Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Mirror Image - Robyn Makaruk


His anxiety level was at boiling point as he raced across town to catch the last ferry.  It had been a rotten day dealing with some of the company's most important clients trying to negotiate their way to a more acceptable resolution to their dastardly deeds. Well, that's what high paid defense lawyers did, and his head was pounding thinking about how the team had to defend their clients, and offer some mitigations without stepping outside the law. 
The last of the passengers were making their way up the boarding ramp, and he just had time to text in his drink order to the bar before the announcement came for 'all aboard' as he joined the last handful of commuters.  The bartender had his double martini ready and he made his way down to the lower level where the techies seated at small tables were already working on their various devices, smartphones, tablets, laptops and the like.  He found a table, opened his laptop and pulled up the brief he was working on.  This job was killing him, as his physician had reminded him every time he saw him.  “You've got to find some way to reduce your stress levels, Aaron....look at these lab results.  You're off the charts in all the critical areas”.    
The ferry horn rang out and the ‘all aboard’ message came over the address system as a final call.  Aaron looked up as the boarding ramp was beginning to retract and saw an unshaven man, limping with what looked like a prosthetic limb coming towards the ramp.  He had long, dark hair, a full beard, a large backpack, and was carrying what looked like an instrument case.  The employee lowered the ramp again and went to assist the last passenger, then the ferry closed the doors and started moving on out.  Shortly the limping man made his way down to the lower deck and eased into a corner across from Aaron, taking time to move the stiff left leg into place before he settled into the chair.  

Aaron was surprised at how the man looked and caught the man’s mirror image in the ferry’s corner window.  His face looked fierce, dark and foreboding, almost evil.  From the sunken cheeks,  to the steel-blue eyes, long dark hair tied back with a clip of sorts.   He was too polite to stare, but in his profession he’d developed a sure sense of a person’s character from what was offered in a first impression and this one boded ill. The stranger sat with closed eyes for some time while the ferry plowed across the Bay.  He seemed to go deep within himself.  Aaron texted the bar for a second martini and got up to climb the stairs to the upper deck.  

On returning he saw the stranger undo the hair clip, bend down,  open the instrument case and take out a classical guitar then clamp his hair clip on the upper frets. He ran beautifully manicured hands over the instrument and softly touched each string for tuning.  He lifted the guitar and started to play one of the most romantic guitar pieces known, Romance d’Amour.  Every head in the room lifted from devices, and turned toward the stranger. The low sound of the ferry engines did not deter from the beauty of the music.  Time seemed to stop.  Aaron’s realization of his judgment of the stranger came to smack him right in the gut.  How unimportant his job of stress and anxiety seemed when he could be transformed by beautiful sounds.  


When the last note was played, he got up and walked to the stranger and introduced himself.  “My name is Aaron Metzner, and I am an asshole lawyer.  The gift of your music today has awoken in me a renewed promise to myself that I will open my heart and listen to the world before seeing it with judgmental eyes and mind”.    The stranger nodded as if he knew what he was doing before putting his guitar in the case.  

LINK:
          
                                                      ***

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Crystal - Beverly Koepplin

You are like a crystal
ever spinning in the light,
and with each turn
you show me the sunshine.

I have learned to catch the reflections.
My hands are never empty.
In the prism of time,
I have learned to hold myself.
In the clear glass of life,
I stand tall in the light.

Whatever else this life brings
through the dark side of time,
you will always be there,
glimmering in the sunlight
like diamonds for my soul
and crystal for my heart.

              ***

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Is Time Real? - Noris Binet

They say that there is such a thing called time
as if it exists independently from us,
structured like a spider web  
covering all aspects of life
and ticking like a universal clock
measuring our actions

But what happens if just once
we let go and stop submitting
to the clock
and just not care
what time it is …

I grew up not really knowing what time was…
I remember going to my grand mother often
asking her for the time.
She would say go to the clock and tell me
where is the short needle pointed
and where the long one.
Going back and forth
to my grand mother as a young girl
is how I learned… not about time
but to read it on the clock.

But what is time really?
Is it an instrument of consciousness
to measure the flow of existence?  
Is it a construction of the mind to regulate
one’s actions?

What is it?

To keeps us on track as
if our life depends on it?
Can we find time anywhere
we look,
or, it is just another abstraction?

We can play with it and be mesmerized
by the idea of time,
but can we find it anywhere?

Some people and cultures become slaves to time
to produce more  and do it faster,
to get to the top, to become successful.
Other cultures
move slower, freer from time.
For some time is lineal for others cyclical.

But when one enters the territory
beyond the mind
then the idea of time ends
and what is revealed is
that time is only a construct
of the conditioned mind.

There is no past or future
Only apparent sequential events
taking place simultaneously
in this ever present moment.

The mind can’t fully understand this
because the mind only lives
in time!  
              ***

Monday, August 22, 2016

SELKIE - Joan Brady


Through the boarded window, a ladder
    of light falls across frayed carpet flowers.

Candles burn low in red glass bowls...
    illuminating shadow mice, as they
         scurry from a dead cat’s ghost.

Steel coils, spring up, ripping their way...slowly...
    through wine-stained, beige-velvet cushions.

A spider in her woven web...sits...
    suspended between wall and mandolin...waiting...    
         as the handless clock ticks in time
              counted by a cuckoo’s cry.

Forgotten food decays amid fragments of
    shattered porcelain...while the black phone
         rings over and over...
              then stops...unanswered.

Face up, a faded note lies upon the floor...

“Last night I dreamed of fuchsia fish swimming through air
    and when I woke, I longed, once again,
         to live beneath the sea...
              but I promise...I will be back often

                   enough to water the gardenias.”
***
Editors Note: If Selkies are unfamiliar, I suggest the movie linked below:

Friday, August 19, 2016


3,000 Words About a Picture

During June 2016, long time member of the Sonoma Writers Alliance, Joan Shepherd, suggested that a painting by Sonoma artist, Christine MacDonald be the inspiration for the weekly poem or prose story that members write and read each week. This is a reversal of the axiom that “a picture is worth 1,000 words” but it was not offered that this was just an exercise in mathematics.  Serious readers ... and writers ... know that all collections of words are not equal in their impact. Think of the first line of The Constitution of the United States of America, its 52 words preface the guidance of an entire nation. 


Following are some of the poems and stories inspired by Christine MacDonald’s work of art. They bear witness that the picture inspired much variation in the imagination of the writers and their perception of the artist’s inspiration that bore the image. The writers hope you will enjoy their work and Christine’s. 


Christine’s website : http://www.christinemacdonald.com      











The Dog Who Looked at the Moon - Lucille Hamilton

I know I will upset grammarians who will point out that “who” is only for the two-legged animals. Who, in my book, is reserved for those whose spirit is so finely tuned to speaking with us humans that it would be improper if not inappropriate to use which, which would raise up a debate on what of Great Mysterious’s creations has a soul, etc. and I don’t want to go down that passage with the dog I have in mind. 
   
Finn appeared in our lives one autumn afternoon when we were having a break from our chores, sitting out on the lawn overlooking the islands that have surfaced near in the bay of the main land. They have taken on the aspect of the Arthurian tales of mystery, of places where the wounded spirit goes to be revived. And it is true, for I have seen just a casual tourist altered by a visit to the isles, experiencing a change that is quiet and yeasty in its ability to rise and form some self-questioning that leads to change and reassurance. 
We had no idea where Finn, as we came to call him, came from. We were having tea and he just wandered up our slight hill and sat down, head on paws observing. He had no collar and as no one claimed him, he became ours. He came as a frolicking shoe-munching puppy, and grew into a thoughtful and intuitive being, able to watch with wisdom and affection the interplay of the humans he had taken on. 
He could tell the shift in the weather, which can be quite sudden living among the islands as we do. He knew when and where fish were gathering and kept us informed of predators, barking at skunks and deer. He could read people’s intentions. It wasn’t until some time passed that we became aware of his many skills at understanding and translating for us that which is unseen. 
The picture of him you have held in your hands, well, I’m sure you have felt the magic of it. There is a story that goes with it. Christine is an artist who lives further up the hill on the edge of the forest. She and her husband have lived on Barra all their lives and are familiar with the folk tales and myths such places hold to themselves. Christine has the same “eye” as Finn. They understand each other and it was she who taught us to pay proper attention to Finn and his behavior. 
We all know how the moon affects us. It does so particularly with Finn. He will go down to the beach at the full moon and sit, sort of meditating on what that world  traveler has to teach him. The effect on the tides, the running of the fish, foxes in the woods and the return of spirits for good or mischief. Finn ”knew”  that the Ferguson’s calf was in danger alone in the woods, that Angus was having trouble with the haul of salmon he had landed, that Elsie’s barn had caught fire. That sort of thing. He also anticipated events: if you found him sitting and not budging from some place, you’d better pay attention as some thing requiring your attention was bound to happen. 
It has been a long time here on Barra since we’ve had a Spirit Dog with us and it is important to recognize that it has happened with the coming of Finn back to our island world. It encourages us and reminds us to pay attention to what is natural and nourishing to us and our world, that there are always signs out there for our interpretation. That is why we have come to sit beside Finn on nights when he is down at the beach watching the full moon rise in the sky, enlightening us all. 
                                        ***
I Had Rather Bay the Moon Than Be Such a Roman - Michael James

Hey Moon, listen up, my friend! Give me your full, round attention!
I’ve had it with people! They are weird. They get themselves tied up in knots all the time, mostly over trivial things like speculating about the morality of their actions because they can’t do things just for them-selves. They have to have reasons before they can push themselves into action. So they like to make fun of us canines who, once a month, feel the fur rising along our spines, and cannot rest until we have found a nice cliff overlooking a lake where we can reconnect, through some full-bodied howls, with you, the light of our nights. We don't hold back under the full moon; we let it all hang out, both lungs, full throated. Nothing namby-pamby about us on those occasions.
And two-legs wonders what we do it for! They can’t imagine that we don’t do it for anything at all. We just do it! What’s so mysterious about that?

If a two legs were caught howling under a full moon, you’d know for sure it would be an act, a put-on or for some reason like research. They have to cook up justifications for all their actions; they can’t do anything simply because they want  to.  You don’t hear us wondering if we are treading on someone’s toes, or awakening sleepers in their four walls when we bark at night. We don’t worry if the senate is going to think us ill-mannered for cracking open the midnight safe and letting out the family chords for all to hear. We go for it, man, and be damned with what anyone thinks! 
When two-legs wants to take a hike out in the woods and fields, he can’t allow himself just to take off. He has to put on funky clothes, round up a couple of wheezing buddies, gather a bunch of sticks and little white balls, and march around prissy little greens whacking his balls ahead of him, pretending to lose them, then finding them each time and whacking them again. And two legs don’t seem to find that funny or peculiar; they don’t go putting each other in kennels for doing that even though it makes no sense.
Of course one of their main shortcomings is not taking time for really important things, like looking around them, listening, smelling, tasting, touching whatever they come across. Take smell, for example. I don’t think they have more than the slightest experience of a real aroma; in fact I don’t suppose most of them use more than one word to express olfactory sensations. “Smell:” that’s it for them. You know, they say we don’t see color, that everything we see is a melange of blue-grey-green. Well, maybe. But if so, we more than make up for that deficiency in the range of odors we can detect, in the audio frequencies we receive, in the tiniest movements we observe without even trying.
From our point of view, two-legs are sensorily deprived; they live in a world that would bore us stiff, it contains so little of interest. Nothing is going on; that’s probably why they have to yack so much. Why, they don’t even touch each other when they meet, except for a vey quick paw shake. How does one know another’s internal condition if he doesn’t smell her? How does he know whether to trust another if he doesn’t take the time to read his body language? They exist in little cocoons almost sealed off from each other and the world as if out of fear of contamination, fear of losing themselves in other beings, or fear of diluting themselves. They are a sorry lot! 
And yet they have the audacity to lord it over us, to make judgements about us based on the poorest sensory data you can imagine. And yet, with the little information they can scrounge up, they tell us we don’t have immortal souls and what we do possess isn’t going to the same place as they are when we die. Well I’ve got news for them, baby: they ain’t going anywhere either! All their notions about an afterlife for people who were good on earth is mere superstitious fantasy, wishful thinking at best. 
They like to think of us as inferior to them and not in need of things like freedom. Some of them keep their poor dogs ever on the leash except when they’re inside a house or a cage or a back yard. What cruelty! Imagine being born to roam free, to run with deer, to chase other four-legs in play, and being denied using that gift which Nature gave us! People who do that to their dogs should be euthanized, put down, terminated, or if that were considered extreme punishment, at least have their dog taken away and be replaced with a cat.
That would take an organization like an SPCA with police powers, and I wonder, Moon, in your flight around the globe, would you see if such a force exists anywhere, and would you tell me on my next howling night if you find one? Thank you, Moon!
***
The Tale of Mud the Mutt - Beverly Koepplin

Where have all the sheep gone?
I just took a short nap, where I was out of the wind and warm,
and when I woke up, the sheep were all gone.

I climbed over hill and through dale
and followed their scent and lost it and found it and lost it again
until I came to this beach, and I do not see the sheep anywhere.

I don’t really want to go into the water to look for them.
I think if they were here and went swimming,
they are long past saving anyway, just lumps of wet wool by now.

And besides I am not a water dog, I am a herder.
If I go in the water, I paddle gracefully, head held high.
I do not romp and splash and come out all smelly with a dripping snout.

It is getting darker and colder.
The orange ball in the sky is sinking into the water
and I am so hungry and tired.

I wish the sheep would show up so we could all go home.
I cannot return to the farm without the sheep.
If I did, my name would be Mud.
                                       ***
Watch Dog - Dave Lewis

My master he went fishing
Leaving me and the sheep behind
To the duties of a shepherd
He seems just totally blind

A storm blew up the day he left
Churned the ocean all to foam
Left the missus solitary
Scared in an empty home

Didn’t smash him on the shore
It blew him to the west
Out over the horizon
Where the sun god goes to rest

Now the priest he comes by regular
To keep the missus cozy
Shows up in the dark he does
The neighbor is quite nosey

Just looked to the ocean and saw
A boat with a broken mast
She sports a tiny sail 
But not coming very fast

‘tis the master’s boat I’m seeing
Tacking toward the bight
I’d better warn the priest
Or there’ll be an awful fight.
                 ***



Ode to a Master - Robyn Makaruk

I was there with you as you lay on your deathbed, 
your hand on my head.
I listened to your fading breath and
heard your whispered last words to me
“I’ll meet you in time, my faithful one, 
when you join me in Valhalla.”

They wrapped your mortal remains in the robes 
befitting the most revered of our tribe,
and placed them on the drekar
with the dragon-head already breathing fire 
as the long ship headed towards the horizon 
on the outgoing tide.
I am still here as the sentinel of your memory, 
my beloved Master.
Your essence has shrouded even the moon 
as I await the journey to join you.
***


Harold - Ellie Portner

Harold was a small
Brown-haired shaggy mutt
Rescued from the pound
And certain death

Harold was mine
Mine was the hand that fed him
Mine were the errands we ran together
Mine was the piano where he urinated
When I left the house without him

His were the fleas
That invaded the carpets
That could jump knee high
To grab a bit of blood
His was the stink earned
Scaring the skunk
Under the house
His was the cancer
That ended our friendship
Mine was the sorrow
That Harold was no longer
A part of my life
              ***
A Dog's Tale - Joan Shepherd

Truthfully, I have never seen a mermaid. And I wonder about King Neptune, apparently a human of royalty who is the ruler of the seas. Sailors have reported seeing beautiful mermaids, even some that waved to the men to come closer. A whiskered cook wearing a greasy apron told me this story late one night as I drank strong coffee in a cafe in Scotland.

King Neptune had  been  ruling the oceans as long as anyone could remember. In the beginning, the oceans were pristine with  beautiful coral reefs in all kinds of colors, like a rainbow under water. Plants, too, grew tall, waving with the current of water to an audience of fish and other creatures. All kinds of fish, big and small, shared the seas in comfort, giving fisherman their catch in order to keep the occupancy in control. One could even see mermaids swimming about and often on a stable rock sunning themselves. No one ever saw an ugly mermaid. Half fish with scales reflecting the sunlight and an upper torso of a lovely woman using her long hair as cover for modesty.

One would think the mermaids would be happy living a life in or out of the oceans. But not Serenity. She had won every swimming contest except three when she didn't compete but was posing for a painter. Being out of the water and doing something productive pleased her. Talking to the artist was stimulating. Some of the underwater creatures had noticed Serenity with the artist and began calling her “Siren” instead of Serenity, so Severity decided go see King Neptune. 

King Neptune couldn't stay out of the water like Serenity so they met by the barrier reef in Australia.” Your majesty’”, Serenity began. “I have not been very happy lately. This sea is wonderful but it is changing. It's not as clear as it used to be, I almost got hit by some dumped garbage and I'm losing my scales. See here?” She indicated several spots on  her shimmering tail.  “I’m being teased and called a Siren just because I enjoyed talking with a man who was painting a picture of me. I'm thinking I'd like to leave this sea and live on land. But I can't looking like this. Not only would everyone stare at me but I wouldn't be able to walk and explore the land. I want to run, I want to meet more humans and see what they are like.I want to eat something besides fish and greens.” She began to weep salty tears that weren’t noticeable because they were under water at this meeting.

King Neptune listened intently with concern. “I understand, Serenity. You have been a good and beautiful addition to our oceans. I’d hate to have you leave but feeling like you do, it might be best. You can’t possibly go on land as a human.I do have the power, with help and your cooperation, to let you leave the sea and survive.You will be cold so you need fur. You want to run and explore with some independence so you’ll get four legs for speed and distance without tiring.You will need guidance so we’ll give you a human to teach, guide and love you.  And, you will need to learn dependance on others as well as loving those that help you. And lastly, you will miss the sea that has been your home so we’ll put you on a seashore and trust you to use all your instincts and knowledge to succeed. Are you still determined to make this change?”

It was now Serenity’s turn to think silently before a smile crept across her face, her eyes directed to King Neptune’s eyes. With a determined voice, said yes . “I think the best change would be a cat or dog. A cat  seems too small but can take care of itself. I want people in my life as I learn to  adjust to legs. A dog it is.”

The King gave her a few days to make sure she was ready  but her excitement was obvious. She caught  crab and lobster and got an octopus to crack the shells, wrapped fish eggs in seaweed, got some clams to dig up some turtle eggs for a party with all her mermaid  friends. A table of woven seaweed was decorated with trinkets made from fishing gear men had lost as well as borrowed coral which was returned immediately afterwards. All her friends were curious to watch the transformation but the King demanded a completely private spot near a dock where he and Serenity went through the painless magical procedure. The mermaid changed into a fairly large black and white dog that immediately shook sending droplets of water on King Neptune, then licked the Kings face and trotted off on four mostly stable legs. The dog explored the area a bit, ate a few french fries left on the wharf, and wagged it’s tail in pleasure. A man approached the dog and gave a few pets on it’s head which the dog seemed to appreciate but trotted down to the edge of the sea and looked out. The dog had no recollection of anything prior to the last hour but  for some reason, felt a deep attraction to the sea. A fisherman called out, “Hey there girl, you going to sit there all night? Come over here and get acquainted. I’ve got a treat for you.”

The dog’s head turned to look at the man, then back to the water, and back to the man. 

“Come on, girl. I won’t hurt you. Look here”, as he extended his hand.

The dog’s tail began to wag.  She stood and slowly walked to see what was in that hand.
                                         ***




Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Katerie and the Mirror - Michael James

The wife of my brother-in-law has a Navajo for one parent and a Hopi for another. She was raised Catholic, though tribal beliefs remain with her, perhaps as a result of being raised on a “res,” as she calls it. The event I am about to relate comes at second hand, for it was to my wife that she told the story.
Katerie was  sitting in front of her make-up mirror late one night when she was in her twenties and living in a house rented by the parents of  her husband, my brother-in-law. She was the only person awake in the house, nobody else interested in watching her go through the laborious process of plucking her eyebrows.
When she was almost finished she got up from her seat and returned after a minute and was seated before she again looked into the mirror. When she did so, she let out a gasp, for instead of her familiar face looking back at her, there was an aged woman gazing steadily out of the mirror, her dark eyes fixed on Katerie’s, only her head visible.
Katerie jumped out of her seat and ran into her bedroom where her husband lay sleeping. She called him awake and dragged him out of his warm bed to go look at the mirror which by now only reflected his face. 

“What did it look like?” he asked.

“It was wrinkled; the hair was matted and long; her eyes were staring but expressionless.”
“You know, time does funny things sometimes. You might have been looking at yourself fifty years from now,” was all he said turning to go back to bed.
“She was white!” Katerie exclaimed to his back. But he kept going.
Katerie returned to her mirror and sat down before it without daring to look into it.
When she did, she let out a scream and jumped to her feet, for there was the old hag looking out at her again. She turned out the light and ran into the bedroom and quickly snuggled in bed next to her husband, swearing to herself never to use that mirror again.
As it turned out, it wasn’t the mirror as such that was to blame for her fright. One evening, months later, after the house was again unoccupied, I was asked to retrieve a piece of furniture  my mother-in-law had forgotten in the basement when they left the house. As I looked around for it with a flashlight, I distinctly heard the floorboards creaking as if someone were walking across the floor from the far side of the room towards the spot directly over my head. 


“Can’t find it,” I admitted to my wife as I joined her in our car seconds later.
                                                        ***

Saturday, August 13, 2016


Why I Live In the Country - John Field


I love the language of the day’s ten thousand aspects
—Mark Doty                                                          
                                                                                          
Because I wanted less of San Francisco’s              
Cold gray fog, noisy trolley cars clanking                         
Up and down steep hills, yammering
Fire trucks waking me up,
The whole damned dense
Quick essence and crazy flow
Of what city folks call real life.
No Thanks.

These days I’d rather wake up
In the Valley of the Moon,
Oh wonderful freshness of the morning air,
And carry on the serious business
Of staying alive by watching the sun
Finger-paint the hills
As if remembering them by touch.
Then take an after-breakfast stroll
Through my flower garden’s
Summer-swollen plentitude
Of variegated colors
Almost on fire with themselves.

Do I deserve all this?
I suppose I must because otherwise
I wouldn’t be here,
A perception which leads me
In the direction of empty-headedness,
A feeling something like happiness
Only better----imagine Sarah Vaughan
Nuancing My Funny Valentine just for me
On a fine midsummer afternoon,
Not a cloud or vapor trail in the sky,
Just a slight toss of leaves in the air
As I amble down rustic country roads      
Past vineyards and olive groves
So Tuscany it’s almost as if
I’m dreaming them.

Why leave? I’ve been.
Watch out! Get out of my way
Because here I come
At eighty-years-old-per-mile,
Shoes talcomed in dust,
Earth firm beneath my feet,
Thoughts soft and ripe as fallen fruit:
Figs, cumquats, plums, cashews,
A thousand oceans in a drop of dew,
The new moon’s little skullcap,
Japanese footbridge, strawberry patch,
Crepes and champagne,
John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme.

Just to be here for a little while,
Just to be here and then adieu
Because dying is like taking a dump,
A Zen master told me, it’s what we do.

Postscript: In 1959 I spent nine months rooming in a Paris flophouse nicknamed the Beat Hotel. William Burroughs lived three doors down from me. He had just published “Naked Lunch” and was experimenting with a new way to write called the Cut-up technique. This consisted of randomly selecting and rearranging sentences and paragraphs from books, newspapers and magazines. Needless to say, the plot of his next novel got a bit confusing, but his story-line was fine if you read it when you were stoned. I used this technique when I wrote “Why I Live in the Country” by cutting up the last three poems I’d written and then pasting lines and stanzas from them together. JF     



Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Dancing,Dalliance,Debarking, ...Delightful Java

Of course it was during the thirties.  Boat cruises and all the 
wonderful send-offs with colorful streamers and champagne and boat whistling and tooting. Crowds everywhere.

Turning back to our stateroom on the second deck, such a
grand view of the bay broadening into ocean as the shore-
line receded.  Going down the Grand Staircase to lunch in
the Grand Ballroom, the orchestra playing "Toot, Toot, Tootsie,Good-bye" and other lovely jazz nonsense.  Every
thing was festive and gay, everyone was happy.  Caviar,
smoked oysters, you name it.

A brief nap.  Henry, of course, up and about, smoozing, I 
think the word is.  He was never one to miss an opportunity, building up connections and sales.  This was our first trip to the far east.  Henry has gotten it into his head that he could make a mint selling his  Rolls to what he called "the rich potentates of the East."  So there we were, headed out for half a year of traveling, building up trade among the titled and the wealthy tea plantation owners.

He had seen to it that I had the latest Chanel, Mainbocher,
and Schaparelli, while he stopped at his tailor's in the City
to update his wardrobe.  He even insisted that all my under
garments come from Italy and be of silk - which gave us
both pleasure, I can assure you.

So we ate and danced out way through Suez.  Well, you
know from your own experience that from there on out, the
weather is entirely different from home.  No more dancing
late what with the heat becoming the "topic du jour."  Every-
thing seems to sag after eleven in the morning.  Too hot for
morning tea, but great for Pimm's once the whatever it is 
has gone over the yardarm.  Even Henry wilted, which made me relieved in one way that at least he was human like the rest of us, losing his usual crisp, take charge, full speed ahead.

We formed the habit of drinks in the bar, dinner and then 
chatting with others as the orchestra played each night in
the ballroom.  Although others were dancing, we simply
found it too hot and stayed put, chatting away.  I really 
wasn't interested in the conversation as Henry was - as always still working, making contacts and being pumped-up cheerful , which most everyone else seemed to find attractive.

I'd sit, stirring the watery drink, looking around the room,
as were some of the other women at the table.  I started to look at the details, the intricate woodworking of the stage
and panels.  It was then that I spotted the dark, handsome
man playing the bass fiddle.  He was a whizz with it, bringing out twists and tricky turns during his solos.  We "twigged." Henry would be still working when the orchestra folded for the night.  It was only the first time with the fiddler that I was late getting to bed.  Once established, we found other times and places to meet which worked out well.

He was a good lover, and I began to fantasize about our life together.  He said he wasn't married, coming from an
extended family in Indonesia.  He had no education to speak of, but once he'd gotten the job on board the ship, had started reading some of the great writers of western literature on his time off.  I know that he knew he was handsome, just the same way I knew that I'm an attractive woman, but, except for jokes between ourselves, this didn't matter.  And I can't tell you how refreshing and clear this felt.

After Suez, the steamer relentlessly made its stops of call, Singapore, Java, Sumatra, and so on.  By the time we got
to Indonesia, I had made up my mind; I would leave the 
ship and belongings in Java, disappearing to start a new life with my love, happily wearing sandals and colorful  cotton batiks, fresh flowers in my hair and welcomed into  an enormous affectionate family, a new circle of friends, and the love of our long, good, simple life together.

As for Henry, he got over it in time, returning home with lots
of sales and potential connections, which made him happy.
He married Maud, his office secretary, who made him a
good wife –  happy at serving tea and drinks to his friends and potential customers.  We kept in touch, occasionally visiting each other.  All things forgiven.  He even lent us money to get our own plantation which is now successful with the loan repaid with interest.  Every once in a while, my man will get out the bass fiddle and I'll dance to his wild rendering of "Toot, toot, Tootsie" collapsing into his arms to watch the night stars splashed across the dark immensity of sky.

My man and I just love happy-endings;  that's what we
work for, for everyone.

                                                        ***