nerves are punished by Cincinnati’s inherent urine-tinged scent.
Once-stately homes near Cincinnati University bear the wounds of 40 years of student occupants: missing shingles, dirty siding, and splintered porches.
A 1994 Ford Taurus drives by. It’s three and a half feet off the ground. Its back bumper is not the color of the rest of the car. It has $600 worth of 36-inch rims on its wheels.
Some streets aren’t to be trodden. Most streets aren’t to be trodden after dark.
On a corner just off campus sits a church of brown brick with high Roman arches and some gothic tracery. At one time its visitors found divine revelation. Now they find swanky jeans because Urban Outfitters purchased the building.
But just a mile down the road from there and on a side street to the right lays one of probably many hidden sanctuaries. It’s just a patch of a few neighbors who may or may not know each other, but who have all commonly found solace from smog, dirt, crime, and sacrilege.
Nelson is from New Zealand. In New Zealand, he says, people like to keep their yards tidy. To describe Nelson’s yard as tidy is a lie—Nelson’s yard is immaculate. The back yard is only about 100 feet deep by 50, but it rivals Eden. Pointy spires of a type of shrub grow at regular intervals around his brown picket fence. Before them rest upward-facing accent lights. The lawn—the perfect ideal of grass—is bordered by the perfect ideal of mulch. Flowers and flowering shrubbery dot the remaining space in apparently random, yet probably scrupulous pattern. Nelson comes home from work, eats dinner until seven, and then goes to his yard to prune his plants, pull weeds, and hose off everything until well after dark.
About the time Nelson was beginning his escape from the vulgarities of everyday life in his garden, across the street, another was ending hers. Behind the curtained sliding glass door, third from the left on the second floor of an apartment building, a violinist has just set down her bow. (Though I never saw the violinist and have no real reason to suspect this, the way this person played struck me as the elegant artistry of a female.) Around seven in the morning, chirping bird sounds mingled out of key with the warm-up drills of the musician. In the afternoon, Bach-like and then Beethoven-like pieces made their way down the road with a vibrato-filled, artistic air, despite being unaccompanied.
Across the street from her and two houses down from Nelson, an out-of-tune upright piano labored on a front porch. A group of probably musically illiterate, but nonetheless soulful and inspired good ol’ boys drink beer and pay homage to Ray Charles. They take turns banging out chords and singing their blues to the setting sun.
Behind that house is an empty lot in the middle of the block, too far removed from the street for anyone to build something there. A fragile yellow butterfly in this place seems to be carried randomly by the breeze rather than by its own faculties as it moves from tree to bush to grass. It probably got swept away en route to Nelson’s.
The butterfly isn’t the dazzling result of the human spirit. It isn’t the beautiful manifestation of a passion for gardening or music. Nor is it hampered in its grandeur by any urban decay. It simply exists—perhaps only for the enjoyment of those who want to see it.
Cincinnati, Ohio has an aura surrounding it. Smog, that is. The air pollution is visible, and when the wind stirs the sewage just right, it’s smellable. And even in stagnant wind, olfactory nerves are punished by Cincinnati’s inherent urine-tinged scent.
Once-stately homes near Cincinnati University bear the wounds of 40 years of student occupants: missing shingles, dirty siding, and splintered porches.
A 1994 Ford Taurus drives by. It’s three and a half feet off the ground. Its back bumper is not the color of the rest of the car. It has $600 worth of 36-inch rims on its wheels.
Some streets aren’t to be trodden. Most streets aren’t to be trodden after dark.
On a corner just off campus sits a church of brown brick with high Roman arches and some gothic tracery. At one time its visitors found divine revelation. Now they find swanky jeans because Urban Outfitters purchased the building.
But just a mile down the road from there and on a side street to the right lays one of probably many hidden sanctuaries. It’s just a patch of a few neighbors who may or may not know each other, but who have all commonly found solace from smog, dirt, crime, and sacrilege.
Nelson is from New Zealand. In New Zealand, he says, people like to keep their yards tidy. To describe Nelson’s yard as tidy is a lie—Nelson’s yard is immaculate. The back yard is only about 100 feet deep by 50, but it rivals Eden. Pointy spires of a type of shrub grow at regular intervals around his brown picket fence. Before them rest upward-facing accent lights. The lawn—the perfect ideal of grass—is bordered by the perfect ideal of mulch. Flowers and flowering shrubbery dot the remaining space in apparently random, yet probably scrupulous pattern. Nelson comes home from work, eats dinner until seven, and then goes to his yard to prune his plants, pull weeds, and hose off everything until well after dark.
About the time Nelson was beginning his escape from the vulgarities of everyday life in his garden, across the street, another was ending hers. Behind the curtained sliding glass door, third from the left on the second floor of an apartment building, a violinist has just set down her bow. (Though I never saw the violinist and have no real reason to suspect this, the way this person played struck me as the elegant artistry of a female.) Around seven in the morning, chirping bird sounds mingled out of key with the warm-up drills of the musician. In the afternoon, Bach-like and then Beethoven-like pieces made their way down the road with a vibrato-filled, artistic air, despite being unaccompanied.
Across the street from her and two houses down from Nelson, an out-of-tune upright piano labored on a front porch. A group of probably musically illiterate, but nonetheless soulful and inspired good ol’ boys drink beer and pay homage to Ray Charles. They take turns banging out chords and singing their blues to the setting sun.
Behind that house is an empty lot in the middle of the block, too far removed from the street for anyone to build something there. A fragile yellow butterfly in this place seems to be carried randomly by the breeze rather than by its own faculties as it moves from tree to bush to grass. It probably got swept away en route to Nelson’s.
The butterfly isn’t the dazzling result of the human spirit. It isn’t the beautiful manifestation of a passion for gardening or music. Nor is it hampered in its grandeur by any urban decay. It simply exists—perhaps only for the enjoyment of those who want to see it.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
A Life Well Lived
Today was a big day. Frankie remembered it as the new sun warmed his face through the bedroom window. He lay on his back, which ached, in his usual white undershirt and plaid shorts. He rolled his head to the right. Rose was there, waking up in the same position she was in when she fell asleep. Her eyes smiled at him because she knew he was excited and wanted him to know she shared it. They pushed off the sheets and got out of bed.
It was 6:04. Frankie couldn’t remember the last time he woke up before seven. Frankie couldn’t remember many things. World War II was mostly hazy, only a few snapshots of visual memories and some feelings remained: stars framed by pine trees as he tried to sleep, Paris being warm, the German soldiers’ faces looking scared like his. He forgot what he did for his birthday last week, and he could never remember the code on the garage door.
Then there were the 40 years at the rubber factory that seemed like 40 weeks. Where did the time go? How many tires passed through his hands? He couldn’t know. Looking back, it seemed like a separate life. The smell of burning rubber and the whir of the machinery and the sight of round, black tire after round, black tire. All of it numbed his senses, those vessels that connected his mind to the world. Five days a week the rubber factory desensitized him with its monotony, its lifelessness.
Today, two-thirty couldn’t come fast enough. Father Edmund’s nine o’clock homily seemed less interesting to Frankie than the swirling dust particles, illuminated red and yellow by the stained glass-filtered sunlight. It was something about camels and needles. Frankie looked at Rose and couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. Her crimson lips were curled slightly upward at the ends, her head was tilted, and her blue eyes were wide open. The day they met she looked like that when she listened to him talk. He was never sure then whether she really heard him, but he didn’t mind. She looked so beautiful like that.
Five days at the rubber factory were punctuated by a two-day recovery, and Frankie liked to spend one of those days at the club. Saturday nights were for swing at The Orange Tavern.
Dammit could Frankie dance, and dammit did he know it. Freshly back from the war and eager to forget it, Frankie rejuvenated what the factory tried to kill with the sound of walking bass and bright brass. He ordered a scotch but barely drank it before being lured by the music. “Here comes Frankie,” he heard them say on the floor. The other regulars often consulted and agreed about why they liked Frankie: “He’s just a happy guy.” But the real reason they liked him, and the reason he seemed so happy, was because Frankie let go of everything. When Frankie danced, he only knew of the joy that surrounded him in music and movement. The music was divine and eternal, not created from human breath. The movement was disembodied and pure, not formed of contracting muscles. People near Frankie saw his bliss. Someone would always ask, “Say, where’d you pick up that move?” The truth was, Frankie didn’t know where he learned to dance. He always just told them, “Europe.”
Most people accepted the answer; they didn’t care where. But Rose wasn’t like most people.
“Yeah? Where at in Europe?” she asked the night she appeared for the first time at The Tavern.
“Oh, somewhere in France, I suppose,” Frankie said. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“I’ve been to France. Nobody ever danced like that,” she said.
“Well you must have went to the wrong places. But since you think you know so much about it, why don’t you show me how they danced?”
She had never been to France, but knew something about dancing and instantly became a part of Frankie’s bliss. She saw the same happy man as everyone else on the floor, but was inescapably drawn to his energy and simplicity. It seized her, and she soon forgot the world. Frankie forgot the world, too. All that remained was music, movement, and Rose. They danced until the floor started to clear and the band got tired.
Of all Frankie’s memories he managed to keep, he most cherished this one.
Having come home from church and eaten lunch, Frankie lay down and was daydreaming on the couch. The clock chimed twice and woke him from his nostalgia. He straightened out his lips that had unconsciously bent into a smile and called for Rose. It was time to go.
Their Sunday afternoon drive to the vineyards was a source of great anticipation for Frankie. He looked down each fleeting row of grape vines as the car sped past. It was quiet and idyllic in the summer in the vineyards. Fluffy white clouds broke up the vast blue that stretched to each horizon. They pulled into Bienvenue Vineyards, home to live music every Sunday.
When the band began to play an old favorite from The Tavern, Frankie moved to the floor, back bent forward from eagerness and pain. But it wouldn’t take long before he’d forget about the latter. Rose followed behind him slowly, white hair neatly curled and wearing lipstick like her name. The 20 or 30 people sipping wine, absorbing the sun, and feeling good about life began to clap in congratulations for two lives nearing finale. They clapped also in gratitude. For them, Frankie and Rose were two slumping, dancing, wrinkled, happy confirmations of lasting, perhaps true, love. At that moment it seemed perfectly plausible that these two fragile, gyrating people could defy death and keep loving each other forever. Such bliss could never be stifled, could it?
When the last song was over, Frankie and Rose walked off the floor toward their car. The crowd applauded the band, and Frankie turned around and waved like he sometimes did at The Tavern if he really put on a show. Everyone saw him and clapped louder.
Adapted from a true story
It was 6:04. Frankie couldn’t remember the last time he woke up before seven. Frankie couldn’t remember many things. World War II was mostly hazy, only a few snapshots of visual memories and some feelings remained: stars framed by pine trees as he tried to sleep, Paris being warm, the German soldiers’ faces looking scared like his. He forgot what he did for his birthday last week, and he could never remember the code on the garage door.
Then there were the 40 years at the rubber factory that seemed like 40 weeks. Where did the time go? How many tires passed through his hands? He couldn’t know. Looking back, it seemed like a separate life. The smell of burning rubber and the whir of the machinery and the sight of round, black tire after round, black tire. All of it numbed his senses, those vessels that connected his mind to the world. Five days a week the rubber factory desensitized him with its monotony, its lifelessness.
Today, two-thirty couldn’t come fast enough. Father Edmund’s nine o’clock homily seemed less interesting to Frankie than the swirling dust particles, illuminated red and yellow by the stained glass-filtered sunlight. It was something about camels and needles. Frankie looked at Rose and couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. Her crimson lips were curled slightly upward at the ends, her head was tilted, and her blue eyes were wide open. The day they met she looked like that when she listened to him talk. He was never sure then whether she really heard him, but he didn’t mind. She looked so beautiful like that.
Five days at the rubber factory were punctuated by a two-day recovery, and Frankie liked to spend one of those days at the club. Saturday nights were for swing at The Orange Tavern.
Dammit could Frankie dance, and dammit did he know it. Freshly back from the war and eager to forget it, Frankie rejuvenated what the factory tried to kill with the sound of walking bass and bright brass. He ordered a scotch but barely drank it before being lured by the music. “Here comes Frankie,” he heard them say on the floor. The other regulars often consulted and agreed about why they liked Frankie: “He’s just a happy guy.” But the real reason they liked him, and the reason he seemed so happy, was because Frankie let go of everything. When Frankie danced, he only knew of the joy that surrounded him in music and movement. The music was divine and eternal, not created from human breath. The movement was disembodied and pure, not formed of contracting muscles. People near Frankie saw his bliss. Someone would always ask, “Say, where’d you pick up that move?” The truth was, Frankie didn’t know where he learned to dance. He always just told them, “Europe.”
Most people accepted the answer; they didn’t care where. But Rose wasn’t like most people.
“Yeah? Where at in Europe?” she asked the night she appeared for the first time at The Tavern.
“Oh, somewhere in France, I suppose,” Frankie said. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“I’ve been to France. Nobody ever danced like that,” she said.
“Well you must have went to the wrong places. But since you think you know so much about it, why don’t you show me how they danced?”
She had never been to France, but knew something about dancing and instantly became a part of Frankie’s bliss. She saw the same happy man as everyone else on the floor, but was inescapably drawn to his energy and simplicity. It seized her, and she soon forgot the world. Frankie forgot the world, too. All that remained was music, movement, and Rose. They danced until the floor started to clear and the band got tired.
Of all Frankie’s memories he managed to keep, he most cherished this one.
Having come home from church and eaten lunch, Frankie lay down and was daydreaming on the couch. The clock chimed twice and woke him from his nostalgia. He straightened out his lips that had unconsciously bent into a smile and called for Rose. It was time to go.
Their Sunday afternoon drive to the vineyards was a source of great anticipation for Frankie. He looked down each fleeting row of grape vines as the car sped past. It was quiet and idyllic in the summer in the vineyards. Fluffy white clouds broke up the vast blue that stretched to each horizon. They pulled into Bienvenue Vineyards, home to live music every Sunday.
When the band began to play an old favorite from The Tavern, Frankie moved to the floor, back bent forward from eagerness and pain. But it wouldn’t take long before he’d forget about the latter. Rose followed behind him slowly, white hair neatly curled and wearing lipstick like her name. The 20 or 30 people sipping wine, absorbing the sun, and feeling good about life began to clap in congratulations for two lives nearing finale. They clapped also in gratitude. For them, Frankie and Rose were two slumping, dancing, wrinkled, happy confirmations of lasting, perhaps true, love. At that moment it seemed perfectly plausible that these two fragile, gyrating people could defy death and keep loving each other forever. Such bliss could never be stifled, could it?
When the last song was over, Frankie and Rose walked off the floor toward their car. The crowd applauded the band, and Frankie turned around and waved like he sometimes did at The Tavern if he really put on a show. Everyone saw him and clapped louder.
Adapted from a true story
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Happiness by Gunter Grass
An empty bus
hurtles through the starry night.
Perhaps the driver is singing
and is happy because he sings.
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