The best thing about being an early riser is … of course … greeting the sun.
Seven AM and fog still clings to the coastal hills. It’s 54 degrees out there folks!
Forty-five minutes later and the sun decides to mount an offense.
8:32 and … yup … it’s gonna be a sunny day. Time to wash the sheets and hang them to dry.
Captain Kitty and his co-pilot Dog are raring to go. 64 degrees but it will get hotter soon.
Many thanks to all of you who are following #Storytime. I can’t begin to tell you how much it means to me. Tomorrow we find out what lurks just outside the phone booth waiting for Daniel …
A recap of the story so far: A woman named Sandy has been invited to an art exhibit/memorial for a childhood friend. Once there she’s told by the woman’s son that, although the two women had drifted apart, there was something in each of his mother’s final and very disturbing paintings that she specifically wanted Sandy to see, a face from long ago. October of 1969 to be precise.
Out trespasser! Leave this body before you’re trapped! He’d landed with a thud in a strange body but perhaps there was still time.
“What the sam hill are you doing, Daniel? Quit standing in the rain and get out of here while youse still can.”
The man yelling at him stood silhouetted in the doorway of a squat brick building as darkness licked him from all sides. He looked tiny in that square of light, and that square of light looked tiny surrounded by the dark shells of once grand hotels, now melting the rain. He felt wet and cold. The heavy book in his hands was alien to him, although it was attached by a thick metal chain to the phone booth.
“Go home Daniel, for Christ’s sake, before it gets too dark!”
Aha! He remembered. The man was his boss. The man cared about him and that kindness had brought him back.
“A great God has made known to the king what shall be hereafter. The dream is certain, and its interpretation sure!” Now all facts pertaining to this life became clear to him. True, the forgetting had been a reprieve, albeit short. Praise God. But now he’d returned and on his horizon the shutdown of the gas station had begun. The lights, one after the one, going dark. The doors padlocked; the windows shuttered and soon the boss would fire up all four cylinders of his Galaxy and race to the relative safety of the Bronx.
A home. That’s what Daniel had been looking for in the heavy book. Well, not really a home home but a monk’s cell, cheap and anonymous, somewhere he could ponder the next move in his life of dedicated impermanence.
From Bing images
The rain fell in droplets smudging the ink and wilting the paper. There’s something sacred about a book, especially a book filled with the names of the living and the things that gave their life purpose, a home, a profession, something permanent. To let it be damaged by the elements was clearly immoral so he stepped into the phone booth and closed the folding door, triggering a faint bit of light from overhead. It was not enough to read by, especially through lenses coated with axle grease. He removed his glasses and tried to clean them with the inside of his tee shirt. This effort brought his world into clearer focus yet triggered another dilemma. Where in Manhattan would he find a monk’s cell other than at a priory? Perhaps the YMCA? And if so, would it be listed under YMCA or Young Men’s Christian Association? A quick investigation proved it was under neither. He moved on to the Yellow Pages. Would YMCA be under Lodgings or Gyms? Nope. Wrong again.
“I’ll just dial directory assistance,” he said aloud as he sorted through his linty pockets for a dime or quarter with which to call the operator. There was no time to figure out the complexities of the phone book. The ghost ships had already begun their nightly prowl, floating up from the Hudson and down the abandoned streets and alleyways of the Bowery looking for new crew members. The winos claimed the ships hid in the mist and only revealed themselves to those about to die.
He found a quarter —Praise God! — and was about to use it when he heard a desperate cry: “Hello? Anyone here?”
A shadow stood in the mist near the gas pumps. Spotting the lit phone booth, the shadow moved toward it like a moth to a flame. Some poor creature looking for shelter, he thought as he turned his back and dialed the operator.
“Directory Assistance.”
The shadow rapped gently against the glass door.
“Don’t worry. When I’m finished you can have this shelter for the night. I’ll not fight you for it,” he said loudly without turning.
“Directory Assistance?” The operator said again. “Have you –“
“I’m looking for the address of the Y-M-C-A closest to the East Village,” he said.
The Chinatown Y on Hudson, he was told. Did they rent rooms? She didn’t know but offered to patch him through. Brring, brring. He could feel the creature on the other side of the glass burning holes into the back of his head. Turn. See me!
“Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon. Honest.”
Ten rings and finally someone answered. Yes, they had rooms. “Praise the Lord,” he muttered as he hung up and turned to face whatever waited.
Twenty years pass and children become adults. They grow facial hair and start wearing glasses. Their voices change. That’s what they do, Sandy told herself, and if you miss the process, you miss the process. There’s no going back.
“Ian … of course.” She always thought he would grow up to look like his Uncle Chad, tall and slender with delicate features and smooth skin. But he looked like his father. Not exactly but close enough. She’d heard that he’d become a doctor, which was not a surprise. As much as she detested his father, the jerk had slept walked his way through school and still gotten straight A’s. At least Ian has more sense than Bradley. Or perhaps it was less arrogance? “And that’s my daughter Angela.” He pointed to the trio of preteens crowding a table where crackers and cheese and veggie platters were spread. Two of kids were short and stocky with curly brown hair and ruddy complexions. The third was tall and thin with aquiline features and creamy white skin. “The tall girl with long black hair?” “Yes.” “She’s the spitting image of your mother at that age.“ “Aye, she is. And she’s artistic as well. ”
“And her mother?” “We’re divorced.” “Oh.” “It was amiable. She didn’t like Alabama and that’s where my residency was.” “Oh.” An amiable divorce. Imagine that. Nora had never talked about her children in the same way as other parents might. Were they happy adults or were they suffering? Did she get along with their spouses? Sandy had no idea. Their attention turned to the images now being projected to a screen on stage. All of the benches set up for viewing purposes were empty, except for the woman running the slide projector. She wept as Nora appeared coyly in the woods, followed by Nora defiant on a mountain ridge, Nora mellow next to her lake and so on. Always staring into the camera as if to say: “There is nothing you can do to hurt me now. All the magic has died and I’ve bled out.” They watched in silence. It was not the memorial of a life but another art installation.
“You know, your mother always told me she’d die before she reached forty and in a way she did. She went to that place in Marin and became Leonora.” “Ah yes Leonora. You have to remember that, by the time Mom turned thirty-eight, Iris and I had left town. Iris had moved to Alameda and and I’d joined the army. So she was free. No more kids to take care.“ “I hadn’t seen your mother in so long that I was really, really surprised to get the invitation. And, a phone call from Iris.” “Mother specifically requested that Iris track you down and persuade you to come. She said when you saw her final pieces, you would understand — Oh God she’s on the move.” “What?” “Dorothea’s coming in this direction. She’s had a few strokes you know. If you’re lucky she might not remember who you are.” “Dorothea?” She turned and sure enough. The grande dame of the Seagrass clan had risen from her seat of honor amongst the mourners and had aimed her walker directly at her grandson. “I heard that Katie moved back into the River House and is taking care of your grandparents.” “Yes.” “Nora said Katie was a saint.” “Did she?” Ian glanced at his watch and then back at his grandmother. “I think it’s time to check in with my service. Listen, we caught a break. It looks like Dorothea’s spotted another soul who needs saving.”
Jesus is Number One by Nancy Motley Came
“My cue to leave as well.” She’d circled the art exhibit three times, stopping in front of each piece to take in Leonora’s disturbing visions: men with wolf-like eyes ripping the clothing off prepubescent girls and raping them with long barbed tongues. Witch doctors gleefully ripping babies from their mother’s wombs, beheading them and dropping the remains for hyenas to feast upon. All this on twelve foot high rolls of butcher paper in vivid oil pastels — violets, neon greens and blood red crimsons. (At one time, blue had been her color.) Every corner, every edge of her canvases was filled with pagan symbols. In the end, Leonora decided to leave no breathing room.
Untitled oil pastel by Connemoira
“Do you know why Mother wanted you to see her final pieces?” “Yes, I think I do. There’s a face in each of the pieces, generally in the background … It’s been so long but … yes, I think I understand.” “The face of my father?” “No,” Sandy chuckled. “Nor is it Chevy. Although I ran into him and his sister in the parking lot and he told me all about Alison. Gads, it’s only been a couple of months.” “So you can understand why it’s hard for me to come back to Reno as well. Chevy thinks he martyred himself and now … well he’s full of justifications.” “Yup, he is.” She worried that Ian might ask about the face his mother had repeatedly placed in the background of her horrific scenes but he just nodded. Perhaps he knows the story, she thought, perhaps he’s heard it many times before with that special twist that only years of Seagrass religiosity can add. It wasn’t a story she ever told her children. It wasn’t a story for children brought up to believe that the Devil didn’t exist and that good could overcome evil. However every October when the weather changed and the fog rolled over the coastal hills, she remembered Daniel.. Everything else grew murkier over the years but she remembered Daniel.
Ian hugged her and said how glad he was to see her again and then he slipped out the entrance, passing Chevy with a nod. Why was Chevy still lingering at the reception table, she thought. He said he was only going to make his presence known and then leave? Was he waiting for her? Did he think because she understood how difficult life with Nora could be she would absolve him?
Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits! She remembered that the banquet hall had a back door.
Renwick Ruin – and excellent place for an Art Exhibit.
From time to time (generally around the holidays) I will post a story in a series of episodes on this blog. Dividing a story into episodes helps me identify redundancies and fine tune the pace (either slow it down or speed it up). Some followers of this blog seem to enjoy following along while others grow quiet. Perhaps they don’t want to tell me what a crappy writer I am or perhaps they just don’t have the time. Which is fine. I totally understand. So I will be warning you with #Storytime each time I post an episode so that if you don’t want to follow along, don’t feel obliged to. I will always love you anyway.
Where it began one October night long ago
This lovely, bewitching season I will be re-posting a story first published here in October 2016 but …. I’ve set the story amidst its consequences to the young women involved. I don’t know which is most frightening. Truth or reality.
So, apparently we’re expected to believe that Donald Trump was a snitch for the FBI and that’s why he was on pervert island with all of the other insanely rich and powerful men who like to diddle little girls. Sigh. I’ve stopped asking “how stupid do they think we are?” when the answer is always the same. There is no bottom to our stupidity according to the groveling, sycophantic members of the GOP.
And so I’ll take a long walk and greet my favorite beings on this wretched planet.
Even on the hottest day, the shade of these redwoods is always cool. This guy is conducting a cloud symphony!
The flowering plant featured this month on the Wasabi calendar is the Akebia Quinata or the Chocolate Vine, a native of Japan, China and Korea whose fruit is harvested in late August and September.
Akebia grows on hedges, slopes and hills and is similar to the Dragonfruit. The rind of the fruit is used in vegetable and meat dishes and the pulp is considered a sweet delicacy but don’t eat the seeds. They are bitter and nasty. As its name implies, it has a chocolatey aroma.
However some plant guides warn that Akebia is an invasive species.
In September there are two national holidays in Japan: September 15th, Respect for the Aged and September 23 Autumnal Equinox Day. Being in the “aged” category myself, I think we deserve more than one day a year to be respected, don’t you? Thus saying, I would probably hide in my house on a Respect for the Aged day rather than be pointed out to young children:
“Look! There’s an Aged who can still walk! Smile for the Aged, children! Clap for the Aged! Let’s take the Aged’s wrinkly old hand and walk the Aged through town for everyone to see!”
Yikes!
Autumnal Equinox Day marks the first official day of fall and is yet another time set aside for the Japanese to honor their ancestors. However, visiting a graveyard in late September could be deadly (no pun intended). The bulbs of the Red Spider Lily are planted in graveyards because they contain an alkaloid toxic to animals and so the graves beneath them are not disturbed. Even humans are wise to avoid the touch of the Red Spider Lily, aka Flower of Death.
And guess when these death plants blossom?
Happy September everyone! Beware the Red Spider Lily!
It’s hard to believe we are teetering on final quarter of the year. For me, it’s time for reassessments. Am I going to accomplish what I set out to do in January? Generally the answer is “no” which leads to the question: What can I accomplish before the end of the year without turning into a basket case? I’ve been told that’s one of the pitfalls of being an eldest sister. Eldest sisters, particularly those with working mothers are overly responsible, goal-oriented and guilt-ridden when failing to meet their goals. But you know what? I think I’m on the mend. Perhaps it’s age.
Note the little devils I had to put up with! Forget those impish smiles. “You’re not my mother!” was the only thing they could say.
For example, this year I vowed to:
Collect my stories and edit, edit, edit the crap out of them
Get more involved with the community
Hire a gardener; a handyman; and an electrician
Bronze a few of my sculptures with money my mother left me for such a purpose
Republish my second book.
Of all those lofty goals, I accomplished just one. The last one.
One of the dozens of sketches for the book. I learnt this year that I am not a skilled cover designer!
I must admit, it felt good to release the story to the world. Really good, considering that I began writing about the wacky world of mein Oncle Boob over thirty years ago.
As for my other goals, well the world will not end if I don’t finish them. It might end … considering how everything is going … but it won’t be because I did not hire an electrician.
Tomorrow I flip the page to a new month on the Wasabi calendar. Any guesses as to which flowering. plant is featured? Here’s a clue: it’s native to Japan where it is considered a great delicacy.
The other day, when asked during an interview what sort of person annoyed me I said a nosy person which was a hypocritical thing for me to say considering that I am a writer. And what do writers do? They stick their noses into everything!
Sunrise over my neighbor’s driveway
Which begs the question: Where is the line between nosiness and curiosity or is there one? Here is an example of the what I mean:
Two women have been living next door to each other for a dozen years. They are friendly but not necessarily friends. We’ll call them Mrs Green and Mrs. Yellow. One day a strange car shows up in Mrs. Yellow’s driveway and stays for three whole days. Mrs. Green is curious. She imagines all sorts of scenarios.
Finally one night Mrs. Green bumps into Mrs. Yellow at their mailboxes and says: “I noticed there’s a blue car sitting in your driveway. Is everything okay? Did you get a new car”
To which Mrs. Yellow responds: “My nephew is staying with me for a while.”
At this point Mrs Green, if she were merely curious, could say something like: “How nice. I hope you have a lovely time together.”
Mrs. Yellow is then free to share that her nephew is relocating or that her nephew is getting over a bad breakup or that her nephew is an escaped convict but she doesn’t. She merely smiles and says: “Thanks.”
However if Mrs. Green continues by asking: “How old is he? Is he a registered sex offender? Why is there a dent in the side of his car?” She is being nosy. Although perhaps there is a better word. What would you say?
I will use any excuse to post pictures of my neighbor’s beloved Gaston. He’s gone but certainly never forgotten. He could be very curious and even a bit nosy but I never minded a bit! Dogs can be a nosy as they want!
Of your unspoken word you are the master; of your spoken word the servant; and of your written word the slave – Quaker proverb
Writing is easy all you have to do is cross out the wrong words. – Mark Twain
Saying nothing in particular 