Hammocks

6.27.06

They are lacy and delicate even in their tensile strength, these hammocks drifting between sturdy palm trees, like smiles on the way back from the dentist. I loved how they moved imperceptibly in the 120 heat as the cooler moist air tickled their tassles from underneath. Memories of summers past and even summers never known were evoked by the mere sight of them and I wanted to capture the feeling of what a simple of weaving of string could conjur in the minds eye. Lazing and langoring, of course, but also the lure of swinging again in a womblike embrace as air circulates, in this case, as warm as the original amniotic bath.

The impact of our built environment was so evident as I shifted from inner city mode to desert Palm Springs, to spend a night in a cool, white low slung resort, which chose the 70's as it's decor. Owned by a Morrocan, the place combined that era's kitchy and colorful furniture, wall hangings, art and fixtures with Berber rugs and Kilim inspired pillows. Despite the tile floors the place felt hushed, perhaps as the heat weighed so heavily on the air, and gratefully there was no canned music so one could hear the footsteps, the cicadas, the laughter from outside.

Surrounded by these visual triggers of one of my favorite decades, which included many 2o-something guests, floating along on lithe limbs in aviator glasses, bell bottoms and gypsy inspired blouses, I was taken back to that era of hope and possibility. That time, as a teenager, when we were still questioning everything, were losing our boys (yet again) to a war, but protesting it vehemently, were feeling our dependence on foreign oil (will some things never change?), grew bean sprouts, defied beef, wore Earth shoes and wanted to change the world. We all wore long hair (back in vogue), aviator sunglasses, hip hugging jeans and love beads, sporting mix and match, uni-sex bodies that are again in vogue for both men and women.

The rooms all featured original books featured in that decade, including Portnoy's Complaint and a Jaqueline Susann novel, which I couldn't resist for some pooltime escape, and the wall paper of geometric figures had a dizzying effect. The welcome included service of Morrocan tea, the mint sweet brew which glues that country's social life, served in their traditional silver tea pots and this again brought back memories of a summer spent in visiting Marrakech, its savory tajines, noisy souks, dusty streets and groping men. A fur foot rug conjured up visions of 007 and his conquests and I laughed in delight at it all.

From that original hammock where we gestated, we are expelled into a world of bright lights and spend the rest of our lives exposed to various environments, all of which collect in our mind with attendent experiences and memories. When we build or design homes, cities, infrastructures there is an attempt to accomodate our human needs while also entertain our spirits in a way, that is most evident in the efforts which succeed, like the Disney Hall, much of our modern architecture, 1700's cathedrals, FL Wright homes etc. In the end, though, no matter how grand our estates, or environmentally responsible and correct our berm covered geo-friendly homes, there is nothing like the simplicity of a well hung hammock to soothe a mind and body. Throw in a pot of tea and a hookah and we've got nirvana in the desert!

The White Hotel

6.26.06

In the white hotel

with low ceilings and hushed guests

white sheets lie crumpled

in the morning light.

Wooden shutters admit

a certain sun, muted by clouds

over a desert day.

A hip rises on

a dormant silhouette,

slopes down to carved waist.

White breast against

tanned arm

welcomes morning air.

A sculpted knee rests

in triangulation.

Coffee colored hair spills

onto pillows

as a shoulder rises in slow breath.

And the dreamer

walks the bright lit streets of Tunis,

the hennaed cobblestones of Marrakech,

the white sands of Guadeloupe,

searching for the perfect shell

into which her thoughts

can be poured.

2046, Eye Contact, Et al

6.23.06

I have been struck lately by the power of images, of that which we see and how it is translated into the mind's eye. From a photograph in a newspaper that says more than the thousand words that follow, to the stunning filmography of "2046" and its predecesor "In the Mood for Love" to the image projected onto another person's eyes when you make contact. The other day, I was awash in a certain melancholy that even my morning workout hadn't quelled when I made eye contact with an enourmous hunk of a man. It lasted no more than a second, but contained that acknowledgement between a man and a woman that the vision of both have been appreciated. Three steps later I spy, through a glass door, a bare breast feeding a baby; the rest of the body obscured by angles and paper signs. And for some reason, these two visions lifted my spirits for the rest of the day. My rods and cones processed light and shadows before me and switched off serotonin re-uptake inhibitors. Or is it that these symbols of male animus and female anima triggered my own archetypes and set them dancing again on a hot Los Angeles day?

I think of books and how in reading them we conjur up the pictures in our mind, or when hearing a story being told live. In film, how we live in those very moments as if they were ours. The brocade dresses and the noise they made on the screen of these 2 Hong Kong films still quiver on my retina and have leaked out my fingertips into a story. From the filmaker's internal visions to a piece of paper I will print out of my computer, some idea has lept across continents and media.

I think of how photographs can move and repel us, how in "taking" a photograph we simply capture something, but when "making" a photograph we create another world; perhaps that's why we call cinematagraphers filmmakers and not filmtakers?

Studies have shown that people will see what they want to see when looking at photos or films, will miss the mili-second of a gorilla prancing in front of the camera, because it is unexpected. So our brain can filter as well as find in an image that which we want to see. Did I project onto this attractive man a reaction I wanted to see and did I choose to have a memory of my own milk making because I needed cheering up, a reminder of my feminine wiles? Or was there truly a connection of some sort between strangers, who on their daily paths choose to find what they need in the visual world around them?

I pass people who see only the sidewalk in front of them, or the view out of their windshield or the dirt on their glasses and I wonder what vision would cheer them up? What would/could we all see if we opened our eyes fully and drank in the world around us?

Bois de Boulogne

6.22.06

The concrete edged pond ripples

buffeting little wooden yachts.

Their flapping handkerchief sails

billow out like pinafores

when pricked by a breeze.

Children kneel at the water's edge

and prod their tiny ships

urging keels to slice forward,

ready about hard - a - lee.

One has built hers from scratch;

today is her maiden voyage.

She does not want to let it go

but catches sun in her hair

and knows it's time.

Lowering her blue hulled heart

into the murky brew

her breath catches.

The boat tips, then rights itself

and bobs with confidence,

this way and that.

Secretly, she wishes it would sink,

so she could grab it back and

hold it close, repair the fault.

But no, its voyage has even now begun

and she must let it go.

Others around her jostle

for position

as their barques weave across the

sun-lit soup on a Paris spring day.

She, however, watches in silence

as hers cuts cleanly away,

carving a memorial as it

leaves behind only a tiny wake.

School's Out

6.22.06

Last day of school and the playground has a muted look, as if the sun light had been turned down a notch, even on this second day of summer. Stray backpacks, a lost sweater, end of the year papers lay scattered as a scraggle of students await pick up. The kids have grown so, lost and gained teeth, scraped elbows, broken limbs, changed hair cuts, filled out. Hems have risen on lengthening legs and slight angles poke through the winnowing baby fat. I marvel at the ones who graduate, how on the cusp they seem, part child-part 'tweener'. My own greet me with yee-ha's, the afternoon "I'm starving!" and packages of goodbye gifts from teachers and stories of their final hours. At 12:30 the whole school joined in a group howl of release and the teachers went off to lunch.

Hanah wants to sing along to her 2nd grade CD, and Noah protests too much, as he's always wont to do at the end of the day on an empty stomach. But this time, it's because he doesn't want her to ruin his bad day and I ask if he's sad. And my stoic little boy gets teary and says yes. I query if it's because school is out and he nods. I ask him who he will miss and he tells me, his teacher, who admitedly has been his best to date. And I get teary as well, thinking of these transitions, how we have to let go at various stages of life of the people who have meant so much to us. She was the quintessential heuristic leader and he flourished under her tutelage, gathered his own discipline around him like a warrior's cape and filled his arsenal with fine weapons of amassed instruction. I shared with him memories of my own last days of school and how sad they made me as well, to miss friends, routine, learning. I then asked if there was anything we could do to give him what this wonderful teacher had and he said no, she was special. And I then feel foolish, for of course, there is nothing we can do to replace that presence in his life and to attempt as much, would diminish her unique gift.

His sadness had abated by the time we got home and I love this about children, how in their moments they can be fully wherever they are, if we allow them, and then how they move on. They rejoice and grieve and then stick their heads back into a book or a game or a race to the end of the block. We play kongi together, a Korean jacks game, good for hand eye coordination and I am so thankful for these moments along the way, that we could be sad together and then, as easily as the clouds pass over the jungle gym, be glad again. And now, let summer begin.

Bain de Soleil

6.20.06

Suddenly the smell of suntan oil,

spring break in Florida,

the memory of skin released from

a long Maine winter's cloak.

Now San Tropez

and Bain de Soleil

on an 8 year old's bare chest

as she plays near azure waters.

The scents of sensuality

trigger yearnings larger than this Atlantic

or that Mediterranean.

For the community of friends

during a seasonal bacchanal,

the paternal oversight

on a summer break

and the smoothing hand

that connects one radiant soul to another

under the sun's warming bath.

The Porthole

6.18.06

Sometimes the air smells

like the sea

as it sucks in through an open porthole.

But closed, the round window

with airtight locks and double thick glass

keeps water out

and dreams within.

The boat glides silently through waves

while the green milky way scrounges around the glass edge,

bubbling furiously as it tries to get in.

What if the clasp broke

and the ocean swept inside the tiny ship?

Would sleeping forms be swallowed whole

by the eternal blue-black watery night?

Or would they,

like long armed jelly fish,

gather tentacles around themselves

and,

sucking in the vast pond, then

propel themselves to the surface?

Mollusk

6.9.06

It wants to gobble her up

at times

the arched, aimless voice of

cante jondo.

It makes her dream of

crashing, merging

into another

to absorb the manna,

the meat, the mead.

It claws down her spine

and propels

her forward.

It needs to spit

her out

of the mollusk shell

from which juices spill.

It will shear her hair

and peel her skin

until the living glow,

the heart beat,

is revealed.

The Brocade Dress (revised)

6.8.06

It was the yellow thread that caught her eye; glinting like the tulips she had once grown in her garden. She was passing the fabric shop on her way to lunch when her ankle twisted on a pebble and she caught herself before falling into the plate glass window. There she was, face to face, albeit through a vitrine, with reams of gold threaded brocade fabric. Rubbing her ankle she let her eye wander across the rippling cloth, bolts laying one along the other, jewel sandwiches. The liquid colors were intoxicating, but it was the buttercup that made her stand straight and enter the store.

The crinkly fabrics were knobbed with threads of varying thickness. Trailing her finger across the patterns she could feel the stripes, the pin dots, the whorls of each design. Their terrains were familiar, like her former lover's body, for she had sewn many dresses in her youth. She imagined his chest hairs as coarse threads passed under fingertips. A small section of silk reminded her of the soft skin of his shoulder blade. And a long stretch of smooth satin brought back the feel of his hardened penis. This was the cloth she would buy.

The four yards of yellow, gold flecked and white-specked brocade now lay on her table. She had wrapped her ankle, tightly, and needed only a moment to plan the pattern in her mind. Her sharp shears cut quickly and precisely as she simply eyeballed the shape of her own silhouette against the cloth. She required only a mental picture of herself lying stretched out on the table to know where to cut for the waist, the hips, the knee length of the hem. A blush came as she imagined her lying on him while her scissors cut away the chaff. Then quickly she pinned the pieces and held them up against her frame and looked in the mirror. Her black hair fell past her shoulders onto the shining cloth and her dark eyes punctuated the sunny material. She was pleased to see she hadn't lost her touch. The fabric lay against her skin like a slip; it was ready to sew.

The little machine sat by her window but hadn't been used in a long time. Her lover had left years ago and she had never imagined sewing again. She was contented now, with the simple black shifts she wore and the matching pumps. Dust had collected on the old metal frame and she blew it off with warm breath. By luck, a spool of golden thread lay ready and she quickly ran it through the needle. She primed the foot peddle and found the right tension for the bobbin before carefully placing the first seam on the sewing platform. The fabric crinkled and grabbed at the stitches almost before she began. It was a dress waiting to be born and she tended to it like a primigravida. As the needle flew up and down and the seams passed through her fingers, flashes of skin against sheets came to her mind’s eye. She blushed again to think of these things, but let them linger a moment before turning a threaded corner. It had been years.

The daylight caught itself in the moving gilded thread, like the sun setting on a Venetian Canal. More memories returned of held hands and caresses and soft licks; she was almost afraid to finish sewing lest the dream end. But her skin needed it now, to feel this long lost cloth against her legs, her waist, her breasts, her hips. It was quickly done; the simple high necked, mandarin collared, curve hugging shift. She could barely take the time to properly hem it yet the old skills came back and it was easily done. A long zipper ran down the back and even without sizing, she knew it would fit. She turned the machine off and held her breath.

It was perfect. She hung it lightly on the back of her chair and dropped her clothes, her pants, her shirt and now her bra. She would need no support with this dress; it was that well fitted. And so she gently stepped into it, feeling the cool almost scratchy fabric crawl up her legs, her hips, her stomach and now her bare nipples and then her arms as they passed through the sleeveless opening. It made her shiver. She reached behind her and found the zipper, slowly dragged it up her spine until this second skin was now a first breath. Quickly she caught her hair up in a clip so as to clasp the back of the collar and then, she took a look.

She gazed in the mirror and saw what she knew, but it still surprised her. There, standing in front of her was a ray of sunlight, curved around a woman's body. With each breath she heard a whisper of the fabric, as the brocade shifted against itself, the threads accommodating the living flesh beneath it. She looked different somehow and not just from the new color against her skin. It was as if the dress had found her, after being cruelly separated years ago, and now was clinging to her for reassurance. She shifted her weight and it sighed in recognition. Yes, these were her thighs crossing slightly, her knees tickling the hem line, her soft armpits in the sleeve holes, her spine, her ribs, her hip bones all being contained by their rightful owner. She smiled and felt at home.

The clock ticked loudly. And now, she had to get out of the small apartment. It was going to be cool out but she knew she would be warm enough, wherever she went. The dress was all she needed, for she had made it with her own hands, from the fabric of a memory and the love of one who had known her, had known the stitches and the seams of her cloth and how they held her together.

The night air was quiet with a scent of jasmine. She stepped out of her building, hesitated and looked around . But she was alone, for the moment, and the city's sounds invited her off the stoop. Her ankle, wrapped in a tightly wound white gauze bandage, flashed against the shadows as she strode down the sidewalk. Her grass green paten leather pumps clicked on the pavement a little unevenly as she favored the stronger foot, but she quickly adjusted her hips and walked on. Little wisps of hair at the nape of her neck flicked across her skin as the air passed by and she remembered the feel of lips there, years ago. Neon signs flashed invitations to drinks, pawn shops and a triple x theatre creating a rainbow of options and for the first time in her many years living in this seedy neighborhood, she slowed down in front of a bar.

It was a Tuesday night, not very crowded on the streets or inside. The smell of cigarettes and sawdust signatured the local haunt she had passed every day on her way to work and she smiled to herself. Years ago, when she had first arrived in the city, she had stepped inside to use the rest room before looking at the apartment she now inhabited. The owner had given her the once over as she entered, then nodded in the direction of the back, knowing full well that the slight woman was not a drinker. After 40 years behind the bar he could always tell.

Tonight, something stopped her and she looked inside to see that same owner polishing glasses in front of see through shelves, lined with bottles. The light hit their many colors and she recognized the same jewel sandwiches she had seen in the fabric shop, this time upright. A bottle of green Midori was backlit, like the "walk" of a street light, and for some reason her mouth salivated. Again, she looked around, hesitated, then pushed the door open and entered. Inside the city sounds were replaced by the drone of a television in one corner and Sting's "An Englishman in New York" was playing on the jukebox. She recognized the song from years back and felt a pull in her throat; it was a hit when she was falling in love and she instinctively ran her hands down the sides of the dress, feeling the brocade again.

He had loved her hips, the way the pelvic bones poked out slightly, like the dimples of a smile. When she got angry she would put her hands on them and feel them hard under palms. It calmed her, re-centered her balance and then she would laugh out loud at whatever insignificant thing had triggered the argument and then she'd throw up her arms in defeat. He had loved that about her, how once voiced, her anger would take off like a pigeon from its cage and she would open her door again and let him in. There had been plenty of those moments for he was flash to her dark and she, thought to his impulse. Of course, that had been the attraction and ultimately the end of them, but the in between had been a fully pulsed, living, breathing thing that went weeks on water, a crust of bread and a bottle of olive oil. She sighed herself out of her reverie as the song ended and she approached the bar.

Hitching herself up on to the stool she laced her fingers neatly on the counter. Herb smiled his semi-toothless grin and looked straight into her dark eyes.

"What can a do yu foh?" he asked in his deep NY accent.

"Gin and tonic, please."

She looked at the bottles of liquor behind his back, standing up neatly like seraphin bowling pins, differing levels of varied hued liquids creating a bar graph of preferred imbibements. Suddenly she wished she were already inebriated, that she didn't have to take the time to drink and could immediately go to that wavy place in her brain. It had been years since she had had an all out drunk, the night he had left, crept out of her life as silently as he had crept in. Five years ago to the day, she now realized as the TV intoned the date. Was that why the fabric had found her, why she had been compelled to make this dress, today of all days?

Herb slid the crystally cold drink across the shellacked counter to her waiting hand and their fingers brushed. She blushed, quickly thanked him and drew the drink to her lips and sipped. The frosty glass chilled her mouth and her tongue flinched at the tartness of the tonic. The scent of lime wafted out as the vodka slid down her throat like a fur coat slipping off a shoulder. Her nostrils cleared and she took a deep breath. It was good to have this taste again. And of course, the memories which came back with it.

Crisp, snapping white sheets on a thick flat futon on the floor. Her long black hair spilling off the pillow onto the hard oak planks. His arm flung across her chest. A black corded necklace around his neck. Her pumps flung across the room. His feet bare. A music stand. An empty bottle of Malbec. Two tumblers. A plate with some fig skins, the rind of a Manchego cheese. A scarf.

Another sip of the drink washed the image out of her mind for a moment and she noted Herb, his back to her as he watched the ball game on the television. Suddenly, she didn't want to be in this place any more. She pulled a few bills out of her purse, laid them on the counter and teetered off the stool, her drink barely touched. With soft steps she headed to the door and Herb watched her in the mirror behind the bottles, her head bobbing in and out of the reflection. Only as she approached the exit, did she turn back and toss him a "thanks."

The night had gotten cooler but it felt good against her skin. She turned toward the river, not knowing where she would go, not caring. A homeless man whistled his appreciation of her hip swinging gait as she passed and she smiled. She couldn't remember the last time she walked the neighborhood at night. Had she ever? A truck was delivering a shipment of fresh flower bouquets to a Korean market and she stopped to inhale, but found their odors had been captured by their stiff plastic wrap cones; their essences muted. The colors, however, were magnified by their wrappings, almost making up for the anticipated olfactory deluge. She would pick up some ranunculaes on her way home.

Around the corner she turned and passed a vacant building, graffitti-ed walls broadcasting complaints and celebrations. It was a long block and she realized she was unfamiliar with this side of the broad avenue she usually crossed to get to her subway. Another corner loomed ahead and she headed toward it, noting the blinking streetlight ahead. Green, Yellow, Red fuzzy spots guiding pedestrians to safety. Wouldn't it be great to have those guide-lights at every juncture in life, she thought. A few figurative near misses, one all out collision and she had grown wary of crossing new streets.

The corner now turned, she saw ahead an open door and heard music, muted as it slid down the street toward her. She kept walking until she recognized the distinctive markings of Tango, the whiny wail of the bandoneon, slinking up the sidewalk and around her ankles. She stopped. She could turn around now and go back whence she came, or she could cross the street, or she could simply walk on by. But she did none of these. Instead, the dress shifted, as if to propel her forward, like a proud mother. She approached the door and noted a flyer posted on the door: "Leaders Night 8:30-10:00pm, Followers join 10:00pm" Inside she could see about 15 men and a woman learning the Leaders steps to the Argentine dance and a couple in the middle, the teachers. They all looked serious, lost in the imagined arms of partners, as they circled the floor. Behind her, a group of high heeled, nylon panty-hosed women, whispering, gathered around her as they too inspected the occupants. And then the pressure of their presence corralled her into the room with them as the clock hit 10:00pm and the song came to an end. The women fanned out, heading for their intended’s or desireds and she realized she was inside.

The instructors welcomed the women and, with couples formed in less than a minute, the music started up again. For some reason, she kept standing there, mesmerized, wondering why her legs were not moving her back to the door and out where she belonged. She had not chosen to be here and could leave freely. But then, a light tap on her shoulder got her attention and she turned to find one of the male Leaders offering her the opening dance position. His dark eyes surprised her, looked familiar, and his smile said, "welcome." He raised his left arm, waiting, and then a woman, newly entered, patted her towards him, with a whisper in her ear. "Dance, honey, dance."

The music was leading the other couples around the room and she could feel the brocade dress now squeeze her towards this man. He gently took her right hand, she placed her left arm around his back and found the place between his shoulder blades, put the back of her hand against it. He pulled her towards him just so and looked into her eyes. She edged in one more inch and nodded. And with perfect timing, he stepped forward with his left foot and she reached back with her right. The classic eight step gave them enough time to feel their space and his grip signaled every move. Their bodies mirrored each other as they glided across the floor and with her first pivot and foot flick she smiled and they knew.

The other couples had noticed how suddenly the dark man who had only attended the Leaders class was now in complete synchronicity with the new woman. They wondered where she had trained, did they actually know each other despite their slightly removed glances? To the outside eye, they had been coupled for years, so attuned was the conversation between their bodies. Even the instructors stopped to watch.

With a head toss, her clasped hair loosened and a strand curled down around her neck. She could feel how the dress slid up and down her thighs, how his back muscles flexed, letting her know which direction he was headed. She did not blush at the more intimate moves, as she entwined her leg around his, as her breasts pressed against his chest, and when her hips brushed against the buckle of his belt, his groin. She had been here once before, in this dance and knew it as well as she knew how to breathe: its lines, its boundaries, its promises and its lies. Sweat glistened in the cup of her throat and she could smell his scent. It was wood and musk and apple tang. She wanted to taste him. He turned his head towards her.

Time hid behind curtains as they covered the dance floor, like linoleum cutters carving out a lovers' leitmotif. And then, somehow, the music ended and the clock struck a tinny hour. It was midnight and she had no memory of arriving in this place. The other couples were clapping, looking at the two of them and she smiled shyly. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear but she stepped away, smoothly and put a finger to his lips. The door pulled her out into the night again and she wobbled for a moment before looking back into the dance hall. The group had surrounded her partner who looked past them to the door, but she was now gone.

Hurrying home, she felt the dress shift, now scratching where it had not bothered her before. Its narrowness kept her from the full strides she needed to get home before... She didn't know before what, just felt impelled towards the safety of her small apartment, the straight lines of her furniture, the still bare walls.

The air was now too heavy in the dance hall as he pushed his way outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of this partner who had come and gone like the opening and closing of a door. His hands were on fire and wanted to draw her back into his fold; he sniffed to see if he could catch a scent of her, but there was none. He groaned out loud and shook his head, then turned back to the building and re-entered, this time climbing the stairs next to the dance hall's entrance. His loft was on the second floor and he ran up the scarred, metal steps 3 at a time. Maybe a hundred sit-ups would dispel the energy still vibrating his legs and arms. Or maybe a glass of wine. Or maybe, he should just sit with the moment and listen to what it meant.

Once inside his open space with Berber rugs strewn here and there, huge canvases of splattered oil paint, and a single table, he stopped and stood and looked around at the emptiness and felt the solitude for the first time in years. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to comb out the tension rising through the follicles. He was sweaty and his body felt suddenly leaden. The shower beckoned.

On the other side of the block, she entered her apartment and quickly tugged at the zipper, to get out of this dress that had taken her too far. But it was stuck and she could not get it undone. The golden corset made her feel claustrophobic. Yanking both sides of the dress's back she rent it open sounding like a diner spreading a mussel shell to reveal the plump meat within. The dress whished off her body to the floor and lay crumpled around her feet, a shed snakeskin. She looked down and felt a tear fall from her chin onto the broken brocade. Quickly, she picked up the garment, smoothed it against her chest gently like a hurt child and placed it neatly on the headless seamstress model. One day she would fix it, she lied to herself.

Even with the windows open and her ceiling fan directing air currents over her naked skin, she couldn't breath. When would she stop taking these baby steps into the world and live again? She had once, on the full slice of life, and then she had lost herself to another and fallen under the barnacled keel of need. It scraped over her for years until one day, maybe it was when she heard he had died, she swam up to the surface and watched the hull pass on by. She could see the sky again, feel the sun and shook off the seaweed that had trapped her long legs. And now, here she was. Those legs could betray her again, get wrapped up with another's, entwined in a dance she had learned as a child, had relished as a youth and then abandoned when her lover took off. She unraveled the bandage around her ankle and rubbed it.

The shower had cooled his forehead and the wine warmed his throat as he sat at his table, towel wrapped around his waist. He was surfing the net, checking friends’ blogs, checking newscasts from around the world. His typical winding down the day routine, in the hopes of finding sleep, but tonight it only served to agitate him more. What had prompted him to go downstairs, finally, after living in the building for years? Every day, the stringent tones of the tango melodies inched through his floorboards and he had brushed them aside like so many crumbs from the Zwieback he enjoyed with his coffee. He had taken lessons years ago with his mother, before she got ill and it had brought her the greatest joy. He had a natural gift, translating the steps of the dance into visual cues on the canvas of his brain. Some of his paintings had been inspired by the arcing move of a leg, the turn of a neck, the outstretched curve of an arm. And his mother, a dancer in her youth, was the perfect partner, teaching him how to lead, by following with intent. He gulped down the last of his wine at the memory of her perfume, a subtle rose water, and vowed to call her in the morning.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark was not helping. A crack in the blinds cast the streetlight on the brocade. turned it into a shining birdcage. It was no use. She would not sleep tonight, like so many lately. A cup of tea might help so she tiptoed into the living room, as if not wanting to wake someone up, but of course, no one else was there. Nonetheless she tossed on a Mexican shawl over her bare shoulders then made her chamomile brew. At the table by the window, she cupped her hands around the warmth and noted the gilded thread still on the spool. What was I thinking, she mused. Sewing again, visiting that awful dive, drinking for the first time in years. And then, dancing with a stranger who somehow knew every move she needed to make. She wanted to laugh it off but couldn't. Her only hope was that maybe tonight, finally, sleep would cure this newly odd awareness of her skin.

She finished her tea and was about to rise from her chair when she noticed a straight line of light leading from her front door to the other side of the room. She squinted and realized it was golden like the thread on her sewing machine. She got up to inspect and found that indeed, it was a strand of the thread she had used. Starting at the door, she followed it around the room where it led to the now unraveled hem of her dress. She hadn't noticed this in her rush to remove the sealskin she'd concocted but now could see that the tenacious filament was still attached to the hanging fabric.

Tired of sarcastic commentary and precious bon mots, he logged off and got up. The futon looked inviting so he turned off the table lamp and walked over to the lump of sheets and pillows. Something pressed against his ankle and he looked down his naked leg to see a slight indentation on the skin as if he'd walked into a fishing line. Leaning over he saw that indeed he'd caught a thread that seemed to hang a foot off the ground starting at his front door and leading into the bathroom. It was luminous and intriguing and he followed it from the loft entrance to the room where his belted pants lay hung over a chair. There he could see the end of the thread knotted around his belt buckle. And his heart quickened.

He touched the thread, tracing it lightly with his fingers and contemplated this oddity in his presence, eyeballing the gossamer breath of light shooting from his pants across the room. And then he realized what it was and smiled at the memory of her leg wrapped high around his hip, her pelvic arch plastered against his. Quickly he donned the pants and gently detached the thread, wrapping it around his finger as he put on his shirt. Then, ss a wool spinner collects yarn around a spindle, he "wound" his way to the front door. Then down the stairs he followed, gathered the thread, out into the street where it continued along the sidewalk, glinting in the street light here, caught in the shadows there. As fast as he could he wrapped the fragile line around and around his finger, growing a flaxen ring.

Around the next corner he went, down the block's length, hope rising with each inch added to his skein. Then panic set in as the gossamer light flittered on the ground over a subway grate, the frayed end dancing in the air like a malicious nymph. His path had ended. Searching, he could see nothing. He stood there, his chest tightening again. For the second time tonight he had lost his chance.

He hit himself in the temple, tried to remind his brain that he was better off alone. No one got hurt that way. He knew this chase, had lived in the hurricane, been flung against the trees and landed stranded on his back in the fields. He enjoyed this eye of the storm, the lull, really he did. It was better this way, he laughed to himself and turned back to his building. But the sound of a trash can being rummaged made him turn back around. Down the block he saw blackness that opened into the headlights of an approaching taxi. He was tempted to flag it down and go somewhere, anywhere but back to his empty apartment, but then, in the brightness of the near high beam he caught a flash of gold, twittering like a firefly. He ran toward it and the taxi honked in warning, then passed and the flash was gone. Again, he groaned aloud as he searched in the night until finally he again saw the glimmer in the gutter. He grabbed it and clutched it to his heart, then quickly resumed his umbilical path.

Upstairs, she sat cross-legged on the carpet, awake, watching the light flash on and off the thread. It reminded her of the green life line of her father's cardiac monitor. Mesmerizing now as it was then, she knew that by keeping her eye on the screen the line could never go flat. But of course it eventually did. At first she hadn't noticed, as the beeping changed. His heart had flickered on and off, just as this tender thread was now dancing up and down with regularity, to what sounded like foot steps on stairs. (Which neighbor was returning late, she wondered.) Her father's cardiac dance had done the same and then gone flat. And now, so did the golden filament as it ceased movement and lay quiet on the floor. She held her breath, waited to see if it would resume its ebb and flow, willed that it would. But no, the life-line was quiescent and her throat thickened.

Was she dreaming finally? Had this day ended with such a sad memory? Would she sleep now? A soft knock at her door startled her and she noted on the clock that it was 1:26 am. The thread remained quiet on the floor under the door. She crawled toward it and reached out, put her finger on it as if to test its pulse, then tugged it lightly and found a surprising resistance. She pulled again and it gave, then inched under the door. Again, she tugged and again it acquiesced. Slowly she gathered it to her and wrapped it around a finger, forgetting about the knock that had preceded her new task.

On the other side of the door he relaxed, feeling home, quietly slid down the wall and sat there unspooling the gold, watching it creep under the door with fits and starts. Soon the rhythms of the spool/unspool matched and the dancing line remained at a constant tension, light but attentive. He felt he could sit there all night, unweaving, as the last stanzas of the evening's song played in his head. He could feel her warmth against him, the jut of her hipbones, the soft press of her breast. His eyes closed and he felt sleep encroaching, welcome after weeks of insomnia. The gentle tugs reminded him to lift his finger in time to his heartbeat and the night ticked on.

Inside, she too felt a soft doze come over her and comfort in the glowing vein of light leaking under her door. Her finger twitched like the bobbin of her sewing machine and as has her own fatigue slowed her breathing, the threaded tension diminished as well. She hadn't felt such peace in years and lay her head down for a mere moment. And now, the thread stopped moving as the dance partners, separated by only 2 inches of hollow board, fell asleep, his cheek pressed against the gray lacquer paint on one side and on the other, her head resting on the long arm that reached toward the scuffed sill.

Is It Mania or Is It Memorex?

6/3/07

So, paging through a woman's mag I spy a quiz hosted by some drug company for symptoms of mania and feeling feisty, take it. Hmm, seems that all this new energy, decreased need for sleep, increased productivy and creativity, new ideas and generalized feeling of well-being qualifies me for a mood disorder. Haven't succumbed to the increased spending, irritability, non-stop talking and inability to work qualifiers but those drug companies would still like me to believe I'm "moderately severe." What, alive?


Since this has been going on for about about a year and seems to have a positive benefit , why would I or anyone want to diagnose it an "ill"ness rather than a "well"ness? I'm beginning to wonder if we're not medicating a nation, through anti-depressants and anxiety pills, out of our right-ful feelings. Not to belittle any mental illness as chemical imbalances, which I believe they are, but maybe we could look at our lows and highs as part of the natural cycles of life. When one feels an "irrational exuberance" at the sight of a perfect flower or the scent of a freshly baked loaf of bread should one worry or thank God? Leave the corporate nest to open up a needlepoint store, are you nuts or finding yourself? Why do we call those wrinkles around our eyes "crow's feet?" They look like sunburts to me.

When my daughter twirls and dips in the aisle at her dad's concert (completely out of synch with the music, but who cares) it makes me wonder when we all stopped dancing and playing in the sand and lowing with the huge lurking garbage trucks in the morning. Could not "manias" "unusual behaviour" "mid-life crises" be merely the memories of those wondrous child-like moments burbling up through our thick adult mantles?

The pasta fell out of the cabinet and before the word "shit" made its way to my mouth, I saw sunbeams radiating out of the knife rack. I thank whatever hormones, caffeine or inner contents that gave me a different perspective on such a mundane event. Jane Wagner in "The Search for Intelligent Life in the Universe" opines: "I made some studies, and reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it." I agree.

Newel Post

6.2.06

He holds his head

with tilted intent

or is it

the mast behind him?

For years, this homo

sapiens erectus lived at

the bottom of

my staircase and

anchored my heart.

Three flights of rich brown bannister

smoothed by years of growing,

groping hands

and slithering slides

led to the bottom floor

where essential man

silently held up his world.

Then my father left,

the ground shifted and I stopped

caressing the newel post,

on each descent.

Years later, this Poseideon, Centaur, Jesus

is back in my home

tilted into a corner where

I pass daily.

I can again touch the

aged warm blooded wood,

the worn elbows and rippling chest

remembering a man

who had to go in order to

stay in himself.

I don't recall the smirking sunflower face,

however,

nor the Griffen's paw on which he balances

for the child saw only bearded tranquility;

But the adult has unwrapped the

souvenir, which has shrunk over the years

and sees now a tri-partite padre,

carved with a loving chisel,

and sanded to a soft glow

who also left splinters behind.

Succulence

6.2.06

Slow down to eat the summer peach

as your teeth tear lightly through

the fuzzed skin

and into warm jammy flesh

Roll the sun turned blueberry

on your tongue

before the explosive bite

Hold the crisp sponge watermelon

slice in sticky fingers

then crunch the juice down your throat

Spit summer's seeds

into bushes

Toss pits into piles

and mound rinds into compost

Wind peels, if you must, into

tiny tornado whorls

But waste nothing

of the fruit

in Nature's sugar shop

Exquisite Fire Truck

Searing bright red siren sounds

break the black night

as chystanthemum white lights flash

and I in my grey armoured pod drive by.

Music, violins dance over my skin

as I wonder who needs rescuing

in such an expensive orange complex.

Some executive branched CEO

heart attacking after a tryst?

A single cat batty recluse OD'd on painkillers?

Or a veteran of the Iraq quagmire

whose new job, delivering pizzas,

takes him to underground parking lots

and PTSD attacks when a car backfires?

My avenue is calm, though,

street lights clearing up the question

of who goes where.

No on needs rescuing here

the blue embered living rooms,

one after the other,

whisper calm, pseudo tranquility.

But that siren follows

like a heavy noxious gas,

its long arms reaching to embrace

the next victim of happenstance.