Sonoma Writers Oct 2014 Program

After two glasses of wine at my neighbor’s garden party, I lie on the grass and daydream of my next open mic performance. I sit surrounded by fellow writers and those who came just to listen. Standing room only. After several presentations the audience is getting restless, anxious to hear my name called. Finally, it is.

I stroll to the lectern and wait for the applause to end. They are prepared to be enthralled. What will he read? Filled with wit, profound insights on the human condition, crackling with cogent comments on the state of technology? Perhaps a poem bringing laughter...or tears.

After delivering my last line there is an instant of silence, then murmurs that build to wild applause. A woman in the front row steps forward, grasps both my hands, kisses me on the cheek. Her face wet with tears. “You are wonderful,” she says. As the applause wanes she kisses the other cheek.

“What is your name, dear?”

 “Lulu,” she whispers. Another kiss. Wet. I’m not embarrassed by outpourings of affection from women. Like famous men who have gone before I have learned to gracefully accept it.

“Lulu, I’m so glad you enjoyed it. What was it that you liked so much?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It was erudite, but also so, so …romantic.”

Another wet kiss. On the lips! This bodes well. Over a glass of wine I can tell her how I write such powerful poetry. More kisses. My god. Wet. Very wet. Licks really. Lick, lick. My neighbor interrupts my reverie.

“Lulu, come here girl. Leave him alone.”

Temperatures and tempers were blazing all over West Texas. For two weeks the daytime thermometer had not registered any number under ninety-eight and had hit 116 three times.

Lulu Belle Swartz, owner of El Chico’s only lady’s store, the Be Lovely Boutique, lined up racks, tables and shelves outside her store. She stuffed them with every item she had in stock and then stretched a big sign across the establishment’s windows that said, “MAKE ME AN OFFER.” 

“I’m tellin you it’s the dyin truth,” said Marjorie Plunker, her long gray braid piled high on her head to keep it off her sweating neck. She spoke to the group of women gathering for the semi-annual sidewalk sale. “My brother over in Abilene says if we don’t start gettin steady rain soon the aquifer will be totally dry, there won’t be a sheep or chicken left alive, the town will die and we’ll all be forced to move to Houston or some awful place like that.”

Odelia Marie Hawkins, perspiration running between her breasts, flapped her arms in the air to create a breeze. “I have never been so hot in all my life. We could fry eggs on Armadillo’s backs.”

“This heat is makin folks behave like they’re already in hell.” A disheveled Bea McPherson, frizzy red curls tied in a ponytail, freckles more pronounced than usual, fanned herself with a copy of the El Chico Times Gazette. 

Etta Ruth Foremost spoke at the top of her voice reminding everyone of her special status in the community. “Ladies, you cain’t possibly know how stressed Percy is over all his responsibilities as mayor. Everyone is complainin to him about the new conservation rules not wantin to limit their showers or flushes.” The chubby woman frowned and then continued rummaging through a box of necklaces and earrings. “Do y’all think these dangles look good on me?” 

Bea stared at the woman. “Well…..Since you asked, those are way too large for your face.”

Odelia leaned over to look closer. “Etta Ruth, bless your heart, I have to agree with Bea.”

The women continued to chitchat as they looked through merchandise.

Dolly Nelson stood behind a display of sandwiches and cold drinks. Folding chairs and card tables were spread out along the narrow walking space. No one was buying the sandwiches but the cold drinks were almost sold out and it wasn’t even noon. Dolly started filling plastic bags with ice and offered them for a dollar each. “Just slip these little ditties inside your bras and you can keep on shopping in comfort,” Dolly spoke as the women lined up for her bra coolers. 

Lulu Belle’s sales were legendary. Crowds of ladies showed up from miles around expecting bargains and camaraderie. Today they were screaming across each other bidding on the blouses, jeans, purses and jewelry. Like the New York Stock Exchange floor, it was a circus. Anyone visiting for the first time was amazed that Lulu Belle could decipher the offers through the clamor of high-pitched female voices that sounded like geese in mating season.

The frenzy continued in spite of the heat. Sweating women, arms heaped high with garments, sorted through the colorful stacks and racks. 

Lulu yelled to Etta Ruth knowing the woman could never resist anything that might convince her friends it was from Neiman Marcus. “That little turquoise shirt, or one almost like it, was featured in Neiman’s catalogue last year.”  

“I’ll take it! I’ll take it!” Etta Ruth shouted back. She had no idea what size the shirt was or if it would go with anything she owned but no own else in town would get it.

“I saw it first,” said an exotic olive skinned woman with wide horn-rimed glasses outlining her large chocolate colored eyes. She waved the garment high in the air. “I believe it’s my size and would be too small for you.” She flipped her long raven hair across her shoulders, held on to the bright cloth and resumed shopping.

“And who does she think she is?” Etta Ruth turned to Bea as she glared at the stranger. Then she made her way down the sidewalk closer to her rival yelling in her high-pitched voice. “I believe that shirt was held back for me!”

Bea squinted to put the unknown female into focus. She had never seen her before and it was clear this person was not familiar with Etta Ruth’s wrath when she didn’t get her way. Since Percy had become mayor, Etta crowned herself queen of El Chico and every woman in town knew to stay out of her path when she wanted something.

Etta Ruth grabbed the shirt out of her adversary’s hands. The woman towered over dumpy Etta Ruth. Bea saw the gorgeous female’s oval eyes dilate and knew the mayor’s wife had met her match. “Oh no you don’t,” said the stranger as she snatched the garment back.

Quicker than a slamming door, a large orange purse hit the taller woman in the head. “OH SHIT,” said Bea running to the conflict. It was hard to tell who was doing what.  The turquoise fabric made a loud ripping sound. Another handbag swung through the air. Blouses and jeans flew like giant birds. It was all arms, hair and screeches. Clothing, jewelry and bra coolers went everywhere as the other women joined in the uprising. 

Lulu Belle and Dolly scrunched down holding on to each other. Bea climbed on top of a table gazing at the pieces of turquoise fabric scattered along the sidewalk. She did her famous only-boys-can-do-it whistle and cupped her hands in megaphone style. “SHUT UP! QUI-ET! LADIES, LADIES, FREE I-ICE TEA FOR EVERYONE! FREE ICE COLD TEA FOR EVERYONE.”

Slowly the noise subsided and the shoppers located their purses and dignity. Bea got down from her perch and leaned over to help Lulu Belle and Dolly up from their foxhole-like positions. “Lulu Belle, go inside and brew some tea. And, Dolly, run across the street to the On the Road Again and get Billy to bring a giant bucket of ice over. With lemons. And fast!”

Returning to her table podium Bea announced, “ATTENTION! Ladies, ladies! Let’s not let our tempers compete with the heat. De-licious, cold, refreshing I-ice tea with lemons and lots of sugar will be served as soon as we help Lulu Belle fix-up this mess.” 

Still Life with Snails

Great with peace of mind
After I hold a conference with a bottle of wine
I step outside into the noise-clear evening air
And with my flashlight switched on high beam

Stitch the sky’s black nothing
Into a canopy of golden seams.
Suddenly a nightshift of crickets
Rises out of the earth’s scalp
Clicking castanets and tapping tambourines.
Their obscene cacophony stretches my patience
To the length of a fully expanded accordion
(((((((((((((((((((((Or thereabouts))))))))))))))))))))
And in a bellowing voice
I order the tiny miscreants to knock it off.
Struck dumb by my godlike wrath
They instantly comply.


Duly honored by their silence
I stroll calmly through our garden
Like the second coming of the lord
Baptizing zinnias and hyacinths
With bloom-shaped blessings of consecrated light.
Tomorrow when their petals
Open to the morning sun
My wife will pick the prettiest ones
Unless a caravan of hungry snails
Inching its way in my direction
Gets there first. Don’t those creeping connoisseurs
Toting hotel rooms on their backs
Know who I am? Perhaps they mistake me
For a soft-hearted New Testament deity
Or the garden’s maitre d’.

Some of our neighbors melt them with salt.
Others suffocate them in plastic bags.
My wife crunches them under her heel,
Cleans up the result and doesn’t flinch.
In the tool shed I pause for a moment
While I visualize my grandson’s fragile skull
Smashed to a bloody pulp.
Then I put down my hammer
And honor my divine power
By not testing it a second time.


AFTERGLOW

Such a glorious afternoon: 

Leaves shining brighter than the artificial lights 

On Broadway's highest marquees, 

The kind of theatrical foliage that makes little boys 

Leap high to shame the earth its stationary ways. 

Overhead a single sailboat gliding slowly across the skies. 

Look up there! A flock of migrating geese 

Honking their wild way home. 

In my garden huge chrysanthemums 

And roses still in bloom but overblown, 

Their petals wearing so much outrageous makeup 

They remind me of the painted cheeks

Of antique ladies playing bridge and sipping tea.

Once I searched for slow beauty 

To save me from the quick quick years I'd wasted 

And found it decorating the walls of the Prado 

And the Louvre-before I raced off to Portofino, 

Santorini and all the other grand places 

Recommended in the travel books. 

Now I'm growing old, have been for years and cranky too 

Each time my body recites its latest list of grievances. 

"Traveler, turn back!" the sky cries out to me

Whenever Sinatra sings come fly with me. 

Cramped seats? Jet lag? Fat chance. No thanks. 

I'd rather stay at home anchored to my shadow 

Treading water in the here and now. 

Wake up in my own bed and watch 

The blue arch of morning rise above the hills 

And lavish its beauty on our valley 

In the unfailing chronology of changing seasons 

For a few more years if I'm lucky 

Until life informs me I've had my share 

And am no longer needed here. But not yet. 

Not until my mind turns into a guide

Which has at heart my getting lost 

In that vast and lonely emptiness which separates 

The real world from what is not. 

Heaving a sigh, my soul will say goodbye 

And take its one-way trip to kingdom come, 

That secret, strange and peaceful place 

They never mention in the travel books

Where nothing ever ends, begins, changes or becomes.

The year was 1939 and I was 11 years old.  The bus from San Salvador had brought Mother and me to Santa Tecla to attend my uncle’s funeral .  It was the first time I had ever been to a funeral.  Miguel Angel had died three days earlier and the small adobe house was filled with family and friends who had come from various towns and villages to attend the wake and burial. The tropical heat was suffocating and intensified bodily odors as well as the cloying smell of gardenias.  

The front room had been cleared of most furnishings and a small altar had been erected against the main wall. A large photo of Miguel Angel hung there amid many religious pictures.  The closed casket, a simple wooden box, had been placed in front of the altar, surrounded by candles and vases filled with fresh lilies and gardenias.

In the small kitchen,  women were busy tending the continuous meal that had begun two days before.  The wood-burning stove was covered with pots of beans, rice and tamales, and the air was filled with the pungent aromas of cumin, bay leaf, garlic and cinnamon.  Pitchers of horchata and aguas frescas were placed on a small table near the front door to welcome the thirsty travelers. Out in the yard, a whole pig was roasting on a spit and would be eaten after we returned from the cemetery.  In those days, the poor waked their dead at home, did not have them embalmed, and by law, had to bury a body within three days.

At three o’clock, Father Lorenzo came to conduct the funeral service.  Everyone crowded into the front room as he blessed the children and comforted the widow.  Then he moved to the small altar and stood in front of the coffin, where he began the ceremony. 

He chanted the Latin prayers while swinging his aromatic censer over the casket: to the left, to the right, to the left, to the right.  The ritual was hypnotic and the smoke from the censer lingered in the air, hovering over the bereaved.

After the ceremony, six men—brothers and cousins—lifted and carried the casket outside. They placed it on a cart, pulled by two oxen.  The oxen were as much family as everyone else, and as I looked into their sad eyes, I thought they knew that their master had died.  Then, carrying the lilies and gardenias to place over the grave, all the relatives and friends gathered behind the wagon, walking in a solemn procession to the cemetery.

A light rain had fallen during the last hour and the air felt humid and filled with the smell of moist dirt.  The casket shook as the wagon lumbered down the stony road, sometimes sinking into a muddy hole, sometimes stopping while someone removed a large rock that impeded progress.

We arrived at the cemetery, which felt peaceful, its old, crooked tombstones placed haphazardly over the grassy lawns.  Small pots filled with flowers leaned against them and the trees were filled with happy, chirping birds, oblivious to the sad proceedings taking place below. 

To my surprise, some of the men began digging up my grandmother’s grave!  I could hear the thud of the shovels as they hit the stony earth then dumped the dirt in neat piles around the grave. (Mother then explained to me that it was not unusual to bury more than one person in the same grave, so Miguel Angel was going to be buried with my grandmother.)

Presently, the digging stopped.  I heard the men murmuring: they had found my grandmother’s casket!  They were removing her bones! They wrapped them reverently in a black shawl to place them inside Miguel Angel’s coffin.

The priest resumed his prayers, once again swinging his censer over the coffin.  I knew what was coming, so I quickly ran to hide behind a tree, about fifty feet away. Then, they opened Miguel Angel’s casket and released the overpowering stench of putrefaction! The smell of death floated up the little hill where I stood shaking behind the tree.  The odor in the air seemed to permeate everything:  the trees, the bushes, the hills-- all the way up to the clouds!  I felt like I would never be able to escape this terrible smell…it would follow me everywhere, forever!

Overcome by fear and the horrible odor, I didn’t know what to do or where to run. So I pulled my shawl down over my head and face and, trying not to breathe, I threw myself on the ground… and buried my face in the tall… sweet smelling… grass.

I’m reporting on a book I read some time ago but have never forgotten.

It  is an easy read, well  illustrated and has action leaving you wanting more. The vocabulary is easy without any need of a dictionary or asking someone nearby  what a certain word means..

The main characters are  Dick and his friend, Jane,  whose names are the title of the book, Dick and Jane. Jane may be his sister, in fact, but it doesn’t matter if they are friends or related, because there is no hanky-panky in this story. Dick has dark hair, as I remember, and is about 6 or 7 years old. Jane is younger, going by height of the character in the drawings.  If these details sound vague, it is because it has been about 70 years since I read the book but their ages aren’t given.

Action starts right away in the story, after being told briefly, in only two words,  “see Dick”, and there he is in a colored picture on the same page as the words.

Dick starts running, on page 2. We don’t know why, but the text says, “See Dick run” and again, there is a picture of Dick running, legs in motion, his body involved. Although she hasn’t been introduced, Jane is presented on the next page and peeking ahead of the story, one could wonder if Dick is running to meet Jane or just having a race with himself? This is part of the intrigue of the book. We never find out why or how the action gets started or ends.  

Next we meet Jane. “See Jane. “ She gets the same introduction to the readers as Dick, no feminine favoritism here. Jane appears to be a sweet little girl wearing a dress since when this book was written, no girls, young or mature, wore slacks or jeans or shorts. She meets Dick and the two of them run off and the drawing shows and the words tell, “See Dick and Jane run.” The brief vocabulary in this book leaves much to the imagination.  Was this a planned meeting? Are they running away from home? We have to be content just to know they can run. Which, by the way, is more than this reporter can do at the present.

 Baby Sally, who may be part of this family, appears to be about 2 years old with a chubby smiling face and blond natural curls. She may be younger as I remember her sitting on a blanket, obviously not running with Dick and Jane. She is brought into the story with the same intro, “See Sally” and is concerned with playing with a ball.  “Oh!”, she says, as the ball in the picture rolls away. “Oh, oh”, Nobody in this tale ever shows any emotion other than pure joy in running, playing with a large rubber ball, or, with the  character, “Spot”, the dog, and you can guess what he looks like. Spot can run too, which leads to him chasing the ball or simply running like Dick  and Jane did at the beginning of the story. Maybe Spot is supposed to go find Dick and Jane.  We don’t find out but Baby Sally is alert and smiling cheerfully says, “See Spot run” or for more emphasis, “Oh, Oh, see  Spot run.” 

To round our the story, which definitely needed something at this point, we meet a cat named Fluffy or Puffy of Muffy, I can’t remember. You will have to read the book to find out it’s name and if she can run too. 

I don’t want to give the ending away, but since the story is based on a limited 8-10 words, there isn’t much drama remaining. We may want to know if Spot did run away, since he is never on a leash, if Dick grows up to enter a marathon, if Jane finds another friend to play with besides Dick and what that emotional separation might create. Baby Sally? Her fate is wide open since her character is the least developed. As for Spot, dogs come and go and very few turn into a Lassie to make movies and a lot of money. Cats are a dime a dozen even cute ones like Fluffy, but at least we don’t see her run over on the side of the road. 

But the book Dick and Jane has been around for years, thousands of adults and children have read it more than once, sometimes stumbling over the words but with a real sense of accomplishment when finished with the story because it could be the very first book they have read by themselves. By the time a sequel of Dick and Jane as adults is written, it will undoubtedly have more words, even some bad ones, and far more action. This book is such an easy read you could read it before falling asleep and it is a small paperback that won’t hurt if it falls on your face if you dozed off. 

It was the boats that did it for me, the bay sloops and the dinghies,

Sliding through the waves, sailors discussing this or that option,

Voices calm across the swells.

Afternoon races over, the crews harbor bound, 

Relaxed in their post-game contentment,

Certain to reach the hoist before the gloaming

Retires shackles and cleats, removing them from easy reach,

In the camaraderie of effort made mutual by common goals.

Sailboats offend not. They rend not the ears, insult not the nose.

They bring joy to all the senses: 

Grace of line, perfection of poise, sheets of color,

All things counter and spare,

In the vibrant harmony of tackle and trim.

In their sporting mode, they survived the rude arrival of the industrial age,

Riding out the black storms of coal dust and laid-down grime of soot

With scrubbed decks and new paint.

They battened hatches, stretched awnings, and hunkered down.

Now in the post-industrial era, they ride high again,

Spread new high-tech wings, grow cams and winches never seen before,

Fledgelings on clean new air.

Inland, beyond the city’s glare, in the gloaming, 

Man’s smear has also dropped from our lovely world.

It’s nightfall and flights of duck arrows, 

Visible only as plunging black silhouettes against the pale blue of sky,

Wing a swift and silent way towards their evening pond.

Crazy broken honks from geese tell of their owners’ belated fall to water.

Stars drop into sight as if from outside our firmament.

Rags of cirrus float past like yesterday’s torn sails,

Emptied of rain, gradually losing the little color they possess.

Calm fills my soul; my time of day has come.

Blessed dark covers what I would not see; stillness muffles what I would not hear.

Humans are hiding in their houses, eating, watching.

Resting after their struggle to eviscerate Nature by day,

They ready themselves for tomorrow’s onslaught, 

Downing the small survivors of yesterday’s sunny hours.

Northwestering Man has been mauling Nature since the pyramids, nay longer,

Since he followed the retreating ice and herds of deer 

As they meandered towards the flickering sheets of color in the summer night sky.

Always there was more grass, forest, fish, though summers came and went.

Lands lay behind barriers of water, of mountains, of more people,

Till he met Northeastering Man.

They made agreements, broke faith, murdered each other, spread disease,

Interbred, and they populated and repopulated until the lion and the lynx,

Moving away from Man, fell off the map.

I came to Northern California as part of that migration, 

From an island nation that knew of boats,

And saw at once that The Bay would become

The place where I would be the most.

 

I was more innocent then, 

Busy with the rhythms of my blood, 

Yet knew there’d come a night without a dawn,  

When no amount of prayer would turn the ebb into a flood.

Ribbons of fog caught the headlights as the driver shifted down to negotiate the tight turns on the narrow mountain road. The roadster’s powerful engine took each curve with a pleased growl. It was made for this kind of driving but this night, with no moon, no stars, no road markers, no guardrail and zero visibility it made for extremely hazardous conditions.  Not to mention the sheer drop down a 400 ft. cliff face to the valley floor if a second’s miscalculation by the driver occurred. 

The dashboard clock registered 11:30pm.  The driver’s appointment at the mansion was for 10 minutes before midnight and there was still another 7 miles to climb to the destination.  Finally, a series of reflectors caught the car’s headlights and stone pillars came into view. Two great horned owls were perched atop looking like statues, until one blinked and the other turned its head.  The driver pulled up to a forbidding-looking iron grill.  A voice asked for a code word for entry.  The driver had memorized it, and announced “Beezelbub”. The gate, which looked more like a portcullis, retracted and the driver pulled up to double wooden doors lit  flaming torches. As he proceeded up the steps,  the doors opened silently.  Another voice announced, “you are on time, Mr. Romnais.  Please come inside and wait in the library”.  

The long hallway led to a massive room resplendent with crimson velvet drapes covering the windows. Bookshelves lined the walls housing what looked like a valuable collection of first editions.  Mr. Romnais smiled in anticipation of meeting the resident,  revealing a pale face and strange, almost iridescent, pointed teeth in the polished finish of a table.   Somewhere, a clock struck midnight. A cold draft blew into the room and the embers in the fireplace roared  into a mighty conflagration. He turned  round, and there before him, stood a 3 foot tall man in a bat suit holding what looked like a Bloody Mary in a goblet almost as big as his head.   “Did you bring me what I ordered” he said in a tiny person voice.  “I did. I’ve installed the apps that you asked for: 

    Sunrise,    Sunset,   

Phases of the moon 

      Hematology fundamentals,    

      GPS,       

Blood donor sites,

      Tax shelter opportunities in Transylvania, 

      e-books that include Anne Rice’s Lestat series, 

      and  the Republican platform. 

Here it is, the 8th generation iPod with 64gig ram.”  He handed over the device with the mirrored back facing the little man who saw his image.  A screech, a flutter of wings and he disappeared up the chimney.  

The man, known as Mr. Romnais,  uttered… 

damn….I forgot to give him the charger!”

The Ballgame

Our team lost --

it didn't matter.

Every man, woman, and child was out for a good time.

The sun, the smell of the hot dogs - "and don't forget the Guldens ®

and green relish."

There's this guy, sitting on the ground, doing yoga stretches, warming up,

while flags of all colors whip about in the warm air and

dogs in funny costumes are paraded about in the name of some cause,

who cares,

when the poodle's a convict in stripes, 

the chihuahua a politician in derby bat and cigar.

There might even have been a band playing.  I don't remember,

what with all that was going on, the billboard entertaining with

flashing facts and colorful trivia, the boats in the bay tooting, and

seagulls whirling overhead.  

A dad passing knee to knee carefully carries ice cream for his very young son who wears a Big A on a shirt much

too big for him, sitting enthusiastically under a hat 

that wears a  Big A and swamps his happy face. 

Everyone looks ahead at the field and talks sideways, 

yelling appreciation, roars appreciation, groans and laughs.  

This is the arena of patience and swift judgement.

Our team lost, but you wouldn't know it:  

We had such a good time: 

We had a ball!

I've Had Enough

I've had enough "maybe's" in my life

to consider "perhaps" not to be an upgrade.

A plain, gentle,

firm "yes" or "no"

does it for me.

Unless,

unless your heart's in the explanation;

that would make a big difference --

all the difference in the world.

The Moon, According to Li Po

The moon, according to Li Po,

has no emotion.

But, then, he'd been drinking

which can give a slant to feelings

that,

next morning,

are found out to be 

quite unreliable;

maybe an indicator, 

but not reliable.

Surely, he must know

that the moon is trust-worthy.

It might offer you some things

that you might otherwise not consider,

but 

we all know that the way we learn

is

to go out of our comfort zone.

We do know that,

don't we?

What a wise, loving moon!

           "The Year 4,000"

My guy's a 4,000-year old alien,

he's as spry as a goat on a spree.

He may look a bit odd to your eyes,

but he's my very own trans-galactic hon-ee.

My bonnie's bode is on the star Sirius,

so it means when he wants to see me,

he takes the night wind from his front door

and spins across our galaxy's vast sea.

The traffic out there is intense,

dodging meteors, asteroids and such

but he's really an artful dodger --

always good to have in a clutch.

When it comes to helium dating,

my guy is most stellar at fusion,

believe me, and I have to tell you,

his flash is not an illusion.

(The earth shook!)

So when you look up into the night sky

what you see is no meteor shower,

what you really are viewing

are sparks from our galactic bower.

Here's a toast:  To our future and to yours,

may it be lovely and loving as can be.

Our home will always welcome you.

Our address? On Sirius, 

no, 

seriously.

Click

 your soul mate 

 with a click

of your mouse

 might be a louse

not to worry

if not in a hurry

who ever is right

just a click away

down load your real knight

a flip o the wrist

a little twist

there he is

waiting for your kiss

Martini Me

martini me

 sipping for a glow

my father’1930’s 

recipe

a good  martini

mixed with care

4 jiggers best gin

one jigger 

dry vermouth

stir thoroughly

over plenty of ice

chill  the glass

serve with class

in a crystal glass

one will  do

or  maybe two

no more

or  one will be

 a martini  ass 

turning points

in my life 

last turning point

reality of age

enjoy life now

near future

poof! and I am  history

early turning point

I was born

 my parents turning point

poof! I’m  an  adult

young & pretty

career of sorts

fall in love

poof!  I’m a mother

three  turning points

vying  for love & attention

divorce their father

Poof! a single  working mother

fall in love again

another lovable turning point

divorce her father

poof! a single working mother 

fall in love again

this one forever

until he dies

Poof! retiree,  widow

grandmother

life in retrospect

a movie in fast forward

new turning point

 poof! just getting there

retirement living

the numbers game

Creekyside USA

poof! we gotcha!

poof! writing group

write about it

ups and downs 

tragedy & joy

success & failure

condensed

prose & poetry

pages & sentences 

scattered thru

the computer

poof! where’s our book

“write before writing” 

its in your head

the pundits say

 “the law of delay

one of the great 

forces of nature”

“there must be time

seeds of  thoughts

memories

to be nurtured 

in the mind”

for better writing 

one  published author used 

the word wait

 waiting and writing

under the Redwoods

 Poof!  here is our book

“Mr. Jones” I said as I  polished an  apple and placed it on his desk, “You gave me a failing mark on my translation of Caesar just because I missed three words.”  Mr. Jones was my Latin teacher and he seemed to regret that the Empire had tumbled in 400 something AD.  He would go back in a minute if he could and he’d wear one of those toga things and drive a chariot too. Until Mr. Jones got hold of us I’d never seen a toga.  Mr. Jones wore one to read us  a speech in Latin from some dead Roman.  

We figured that Mr. Jones wore it to impress Ms Ford,  the  cute Home Economics teacher. Ms Ford had no relation to the Ford associated with automobiles but she did have a distinctive chassis and bumpers. Why Mr. Jones thought that showing off his legs would wow Ms Ford was beyond all his pupils.  That was obviously the cause however because Mr. Jones  blushed and stammered when ever Ms Ford showed up.   But there is nothing funnier than a grown man stammering in Latin.  That in turn made Ms Ford giggle which thrilled all of the boys in class because it caused  a lot of oscillation around her diaphragm.  Mr. Jones however got a glazed look in his eyes   and stammered all the more. “ ET..et...et...” he repeated with a rapidity that sounded like a Roman jack hammer. Then his breath gave out and he turned red.

“My goodness Cyrus”, said Ms Ford. “Do relax and lend me your stapler.”

That is when we learned Mr. Jones name. He always went by C.D. Jones in the annuals and all the students were to address him as Mr. Jones.  Mr. Jones was not proud of his name apparently.  When Ms Ford spoke it it had a nice ring to it and sounded distinguished. This made Mr. Jones blush a deeper crimson than the oxygen deprivation crimson.

Mr. Jones fiddled in the desk drawers for the stapler then fiddled in his drawers to smooth the toga and then tried his best not to look embarrassed.  Ms Ford sashayed out of our class and Mr. Jones began to breath He loaded us up with homework, and excused the class.

As I was telling Mr. Jones earlier, he had given me a failing grade for a small mistake on a test and it could impact my passing the Latin class which I didn’t want to repeat in the summer.

Mr. Jones said,  “ET TU BRUTE”  does not translate to:   I had two burgers.   If you want to be a wise ass and insult the great Caesar, you can try it in the summer instead of driving your convertible up and down Hempsted Avenue  through July and August leaving long, ugly tire tracks.”  He was about to get into rage mode but he started to blush and stammer. Behind me,  Ms Ford had come on the scene.

“What is the talk about convertibles Cyrus. I just  love convertibles?  They make me ... so carefree.” cooed Ms Ford.

“Well”,  I popped in,   “ I was just asking Mr. Jones if he would like to try out my convertible during the week end.  The dealer doesn’t have the deluxe model of the Pantera Lioness in stock and he was interested in buying one but wisely wanted to try one first.  They  must be driven carefully or  the acceleration can make the wheels spin and  can absolutely pin the passenger into the seat.  It would be a while before a delivery would be stateside and naturally they get gobbled up quickly.  There is also a waiting list to consider.  I’m sure Mr. Jones would give you a spin if he cares to try mine out.”

“Oh, Cyrus.   A  Pantera Lioness !  How elegant.  I just knew you had excellent taste.  I would love to ride with you.”

Mr. Jones turned white, red, white, red,  in a long succession.  He seemed to be doing rapid calculations in his head while again  looking at Ms Ford with the glassy eyes.

Mr. Jones said , “Yes, very well Clinton, if you would drop by with the keys and the manual Friday afternoon you can tell me a few of its foibles.  In the meantime, you can think of how you will enjoy your place on the Latin Honor Roll. Yes, Very well, you may go now”

“Vini, vidi vici “  I said as  l left.   The last Latin I have uttered.

Santa was having a very bad day up there at the North Pole. Not only was the ice pack melting like a sink hole in Florida, but the Elves were on strike. The uniforms were now too warm for the weather, they demanded water-proof boots instead of green felt booties because the permafrost was getting squishy, the food was lousy, and such small portions, too. There was also the matter of the leaks in the roof, revealed as the snow melted, causing puddles on the factory floor. The shop-steward pointed out that these were a danger for slipping, to say nothing of electrical shocks if the puddles reached the machine floor.

Santa had contacted Snow White to ask if the Dwarves could fill in during the rush, but they said no, they would not cross the picket line. Well, actually Grumpy said “hell, no”, but that was no surprise.

As if the pressure at the toy factory were not enough, the reindeer were off their feed. Doc, on-call as veterinarian despite the work-stoppage, said that the grazing grounds had gotten infested with worms as the ground had warmed and become soggy. Climate change had hit North Pole Industries, Inc., with a vengeance.

Because of the labor unrest and the infra-structure fraying, King Cole, of Cole Venture Capital, was threatening an audit to review liabilities and find out what other deferred maintenance had now become critical. Santa was particularly worried about the condition of the sleigh which hadn’t had a good going over in, oh, centuries. At least he was confident that the vehicle would ace the smog test, as long as no one checked for methane and solid waste.

Santa’s accountants, Vern Snotmorton, and his lovely wife Gloxinia, of Snotmorton, Snotmorton, and Grimm, LLC, warned that Santa was going to be hit with charges and write-offs, weakening the dividend. This raised the issue of a sell off of stock at a time when North Pole Industries did not have enough liquidity to support a buy-back if the shareholders started dumping the stock.

Could things possibly get worse?

Always a bad question to ask when living under a cloud because, often, the answer is yes. Santa had just gotten an email from Three Kings Distributors that they were canceling their contract with North Pole and going with Amazon and Fed-Ex for the drop-shipment of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, to the Inn in Bethlehem, where they had a strategy meeting with The Star, which had been leading them a merry chase all over the Middle East.

t was just at this moment, while Santa sat at his desk and held his head in his hands, that The Littlest Angel arrived with the delivery of the Christmas Tree. Santa was a bit short on holiday spirit at that point, saying sh*t, sh*t, sh*t, instead of ho, ho, ho. 

The Littlest Angel had been drafted for the delivery even though he was several millenia under-age for the work and didn’t have a valid commercial driver’s license. The Littlest Angel, called TLA for short, also was known to have a tact deficit and was inclined to behave with outrageous good cheer, even in the face of the morose. It was a train-wreck just waiting to happen.

“Hi-ya, Santa,” TLA said with a big smile on his little face. “How’s it going? How’s the wife, how’s tricks? Boy, the traffic out there is a mess, all bogged down in the bogs. But never you mind, I made it here with your tree without a hitch, since I had it strapped to the roof of the Jeep instead. … Get it? ‘without a hitch’? Pretty good, huh? 

“So, who do like for the Super Bowl? Well, I can’t stick around for long. I have to get back to heaven-quarters because I’m scheduled to do the descant for the heavenly chorus on the 25^th. So I gotta hustle. I’ve got your tree right outside. Where do you want me to put it?”

And that, my children, is how the angel got at the top of the Christmas Tree.

Meanwhile, back in Bethlehem, the Wise Guys had finally arrived and gotten the last three rooms at the Inn, where The Star was hanging out with its posse. Who knew there would be so many folk there in the off-season? 

While Caspar and Melchior kicked back in the overcrowded tavern, Balthazar, always low man on the totem pole, had to check on the camels in the barn. Even that was overcrowded, with the presence of a homeless family, with a new baby! (can you believe where people take their kids these days?), and a whole gang of smelly shepherds. You’d think they’d never seen a lamb dropped before, the way they were gawking.

It was dark in the barn so he had to step carefully, for numerous reasons. Just as he got to the stall where their camels were, he stepped on the tines of a flat rake that was hidden under the hay. The handle came flying up and smashed him right in the face with a resounding whack! “Jesus Christ!” he yelped, as his nose start to bleed.

The woman in the corner with the newborn looked up and said, “Oooh, now that’s a lovely name! And here we were going call him Frank.”

TASSAJARA TRILOGY

Tassajara Hot Springs is a Zen Monastery in Carmel Valley in the Big Sur Mountains where I have gone as a guest almost every year since 1975. There is only electricity in the kitchen, the rest is lit by lantern.

THE WOMENS BATHS

Magical half lit shadows, lantern light.

Bodies slipping effortlessly into the hot pools. 

With closed eyes I hear breathing gasps of pleasure as I am sliding into the center of the earth where there is nothing but my singular vibrating body. 

Gentle waters lap at us and all is forgiven. There is no content only form.

Oh God, How long since I have been here.

A YEAR AFTER  THE BIG SUR BASIN FIRE of 2008

We are taking the stage 15 twisting miles on a perilous mountain gravel road through a fire ravaged forest. Everywhere are blackened stalks of trees jutting out from scorched earth.  Now, a year later, sprouted tufts of new green growth in the arm pits of the fire scorched trees.  Even on the ground there is new green. 

I am coming back to Tassajara a year after the Big Sur fire of 2008. I grieve and marvel at this site at the same time. I heard there were fields of wild flowers after the fire like never seen before, seeds popped open by the incendiary heat. 

Now we must drive through this devastation to enter Tassajara.   Every year I have come except for three fire years, one my own and two at Tassajara Big Sur. This fire was the biggest of the two and in the end, Tassajara Hot Springs was saved by a team of monks.  Everyone had to be evacuated save the five monks who refused to leave even when the county fire marshall demanded it. These monks sprayed water on almost all the wood structures they could get to and there was much laying on of foil before they had to leave. These monks were determined to prevail and did so.(There was a joke going around, it went ‘if you have a fire go find 5 monks to save your house’)  I had anticipated ugly smells still a year later, but there were none, not anywhere. I recalled my own house fire in 1977 that smelled of wet, burn, and sorrow.  

The stage finally slows and stops at the large wooden gates! They open. There is my Tassajara, the Japanese baths, the dining hall, the well tended grounds, cabins on the hillsides, the zendo, the stream to be walked, lanterns to be lit. 

I’m back at my summer home making love to this deeply healing lover in the Big Sur Mountains

THE SUMMER OF 2013

This morning I felt my life, the life I loved was leaving me behind, that I couldn’t do this rigorous gambit into the wild anymore. It was not even really wild in this gem of an ancient hot springs in the heart of Carmel Valley. But it was breathtakingly, achingly beautiful. It was everything. It was just right. It was the sunlight playing intensely on the green and yellow leaves of the forests of old sycamores, birches and pines and their rustling in the wind. It was water rippling over the rocks. How often I would look up the sheer mountain cliffs and be awestruck at the pristine and rugged beauty of this wilderness.  

The stage ride down always was a hot though now air-conditioned one and a-half hour, fourteen mile bumpy, gravely extremely curvy road where a few who drove it carelessly had died driving off the road and down the ravine. At the end of those fourteen miles stretched an elegant piece of wilderness, tamed by the monks who gradually built the rustic and perfect monastery, with cabins and hot tubs, called Tassajara Hot Springs with just that, a hot springs and a cold stream running through it that always made me bubble and swoon. It made me ache with happiness. I had been coming most every year for 40 years, it kept calling me back.

Once, many years ago in the very hot sun, my lover and I walked gingerly down the granite rocks from some path isolated and quiet, into the ice cold stream that runs through the valley.  Once reaching it, hot and overheated, we would disrobe and immerse ourselves deeply in the icy water, feeling the sheer joy of everything, of the beginning of the earth itself. I remember our making love on some warm, smooth rocks on the water’s edge hearing the water bubble in my ears.

But on this summer morning in 2013 my body hurt so badly after sleeping on a tatami in a cold cabin.  The night  before I had been sitting on chilly rocks looking up at the vast and brilliant sky.  Chilly rocks and a bad back don’t go well together.  It was getting harder to walk to the hot tubs from my remote cabin, my back ached, my leg had shooting pain and spasms. I was feeling too old and achy to be here anymore. I   thought “This is the last time I will come”  ” Say goodbye”. Like leaving a lover you can’t make love to anymore. But it was so beautiful how could I leave forever? 

This back and forth dialogue went on all day and into the starry night. It was too strenuous. It was too amazing to leave forever. I realized finally that I was looking at it all in black and white terms. Eventually I settled into a calmer state with the realization that my bones were older now and I had to accept these changes to my body,  make love to this exquisite wilderness differently, love my body differently.  I would not try to hike long distances (my bunions and my arthritis couldn’t take it) and no walking in Berkinstocks to the baths or scrambling over the rocks to the Narrows  a mile downstream and slipping down the water slide to the pool below. That was part of my youth. Now maybe a little cortisone every so often would help.  I would get a more comfortable, more expensive, warmer cabin closer to the hot tubs. 

 

Maybe I wouldn’t come every year but I couldn’t leave it forever. Life was too precious to give up on what you loved the most.” Oh my beautiful Tassajara,   I must see you again no matter what.” 

I am the Queen Bee. You know how I know? My friends tell me, and I also have a pair of blue bikini panties with a queen bee on them that proves it. I’ve been known as the Carrot Juice Queen, the Dance Floor Queen and the Queen of Curb, Gutter and Sidewalk (though I don’t like to show country property—for one thing, it wrecks my high-heeled shoes—and for another, there might be something out there that could get me). I am Her Highness in my family, Her Oneness in class and Her Eminence at my work.

    

I am also the Queen of Complaint and the Queen of Control. Why not? This world would be a much better place if everyone would just do it the right way. Besides, if I didn’t try to control everything, well who would? It might just all fall apart. I am clear it is up to me to be in charge. It’s the Queen’s job!

    

I am the Queen of Funny. Every once in a while though I hang out with my sons—just to make sure I don’t get too queenly. You see—my sons—they don’t think I’m so funny. I just think I have what you might call a ‘timing problem’ with them, that’s all. I gave my youngest a cartoon once and in it this therapist is slapping his patient upside the head telling him to “Snap out of it!” the caption in the corner reading SINGLE SESSION THERAPY. “I suppose,” he said, “you think that’s funny.” I thought it was hilarious. Apparently he didn’t. (He takes after his father.)

    

I am also the Queen of Confusion. I know right from left because I salute the flag with my right hand, but in dance lessons my teacher would say, “now come forward on your right foot”. I’d do that and my partner would lean into me and politely whisper, “Your other right foot.” I do know up from down however. Look, there are plenty of gas stations out there if ever I need to know any more directions than that.

Last week I went to see a healer as my bones have been aching so much. He told me, “Your bones are fine—it’s your mother. She hasn’t passed over yet, and she needs your help to get to the other side.” (They must not have any gas stations where she is.) I’m 53 now—the same age my mother was when she killed herself 33 years ago. 

     

He said she was my spirit guide, said I had a lot of work to do soon and would need her help, said she couldn’t help me until her journey was complete. He told me to put food and water for her on my altar every day, to pray for her and for my ancestors before I went to sleep at night. “I’d be willing to do that,” I said, and thought, "I’ll place some there for Michael too, just in case he’s still wandering around." 

     

As a kid, I knew I wasn’t a queen. I was invisible and it didn’t seem to matter if I was there or not; sometimes I’d sneak a look in the mirror to see if I really existed. I thought something must have been wrong with me, and if I could be perfect, well, I might be able to fix what was wrong. It’s been a big job—and, I’m awfully tired.

    

But I’ve been making up for all that these last few years—and what I know in my regal heart is that everything is perfect—and that surrendering is my work. I’ve wired it up for almost fifty years to protect this Queen of Hearts and it is taking some time to undo these bindings—piece by piece. I have to be careful as I think my heart might be cracked as it hurts so much sometimes. I have help too: I have honeybees in my heart, making honey out of my fear and shame, my resentment and guilt. 

    

I know now I have the heart of a queen, filled with courage and love. You know how I know? My friends tell me. And sometimes—when I take a peek in the mirror—I can see it too.

The Rules – that’s what my daughter told me she liked best after her first day of school. I stared at her blankly and repeated, “The Rules – what rules?” And I can honestly say I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Caroline was an “afternoon kid,” so she didn’t arrive home until nearly 3 o’clock. She looked like Heidi that day with her blond pig tails and, though she might have been a bit apprehensive starting out, I knew this was a child who was going to love school. She had already mastered her numbers and letters and was hoping to learn to read.

As she bounded from the bus with her sheaf of papers in hand and a grin on her face, I knew I wasn’t wrong. And, then, with her sister waiting anxiously to hear, I asked my question: What had she liked best about school? I had thought it might be the walk-in doll house that we had seen at kindergarten round-up. Or maybe it was the puzzle-like dinosaurs that were displayed on the bookshelves. No, it was none of those things. What she had liked best about school was:  THE RULES.

Then, in response to my puzzled look and, as if giving directions to a small child, she began to explain: “Oh, Mom,” she said, “It’s so wonderful; they have rules about everything: Where to hang your coat; where to put your shoes when they are wet, and where to put them when they are dry; where to put papers to take home and where to put the ones you are still working on.”

In response to her obvious delight, I asked: “And, don’t we have any rules around here?”

She never hesitated. “Oh, no, Mom,” she said, “we don’t have any rules.” And I expected her to go on, but it was not for her little mind to tell me why we didn’t have rules or what rules we didn’t have. She only knew rules when she saw them, and it was apparent she hadn’t been exposed to such rules before that first day of kindergarten. I could see it gave her a whole new sense of well-being. I could have cried.

Here was a child who had lived for five years in a house run by the mad hatter – looking everywhere for a rule to hang on to, and there were none to be found.

When I eventually pulled myself together from my first five years of failed mothering, which had passed before my eyes in the flash of this beaming face, I sought to correct my error. I asked her if we should make up rules for our house – and she jumped at the chance and involved her three year old sister, as well.

“So,” I asked, “what kind of rules should there be.” Using her model from school, Caroline started with physical things: like where to put toys; rules for cleaning up rooms, no sand in the house, etc. Then, she hesitated: “then, there are the different rules”, and her mind struggled to give these a name. She described them: “Rules about sharing some toys (and putting away those you didn’t want to share); and “No ‘ha-ha-ing’ when someone does something wrong.” She and her sister agreed in unison on this last one.

They also agreed they didn’t really want to have to tell their friends the rules when they came over. We finally decided on “house rules” - an important part being that they were not to be directed at a person but were said as: “In our house there is no ha-ha ing”; “In our house there is no pushing off the swings”, etc. Like the rules were part of the structure. We may all have thought that if they became part of the house, there would be a sense of permanence to them.  

As I looked back on it, I grew up in a house without many rules: no curfews, no allowances, no attention paid to report cards. Living with seven other people, however, we were frequently reminded to be good citizens but there were few actual rules. So, it wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t instituted many rules in my own house. My father had actually described me as someone who thought rules were meant to be broken; now I was dealing with a small child who was delighted by rules.

Though I always felt bad that my oldest daughter had had to grow up with someone who didn’t play by the rules, we’ve made our adjustments. Now Caroline and I talk openly about our different styles and how my lack of attention to detail drives her crazy. When I tell a story and I mention driving through a Burger King and she knows it was a McDonalds, she is beside herself. She wants me to pay her to keep my checkbook and I want to do it. In our complementary positions, we’ve come to a working relationship. When she babysits for my sisters, they often tell us how much alike we are, and we’re both pleased. She’s learned to take the things she can live with, meticulously enter them on her internal balance sheet, and make rules of her own.

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Shhh!

Can you hear them?  They want to tell us their dreams.

I know.  You think I’ve flipped.  She’s just another one of those whacko California tree huggers.  Okay, I’ll admit it.  I love trees.

I have to tell you about when it happened.  

It was a sweltering afternoon, heat waves distorting the air above the blacktop, so I retreated to a bench under a canopy of trees in Town Hall Plaza.  I felt like I was in an impressionist’s painting of dappled kaleidoscope light.  Picnickers lounged on the cool grass, children squealed in the sand box.  A fountain splashed in the distance and a breeze ruffled the leaves.  

I wondered if the trees were conscious, if they were watching, if they had dreams.  

“Hey, what do you dream about?”  I irrationally asked.

I think I startled them, because it suddenly became very still.

“Who wants to know?” A prickly cedar barked back at me, and then it was my turn to be surprised.

“I do,” I replied, acting more confident than I felt.

A catalpa tree dripping with flounces of heart-shaped leaves and mardi gras beans spoke up, “I’ve been dreaming someone would finally ask.”

“I have grand dreams,” her neighbor, Magnolia, interjected with a sticky drawl.

“Now, why would you ever expect a human talk to a tree?” The practical elm asked Catalpa.

“Ooh, ooh, ohh! I’ve had it happen,” interrupted big-leafed maple.  “A boy back in fifty-six apologized for breaking off a weak branch as he clambered high into my arms. I still dream about him.”

“That was when climbing trees was allowed in the park,” the sturdy oak, king of summer, with his elephant textured trunk, informed me.  

“Before plastic play structures,” the maple nodded toward a long line of children impatiently waiting to scale the ladder of a single slide.

The maple had hit a nerve and all the trees began to talk at once.  They get very loud when they do that.

“One at a time!  One at a time, please.”

“I dream of supporting a tree house or a tire swing,” said oak, flexing his muscular branches.

A sycamore with low embracing limbs spoke next.  “I dream of providing cover for a first kiss.”  A chorus of sighs echoed through the park.

“Koala bears,” a colossal Tasmanian blue gum eucalyptus thundered across the plaza.  “We don’t have any koalas around here.”

“I dream that people will remember to be happy.”  The weeping willow whispered as a proud mother and her yellow ducklings glided out onto the pond from under the shielding parasol.

And I remembered lying in the patchy grass under my grandfather’s willow, watching bunnies chew clover, lightning bugs attempting to out-twinkle the stars. 

I glanced around the park to see if anyone else was hearing this, but they went about their business, ignoring the trees and the crazy lady talking to them.

“I dream of Christmas all year long,” said a Douglas Fir.

Maple jumped in again.  “They string fancy lights and beads on her every winter and the whole town comes out for a party to see her.”

“She oughtn’t let it go to her head.”

“It is magical,” Catalpa protested nudging Magnolia. 

“I? I just dream that someone will notice me,” a shy sapling in the middle of an underutilized patch of park quavered.

I marched over to his spindly trunk and wrapped my arms around him.  It was awkward at first, like hugging a resistant tween-ager.  I just stood there hugging him until we both relaxed, and then suddenly, I was wrapped in love. 

I didn’t lose my mind that day.  I opened my heart. 

As I open the bookstore door, I find myself suddenly in the hollow of a great tree, between roots that house misshapen rooms, closets with red-green spotted doors, in a space easily 20 feet across, lit by a blue-green phosphorescent glow.  I go to the first door, which is narrow, but lumpy and leathery like the back of a frog, and open it and see it has a toilet inside, and I know suddenly that I have to pee, but if I go inside, it’s so very narrow I won’t be able to get out again, so I slam the door and hurriedly shuffle to the next one on the left. 

It’s larger than the first, with the top of the door the shape of a broad man’s shoulders. I know it’s big enough for me, so I open it gingerly and in the blue-green glow of its interior I can see another toilet and almost go in, but I detect the sides of the room are shifting, they’re beginning to squeeze. The door in my hand is changing its shape, like someone gripping the waist of a sandwich, so I know if I go in, the roots of the great tree will close around me and I’ll never get out, so I hurriedly close that door and move on to the next. 

When I open it, I see a small bald-headed man sitting inside, intent on his task, and he says “Hey hey! I’m already in here, go away, go away!” so I slam that door and as I turn into the space, I see that every root of the tree has a strange misshapen door on its inside, all arrayed in octagonal formation, each with a water closet within it, and as I look, some of the doors are opening and strange faceless men in 19^th century clothing, with bowler hats and woolen long-coats, are emerging from them, looking for all the world like claustrophobic paintings by Rene Magritte. I know now I could go in and safely do my dastardly duty, but the prospect still frightens me, so I look up into the trunk of the tree for spiritual guidance and as I do, the space magically transforms into the huge bookstore it was supposed to be, with a narrow metal spiral staircase in the center of the tree, winding endlessly to its upper floors, and tens of thousands of dusty old books piled up all around me. 

The space is lit by a window somewhere, fixed in its upper reaches, and in the descending amber light of the immense wood-paneled room, dust motes are drifting everywhere in the air. I step onto the spiral staircase, like Jack on his beanstalk, and quickly climb upwards, occasionally looking down as I climb, watching the floor recede, with its books stacked up beneath me in huge disheveled piles. 

At length, I come to a comfortable landing and step off the staircase and find myself browsing through the overflowing shelves, when I land upon a thick pale paperback book, by a P. J. Somethingorother, with a picture of a dazzling blond on the cover, as she lounges on a four-poster bed, a smirk on her face, in a tank top suggesting a hint of cleavage and a pleated skirt hiked up above her knees. 

As I open the book, I can hear the voice of New York critics who hail her screed in superior tones as unlike any other, an impossibly clever satire on the endless parade of fools and scoundrels that strut in abundance through the streets of their city. 

It’s a bawdy, brazen book, a montage of oddities that breaks all the rules, full of surreal pictures and scandalous disclosures, a scatological yet scholarly sibling to Julio Cortazar’s survey of impossible things: Around the Day in 80 Worlds. 

As I thumb through the pages, I can see quite plainly she has a terse, witty style, with very short sentences, unlike me, though many of the pages are nothing but pictures, so I return to the front of the book and now see an image the size of a full page, a surreal painting of a tall lanky figure in a long-coat and top-hat, suspended in midair, surrounded by a blue-green visible music, a spray of sounds with the texture of oil-paint. He’s a kind of Oscar Wilde of the sky, falling from the Land of Giants, and as I look at him he comes alive, emerging from the page, which is a thin film that’s somehow electronic, comprised of square pixels, while he’s three-dimensional and holographic. 

As he floats above the page, he begins to gossip in a confidential way, perched there in the air, telling me a story of a huge country house and a family goblin and a dark and dank October night, alluding to cultic, forbidden sex among high society women, while the strange Schoenberg-like music is coming off the page, peeling off and evaporating in the air. I think: It’s incredible! What kind of book is this? 

So I turn the page with the man who’s falling and see that its surface is very thin, like an LCD screen, while its back is thick, taking up a third of the thickness of the book, and behind it is something like a crystal version of the mechanism of a clock, with small gears turning and registers moving and the sound of ticking, of Time running out, so I turn the page back to the ranting figure, who’s still going on and on with his bawdy story, which I barely understand, but I’m simply astonished at the 3D hologram that is alive and moving and talking to me! 

So I shout: “I simply, absolutely, must have this book!” 

I turn round in a rush and begin to hurriedly descend the spiral staircase, brandishing the book as if it were a torch. As I do, I notice that the mountains of books are growing larger and more encroaching, they’re swelling and clustering so tightly around me that I can barely get down the staircase, so as I rush downwards in a corkscrew fashion, I stumble momentarily on a corrugated step. With that, the book flies out of my hands, and I shout “OH NO!” as I watch it tumble in excruciatingly slow motion down a narrow tunnel through the piles of books, twisting, turning, and tearing as it falls. I’m terrified I’ll lose sight of it, so I rush down faster and faster, till I touch bottom, and then I’m suddenly there again in the chamber of toilets! I rush over and yank open one of the doors, and there’s the bald man I’d seen before, just getting up and pulling on his pants, dutifully flushing the toilet as he rises. I see him lean down and pick up a few torn pages, a folio of the mysterious book, which he holds now dumbly in front of him. 

“I simply, absolutely, must have that book!” I shout again, as I grab for it, but he pulls it away and says, “Pul-eeese! Don’t you have any manners? There’s no need to shout! I know what it is! It’s one of those wonderful books by P. J. Somethingorother! Right? I daresay I’ve read almost everything she’s written!”

“But what’s the NAME of this particular book?” I continue to shout. “What’s on its cover?!!” 

“Well, my friend,” he says, while turning it over, “only a piece of it has fallen down the staircase. It tore itself up before it landed on my head and now, sadly, the cover is gone. But don’t YOU remember the title? Was it Carumbulus of the Bitter Root? That was a great book! I loved every minute of it!”

“No no,” I say, “it was something else!”

“Was it Perambulations Through the Red Warbulance?” he continues, almost chewing his words, so I can barely understand him, while he shuffles over to a pile of bookshelves, as I follow frantically behind. 

“No no!” I cry. “It was some kind of satire on New Yorkers in heat, a kiss-and-tell story with cultic overtones, told by the author and a falling man in a long-coat and top-hat, complete with thousands of holograms and images, all of them with a capacity to move, to project themselves into space if I lingered a moment on the page!”

“Aha!” he says, “then it must have been Wrangling with Quimly Behind the Spotted Shrooms!” as he moves back further into the depths of the bookstore, a kind of bewhiskered smelly old man, balding and round-shouldered, scratching himself in his armpit as he goes, pulling his reading spectacles from his pocket, but excited now at the prospect of selling me the mysterious book. Only now, he can’t seem to find a copy of it, so he’s down now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting and shuffling amidst the piles and piles, mumbling to himself, “It must be here, I saw it last week!” as he tosses the wrong books over his shoulders into the heaps of books behind him and continues his questioning. 

“Was it Pewter Corkscrew in the Sky?” he continues, buried in his search. 

“No no!” I say, feeling a mounting panic. 

“Was it Quintessence of Blue Spoons?”

“Ah no!” I cry out, now feeling despair, as the image of the tumbling book spins down in front of me, my fingers outstretched, as if still hoping catch it. “It’s none of those, sir!” 

“Well, the least you could have done is read the title,” the bookseller grumbles. “How do you expect me to find it, man? P.J.’s incredibly prolific! She’s written at least 10,000 books! Was it Winkling in Whale Time?” he continues, a plaintive tone now creeping into his voice. 

And as he asks that question, I shake my head sadly and hear something stir outside the bookstore’s walls, as if someone is rubbing the trunk of the Great Tree, like the sound of a sigh of a ghost passing by, as the bookseller searches for an impossible leaf fallen from the great Tree of Knowledge—only to suddenly feel a pillow against my cheek, only to then feel the cool Fall air blowing over me from the open bedroom door, only to inwardly cringe as I feel my mind now desperately reach to capture each fleeting leaf of evaporating scene, which even now begins to whisper away.

Morpheus help me! I know with cruel certainty that never again will I look on that book, never again see its living pages, with the Oscar Wilde-like falling figure, never again see its crystalline clockworks, or hear or see again its visible music peeling off the page, like pigment dancing before my eyes—unless I can somehow incubate a Door of Return, and dream the lucid dream I obviously require, to return one day and recover that book, that title, that leaf from that Tree….