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dedicated to the art of the written word
================================
POETRY INK 2.07 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================
**Poetry Ink Electronic Literary Magazine**
~Dedicated to the Art of the Written Word~
Volume 2, Number 7
Issue 14 (December 1996)
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Masthead
--------
**Editor & Publisher**.............................Matthew W. Schmeer
<
[email protected]>
**Honorary Editor Emeritus**.........................John A. Freemyer
<
[email protected]>
**Senior Contributor**................................Wayne Brissette
<
[email protected]>
************************Literary Correspondents**********************
Lawrence Revard Phil Pearson
<
[email protected]> <
[email protected]>
Shaun Armour Rick Lupert
<
[email protected]> <
[email protected]>
Calvin Xavier Maybe You?
<address unknown> <your address here?>
**Submissions and Other Contact Info**
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Legal Stuff
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From The Editor's Desktop
-------------------------
You know, I am getting kind of sick of writing these little intro
ditties, but then as the editor and publisher, its my job to keep you
up to date on the latest happenings here at POETRY INK Headquarters.
As you probably know by now, we had a little mix-up in sending out the
last issue of POETRY INK to all our subscribers; for some reason a lot
of you received the zine as seven or eight segmented files, and others
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On another note, back issues of POETRY INK are now archived on
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Not only is POETRY INK going to be included on this CD-ROM, but the
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By the way, "Are You A Space Alien?" will also soon appear on one of
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Matthew W. Schmeer, editor and ascii addict
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Corrections Department
----------------------
No corrections, so no worries!
Belles Lettres
--------------
A place for reader comments, criticism, and other assorted feedback.
Not too many letters with complaints, suggestions, etc. these days, so
this section is devoid of any meaningful content besides this little
explanation.
The Write Thing
---------------
(Okay folks, this one is a groaner. But at least it's clean enough to
share with your kids.)
_The Chicken & The Frog_
A chicken goes into a library and says to the librarian: "Buc buc buc
buc buc" (i.e. chicken sounds).
The librarian gives the chicken a top-ten novel.
On the way out, the chicken meets a frog coming in. The chicken shows
the frog the book, saying: "Buc buc buc buc buc."
The frog replies: "Reddit reddit reddit."
(Hey, I warned you this was a groaner!)
Got a good joke, a funny story or a bit of humor pertaining to the
literary arts? Send it to POETRY INK with the subject line "SUBMIT
WRITE THING".
Featured Writer
---------------
Stephen R. Ward <
[email protected]>
3 poems and an essay
_Rose_
The rain washes his eyes
(I rose before the stars wanted to dim)
They suppose that he cries
With sadness that his love is not with him
But she is always there
Who rose before the suns and earths were made
(You whom I think most fair)
With echoed smiles of joy that will not fade
And he is always here
Who rose before the stars had walked above
Two eyes and one small tear
(Why? I would say my spilling fuel is love)
*--==--*
_Seascape at Night_
a wave winding wide (the passive pulse of
you) (a dormant undulation as the
moonlight burns its fluent fingers on my
siren shore) strokes heavy in sleep and pulls
the surf of mating sheets in ebb and flow
(the glistening ocean droplets of your
suspensive swell) towards the haven of
the sinuous sedative beaches of
remembered deeps that were described as i
who watch the billow of your curling tide
(crawling by its deft degrees of sleeping)
(advancing unknowing pillowing pride
unconscious of my eye also weeping)
and the surge in me beats mariners time
when the echoing surf and shanties of
your wave winding wide (in passive pulses)
and surging swells as your seascape brightens
as i dreamed the partnership (of soft wave
and beckoning beach) and can now paint it
*--==--*
_Never Having Been_
If I could say
in a funny way
like Roger McGough
that the thing nearest
to my mind is
what to rip off
first: your jumper, dearest,
or your jeans:
what would you say?
(If I would have my way,
my funny way,
with you,
what would you say?)
Who would believe
that adultery
could be so easy?
Just a nod and
some (although I
was never any good
at) winking.
Don't go thinking
'bout it.
Don't tease me
either, non-believer.
(If I should have
my way,
you say.)
If I should
would you?
Never having been
or having seen
another's
weird attempts
under covers,
I likely would fumble,
not tumble
into bed.
(He said.)
I, a married
harried
man,
but quite naive
believe
that you, a believer,
wouldn't either.
(So there.)
But at least
I would have liked
to have pieced
together the question aloud
to you.
Am I allowed
to you?
(Will you have their
funny way with me
and us?)
Featured Writer Essay
---------------------
Stephen R. Ward hails from Lancashire, United Kingdom, where he works in
Information Technology (IT).
About _Rose_, _Seascape at Night_, and _Never Having Been_, Stephen
writes:
"The ideal audience the poet imagines consists of the beautiful who go
to bed with him, the powerful who invite him to dinner and tell him
secrets of state, and his fellow-poets. The actual audience he gets
consists of myopic schoolteachers, pimply young men who eat in
cafeterias, and his fellow-poets. This means, in fact, he writes for
his fellow-poets."
--W.H. Auden, "Poets at Work", 1948
My poetry has always been private -- born of emotion-of-the-moment
into a world where I'm afraid to let my offspring wander in case it is
harmed, rejected or simply scorned. But we all crave praise for our
creations, I suppose, as well as wanting to coddle them -- qualities,
which, after six years of being a father, I realise are instinctive in
us all. We have to trust not only in our child's ability and right;
but in the world, to offer its acceptance.
Prior to this semi-reluctant untethering of my poems (to a pride of my
"fellow-poets"), then, my audience consisted usually, only, of one: of
"the beautiful who go to bed with [me]" -- i.e. my wife -- plus an
occasional close friend or two; and it has usually also been the case
that my poems were written to, about, for -- or occasioned by -- such
companions.
I described myself in my submission to POETRY INK, as:
A chemical engineer by degree(s) -- a modern romantic by nature --
most of my working life has been spent sitting in front of various
Macs, marketing I.T.; writing about I.T.; editing newsletters about
I.T., and designing annual reports about I.T.. I only write poetry
when I'm sad. (My personal life is happy; but my working life is sad
-- which is not to say I only write at work.) And I'd like to be as
good a poet as Robert Graves. (One day...)
...which was supposed to make the point that much of my emotion -- and
thus my poetry -- stems from antithesis, from conflict: whether
flippancy and earnestness, art and science, good and bad, happiness
and sadness. (Isn't this the same for all artists?) But, also, to
'warn' that my particular brand of 'lyric poetry' may not be to modern
taste.
However, having said that, this selection covers three somewhat
contrasting and evolutionary styles.
_Rose_
I started writing poetry, as many do, I suppose, in an adolescent blur
of angst: sometimes for "myopic schoolteachers" and the school
literary magazine; but, more often than not, to burgeoning blondes and
brunettes who I worshipped, unrequited, and from afar.
"Perhaps at fourteen every boy should be in love with some ideal woman
to put on a pedestal and worship. As he grows up, of course, he will
put her on a pedestal the better to view her legs."
--Barry Norman, quoted in "The Listener" magazine, 1978
But real love came much later. And it was only with the pain that
comes with the realization that one's love is not always perfect that
my poetry also 'matured'. (I hope.)
The poem was written in a telephone box in the rain at six o'clock one
rainy Saturday morning in Leeds a few years ago. A depression caused
by having to 'phone for an ambulance for a neighbour suffering an
obvious cardiac arrest; as well as an aching absence. Unusually for
me, it (the poem) all originated in my head, waiting for the medics,
watching the rain; and I only scribbled it down later, as one of many
"pimply young men who eat in cafeterias", eyeing the early-morning
buses going by.
_Seascape at Night_
Typically: a first line or phrase or weird combination of words comes
to me, which -- if I haven't instantly forgotten -- knowing how
important, and increasingly infrequent, such flashes of inspiration
are -- I may or may not scrawl down on a piece of paper -- which I
then lose. Eventually, usually on the same scrap, I end up with so
many workings, corrections, crossings-out, insertions,
asterisks-marking-substitutions, arrows-pointing-improvements, that it
looks like my pet spider has fallen in the ink-pot and suffered a
disastrous operatic aria (with accompanying dramatic movements) and
consequential, agonizing demise. I then copy this out carefully --
only to find that, often, with careful scrutiny -- my original lines
have evolved so many times that they are pretty much the same as they
were several hours or days ago.
I can't remember the exact situation that prompted this; apart from
waking out of both real sleep, and a lack of awareness of many things
I perhaps before took for granted. I remember, though, that it did
take a lot of writing.
_Never Having Been_
"The magic of our first love is our ignorance that it can ever end."
--Benjamin Disraeli
But real love often dies. Tragically as a spider's web.
I admit it. I can't write anything other than 'love' poems.
Inspirations such as Gerard Manley Hopkins (who taught at a local
Jesuit school), Dylan Thomas, Edward Thomas, Graves, Philip Larkin,
Seamus Heaney, Brian Patten and Roger McGough have meant that -- as
with REM's Michael Stipe -- the rhythm of the words may sometimes feel
more important than the words themselves. Poetry is a craft -- whether
practised freely or formulaically... -- that is only fully realized
with performance (as with music): but I try to make the essential
sound as obvious as I can, as detailed as the notes in an Elgar
orchestral score.
My "first love" faded away (explosively). I was smitten with
someone-else. And this is how I felt. No, however flippant it is,
there was no adultery -- more through luck than judgment. I wouldn't
-- and still don't -- know how to. It all ends/ended happily, anyway.
(The magic of my second love is my knowledge that it can never end.)
Which is probably why I don't write as much poetry as I used to...
Greg Gunn
---------
<
[email protected]>
2 poems
_Angst Sandwich_
A hunger in my soul.
sleepless nights of tossing, turning to and fro.
on the breakfast table an empty bowl.
and in my dreams
feet burn on sun-baked sand.
waves lap, lick, nip
gnawing at the land.
overhead, birds wheel and cry
against the sky
stars in shrieking silence
burn,
fade,
and die.
think I'll have a ham on rye.
*--==--*
_Separation, Divorce and a Sense of Mortality_
the days are shorter now
and the nights grow cooler.
small animals gather with greater urgency.
and leaves yellow and brown,
scores of them,
detach themselves from limbs
and flounder to the ground.
reminiscent of unspoken words, careless remarks,
dried up tatters of ancient parchment, faded ink,
unpaid bills, broken promises, unfulfilled destiny,
death certificates.
the silent screams of leaves,
deafening as they tumble to the ground.
they are raked in piles,
burned to ash,
blown away in the wind.
a door swings to,
lock snaps shut.
penetrating echo,
a stir of dust.
the cobwebs in the corners tremble.
dried up husks of insects
dark, but bloodless pale, beneath.
silent testimony.
and even though it's been three months
the rooms are still not home.
the furniture haphazard, out of place.
and piles of books, papers scattered
on the floor like leaves.
boxes, unpacked, stacked along the walls.
pictures not yet hung lean against the walls.
up against the wall
receding in the distance
down the empty hall
stifling
this life that now stands perfectly still.
the impatients bloom all summer
red and white
and then one still night
the frost settles on the low ground
penetrating crystals of ice
bursting cell walls.
The As Of Yet Untitled Column By Rick Lupert
--------------------------------------------
by Rick Lupert <
[email protected]>
**This issue's topic: A personal history of reading poetry out loud.**
**And Coffee.**
I was a senior in high school when I first realized that I could
capture the attention of those around me by reading my work out loud.
I hadn't had much experience with poetry at all. Oh sure I'd had a an
acrostic poem published in my sixth grade poetry anthology.
_Pigs_
Pigs are very Piggish
Irregularly attached to mud
Gosh darn it, pigs are messy
But there was no live reading; no chance to really interpret the piece
for my sixth grade peers through special intonation and facial
expressions.
In my twelfth grade Literature class, we were all required to memorize
a piece which our teacher assigned to us, for recitation in front of
the whole class. Mr. Goulart (who was a good looking young teacher who
I imagined that all of my female classmates wanted to sleep with, thus
inspiring me to want to be an English teacher some day) had chosen a
piece called "Underwear" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti for me. It began "I
didn't get much sleep last night, thinking about Underwear..." and
then went on to detail all the different kinds of underwear and their
various purposes. I had taken the liberty of borrowing a pair of sexy
pink panties with black trim from a friend of mine (thanks again Karen
if you're reading this) which I planned on pulling out of my pocket at
a particular spot in the poem. When I stood in front of the class
(consisting of a good portion of the varsity football team) with the
panties dangling in the air from my hand, poetry took on a new meaning
for all of us.
I was so pleased with the response I received that I took the
opportunity in several succeeding classes to read a few of the things
out loud whenever Mr. Goulart gave me the chance. I always had the
rapt attention of the class, even amidst high school love ditties and
feeble attempts at humor.
About a year later (1987) my friend Daniel (who I met during my
thirteen month tenure as a McDonald's crew member) told me about this
coffee bar in Pasadena where there was an open mike. night for poetry.
I suggested that we go even though we were both nervous about the
prospect of getting up in front of strangers in this pretentious (ie:
bohemian and cool but we were too naive to understand it) atmosphere.
We went. I read a few things I had written at work. (this was the post
McDonald's era; I was working as an Engineer at a local radio station)
I had the kind of job where I sat around and did nothing so there was
plenty of time to write:
_What Not Indublah_
What not indublah with my magnitude
Under the foo foo bush where the gopher dost frolick
Hinging on the thread that being to hold up Manny's Lizard
Crossing over the valley of dull scissors that eateth of the greenish
residue
What not indublah with my magnitude
(a masterpiece, no?)
The crowd at the cafe received my work well. I went back the following
week. This second week, the crowd did not receive my work well. I
figured the first time was a fluke and didn't read again until 1993.
I had taken up writing on a more consistent basis, actually making a
point of taking a small journal with me wherever I went so I wouldn't
lose all these thoughts which came to me. I found a listing of
readings in the LA Weekly (local liberal/alternative press) including
one at the now defunct Iguana Cafe called the poetry circle in which
people were invited to show up, share a poem with the group, and then
listen to critiques of your work. I hadn't really shared anything of
my recently written so-called-serious work and I figured this would be
a good place to do so. I would learn if any of it could be taken
seriously or if I was just on the wrong track all together and should
focus more on becoming a dentist, or something. When it was my turn, I
read this piece:
_Dirty Coffee_
I hate drinking coffee in the morning
Because coffee is a dirty drink.
I hate getting dirty in the morning.
The night is for dirt.
I like being dirty at night.
Sitting in the dirty dark,
Surrounded by dirty people,
Thinking dirty thoughts,
Drinking dirty coffee.
I like being dirty at night.
In the morning,
I'd rather have an orange.
The room really loved this piece. They gave me the impression that I
had just breathed fresh air into their otherwise bleak existences. I
was pleased. Perhaps there was some validity to what I was doing after
all. I didn't realize the full extent of this endorsement for some
time as I learned in my subsequent experiences in the Los Angeles
Poetry community I learned that the Iguana was one of the major
centers for poetry in the city and many prominent LA poets were at
this open poetry circle. I had the opportunity to read a second piece
that afternoon:
_I Want To Fuck Art_
I want to Fuck Art.
I want Mona Lisa to give me head.
OH! I'd Make Her Smile! Yes Indeed.
I want to lie naked in the Haystacks
With the Waterlillies raining down upon my body.
Furthermore, I want my jiism to be regarded as an impressionistic
painting.
It will hang on the walls of every major museum,
And be the highlight of several private collections.
Each jiism
Splattered on a canvas
With a date
and the name of the person it was meant for,
Or just the label
ALONE.
I want to Fuck Art,
And by god by tomorrow I'll be at the Venus de Milo
With a condom and a chisel.
I'll have my own collection of marble breasts
to do with as I please.
Night after night,
Stone tits,
Always firm,
No bra required.
My palette is foreplay,
My painting is intercourse,
And what YOU see is orgasm.
I want to Fuck Art,
For Fucking Art's sake.
God bless America.
The reaction to this piece was a bit overwhelming. I'm not sure they
had heard anything like it before. Though Matthew Niblock (often
published poet and co-publisher of Sacred Beverage Press) did comment
that the whole ending "didn't work." "I Want To Fuck Art" eventually
won me a poetry slam which gave me the opportunity to read on the
third stage at Lollapalooza and Matthew later went on to base a short
film around this poem.
So I started to go to readings around Los Angeles. Magazines started
publishing my work. People began asking me to read as a feature at
their venue, and in the spring of 1994 I began to host a weekly open
reading at a coffee house in the San Fernando Valley, which I have
done ever since.
People ask me how I got this gig hosting the reading...the previous
host had been running the show for about two years. He always made it
clear that he was only doing this so eventually MTV would come in and
discover him and make him a V.J. Apparently this had happened to
someone else in Los Angeles and so here he was hosting this reading,
although he had no actual interest in poetry himself. (He began every
reading by reading selections from Justine Bateman's poetry
collection. When I took over, this was the first thing to go.) One day
he announced that this would be his last evening hosting. I
immediately went up to the owner of the place and asked if he was
looking for a replacement. He said that he was and if I wanted the job
I could have it. I've been hosting ever since. The pay...there is no
pay. I do get free coffee whenever I'm there though. That's pretty
good for a poet.
_Coffee Is Not a Drink For Pussies_
Coffee is not a drink for pussies
It's a serious beverage commitment
Dark
Dirty
Bad for your teeth
Bad for your brain
Coffee is not a drink for pussies
one drop
will stain your shirt
Forever
Coffee is not a drink for pussies
I'm sure it causes cancer
Leprosy
Male pattern baldness
Female pattern baldness
Premature ejaculation
Under-cooked omelettes
Coffee is not a drink for pussies
It is hot like the Equator
Bitter like four year old milk
Black like Nigeria
When you drink coffee
It's like you're drinking Nigeria
Coffee is not a drink for pussies
Don't talk to me about Lattes
Mother Fucker
About the Columnist
*******************
Rick Lupert lives and writes in Los Angeles except when he writes
elsewhere. Like in Paris for example. He has also written in
Pittsburgh, but that was just the airport. He has written in other
airports as well. He has hosted a weekly open reading at a coffee
house in Los Angeles for two and a half years and has had poems
published in "Caffeine Magazine", "51%", "Blue Satellite", and "The
Los Angeles Times". He is the author of "Paris: It's The Cheese". Rick
Lupert is a short, vegetarian, guitar playing Jew who recently
suffered the loss of two of four of his goldfish. Send no flowers.
Money only. Visit the everunderconstrucion world of Rick Lupert at
http://www.wavenet.com/~rickpoet.
Calvin Xavier
-------------
<address unknown>
2 poems
_Lipstick on My Joystick_
The new
computer
games
are so
flashy
and so
sleek
but so
is dog shit
wrapped in
a-
lu-
min-
um
foil.
*--==--*
_Found Poem for Henry Miller_
~found as a scrap of a tattered letter~
I used to drive past his house
in the Pacific Palisades every day
while driving a truck for a living.
Sometimes I parked in front of his house
and smoked a cigarette.
I knew his lawn well.
I watched his windows.
I never saw the shades move.
When he died, I realized
I should have knocked on his door
the first time
I saw the house.
He never noticed me sitting
in front of his house
in my truck.
It wouldn't have made a difference
if he had.
Allison Eir Jenks
-----------------
<
[email protected]>
3 poems
_Fabric of a Kiss_
Young boy tattooed himself
To my velvet temper
My untamed parade.
Slapped him with melody,
he choked and smiled
in my hedonistic web.
Coma in my lane,
he swam for my height,
Thinking that was all
that kept him from me.
On a day
any heifer would do,
When an obscure light
was leaking from his eyes,
Like some buttery monster,
I granted him a minute
on that vinyl couch.
His dizzy feet came at me
With a swollen breeze
All I saw were chaotic scraps of light
and stray, red knots
My counterfeit kiss
peeled him to the skull.
Nine years of him
Packed in a kiss.
He heard parachutes of violins;
Swan beaks insisting love.
I saw a drowsy sow.
Still, my lips
tugged him to oblivion
*--==--*
_No Longer_
All seems safe in my little box.
Invisible drapes tie my eyes.
Simple words glue my teeth.
Everything I can picture in my mind, exists.
On some other side,
hearts shoot through careless floods,
Undetected eyes float,
Phantoms crawl through heavy dust.
Rebellious sleepwalkers sing a universal chorus.
Serene mornings are disturbed by foul-handed wolves.
Creatures move through hidden parts of the moon
Birds speak their marble language.
The drinking mind is the universe.
Here, heroes take their stations.
Murderers dress in suits.
Crazy animals are devoured.
Profiles of death chase.
I will add to the collection of sleeping fields;
Graveyards with names and names.
Who are they?
Who were they?
Who will I be?
Years bring attics of deteriorating photos.
Not all are equipped for fame.
Ancient signs in the stars are dormant.
We've forgotten how to cross borders.
Facts limit us from our own endurance.
The disturbed howls from the underground
are blocked by grass.
I can no longer let every day be close to the same,
Confining smiles to certain places.
*--==--*
_Fox River_
Fenced in at Fox River.
Committing nonsense;
splitting worms, tossing berries.
Twisted within candy trees.
Wedged under your callused chest,
chanting with the bark of the starved coyotes.
You lie to me. I bite your shoulders.
We cut down a tree and licked the roots.
A bullet of snow snaked its way down my chest.
You left it there, smirking with pleasure,
diving at the chilled spot.
You paved my fingers.
Placed granite rocks under my head.
My eyes were stained glass windows.
Over there, on the side of the foot bridge,
beer signs sit on the river like fishing lure.
A curly, red-haired boy
blows a wreath of bubbles off the bridge.
They rise by the protruding brick cross.
I think of when I met you
by Mr. Crayton's grocery store
With lollipop stains,
your blue tongue flagged me down.
Thomas Dunnam
-------------
<
[email protected]>
1 poem
_Holidays and Local Sketches_
A coral-red, raw silk-jacketed simulacra of a blond airlines
reservation clerk's fist
Lazily arches across the plywood structure constituting his check-in
station as a
Result of getting no answer to the smoking/no smoking query; nailing
a garish and
Mewling social service worker on hiatus squarely on the left temple
of her figleaf
Bifocals, but vacations on the cheap are.
A sourly homicidal and dementedly greedy Cincinnati travel agent
wacks a retired
Soda jerk in the back of the head with a lead pipe wrapped in duct
tape and throws
His limp and gullible old carcass out the back door of his 'office'
and consequently
Down a levee and into the swiftly flowing waters on the now infamous
$100 Ohio River Cruise.
The holiday sea shines blue below the sky,
Or sea holidays below a blue sky,
Er, see holidays below:
An outraged and paradoxically humbled 40 year-old 'college student'
is lynched in the
Paris summer backyard garden of an unregistered youth hostel by a
nation of 15
Sub-teenage gypsy pickpockets -- having been just previously
convicted in a faux
Trial interminably interrupted by motions to sniff more glue of the
crime of not having
Had much money to steal. The court-appointed counsel for the defense
constantly
Playing the not-guilty-by-reason-of-I-forget card to no effect.
Black weather makes for a sweet holiday in the forest,
Though black leather makes sweat for us,
Or weather makes life sweet in the black forest,
Oh sweet forest! Sweet for us!
Sweat for us, sweet holiday forest!, er
A UN 'peacekeeper' on leave shoots up a forced-prostitution 'tavern'
in the mountains
Of I-can't-remember; a tourist from Guatemala dressed in his national
outfit races
Across the ice that seasonally connects the Aleutians to Siberia; an
occult Scotch
Wizard crashes his purplish hang glider into the garden balcony of a
narco-lawyer's
21st floor Caracas condominium. All these last ones taken from
newspaper clips.
Notes From the Workshop Gulag
-----------------------------
by Lawrence Revard <
[email protected]>
Lawrence Revard is currently on sabbatical from his columnist duties.
He will return in Poetry Ink 2.08 (February 1997).
About the Columnist
*******************
Lawrence Revard is a graduate student at the University of Iowa's
Writer's Workshop for Poetry. He welcomes comments regarding his
writings for POETRY INK. He can be reached at the eMail address at the
beginning of this column. (Okay, you lazy bum, here it is:
<
[email protected]>)
Rebecca E. Hays
---------------
<
[email protected]>
1 poem
_To See the Stars_
(for Andrew)
Black is the night between.
Not velvet.
Not a material curtain of darkness
or phantom artist's canvas.
For that depiction implies
texture,
form,
solidity,
and not this,
this eccentric emptiness of eye-deceiving Nothing
which stares back at us without pity or hope but only a promise of
~Something~...
Mysterious Nothing tugs at baffled eyes,
compelling one to seek ever further into hollow void...
ever deeper into impossible shadows of ink too ebon to see...
The writing upon Heaven's page, too dimly scribed.
But there,
suddenly,
~there~ at the most oblique angle,
in the startled corner of one's vision,
~Light~!
Colors,
so subtle as to make one question one's perceptions,
glimmer,
glow,
transform,
becoming nameless shiftings of ultimate perfection...
Hiding fiery identities behind masks of glorious alteration,
these constantly deviating uncounted willow-the-wisps fade and flush,
beamingly set into the indignant darkness like pixie torch-fire...
Reborn again this night -
~Let there be stars.~
June Hayes-Light
----------------
<
[email protected]>
1 poem
_Echoes of petals..._
Echoes of petals filled the room...
a white room, bright with grief.
Thoughts lingered around the lamp...
like moths around a flame.
Echoes of many, mourning the few...
on dark roads, wet with fear.
Memories of falling, clutching at straws...
I am innocent and shoulder the blame, whilst
Echoes of passion are fearful and tame.
Echoes of petals, borne on the breeze...
a far away window, framing the sky.
Voices for faces, drifting away...
down years of recalling
Echoes of children, running free...
down fields of endeavour into the void
Touching by listening to silence unfold...
curling down corridors escaping from me, those
Echoes of longing for what cannot be.
Echoes of petals starting to fade...
doubting, remembering if I ever was me
While a stranger invades a familiar face...
and traitorous limbs to defection succumb.
Echoes of maybes fall to the floor...
to mingle with promise's dust.
Sweep up the past in giant hands and...
scatter its ashes for others to find where
Echoes of sorrows in silence are blind.
Echoes of metal down darkened halls...
figures in white, a ballet of blades
Touche & riposte in challenge we die...
salute the conqueror, honour the mask.
Echoes of scoring, counting & moving...
through foil-sharp sunlight into the realms
Of empty space, staring at time's
kaleidoscope diary, missing a day and
Echoes of petals, dying away.
World Wide Words
----------------
by Phil Pearson <
[email protected]>
Book Review
_On the Island_ by Josephine Jacobsen
Ontario Review Press
256 pages
**Part 1: "...the other translation, from letters to matter"**
Josephine Jacobsen's relatively unheralded collection of new and
selected stories, "On the Island", delivered in evocative prose and
set in exotic locales, offers up to her readers a rich fictional world
of overloaded symbolism and jagged time. In fact, the narrative line
of her stories in the first half of the book thrives on a non sequitur
approach. White space for scene breaks is relatively rare. Memory,
flashbacks, and the present collate and coexist in a tricky
relationship, as Jacobsen has a human-rights investigator wonder "how
the past hours, the present minute, would show in memory's tricky
records" at the end of "The Inner Path" (69).
Again and again in the first nine stories, reality exists as a false
reality, often realized with epiphanic violence. In the first story
entitled "The Mango Community," an expatriated American painter (most
of Jacobsen's characters are artists of some sort) concludes that she
has never really "seen snow" before (8). In the story "Nel Bagno," a
writer, Mrs. Glessner, reaches a similar epiphany when trapped
overnight in a bathroom: "For the first time, ever, she became
conscious of what she knew. In her non-fiction, she never described
things truly; not ever as truly as she could (53-54). Jacobsen's
ultimate violent epiphany of false reality reaches its culminating
point in the magical realist piece "Sound of Shadows." With tongue in
philosophic cheek, Jacobsen begs questions--chillingly playfully to
the reader--in a short introductory paragraph while the second
paragraph gets cheekier in its wordplay: "It is one room wide--a long
dark living room, a narrow dark bedroom, a dark narrow kitchen; a long
narrow back yard between high, board fences, and on the alley end, a
wire fence with a toothed gate" (21). Even the fence takes on a false
anthropomorphic role.
Jacobsen, at times a logical positivist philosopher par excellence,
probes with Wittgenstein-like vigor the falseness of language too. In
"Nel Bagno," Mrs. Glessner thinks, "But what was the actual connection
between the letters and the porcelain objects close upon her? The
translation from English to Italian was nothing to the other
translation, from letters to matter" (53). Later on, she mentally
notes that a "dictionary's uses anticipate neither biology nor crime"
(55). Revising her analysis and perception of language, Mrs. Glessner
now sees language as antecedent to experience. Existence in all its
real qualities precedes essence, the abstractness of language. Ms.
Jacobsen would make a good Sartrean existentialist.
These philosophic concerns with the inherent falsity of reality and
language carry over into Jacobsen's own painterly writer's eye and
concentration on detail. For example, color needs translating, offers
new insight, allows for reseeing (6): "On this tiny island she [Jane
Megan] remained amazed at the progressive detail of her own sight: new
shades of purple and rose appeared in the noon sea. She was stunned by
the varieties of green: the serious glossy green of the breadfruit,
the translucent green of the fringed plantain blades, the trembling
play of the flame trees, the palms' hard glitter. Green, what on earth
was it!" Green is, and is not, green. More the latter, for Jacobsen.
Appallingly though, sight can become monotonous; its immediacy can be
lost. Caddy, in "The Edge of the Sea," becomes obsessed with the
falsity of eyes. She knows that, "The eyes looked through everything,
and everything they looked through came apart. Nothing held.... When
the eyes looked at people, at cosmetics, at billboards, at
speedometers, at blackboards, these objects came apart like wet
tissue" (97). For Jacobsen, perception, like "memory's tricky
records," is subject to inherent falsity. The very act of perceiving
can deceive.
Characters deceive left and right in Jacobsen's stories as well, and
one's perception of identity is manifestly and symbolically
precarious. Along with Jacobsen's preoccupation with the falseness of
appearances exists a concomitant apparent notion of an absence of any
unified, discrete identity, which is instead "tricky records" of
memories, feelings, sounds, and lights. Dan's hauntingly chilling
past, piecemeal, tinged in a romantic light by Caddy's own
untrustworthy memories, opens up with wicked revelation. Facts seem to
be repetitious by Mrs. Brounlow's remembrances. Gina and Dan have
married, by Dan's dark machinations, and Caddy "does not know...who
they are" at the end of the story (109). Other thoughts of doubt crop
up. Is Mrs. Bart's switchblade-yielding girl fact or fiction? And
George? One of the Company, he is "neither in nor out of the living"
(78). Ironically, a character puffs that George was a "real person,"
further blurring the real and false line of identity (80).
All of Jacobsen's first nine stories deal with the deep question of
identity. And, for her, ultimately, identity equals gesture, equals
action. More broadly, gestures free us from the falsity of language.
They are prelanguage truths. As Anabel Avon muses, "Gestures were the
real language, the ancient one. The sculptor, the dancer, the priest
understood this. Actions, too, were gestures, deeper, simpler, than
they seemed" (116). An artist constantly on the lookout for them, she
becomes obsessed by gestures: "...each of these made its own,
translated as a line, a blocking out of space, an arrested motion. She
found that its magnetism was as much the isolation as the view--the
smell of dusty sun and some crushed aromatic plant; the pulse in a
lizard's throat; the shield of light on the water, that corroded to
bronze, to copper, to lilac as the sun focused itself into a huge
ball, round as a blood orange, touched the sea's rim in one sensual
gesture and slid--slid actually as the eye watched--below the world
(116). In the cryptically titled story, "The Inner Path," a
human-rights investigator/writer loses two-thirds of a finger in a
bloody and gross gesture. Here the action quite literally matches the
"other translation, from letters to matter."
Many of Josephine Jacobsen's finely plotted stories tantalize the
reader with open-ended denouements rich in possibility. One such
arresting story she entitles "Season's End." This reader's
fine-toothed comb worked overtime between, around, and up and down
lines trying to desnarl the text. A plausible and psychologically
revealing interpretation follows, hinging on Mr. Gains being gay. One
cannot help wonder if his name is a tip-off to the reader and a bit of
wordplay on Jacobsen's part. Or is it a Freudian slip? Unwitting? Does
some latent homosexuality prefigure in her art and psyche? At the
least, this possible interpretation adds a much richer dimension to
the last page. And regardless if Mr. Gains is a closet pederast, an
unwitting homosexual, or an openly gay man, his overt admiration of
Chico and his dissembling treatment of Arthur is suspect on a few
levels. "Season's End" comes across as a sort of male menopause story.
"Season's End" means the loss of sexuality, the assuming of an asexual
nature. At the very end, when Mr. Gains says aloud, "Yes, I can ask at
Thurston's," and then adds, "I could," one feels that he will
innocently rationalize Chico's theft of the watch, his sexual
proclivity inherently compromising himself somehow (92). Whether or
not this is how Jacobsen envisioned a reading of the story, her
unresolved ending leaves an alert reader much room for multiple
speculations.
On the whole, the first nine short stories in Ms. Jacobsen's
collection, "On the Island", offer up well-imagined fictional worlds,
along with a richly textured prose style. She has a textual
sensuousness that reminds one of Durrell, and her world at times
strikingly resembles Graham Greene's Greeneland in its stark,
isolating nihilism. In fact, a Jacobsenland steeped in isolation and
the Hitchcock premise of placing an ordinary person in a highly
unordinary situation can be found at the core of most of her fiction
and sets off her writings with recognizable landmarks.
A few caveats remain though. Her foreshadowing and symbolism come
across as a bit overloaded and cliche-ridden at times. Do we really
need both a lame dog and a lame boy in the first story? And the
symbolic rainy ending of "The Inner Path" inappropriately suffers from
ill-chosen, bathetic symbolism. Sometimes this overdoing passes across
into her writing, so we get overwritten lines such as "She sat up in
an agony of stiffness, the full, ludicrous, unbelievable, locked
misery drowning her" (56). Strike up the violins! In like fashion, she
runs words together with the result being a clogged syntax of odd
rhythms, seemingly revealing a rather lax ear on her behalf. For
example, she writes: "The fatigue was a sudden accumulation, mental
and emotional even more than physical; the wearing and tearing of tiny
teeth; indignation, frustration, endless effort; the initial effort of
clearing himself from instant imagination; the slow, dangerous,
laborious attempt at the winning of confidence, the hoarding of facts"
(59). Equally irritating is her bad habit of unwitting alliteration.
Far too many overall literative sentences abound. One shall suffice.
"in this past month he had fed the typewriter keys doggedly,
persistently, feeling his own fiery frustrations faintly eased by the
lines that would express them" (62). But these are relatively minor
quibbles. Jacobsen's painterly eye is deft and vivid, fully
transcribing for us, her privileged readers, those gestures from that
"other translation, from letters to matter."
**Part 2: In the Mind of the Eye's Storm of Josephine Jacobsen**
Eyes, yes human eyes, are truth-bearing, truth throwing, truth
registering physical organs for Josephine Jacobsen in the second-half
of her collection, "On the Island", and all of her last eleven stories
function, some with vivid moralistic and messianic zeal, in bringing,
first to her own characters and then, by implication, to her readers
as well, the import of the eye's out- and intake. Jacobsen champions
the eye. By the eye's own compass she swings us into the jungle and
garden alike, happy, many times, to pinpoint her fictional needle to
just that line between jungle and garden too.
In the heavily pun-titled story, "Late Fall," a young priest, Father
Consadine, secretly speculates with frequency upon the mystery of the
presence of God, especially how this presence penetrates circumstance
and flesh. His mind's eye drawn to the symbol of the lion, the
gladiator lions of the historic Roman Coliseum, majestic,
terror-striking, brute, dangerous, inescapable, he wonders (130) if
"at the last moment, did anyone believe, so confronted? Yes. But--and
here was the crux--did they, could they, know they believed? Facing
that hot maw and the impersonal ravening gaze, could they hold that
thread?" Inwardly satirical and irascible, rebellious, mired in a
state of seemingly noncommunion with God, Father Consadine, at story's
end, two miles out in the village's Dump, looks down over its (138)
chaotic brilliance "into that abomination of desolation spoken of by
the prophet; in this case, the raw remains of the once-possessed, the
shards of personality. It was disintegration, visible. 'Jesus, Mary,
Joseph!'" Truth becomes finally "visible" and communes with the eyes.
From another pun-titled story, "Help," Jacobsen depicts the world of a
black maid named Violet set inside the white, bigoted world of her
stomach-troubled employer Mrs. Harker. Considerably sympathetic, at
first, in the opening pages to Mrs. Harker and her marital situation,
Violet's good nature soon fills with furious contempt as Mrs. Harker
reveals herself to be a thief who steals eighteen dollars from a wool
glove in her purse to cover petty card losses incurred while playing
bridge. Very early on, Jacobsen writes, "Violet knew a mean man [Mr.
Harker] when she saw one. She had met shame in Mrs. Harker's eye.
Shame was something Violet knew about, from a former period" (141).
Again, truth becomes visible and communicates to the eyes. Without
Violet's clear perception of Mrs. Harker's situation, physically
abused and nervous to the point of having an ulcer, the reader could
not make sense of Violet's contemptuously kind decision to drop,
unanticipated and unexpected, the matter of the theft altogether. What
one sees, how one reads a person correctly, for Jacobsen, determines
just what motivates a person, how they act, or how they react.
Mrs. Curtis notes a curious jolt of dislike--ridiculous she
wonders?--from the gaze of Dr. Brade in "Vocation." All alone,
powerless, relying on the congeniality of strangers as a patient, she
is rudely awakened and frightened by Dr. Brade on the eve of a tricky
five-hour operation. After Dr. Brade has left her, Mrs. Curtis,
outraged, confused, knows "why Dr. Brades's eyes were familiar. She
had seen them, late at night, in a great railroad station" (153). A
guard patrolling the station sadistically rousts a very old, dirty man
from a bench with a merciless smack of his nightstick against the
pitted soles of his shoes. And nearly two years gone by, and this
sadism has never totally left Mrs. Curtis' mind, for "the eyes of the
man in the tan uniform seemed not to fade" (156). Appalled at the
loose abuse of uniform and the visceral sadism to hurt another, to
instill deep fear, Mrs. Curtis sees that "suddenly all over the world,
eyes shone at her, steady in their useless, cureless, idiot
priesthood" (157). These eyes come before her "steadfast, unsmiling[,]
ancient" (158). In "The Night the Playoffs Were Rained Out," these
eyes come from Tribes, Clans, and Borders. For Mrs. Plessy, Mrs.
Gombrecht's bright ceramic blue eyes shine at her "with a fixed, china
hostility" (167). Showing us, her readers, the primitive, prelanguage
truths free of the falsity of language, the world of gesture that
occupied her concern in the earlier stories, here, visual gestures
being the focus, Jacobsen imaginatively glorifies, with the gusto and
meticulousness of a finely plotted detective story, a philosophy of
the eye.
In "A Walk with Raschid," she has James Cantry say, "The truth...can't
make me free if I don't know it" (180). And to know the truth, for
Jacobsen, involves "seeing" it. Not until a taxi driver stares (on the
last page of the story) into James' eyes and reveals to him his wife's
deception does he suddenly put two and two together. Deceptions become
machinations: "under a djellabah hood, dark eyes, now turned a light,
steadfast blue, raced away raced away" (181). Jacobsen narrates in
another story, that "cause and effect, lovely as graph lines and as
clear, operated below all things" (245). Cause: Tracy, James current
wife. Effect: the rejection of James by Oliver, his inarticulate,
ten-year-old son, the same age as Raschid, in favor of Louise,
Oliver's biological mom and James' first wife, through the
manipulative lies against James as told by Tracy to Oliver.
Interested not only with just imaginatively delineating deception in
its many guises but also its twin, truth, in all its masks, Jacobsen
explores the theme of friendship within the looking glass of fiction
in her story, "The Friends." At the end, thirty years of friendship
between Mrs. Perkins and Rosie O'Shaugnessy, employer and employee,
comes down to one final message, a final gesture: "deep from Rosie's
eyes, Rosie looked at her. 'Missus Perkins,' she said, 'I've got a
pain.' 'Rosie,' said Mrs. Perkins" (195). Moments later, Mrs. Perkins
smothers Rosie, in the terminal stage of cancer, with a pillow,
suffocating her. From this unexpected gesture of euthanasia, Susan is
bathed in a great sense of peace. Later that day, she says to herself
that why she did it was "to feel better" (197). Yet, picking up her
handsome silver sugar bowl and seeing over its faint mist of tarnish,
"her face flashed back at her, through stretched and broken, into
mysterious patches (197). So, like Father Consadine, Mrs. Perkins'
eyes receive the mysterious "shards of personality." Similarly, the
ending of the first-person story, "The Wreath," has the unnamed
narrator noticing a big wreath being hung on a cord from a window of
an institution of mental health: "It had a huge bow; it swung a
little; then the arms withdrew and it hung still. The bars quartered
its bright green-and-red circle. And by some queer sudden movement, as
though the ground beneath the station wagon had shifted, altering
every proportion just a little, its broken circle seemed to me
beautiful and strong and appropriate" (228). Beautiful, strong,
appropriate, the broken circle altered by her bald encounter with a
delusive female patient, Jacobsen shows just how much emotions color
what or how one perceives the world around them.
Nowhere is this emotional coloring more so the case than at the end of
the story entitled "Motion of the Heart." Jacobsen writes, "At this
exact moment, and without any preparation at all, Milly saw what she
intended to do--saw it before her....There would be no Larry. Though
she failed to believe it, she knew it" (209). Here, deceived by a
lover's face that "was constantly in change--looks passed over it; it
was in shadow of light; it melted and sharpened," Milly's motions of
the heart create motions of the eyes (198). In this process, which one
might call "eye-bridging," for lack of a better term," a sort of crude
dialectic that proceeds from emotion to eye, and so on to a greater
emotion, or vice versa, constantly takes place. For Jacobsen and her
philosophy of the eye, a counterbalance continuum of in- and
out-seeing always is at work within one's self.
Jacobsen fictionally captures this dialectic of mind's eye and eye's
mind in the story of "The Jungle of Lord Lion." Caught in the
undergrowth of rigid social convention and her own happy, personal
peace, in the recurring terrible beauty of Boundinian jungle, of Mrs.
Chubb's vile racism, and Mrs. Heatherby's subsequent buckling under to
Mrs. Chubb's social blackmail, one surmises that Mrs. Pomeroy at
story's end "somewhere within her knowledge...had understood the
terrible components of joy" (220). Likewise, for Mrs. Mary Driscoll,
in "On the Island," fantasy of beauty and real green jungle violently
coagulate, her husband bloodily decapitated by a machete blade, a
victim of mistaken identity. Finally, from the story "Jack Frost,"
Jacobsen defends the perceptive truth of the external eye through Mrs.
Travis, a ninety-three-year-old gardener who has "a belief in the
physical, a conviction of the open-ended mystery of matter" (233).
Fearing the loss of her wild cosmos and her garden proper, which, in
her own mind, she created out of nothing, she engages in a defiant
battle against Jack Frost for the life of her flowers. Physically
unfit to wage much of a battle, she finally triumphs, surviving an
ankle sprain and teeth-biting cold. With a lyrical panegyric
championing the visual eye, Jacobsen's narrator sees "a dozen shapes
and colors blazed before her eyes, and a great tearing breath came up
inside her like an explosion. Mrs. Travis lifted her head, and the
whole wave of summer, advancing obedient and glorious, in a crest of
color and warmth and fragrance broke right over her" (240).
World Wide Words Special Features
---------------------------------
by Phil Pearson <
[email protected]>
1 poem, 1 short story
_The All-Night Cafe_
~Arles, September 1888~
It's 1:15 AM:
An empty pocket of a night
Two peasants,
Crumpled up like old accordions,
Zero in the throat,
Face down in the barking of their minds.
Two lovers,
Hearts full of wine,
Take in the pink bouquet's sweet fragrance,
The halo effect of three gas lamps,
Oblivious to the time of clocks.
And the waiter,
With the motheaten eyes,
In need of a clean shave,
Ramrod stiff in posture,
Stares vacuously out into space.
A painter
Dreams of soft Louis XV greens and malachite
Of sunflower yellow and hard blue greens
Of a devil's furnace and starry nights.
It's 1:15 AM:
An empty pocket of a night.
*--==--*
_Crawdads_
On his hour-long lunch break Mr. Hooker went to Nanci's Baby Boutique
at the mall. First, he circled the perimeter, eyes browsing over
bootie socks, layette sets, Baby's Little Engine That Could Book, a
Beatrix Potter Baby Book, My First Football, baby shoes, New Kid On
The Block dolls, "My First Paddington PLEASE look after this Bear.
THANK YOU," Little Slugger caps, Baby's First Headband, Baby's First
Barrette, before finally deciding on a Fisher-Price 3-in-1 Travel
Tender, and a surprise gift.
Mr. Hooker requested that the Travel Tender on display be collapsed
and packed up in its own tote. The salesclerk complied, pointing out
the 3-in-1 bassinet-crib-playpen, its soft foam floor, with padded
side rails too, the fabric durable and washable nylon. He said
nothing, smoothing a body hair back down on one of his wrists. A CPA,
young, well-groomed, he nodded his approval of the demonstration when
completed, an inhibited smile oddly playing across his lips beneath a
thin mustache.
They moved back to the counter. Teasing the nap of his mustache, Mr.
Hooker waited while his bill was totaled. He read the liquid crystal
readout above the store register and paid in cash. The salesclerk made
small talk about his cute surprise gift as she wrapped it up for him.
Having received his change, Mr. Hooker meticulously turned back the
dogeared corners of three one dollar bills and righted each one face
forward before placing them back in his wallet. Then with a sufficing
thank you he carried away his purchases.
-==-
On his lakefront property that evening, Mr. Hooker was casting for
sand bass off of his dock. A cordless phone lay nearby. His wife,
expectant any day now, was resting in bed with more new lower back
pain. The last week or so she had been experiencing short, irregular
contractions their doctor had called "Braxton Hicks" contractions.
"Par for the course," the old doctor had told them.
Behind around the back side of Mr. Hooker's ice fishing house, up on
cement blocks just off the shore rocks, a young girl's muffled "ouch"
carried out into the autumn air. She wrung her hand first as if it was
on fire, next squeezed it under an armpit before sucking on the
offended finger in her mouth.
Mr. Hooker came upon her sucking on her index finger. An empty Ziploc
bag lay at her feet, and he was curious to find out what was going on.
As she sat, one knee kept quivering so much that she was forced to
hold it down with her free hand.
The little girl, calling him "Mister," asked him if he could please
help her catch some crawdads. She said she was afraid to catch them;
she feared getting pinched again; and she just had to have lots of
them.
Mr. Hooker's stomach fell as the girl snuffed back a flow of snot,
followed by a sleeve wipe. Two red small round burns, oozing pus, were
spied on a wrist. He asked her if she was from the trailer park up the
road. She nodded warily. He asked if she had a momma and a daddy. Yes.
Did she like her momma? Yes. Her daddy? She mumbled something about
crawdads. And her name was? Mandy. Mandy who? Duke.
He said he was Nicholas Hooker II.
A wince of pain showed as she picked up the Ziploc bag.
"Saint Nick" he was, said Mr. Hooker. "Jolly Saint Nick," he said
solemnly. We'll catch you lots and lots of crawdads, he told her, but
first he had to make a couple of quick phone calls and then he would
be right back.
On the dock, Mr. Hooker dialed directory assistance and got a phone
number for a Duke living in the Regency Mobile Home Park. He dialed.
-==-
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Mr. Hooker lay in bed watching the
ten o'clock news on TV. He had the sound muted all the way down
because his wife had fallen asleep after a lower back rub. While
gently massaging her sore back, he had mentioned the encounter with
the young girl. His wife hadn't liked the sound of it either. She said
it was best if they kept their noses out of it. She was glad he had
notified the police. She had rolled over next, and they had done a
fetal kick count together. She was eight days past her due date.
Suddenly the doorbell was buzzing and then the bed was wet.
Mr. Hooker wondered who that could be at this late hour while cinching
his robe and going downstairs. He was a man who hated surprises. One
headlight of a white car could be seen burning dully in his driveway
as he pulled aside the curtains. His wife was yelling his name and the
cat was mewling like a baby as he pulled open the door. The cat
catapulted out.
"Yes?" he said.
A large woman wearing an odd loose-looped sweater with a high tight
o-ringed neckline said, "I'm Mrs. Duke, the one you hung up on on the
phone earlier tonight--Mandy's momma."
"My wife's yelling for me. I think her bag of waters has broken. I
have to call my doctor right away. I'm sorry. Please move your car. We
have to go to the hospital right now. What do you want? I have to go,"
Mr. Hooker said.
"Listen," the woman said, "You'd better stay out of this if you know
what's best for you. With Ken Ray's drinking and all. You shouldn't
have called the cops. I gotta get back. The police are coming back
tomorrow to talk to him when he is more sober."
"It's your problem, lady. Look, I gotta go. I'm sorry. The police will
deal with it and help your husband if he has a problem."
"You don't understand," she said.
"No, you don't understand. We're having a baby. Now! Please move your
car. Goodbye," Mr. Hooker said and closed the door.
Upstairs, Mr. Hooker's wife had just called the doctor. The telephone
rang. She picked it up.
"Is that bitch, Maggie, there?" a man said.
She said, "You must have the wrong number. Sorry."
"Sorry, my ass. You're the one who's gonna be sorry, lady. Fuck off, "
the man said.
Mrs. Hooker hung up.
The telephone was left ringing as they rushed out the door to the
hospital.
-==-
Four hours later, the old doctor told the Hooker's they were in the
early stages of labor. He was giving Mr. Hooker's wife the painkiller
Demerol to help her relax. Mr. Hooker stood by the bedside, holding
her hand.
"You'd better sit down, Nicholas," said the old doctor. "It's going to
be a while. No use wearing out rubber yet."
"Everything's okay?" asked Mr. Hooker.
"Yes. No preeclampsia problems. No intrauterine growth retardation.
Normal blood pressure. Normal on the urine. Normal prepartum cervix
changes at Mindy's last checkup," said the old doctor.
"And her water breaking?" Mr. Hooker said.
"Nicholas," his wife said, squeezing his hand.
"Impending delivery is progressing, Nicholas. You can tell a
contraction is significant when the uterus becomes so hard that you
can't indent it with your finger for 60 seconds. If need be, with the
help of Pitocin, we can speed up Mindy's labor. Okay? You'll have a
beautiful bouncing baby any hour now."
An orderly entered bearing clean sheets and towels. Dr. Boettcher's
name sounded over the hospital's intercom system, and the old doctor
excused himself. The telephone rang once and stopped before Mr. Hooker
could pick it up. He dragged over a hardback wooden chair from a
corner and sat down next to the bed.
"Scared?" said Mr. Hooker.
"A bit," said Mrs. Hooker.
"Love ya, ya Munchkin," said Mr. Hooker.
He scootched back in the chair, the legs squeaking across the linoleum
floor. The orderly glanced his way leaving the room.
His wife said, "I know you do. I feel like a seasick walrus. I sure
could use a barf bag right now."
Mr. Hooker got up saying he needed a milk or some hot tea. He pressed
the nurse's aide button knotted round the cold chrome bed rail.
-==-
In the maternity ward, through smudged plate glass, red, round, small
puckered-up faces cried in chorus as Mr. Hooker looked on. Their
little o-ring mouths yawning wide, the red, round, small uvulaes, like
little Sweet Pea and that wavering uvula in those idiotic Popeye
cartoons, he thought. All black holes, the mouths.
-==-
His nostrils flared passing a stationary cleaning cart after rounding
the corner back to his wife's hospital room. Mr. Hooker, crushing a
milk carton, its air squishing out, milk bubbling inside, frisbeed the
flattened pint into the cart's wastebasket.
A policewoman was sitting on the hard-back wooden chair, waiting, when
he opened the door.
"Mr. Hooker, sir?" said the policewoman.
"Yes, officer?" he said.
He motioned her towards the other bed area nearest the window, giving
the wraparound curtain a few sharp tugs.
"You guys, or shall I say gals, sure do take the cake, you know that?"
Mr. Hooker said, dropping down on the bed. "Where do you get off
barging in here? My God, my wife'll be in labor any minute here and
the last thing we need right now is you parking your pretty little
catbird seat right here in the midst of us all."
The policewoman was black and heavyset. Her shoes were shiny and her
hair cornrowed. She was in dress blues, tie and tie bar, billyclub by
the side, walkie-talkie hugging the hips.
Mrs. Hooker said, "Officer Perry was very courteous and professional.
She has a four-year-old baby boy. I'm the one who offered her a seat.
She wanted to wait outside."
"I just need a little follow-up information, Mr. Hooker," said the
policewoman, pulling out a notepad and pen.
"Shoot," he said deadpan.
The policewoman said, "Do you know a Ken Ray Duke?"
Mr. Hooker said "No."
He looked at a dirty streak on the window.
"What exactly was exchanged between you and Mrs. Duke at your
residence earlier tonight?" said the policewoman.
"Let's step outside," said Mr. Hooker.
-==-
By six o'clock that morning Mrs. Hooker labor had only progressed
slightly. A new doctor came in and administered a shot of Pitocin. A
nurse came, felt Mrs. Hooker's stomach for sixty seconds, and went.
Mr. Hooker was spreadeagled on the other bed, his face sideways on a
pillow. Another nurse dropped off a floral arrangement and a big red
helium balloon that read "Congratulations on Your First Baby!" and
departed. There was no note with the flowers.
Mr. Hooker was feeling decidedly down in the mouth. He had been
humiliated and embarrassed by his wife in front of that policewoman.
He'd have his say in due time.
"Nicholas, I think it's time," said Mrs. Hooker. "Please ring a nurse
for me."
Feeling uncomfortable, Mrs. Hooker asked for an epidural to numb
feeling from her waist down.
-==-
Finally, at nine-thirty Friday morning, with significant contractions
starting, Dr. Boettcher moved Mrs. Hooker to a delivery room.
Contractions were coming every ninety seconds.
"She's almost fully dilated. Things are cooking," said the old doctor
to Mr. Hooker when he left the room.
Mr. Hooker said, "Good luck!" worrying about his rumpled pants.
Mrs. Hooker said, "Oh, God."
Mr. Hooker said, "I think the cat was left out," as they wheeled her
away.
Leaving the room, a nurse gave a thumb's-up sign to Mr. Hooker.
The orderly stared at him momentarily, then the door was swinging back
and forth.
-==-
And for three hours delivery went on. By 1:30 pm the baby had moved
far enough along the birth canal that the old doctor could see the
hair on its head. But then it stopped moving any further. On
inspection the obstetrician noticed fecal matter within the amniotic
fluid and was alarmed.
An emergency C-section was decided upon. With the old doctor by Mrs.
Hooker's side, they wheeled her into a nearby operating room and
administered general anesthesia. If the baby had aspirated the fecal
matter, this result could potentially be dangerous and possibly fatal
because of the lung damage. Surgery was over in half an hour.
-==-
The old doctor shuffled into the room. Two small round stains could be
seen on his hospital gown at each armpit. A surgical mask, its cloth
ties trailing on the ground, was in one hand, a skullcap in the other.
He said, "Your wife's okay, but the baby didn't make it. Nicholas?"
Mr. Hooker looked away, watching the red helium balloon twist around
on its blue ribbon. "Yes?" he said.
"I'm sorry," the old doctor said.
"Yes," said Mr. Hooker.
"Fecal matter in the amniotic sac was fatally aspirated by the baby.
It was a girl," the old doctor said.
"I see," said Mr. Hooker.
"Your wife's lost some blood. We'll be keeping her for observation
overnight," the old doctor said.
"I see," said Mr. Hooker.
The old doctor squeezed Mr. Hooker's wrist and shuffled out of the
room.
-==-
Mr. Hooker stared hard, watching the red helium balloon twirl around
and around on its blue ribbon, twirl around and around and he was
suddenly twirling his little girl, around and around on a carrousel, a
merry-go-round, merry-go-round, feet running, lungs aspirating,
aspirating, circling around and round and round, laughing, clapping,
pirouetting, little girl's horse rocking, bobbing up and down, up and
down, the music callioping and callioping and galloping, stalls,
quiet, and then he is watching the red helium balloon twirl around and
around on its blue ribbon.
-==-
"Nicholas?" said Mrs. Hooker.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Would you check the room and make sure we haven't left anything?"
Mrs. Hooker said.
He did not reply. He went into the lavatory. Teasing the nap of his
mustache in the mirror first, he then gazed at himself, and now in the
mirror he was brushing his little girl's hair for church. He turned on
the faucet. Wave after wave swept up upon the cold shore rocks. A gull
flapped into a stiff headwind. A driftwood stump was cobwebbed with
old fishing line. Hooker ambled on by. Two brown ground squirrels
played tag. Their tails flicking up and back, resembling question
marks, he watched them busily bury acorns. He listened to the raspy
filing of the leaves in the treetops. Fishermen were mini-jigging for
perch with silver wigglers in the weed beds of raccoon's tail out on
the lake. Hooker came upon a crawdad skeleton bleaching in the
afternoon sun. Lifting it up gently, fuzzed flaky legs, he tore off a
pincer, scrutinizing the green-blue orange-tipped arm and the white
china underside as smooth as pearl, worked the hinge three times till
it dry-as-dust crumbled away and said to his daughter, "Jenny, now you
stay away from those wet rocks or you're going to fall and hurt
yourself."
"Oh, Daddy!" the little girl said, "Look at the bird."
A gull flapped into a stiff headwind.
The girl sat down upon a driftwood stump cobwebbed with old fishing
line. Hooker ambled on by.
The little girl sang, "Row row, row your boat, gently down the stream,
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream."
Then she said, "Oh, Daddy, look two squirrels."
Two brown ground squirrels played tag. Their tails flicking up and
back, resembling questions marks, she watched them busily bury acorns.
She listened to the raspy filing of the leaves in the treetops.
Fishermen were mini-jigging for perch with silver wigglers in the weed
beds of raccoon's tail out on the lake.
Jenny came upon a crawdad skeleton bleaching in the afternoon sun.
Lifting it up gently, fuzzed flaky legs, she tore off a pincer,
scrutinizing the green-blue orange-tipped arm and the white china
underside as smooth as pearl, worked the hinge three times till it
dry-as-dust crumbled away down to the flint brown sand, flint brown
soil, Jenny as brown as soil, brown ground squirrel, brown ground
squirrel, brown ground, Jenny now scampers out away beyond
Hooker's--he faltered, clasping the brown handicapped bars on the
walls. He straightened a washcloth on a towel rack and pocketed a
wrappered soap bar.
Mrs. Hooker said, "Is everything okay in there?"
"Nothing here," Mr. Hooker said.
He came out of the bathroom. He settled his wife into her wheelchair
and released the brake. Going out the door, he flicked the light
switch off and the telephone rang. He left his wife in the corridor
and went back in and picked up the phone.
A voice said, "Hooker? That you? You son of a bitch, Hooker. You and
your heroic crawdads and Mandy. Jesus."
Mr. Hooker hung up.
The phone rang again and he ripped the cord out of the wall.
He came back out, shrugged, said it was a wrong number, and moved his
wife down the corridor to the elevator station.
-==-
A white car gunned down alongside the curb, grinding to a halt in
front of the Hooker's residence. A man ratcheted the handbrake up
slowly. He tossed a burning cigarette out the driver's side window
onto the lawn. Two boys on roller-skates clattered past over the
sidewalk.
Upstairs, Mrs. Hooker lay sleeping comfortably on the bed. Downstairs,
Mr. Hooker, on leave from work for a brief respite, was reading a
novel.
The doorbell buzzed.
He got up from his La-Z-Boy and absent-minded answered the doorbell.
"Guess who's coming to dinner, Hooker? Your ol' buddy, Kenny Ray!" the
man said.
Hooker slammed the door shut and dead-bolted it.
"Here comes Kenny," the man said through the door.
Hooker went and sat back down in the La-Z-Boy. Pounding reverberated
throughout the entire house. Hooker got up and said, "Jenny! Jenny!
Your daddy's going crawdad hunting, Jenny. We must go crawdad hunting!
Let's go crawdad hunting on the shore rocks, Jenny. Jenny? Jenny?"
The cat, startled by the noise, had become snagged in the carpet and
was mewing frantically, its caught back leg doing wild crazy eights.
About the Columnist
*******************
Phil Pearson hails from Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he's involved in higher
education and enjoys fiddling around with multimedia projects. A Mac
aficionado, Editor-in-Chief of the popular "MacSurfer's Headline News"
website, he maintains a keen interest in twentieth-century poetry and
fiction. In his quieter moments, he can often be found fishing for
yellow perch and the elusive walleye.
Ben Ohmart [1]
--------------
<
[email protected]>
1-act play
(editor's note: this section is divided in two 32k sections for better
viewing with EasyView)
_A Gorilla Suit, A Judge's Wig and a Little Blue Cap_
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ARLEEN - A woman in her thirties who is in love with pain. It kills
her to admit it but she can't live without it.
ARMONT - ARLEEN's husband, and a gorilla. He's tried to succumb to
the world of Man, and has pretty much adapted. But he can get very
violent.
KIEV - ARLEEN's friend and one time co-worker. A woman of about the
same age. She doesn't like ARLEEN's preference of pain, but tries to
be as good a friend as she can without overstepping bounds.
FRANK - Frankenstein's Monster. A gentle creature who wants love, but
still doesn't know his own strength or role in the world of today.
BOBBY - A date KIEV picked up. Played by ARMONT.
WAITRESS - At a bar. Played by KIEV.
WOMEN - Who sells papers; another at at a bar. Played by KIEV.
BAILIFF - In court. Played by KIEV.
VOICES - Played by all the members of the cast, in the dark.
SETTING An apartment, a few bars, which can be altered from one
another just by furniture rearranging, and various places in the city.
TIME Now.
(It's a middle-class apt. Much of it looks like a cage in a zoo: some
furniture is torn, magazines scattered, banana peels in dark corners.
But ARLEEN, an attractive woman in her thirties, who enters, tries to
keep the place livable. She's not happy with her life, but content as
can be. She wishes she could be more satisfied with herself. She takes
a small garbage can by the hallway, as normal practice, and breaths in
a sigh to begin the work of picking up, etc. She smells something and
looks around to discover it; it's in the garbage can. She takes a
bigger sniff to make sure and comes back scowling. She goes off to get
a plastic bag from the kitchen, comes back and starts the arduous task
of putting the mouth of the plastic over the can. Just then ARMONT, a
gorilla, enters, flinging his keys down. He's a real gorilla who's
managed to repress a lot of natural desires and anger, and so a lot of
times takes it out on ARLEEN. He tries to act like a man mostly, but
many times his bruteness escapes him. Except this time he's happy, and
is a little quicker with his natural actions, such as swinging his
arms low, grunting, climbing over the furniture, but all in
moderation. He should act more like a man than a gorilla, for the most
part. When ARLEEN sees him, she gives a copious smile and moves to the
end table which contains the mail)
ARLEEN. Morning..cold...I suppose it's still on snow. (ARMONT is
beside himself and can't speak for a moment. He climbs on the couch)
Well! Did you hear already or something or...(Stops; concerned) You
didn't attack the mailman...like in the summ...(Shakes it off) There
is a new color in the spectrum, lover. And it is a kind of bullion of
white, kind of white. Yes? (She holds up envelope for him to see, then
underlines the return address with her fingernail and a wide teethless
smile. This calms him somewhat)
ARMONT. It came - through the mail.
ARLEEN. (Concerned about his lack of enthusiasm) What? You place the
stamp, you let it go in the blue box, what does a - (ARMONT begins to
grow violent, and she backs away to do the cleaning) The next time you
have me write it out for you, make sure you want it.
ARMONT. Can I tell you what happened to me today? Would you mind if I
started in on what my life means to me at this very moment in time?
ARLEEN. Por favor. Did you wipe them? (This makes ARMONT jump up and
down until he comes close to her) Kiev called and I think I'm going to
lunch. Since last week...I think she wants to pay.
ARMONT. I love you, Arleen, so it's the event that most car
dealerships are on about, the "once in a lifetime" deal and crap and
shit and you never know do you, you turn on them the night following,
it's the next year and they still "ever" all over you.
ARLEEN. Not these cars, right? I mean. We've passed that?
ARMONT. (Growing angry; starts swinging arms) I am setting up a...
thing. A thing. You let me talk about Roy with an i, Roi, and he'll
let it be told to you about perfection, an amount of spaces that must
be filled. Any time there is a "must" in a something, you've got to
know that there is a meaning of parking, yes, it's fantastic, in what
it achieves, brings it in and sets it there before, on top, underneath
you, whatever! (Being swept away by the excitement, he becomes even
more animated than when angry) And it's on free land, that's the
beauty mark that sets this thing into so many directions, you see what
I can be on about, when's the preceding time you've built the
establishment and lost directions to the rent catcher because there is
no just none of a fucking address?! (ARLEEN shakes her head "no", but
really doesn't understand what he's talking about) It's this that is
the secret, and do you know how many lots attract, it's like putting
up one of those...you've seen, spiral coin drops, for the GAY AIDS
awareness, whatever, that circle down and down and nobody can stop the
hands from going to it, that's what they need!
(Pauses to see what her reaction is; she has none and it momentarily
confuses him)
ARLEEN. I want you to put this in the kind of single sentence thing
that you use...on Delmonte. A full peel. Come on. I love seeing you so
excited.
(Picks up the letter and shakes it a bit, hoping his excitement's come
from this. It agitates him, and he runs over swinging his arms)
ARMONT. There is no subject of doctoring at the present point of
summits. Uh, climax. Until there is a direct stoppage of what I've got
the latch to, I mean Roi knows the land, we go halves for a
contractor, he can put the touch in with that too, it's not like we're
going to the dole with six months up our sleeve, and a percentage for
something like...three...months 'til our way paves, ha, ha, it, uh,
paves clear to settle it up completely, so...
ARLEEN. I don't think run-ons count with me. You're scaring me.
(ARMONT becomes excited. He almost hits her the way he's ranting
around)
ARMONT. I have the chance to get in on the ground floor of a parking
garage. You chitter like a jungle aphis and we don't see the logic of
countless thousands, we're meaning a hundred thousand over some kind
of period. A pie, no pieces for us, and we'll take the plate with us.
ARLEEN. (Pauses; worried) This is one of those gorilla things...
ARMONT. What?
ARLEEN. A joke of the bush, some kind of -
ARMONT. What the fuck is wrong with a proposition, that puts you on
the pave to glory, evolution, no, not that, uh - bene - uh! (It's
making him mad that he can't think of the word, and he runs around the
apt.) The revolution! The revolution of affording it all for the
first-
ARLEEN. (Very serious; causes the pause in the room) We have an
envelope.
ARMONT. (Turns away to think) I have seen the white. When held.
ARLEEN. You have an envelope. - A kind of bulky substance that can
only generate something you've wanted. I think we've both wanted.
ARMONT. (Torn) - Of course, the affirmation is a given. But Arleen.
(Serious himself) The projected income is staggering. "Remember A Day
In Hollywood, A Night In The Ukraine"? Full to the rafters, a five
spot per, and it was like a wedgie to get us in, and then sunbathed by
a wondrous moon. Everyone dressed to see, hear, entertained, and they
don't care how much...cars...(Stops to have his point taken)
ARLEEN. (Pause; thinks seriously about this idea) Moonbathed, then.
(ARMONT doesn't know what she's talking about, but after a moment
figures it out and goes wild)
ARMONT. You're missing the crux of a point set out! You're missing...
(He starts swinging wildly about, and ARLEEN still tries to pretend to
clean when all she's really doing is trying to ward off the blows. But
at least one finds her and connects. Either an uppercut or direct to
the eye. She's down but still ARMONT grunts like a wild beast in front
of her to show he's angry. He doesn't strike her again, but lets her
watch the anger. A strange feeling comes over ARLEEN in moments like
this. This is why she hates herself. She's attracted to the violence
her husband shuns on her, but hates feeling the pain. She can't help
the attraction; and now stands up, face to face with the mad gorilla
screaming before her. It gives her a rush she can't help, and before
she knows it, she's in his arms, trying to kiss him as he flails her
with his hands. She withstands the abuse because it drives her sexual
urges on more, then after a moment, ARMONT too begins to calm more
toward sexuality. He treats her rough as he paws over her, kisses,
forces her into painful positions. She's almost starting to cry, but
doesn't dare come away. He grabs her legs and she busies herself with
undoing her panties as ARMONT sets her on the table so that they then
commence "the nasty". From start to finish, the act is quick, but with
such intense energy, it's obvious that it's a need far too powerful
for them to ignore. They finish and the breathing becomes more
regular. ARLEEN removes a weak hand to behind the table to find a
banana which she then gives to ARMONT. He moves away to peel and eat
it, but she feels used and unhappy because of the experience, and
quickly takes her gorilla back to hug, faking the afterwards
happiness. ARMONT eats his banana over her shoulder; he's calmed as
much as a gorilla can)
ARLEEN. (To stay away from the depressed subject of herself:) I think,
and I mean, I just want to understand that this is a...um, given with
you. Not like the door to door pompano, at four-way stops. Something
you'll want to..?
ARMONT. I am tired of being beneath the lion.
ARLEEN. (Laughs at the absurdity of this) Where is this located? I
mean, can you count on -
ARMONT. Okay. Now, the first thing to be admitted, is that, it is in a
sense in the middle of somewhere, nothing can be nowhere centered, it
is just not possibly in a civilized society. (Beats his chest; she
gets the joke) But. In the bus lines. On the trail of a government
work station. We will be competitive, when rates discovered.
ARLEEN. Unless they're giving free.
(This makes ARMONT angry, and ARLEEN is sorry she's said something.
She's afraid. ARMONT didn't think of this)
ARMONT. But. A territory of wide expansion. Next to a State Park.
Would have the tourist trade, of course any workers that comed to
high-rise and "progress". So we've got several.
ARLEEN. (Feeling cold; goes about her housework) You realize how long
you've been waiting on that envelope.
ARMONT. (Pause; thinks; becomes convinced) Yes! But do you know this.
To sit in the shade of my box. My box? I read the complete Agatha
Christie. Earl Stanley Gardner. Rex Stout. They pass and I ring up and
charge out, and count off change. Like a professional. And think of
the time.
(Obviously this is a lifelong dream with him, so she's quick to put
compassion into everything she says. Pause)
ARLEEN. And it's more than being a doctor?
ARMONT. (Screams) I am angry with myself for once being unsure. There
is a cypress tree inside every one of us. At the top of that one for
some is the desire for the professional capacity. Fixing, doing,
becoming, I've realized that once for me. But I know now what I've
been feeling, needing. You can't just be cutting it down. Lot of
monkeys around.
ARLEEN. I understand.
ARMONT. What's the matter?
ARLEEN. No, it's nothing to do...I mean, if you've changed...
ARMONT. (Excited) No, but yes! That tree to me is reading mysteries.
If it can be done in a box somewhere on free land. It's a dream to be
made into cash flows. A system of us. And a husband around, forget the
calls, the, yuck, defecation of clean up, I interned and...you know
how you think something's made for you, just because you're invested.
Spent. Done. But you don't become. Am I swinging on your vine?
(ARLEEN is preoccupied with something else now. Ever since the word
"defecation" she's been afraid of showing ARMONT the smelly trash can)
What?
(She smiles and pretends that she's just doing her usual cleaning as
she moves to try to take the can away. But she slips on a banana peel
and falls, then quickly and seriously tries to throw back all the top
papers, etc. she put in there so ARMONT won't see. He notices this
strange and serious attitude)
Are you going to have to show me what's both - okay, what's in the
trash can?
ARLEEN. - Don't you remem -
(Decides to stop there. ARMONT starts moving around more: the
beginning of getting worked up)
ARMONT. What is so -?
(He moves closer and ARLEEN tenses, ready for something to happen, as
lights fade. A pop song is heard through the scene change, and remains
when lights come up on the pub. It's a dark place with tables and
chairs around, a counter going off stage that hasn't enough room to
show the bartender, a jukebox playing oldies through the scene,
perhaps the flicker of the occasional dance light from a far off disco
part of the place. KIEV, a nicely dressed woman in her thirties who
loves clicking her nails over her teeth while thinking, which is what
she now does, waits at one of the tables anxiously. She wards off the
invisible come-ons of the men now and then. After a moment, ARLEEN,
dressed in unrevealing long clothes, wearing sunglasses and a hairnet,
enters timidly, but worriedly. KIEV peers through the darkness, then
waves to her, but ARLEEN can't see the signal. When she gets close
enough, KIEV trips her, then helps her up. They both try to speak
above the music. ARLEEN's shocked about KIEV's appearance)
ARLEEN. My God.
KIEV. (About sunglasses) Take those off.
ARLEEN. You're making me...
KIEV. Oh, relax.
ARLEEN. You're just...up.
KIEV. Don't fly off. Huh, get away from here, but don't fly off.
Remove yourself, why didn't you call?
ARLEEN. (Not eager to go into this subject) Why is it here? I don't
frequent these...we are two in here together, fighting off the men,
haven't you been? (KIEV nods) For the sake of virtues, why...(Floats a
hand around meaning "here")
KIEV. You have not returned them.
ARLEEN. What are you doing up and...I mean, God, what did he say, is
it like a...oh my God, it's drinkable, isn't it?
KIEV. Arleen, would you just -
ARLEEN. Yes, and we're to become the best of sloggers joined. Whatever
it is, I mean, don't do doubles, Christ, don't...the singles aren't
worth the price, I still mean monetary concerns, Kiev..
KIEV. Leave it alone and it'll grow by itself? I told you...that. To
get your butt into a seat I can see, talk to.
ARLEEN. (Realizes the deception) I'm not sorry?
KIEV. You should be a big time. You dropped me...in two months, ago,
haven't heard a ring, write, drawing God from your kind. What do you
think, I don't concern myself with, if living or dead, I wouldn't want
to take even money on you, but I could take it.
ARLEEN. Hold it. You don't have breast cancer. (KIEV nods "no")
Uh-huh, this is the way you go.
KIEV. Worried, Arleen.
ARLEEN. (Stands to go) This is your playing.
KIEV. You're going to sit down, until I'm satisfied with your excuses.
(ARLEEN pauses at this serious tone. She really does want someone to
confide in, but she's scared. She looks around to make sure she's
safe. KIEV doesn't understand)
Drink? I think a couple of orange and rums. You know?
(ARLEEN shakes her head "no", but KIEV has already signaled the waiter
with a snap. KIEV tried to wait until a pause in the music so she'd be
heard. There's an uncomfortable pause in the music while ARLEEN sits
looking quite depressed. KIEV thinks it's up to her to supply the
conversation)
You know, I put in for Yardbirds and I think I'm gypped. (ARLEEN
doesn't even look at her) "For Your Love"? When Clapton wasn't
restless yet, I think. (Tries a laugh, but it's leads to nothing.
Pause. She's quite concerned for ARLEEN) You know, I took off the full
afternoon out of Lakewood for you, you've got to talk. Speak. Gush
forth the words, as you say. You're alarming me in a kind of...huh.
Just...ah...
ARLEEN. You shouldn't've taken me out.
KIEV. That's!
ARLEEN. I don't like to...
KIEV. You're worried about Armont? He's...
ARLEEN. Yes? He could be here, how would I know? He's...
KIEV. (Notices ARLEEN's sad) You married a black.
ARLEEN. (Has to laugh at this) Generalize. And you don't even know...
KIEV. (Getting angry) I'm almost at it, Arleen. Pretty close, all
right, now you've been gone away for months, and at home, I've driven
by. I don't come in, because of...your husband. I don't feel it's...I
mean, talk to me. It's obvious...all right, no more words unless
they've got a tag from you.
ARLEEN. (Smiles) We've been friends too long.
KIEV. (Also smiles) I don't know where I pick up talk like that.
ARLEEN. (Pause; serious) I think it was that Lakewood should've been
given up six months before...the trip. Was I ever happy with it
anyway?
KIEV. Regrets? Huh.
ARLEEN. You don't call them...you've stuck with it and I admire you.
Perhaps if I was to have a...another "space" of my own. I don't know
if you call it cope, but. - The fact-finding mission...
KIEV. Into Mali. Timbuktu. Up the Niger.
ARLEEN. Twenty-five miles north of Gao. My mistake.
KIEV. (Understands) I think you should meet someone. I've got
a...there's a saint in mind, my angel. Crosses the t's while he
speaks, that kind of good. And all for -
ARLEEN. (Still in her own world; grows cold as speaks) Can a person
help it, though? There isn't much you can do but dig down and
excavate, it may be a copy someone's planted and it's not worth...but
it's from you. And you've got to abide by it. Leaves you cleaned out
like something, but isn't it better? I mean, better than leaving it
alone, and not doing anything about.. it. - If the jungle wasn't my
thing. Then. (Pause) I'm sure I woulda found something else.
KIEV. (Pause; can't follow. Like a friend:) I blame Trandike. Of all
the places.
ARLEEN. (Laughs despite herself) Not Trandike.
KIEV. Well, I mean. Because of a package? And we should all take
advantage because the unions scream for it? What kind of a boat cruise
are we talking?
ARLEEN. (Though glad for the relief) No, no. Come on, Kiev.
KIEV. (Grateful for the smile) Now. You going to take those sunglasses
off. There is an eye in this room, I'm a pretty fair guess it's behind
one of those windows and I don't mean to say lightly I don't care for
the peeps. I like to see the ones that extract this clever talk from
my...(Makes the motion ARLEEN should get 'em off)
ARLEEN. (Scared to; rationalizes) It's too light in here. For me. You
know how -
KIEV. It's nighttime in this place. It's chalkboard without the
writing in five feet of any direction, Mrs.
ARLEEN. Like how you drive at night? And it's so bad when the, on the
two lanes, the cars start and you have to shield. Well? There are
cracks get in here. The dance floor?
KIEV. Is that what that is?
ARLEEN. Sensitive eyes.
KIEV. (Lets it go for now) - How's the work coming?
ARLEEN. Huh?
KIEV. Armont. He get the appointment? I'm sure, since it's been years.
ARLEEN. - Two months and he's making more money than I thought
possible. Only took them a month or three weeks or what to erect the
stupid thing, and it's coming in.
KIEV. What?
ARLEEN. The car park!
KIEV. Sorry.
ARLEEN. Sorry. Yeah. Just. This doctor thing. Thought it would...
KIEV. His idea.
ARLEEN. I don't remember.
KIEV. Maybe? (ARLEEN shrugs) - He's wild.
ARLEEN. (Frightened) What makes you say that?
KIEV. (Unsure; it's so obvious) Well, he's...
ARLEEN. All right, okay. He switches around. I was hoping. - It could
do something, and the change would, a doctor. Now that's some sign of
pride. A niche. But the lot's bringing it in, why should I be on
about...?
KIEV. And that's not my obvious meaning?
(A pause between the ladies. ARLEEN has withdrawn into herself, while
KIEV makes a short plan)
Did we ever get those drinks? (ARLEEN's not listening) I'm going for
them myself. I will get picked. Have the affair from the husband who
is the invisible man and not feel guilty thanks to you. It is the walk
that does the pick up, that's why Yardbirds is good, naturally funky.
Blues swivels those legs and hand me the stick, Arleen, I rhythmically
strike their hollow heads. Down. (ARLEEN turns at hearing her name.
KIEV moves closer to her) What did you say you needed to -
(She loses her balance as she leans over and falls on ARLEEN, knocking
her sunglasses off. KIEV notices the swollen black-eye and ARLEEN
darts to recover the glasses)
Arleen! - Is he? Good L -
(But she stops because ARLEEN has found the glasses and hurries away
as she puts them on. Lights fade here and music from the jukebox comes
up to cover the scene change. Lights come up on ARLEEN's apt. again
and music fades out. ARLEEN enters, looks carefully around to make
sure she's alone)
ARLEEN. Armont? - Armont?
(She's alone, and quickly goes into her usual practice of cleaning up
the apt. She folds up her sunglasses, pockets them, and makes sure she
doesn't look like she's been out of the place. She tries to whistle a
pop song to pretend she's in happy spirits but her lips aren't
working. She picks a large amount of banana peels out of a corner.
ARMONT, in baseball cap that has a pocket protector full of pencils
latched onto it, enters. It's been a long day and he's moving slow.
He's also a little guilty about his previous behavior. He pauses.
ARLEEN knows he's there, but waits until he starts the conversation)
ARMONT. (Notices the silence) Said I was sorry. - Months ago...
ARLEEN. How did it go?
ARMONT. You heard me. - I try to contr... - You heard me.
ARLEEN. (Nods. Stands and tries to be heroic) - It was your shit.
(ARMONT doesn't answer, just gives a slight grunt and bounds away to
hang his hat up. Takes a pencil from his hat and scoots around the
room with it. He uses it to measure his temper; to control himself)
ARMONT. It was - it was...my shit.
ARLEEN. (Ready to turn off this subject) So did the fist fulls come
in?
ARMONT. They are there. They have been captured. Done away with, into
the box that is locked, kept for cash, stocked and barrelled probably
if it means anything. (Still trying to control himself. It's tough for
a gorilla to count to ten) The receipts I believe gross this kind of
thing at about, oh, come on, say, a thousand?
ARLEEN. (Surprised) Another bottle over the nodes, s'il vous plait!
ARMONT. It is a figure, and those are facts.
ARLEEN. But for how -
ARMONT. This is a weekend figure. A curvy, luscious, bit of boner that
just sets you out. Don't it? (Getting himself horny)
ARLEEN. (Senses this) Roi?
ARMONT. What, doing his box? Reads almanacs, for Dike's sake.
ARLEEN. (Correcting) Christ's sake. You do it for Chri -
(Realizes she may not want to say this. ARMONT doesn't notice, he's
still becoming aroused)
Quite a park.
ARMONT. Yeah, doesn't it bring it? In? (Comes up to her and fondles
her) Curvy, luscious figure. Keeps you hungry.. hungry, for the
non-holidays, and who wants a Sunday, God. Legal, free par...(She
tries to pull away to get back to cleaning, but he's too strong)
ARLEEN. Haven't done the right wing corner.
ARMONT. Not yet?
(He looks around and it's driving his rage on. He looks at her, not
understanding. She's growing afraid. It's making her blood boil. He
starts flapping his arms, and she can't help but throwing herself into
them. He's enraged and she finds it so stimulating. She begins to kiss
his nipples and hair, and it's hard to keep near him in this ranting
state. Finally ARMONT breaks the pencil and begins to stab her with
the broken half in his hand when the lights go out. Pop music, perhaps
Prince's "Thunder", comes up and stays even when: lights up. It's the
same apt., cleaner, three months later. ARMONT enters and grabs his
hat as if late for work. There are no pencils in it now. ARLEEN limps
in; it's not a bad limp but she's walking far from perfect. She
carries a brown bag with a smile)
ARMONT. It's no good.
ARLEEN. No, they're yellow.
ARMONT. No, the attraction. We're pulling them in, another building
going soon, near, and it's, I told you about this, there's an eats, so
there's no reason to worry about...I mean, how much are we making?
It's going in right on top, and we're working out a discount with the
head...whatever and get a...thing about discounts. If not free.
Parking for food that kind of...put them away!
(ARLEEN has developed a thick hide to this kind of random abuse, but
it's still difficult to ignore the sheer volume of it sometimes. She's
lost a lot of love, not to mention blood, for ARMONT. She's looking
quite anemic and has more scars than the obvious limp if the audience
could see clearly)
ARLEEN. Time?
ARMONT. Yeah?
ARLEEN. Tonight? Time?
ARMONT. In a - oh, uh. A meeting.
ARLEEN. What meeting?
ARMONT. This thing of the Park Officials. They've gathered already,
and it's said to go until an...oh, what is...an eleven o'clock time
frame I'm thinking.
ARLEEN. And you've got to stay.
ARMONT. Roi calls in sick out of the blue, grey out there, and you
suppose I like pulling double? When are they going to extract their
cars? How should I know? I've got a library set for this one. Fucking
impossibly.
ARLEEN. Ble.
ARMONT. You think so.
ARLEEN. No, - (Sighs) Doesn't matter.
ARMONT. The hurry in, am I. Impossibly the way twelve hours gotta
pass.
ARLEEN. No bookmark for you. Straight through -
ARMONT. (As he reaches for the doorknob) Maybe I'll phone for the
paint.
ARLEEN. Paint?
ARMONT. Going too well. Good?
ARLEEN. It's going well.
ARMONT. And lines' got to be redone.
ARLEEN. It's only five months.
ARMONT. Four. But yeah.
(There's a knock at the door which surprises both. ARMONT opens it not
too quickly)
COP. (Off) Ah, Jesus! What the hell is -
(Enters. A young man in plain clothes. He looks at ARMONT with a
little terror and unbelieving. He tries to speak to ARLEEN but can't
get his focus off ARMONT)
You Mrs. Ugatun? (ARLEEN nods but doesn't know what to make of any of
this) Where is your husband, ma'am? (She points. He looks, then
laughs) Uh-huh. Where might I locate him at this present time?
ARLEEN. He is standing right there.
COP. Am I going to have trouble?
(ARMONT sees that this is going to go nowhere, and removes his wallet
from one of the socks he's wearing on his big feet to hand to COP.
During this:)
He is wanted for a few questions, and I would deem it proper if you
could help us out? We don't ask for much.
(ARMONT takes the driver's license out of the wallet and hands it to
COP. COP looks at it and laughs at first at the joke. A pause. He
looks at ARMONT and realizes it's true. He can't believe it)
They give them to anyone nowadays.
ARLEEN. What's this about?
COP. Land. You're wanted for questioning.
ARMONT. What about?
COP. (Jumps when he hears it speak) - Land, I just put in your ears.
Are you - yeah, I could think of a couple good questions. You come
along.
ARMONT. (Growing angry) Am I under arrest?
COP. (Places hand on gun; ready for it) I am prepared to do so.
ARLEEN. (Concerned) Under what charge?
COP. Conspiring to defraud the national government out of three point
six acres of valuable government land. Land belonging to the United
States of America.
ARMONT. (Over "States of America") Yeah, I know where the states are.
What kind of a crack is this? I don't know who...what is this in
reference to? I don't know anything you're...how come I'm being picked
on, where's Roi, he'll explain everything you need to...his was the
land, and he got it in signed places, saw the deeds, it was a clear
case, I mean...why are you...what are you trying...defraud, I don't...
(During this ARMONT's become very agitated and early on COP's realized
he must put the cuffs on this one before something happens. During
this, ARMONT is dragged out; COP can do it because ARMONT is surprised
more than anything and allows himself to be taken away by the puny
official; ARLEEN is concerned)
I don't know what you expect to learn by, I mean everything's on file,
and things go by...legal, it's was all legal, like a kind of, I don't
understand wha keend of, wha sined o' quoostons, you do knoo wooo...
COP. (Over ARMONT) You have the right to remain...silent, an attorney,
bananas if you want them. (Laughs) If you give up any of these rights,
go hungry or something, don't blame me because they were all told, you
could do damage to your...case. And how do you like the climate here?
Oh, all in a court of law.
(They moved out and ARLEEN is worried. She shuts the door slowly. She
feels alone. After a pause, she picks up the phone and dials, but no
one answers)
ARLEEN. Come on, Kiev......you.....bitch......
(She hangs up, exasperated. She doesn't know what to do, and just
walks around the apt. a couple times. Finally she realizes, grabs her
coat and scarf off the hat rack and leaves, closing the door behind
her. Lights out. Lights up on a jail. There's no need for bars, just a
lighting effect of bars on ARMONT who sits on a stool facing ARLEEN.
They've lapsed into one of those pauses that come in long, emotional
talks)
ARMONT. If it wasn't for Darwin I'd be destroyed, now I get a trial.
(ARLEEN tries to smile but can't. She's not as outraged as she should
be)
ARLEEN. (Absently) Darrin.
(ARMONT grunts that he doesn't understand. She shakes her head and
comes back to earth)
You're right. Insanity like...itself. Nothing else. Me.
ARMONT. What can I expect? What do I know? The thing is built. Fine.
The thing is, it brings in and fine.
ARLEEN. What are they going to do about Roi?
ARMONT. Those posters like Jesse James? (She nods, then he nods.
Hopeful:) You're coming to it.
(She nods, though not sure of herself. He's happier and begins pacing
and speaking, but lights fade from ARMONT. Lights stay up on ARLEEN
for a moment, then go out completely. Lights up on a bar. Not the same
one as before. ARLEEN sits sipping something. Also, she doesn't care
if she's seen or not. She's doing some heavy thinking. There are
shadows in the back. A pause. KIEV wanders on, laughing, having a good
time, she's not looking for ARLEEN so is surprised when she finds her.
She waves frantically to someone. BOBBY, a relaxed man of any age who
has bad eye trouble from the contacts he wears, enters, unsure of
himself since he didn't expect to meet anyone)
KIEV. (Taps ARLEEN on the shoulder) Arleen?, you lush. You're sitting
between these shades of light, I can't see, I can't tell you even
exist, how are...months, again. (ARLEEN waves the talk away. KIEV sees
that something's wrong) This is Bobby, but you can meet him later.
(She pushes him offstage. She's concerned about ARLEEN, sits down and
waits for ARLEEN to say something. Pause)
You know, I lost fifty cents here. Not really. But I feel it's our
tradition now. These places. Gabber-gabber.
Ben Ohmart [2]
--------------
ARLEEN. (Looks at her without expression) - The accounts are frozen.
(Goes back to her drink)
KIEV. (Worried) Months, Arleen. You've got to explain to me...
(Touches her back as she says this, but ARLEEN pulls away because it
hurts. She withdraws into herself, unsure. There's a pause, as KIEV
doesn't know what to say. Lights fade. A gavel raps. The following
voices blend into one another like As Is)
BAILIFF'S VOICE. Hear ye, hear ye, all rise, the honor -
JUDGE'S VOICE. To be decided on this day being the twenty -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. Did in fact have a secret desire to make more
money, sure we all do -
DEFENSE'S VOICE. There has been no "obligatory scene change" linking
this -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. I think the contracts, this is your signature is
it -
ARMONT'S VOICE. Milk snake uncoilings, always fund raisers, plays at
Nat. Park, so when he pitched in this thing, sure I thought there -
JUDGE'S VOICE. This court stands adjourned for Martin Luther King Jr's
birthday weekend -
DEFENSE'S VOICE. And you know of no one besides Roi, he was the
perpetrator -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. Where is he hiding, Mr. Ugatun, there is nothing
to prevent this court -
(During the following, ARLEEN is seen in a dark area of the stage,
wearing her coat, scarf and a little blue cap. The wind howls; perhaps
snow. She's slightly sad and pensive)
DEFENSE'S VOICE. You are only part owner of this enterprise, and yet
it seems this court -
ARMONT'S VOICE. If I knew -
JUDGE'S VOICE. The witness will answer the question -
WITNESS' VOICE. Well, I suppose...five for an hour -
LADY WITNESS' VOICE. But we were really at a race to see City of
Angels, found the tickets in a Boston subway garbage can -
WITNESS 2'S VOICE. I never found them unreasonable in any way, form,
buy one get one free hours -
ARMONT'S VOICE. I suppose several thousands -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. Wasn't it closer to the tens of -
JUDGE'S VOICE. The defendant will answer the question -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. When in the throws of the Park's Planet of the
Apes musical, with real apes -
ARMONT'S VOICE. (Becoming excited) Arleen!, I suppose, but I can't be
expected -
PROSECUTION'S VOICE. To clear close to a hundred thousand in a period
of -
(The voices fade away just as ARLEEN makes it off the stage. Lights up
on KIEV in her house, a newspaper in one hand, the receiver to her ear
in the other. She's excited. Obviously no one's answering. Lights come
up on another bar; different from the last time. ARLEEN enters, no
emotions can be seen. She unbundles and sits at a table. She snaps for
service and a WAITRESS, a woman with tied back hair and exposed
cleavage, enters. All she has to do is see who it is and she's off to
fill the order. There's a huge shadow behind ARLEEN, checking her out.
WAITRESS returns with two drinks and ARLEEN puts a couple dollars on
the tray)
WAITRESS. There's an easterly coming up. (ARLEEN shoots her an
inquisitive glance) A three bourbon. Filters to the toes and a man
loses his warmth off the top of his head. Donald Pleasance lives in
the south of France. That rhymes. (Starts to go)
ARLEEN. (To herself; in her own world) Favorable. Favorable. Shouldn't
pick them up. What right did I have. Socks on that padding. Six
months. Snorting. Too cold to be a favorable...
WAITRESS. (Misunderstands) Strawberry scotchshake.
(Exits. ARLEEN holds the glass in two hands as if it could warm her.
She's not as upset as she is confused. Looks like she hasn't slept for
a while. After a long pause of this analysis, FRANK, the original
Frankenstein's monster in complete get-up, enters. He's the one who's
been checking her out. He walks, talks, acts just like the Monster. He
stretches his hand out for her and taps her on the shoulder. She turns
startled, but not by his appearance)
FRANK. Mind...sit down...
(ARLEEN isn't prepared for this, though she could be somewhat
attracted to this...thing)
ARLEEN. I don't...
(FRANK begins the arduous task of bending his knees to sit, but ARLEEN
doesn't want this)
I mean...I don't do...this isn't what I'm here for, I'm thirsty and
it's cold.
(FRANK grunts disappointed, but respects her wishes. ARLEEN turns at
hearing this grunt and pauses. She could be entranced, she could be
frightened or shy, but she's got to say something to this bachelor)
Those joints. They need something too. Liquified jostle.
(She tries to smile and he shakes his head. She thinks that was a
stupid thing to say, but after a moment smiles. She traces the smile
with a hand and is surprised to be wearing one. She loses it and
thinks. She pauses, then shakes her head and downs the drink, and
bundles up quickly to go. She starts out, but sees something and
stops. She's not sure how to act, but just calmly sits back at her
table and doesn't try to hide, but doesn't offer her face voluntarily.
In a moment, KIEV enters, peering through the darkness. She's
surprised when she finds ARLEEN, but adopts an attitude as if she's
getting used to it. She sits and ARLEEN knows she's there, but still
says nothing)
KIEV. (Pause) There's a much better one on the East. A clan called The
Brady Killers. Instead of smashing their instruments, because they may
need them. They open up cole slaw containers and heave the ho. It's
messy because they use like mega-ounces of mayonnaise. (Pause) Are you
going to talk to me?
ARLEEN. No, I'll phone the police.
KIEV. (Pause; doesn't understand; concerned) I just got it today. I
just got it and there it was, what did you think, I mean why didn't
you let me know? About...? You're here? You keep coming to...these...
ARLEEN. You introduced me. You're really one of the last, okay?
KIEV. What?
ARLEEN. I did not meet you. You came and I was about to go.
KIEV. Will you talk to me? You can write it down if you'd rather.
ARLEEN. (Coming out of her shell) You're trying to be funny? You're
trying to make like it's some kind of...all fated thing, and just hold
the hand and make it with a Rum Collins, a bit better like you've got
-!
KIEV. (Cutting in) Hold the cordless. Hold on, Mrs., I'm looking in
these places because the other day...and you try to -
ARLEEN. Look. Leave. All right?
KIEV. What? Talk to me. How is Armont doing, is he...
ARLEEN. (Viciously) You want to talk to me about him, after you set
him up in the first place! Why do you have to keep after -
KIEV. Whoa, whoa, I did what. What? What are you -
ARLEEN. You know, don't you? You've always known, but some people just
can't stay out of -
KIEV. If I had a vague idea I think I could catch it, but it's running
too fast for me.
ARLEEN. You always did object, and couldn't wait until after Africa,
but did anyone ask -
(KIEV stops her because she's nodding in the affirmative; KIEV
understands. This action has taken all the fight out of ARLEEN and now
she tries to drain an already empty glass. To herself:)
How can I go there?
KIEV. (Forceful friendship) I say to a cause, it's none of my
business. They do it that way, that's the way it is, and I can't
change anything. My advice, my money, it can go. But when it's forced
on something, I say forget it. - You be the way you like, fine. I
could always tell, yeah. You don't build heaters together. You don't
stand at those lines. Side by plastic molds by side and you think you
don't understand what makes a girl sweat. So why do I change you? I
don't, and you should know that an apology's coming. But. I mean. To
be truthful. I've always seen - you don't quite know yourself. But I'm
not giving out anything. You come to me, if you don't like something.
And I can't help with your own skin, but I can give you a piece of my
brains that don't particularly contender...you know, that kind. Of
thing.
ARLEEN. You didn't...
KIEV. (Shakes head "no"; means herself:) There's a sane person
somewhere. Oh! There she is.
ARLEEN. But how...
KIEV. You really expect to build on government land, you don't get
caught?
ARLEEN. But after so many...
KIEV. Listen, Arleen. You see the sweaters, middle of roads? How long
does an artist take to paint a dotted line? Gee, men. (ARLEEN
understands and wants to laugh) Man's an idiot...(ARLEEN looks at her
sternly) This Roi. With an "i". Garage on wild life estate...
ARLEEN. You really didn't...?
KIEV. (Lays a hand on ARLEEN's hand, takes it away quick, remembering
last time) I don't do those. Don't do those kinds of things. - If it's
the kind of thing you -
ARLEEN. (Knows what she means) I know I probably left him there. Make
him something he's not.
KIEV. - But if he'd have taken the hospital gig...
ARLEEN. Oh, sure. - And then? Does it make a difference. (Pause.
Slight mood change)
KIEV. I would've expected you to be...I forget the court number, but
it's in the -
ARLEEN. Twenty-three. (Pause) But how can I? Really?
KIEV. You're having thoughts on -
ARLEEN. (Almost pleading) We all get our kicks. We get them in some
kind of way.
KIEV. (Doesn't agree, but nods for ARLEEN'S benefit) Kicks. Yeah.
(Pause. Another mood change. She tries to be bright) Know that Bobby?
Prick, nine-incher. Launches off on these tirades of a bulk rate
overseer. He's discussing to me about the dangers of giving the
charity works too much power in poundage, and slams his hand down
talking about a man who's trying to cancel those black boxes, you
know, that the bulk rate you see it in. And opening doors that stay
long enough to bunk me in the ass, and a complete asshole, told him
about you, think you might be a couple. Got his phone number, well, I
don't mean couple, but...you should see about...(A tender subject)
Well. Just. - There are a lot of dangerous people out there.
Moderation is the key. You be careful. But do something to be careful
about.
(ARLEEN's been listening attentively but she doesn't want to come out
of herself too much. KIEV sees this, but also that she's
half-listening; it's better than she expected. She smiles)
Let me go refill us. Well, you, and I know the special that this thing
causes, it's going to be one of my requested. I do these joints, not
roaches. You know you never did drink enough at the retreats. You
taste the Kiev Special and Fried Fruit Concoct an d you make up for
it.
(She walks off. ARLEEN's pensive again, but now more aware of where
she is. After a moment, music cranks up. A WOMAN, tightly dressed,
walks across the stage. She knows she's being followed and likes it.
That is, until she turns around. It's FRANK, and she's repulsed, and
so quickens her pace. He's not disappointed, but has that lady's man
gait. He sees ARLEEN who's looking at him from the corner of her eye.
He stares at her for a moment, being as civil as Frankenstein can be.
She turns to face him. He makes a "greetings" gesture. She turns back
around. He starts away. She looks back. He looks back and it catches
her. She smiles, not sure why. She turns back to her table. He comes
over)
FRANK. (Always speaks slowly) Frank wonders what beautiful woman has
to sit around for. You beautiful woman. (ARLEEN can't help but blush)
No. Mean it. Kind of red of lips. That certain...French expression,
don't know what.
ARLEEN. (Somewhat attracted; but repressed) Thanks.
FRANK. Let me buy you drink. Talk. Talk about selves, or other people,
it doesn't get on Frank's bad side in any case.
ARLEEN. (Isn't sure it's a good idea) I'm with someone. I think
maybe...
FRANK. (Gives the signal "it's cool") There is a time for everything.
A season, I like the Byrds. I had to put some change into the jukebox
because it is not...enlivened quite enough, don't you think?
ARLEEN. (About music) It's nice.
FRANK. Frank think you have nice too. Are nice too. You have that
certain French saying something.
ARLEEN. (Looks at her wedding ring; it's causing her distress) Yes.
FRANK. (Takes a paper out of his huge pockets with some difficulty)
Frank ask a favor. See.
ARLEEN. I'm not sure if...
FRANK. No, no. Just ask to. See. Phone number. Now, I can't write. But
I...persuaded this...man to write out my own pay phone for you. Give
me a call?
(Hands her the paper. Grunts in an endearing way and shakes away after
he sees something off. ARLEEN is taken by him, but isn't sure if it's
a smart thing to do. After a moment, KIEV enters with a strange-shaped
drink. She shows it to ARLEEN)
KIEV. You know what this is all about? (ARLEEN turns back from looking
after FRANK. She doesn't know) Said you ordered it, the girl. Girl,
huh. She keeps ragging on the Cloisure brothers over there, and I know
'em, enough to...let's put it this way, there's enough breast work on
her she could do a one-woman magazine. Forget the Newport Kings ads.
Drinks coming, it's the banana, you know...mooshes in the grease..
(Goes off laughing. This puts ARLEEN aware to her situation again.
Obviously KIEV's forgotten it's a tactless remark. ARLEEN pauses and
looks at the paper FRANK gave her. Lights fade fast and the VOICES
start)
PROSECUTOR'S VOICE. So you know how everything's run, go to the osprey
nests on your lunch hour -
DEFENSE'S VOICE. I fail to see how any -
ARMONT'S VOICE. Arleen -
PROSECUTOR'S VOICE. And of course how do we know that there was in
fact, no one can positively rely on a -
DEFENSE'S VOICE. Does counsel wish to sum up in a -
PROSECUTOR'S VOICE. Who can say what your "Roi" may be made out to be,
you have your choice between a gorilla and a man with an almanac
fetish, which do you re -
ARMONT'S VOICE. You keep twisting every -
JUDGE'S VOICE. This is a high charge, with violating the United States
National, you will -
PROSECUTOR'S VOICE. So produce him!
(Lights up on ARLEEN deciding something in her apt., by the phone. She
does and picks up the receiver. At another part on the stage, only a
hairy hand can be seen picking up another phone after a ring's heard)
ARLEEN. (Shyly) Frank...?
(There's a light sound, like a wild animal busy on fresh meat, from
the shadows. ARLEEN doesn't know what to make of this, but she's
intrigued. Slowly)
I'll...hold...
(A loud pounding comes in. It's FRANK's footsteps. He answers the
phone)
FRANK. This is Frank.
(Lights fade on both of them and a romantic song starts, perhaps Derek
and the Dominos' "Thorn Tree in the Garden" or something intensely
romantic and "cool". This plays during the romantic montage that
begins, hopefully ending as the song ends. Lights up on the bare
stage. This is the street. ARLEEN is shy and not completely willing to
do this. FRANK comes forward; he's intimidating and never looks too
friendly. As he advances, ARLEEN gets a rush and it's obvious she's
ready for rape or some kind of activity which stimulates her deeply.
They exchange first date greetings. He puts a heavy hand on her
shoulder to lead her away. They come to a small newsstand where a
WOMAN sells newspapers, magazines, etc. She sees FRANK and can't move.
He knocks her out of the way and grabs a paper. ARLEEN is breathing
hard after this display of strength. He folds the paper to the movie
section and throws it to her, pointing that she should look for a
film. ARLEEN begins reading the movies, as FRANK shakes his head yes
or no. This doesn't have to be heard. Lights dim here. It's another
night. A slight addition to their clothes could accommodate this. It's
a restaurant and they're having dinner. It's hard for FRANK to use
cutlery. ARLEEN's loosened up but still not sure of herself. They
talk. Finally FRANK is fed up with not eating with his hands and
throws the food, etc. to the floor. Lights dim from here, ARLEEN is
scared and hates this, because she's still excited. Lights come up on
a doorstep where ARLEEN and FRANK are just coming in. A different
night. She's smiling and turns to face him. He holds up three fingers
and lunges his face toward hers. She backs off, but thinks)
ARLEEN. Third date? I suppose...
(He goes for her. The difference between FRANK and ARMONT is that
FRANK is very gentle in his violence; it's from the moment of the
violence rather than how ARMONT intimidates with wild actions. ARLEEN
senses this and she's caught up in it. For her, it feels like romance.
He presses his lips to hers, but pretty soon she wants to get away.
She didn't expect such a long one, and he's squeezing her hard. Now
she's fighting for air and trying to squirm away from the pressure put
on her. She starts kicking to be let go, but FRANK doesn't know
anything better to do than hang on. He's killing her. At last, he
deems it enough and let's her go. The song has finished. They're both
out of breath, but FRANK hides it better. ARLEEN is in heat and it's
all she can do from jumping this once dead man's bones. Finally she
nods and does a stupid movement that makes her trip or something and
she tries to get back inside before her knees give way. She waves
goodbye to him and FRANK starts away after giving his cool bye wave. A
soft song begins, either a new song or something like Queen's "You
Take My Breath Away"; perhaps Ray Charles' "Unchain My Heart". Lights
fade here)
JUDGE'S VOICE. And the court will now hear both arguments for -
ARMONT. Arleen!
(It's the next night. A movie theater. Two seats in the dark staring
into the audience. FRANK concentrates on the film, it's hard for him.
ARLEEN is really falling for FRANK and casts many glances at him. She
grabs his hand. He takes it and squeezes it hard, very hard without
knowing it. It's excruciating to ARLEEN, she's turning red. But it's
also making her legs go crazy. She casts her shoes off and starts to
run her legs up and down him; she wants him now. After a moment of
this, FRANK gets a very bad scare from what he sees on the screen and
breaks hand contact so he can flail them in the air. ARLEEN is
surprised by this action, and though she appreciates the freedom from
pain, she's still worked up. Lights fade here. Lights up on a picnic
setting. ARLEEN and FRANK laying on a table cloth on the floor. A
basket and food beside them. Perhaps birds singing. ARLEEN has her
head laying on FRANK's leg. She's happy and in the middle of speaking.
Song fades)
ARLEEN. - but I didn't think there'd be any need of me, you know. So I
had a week sick leave coming, I'm never sick if you can believe it.
And......I just take care of the place. If you can miss making boxed
heaters. Then. Well, I don't. I suppose. But Kiev knows gossip when
she hears it. Names change, but I listen. I'm actually glad you've
never... she goes in for the parliamentary male, wear a title for an
eight hour part of the day and then move on. Unless she snares one.
See if he can get three feet to the left -
FRANK. What husband think of you leaving?
ARLEEN. (Raising head up) What do you mean? I didn't think we had to
move onto...I thought we were leaving Armont -
FRANK. Arleen. Honey. I love you. You know that.
(He bends down to kiss her. He can't make it, so lays her on the
ground. She stares up at this huge creature, her breathing becomes
quicker. He starts down slowly toward her. It's not until the last
moment that he sticks his arms out. ARLEEN wants to scream. He kisses
her, but choking her at the same time. She beats on him to stop, let
her go, but he's not ready yet. At last he pulls away and she breaths
heavily, putting hands to her throat. It's exhilarating and she throws
herself into his arms. He loves it and he's more gentle now that she's
making the move. She discovers what she's doing, because of his
gentleness, and pulls away quickly)
ARLEEN. No! No, this isn't -!
FRANK. Arleen. Honey. What's the matter?
ARLEEN. (Cutting him off) You know damn...why do you do this?
FRANK. What? What am I doing?
ARLEEN. Can't you just...can't you just kiss me? Like a...? Why do you
need to...
(Stops then shows what she means. She chokes the air. FRANK shrugs)
FRANK. I don't know what you -
ARLEEN. Would you come off this? Just come off it altogether?
FRANK. Honey. I'm not sure what you need. Mean.
ARLEEN. (Cutting in; hates his slowness) Is this romance, with slow?
You.. come on...(Snaps her fingers. He tries, but she gives off a
weary sigh) What - you're just like...(Thinks better of it)
FRANK. What? Go on. Say it. Honey. Say it. Just like a jailbird
husband. Just like -
ARLEEN. He's not a -
FRANK. You wouldn't know, when was the last time you went down to -
ARLEEN. Listen to yourself, you're -!
FRANK. I'm like what?
ARLEEN. Why do you have to...(Mimes squeezing) You think I like it?
Huh? (Softly, a little to herself) - You think I like it? (Pause. She
turns away; doesn't want to face the truth)
FRANK. Is it my breath?
ARLEEN. (A laugh escapes her) You don't understand. You don't -
(Pause) I never should've extracted him. It's what Kiev. Said when we
were there even. And what was I doing? What was I really doing?
(Pause. As if she's got to explain it to FRANK) We crossed the river.
We'd just crossed it. I was at a low point. It's like having a
religion chosen for you by the grandparents, but what do you know what
you're like. You've got to seed, sow, stitch, buttonhole, I don't
know, and tell yourself you know when you find it. - Thought it was
the thing. Swinging from.. I forget the species now. They're not here.
Hulking. Black. Muscular. Snorting. Breathing. Hard. What else could
Lakewood afford for us. But I was thankful. I'd seen. - And I knew
exactly what my religion was about to be. (Pause) The others were
terrified. Somehow... Well, I got close. And the rippling muscles just
went on like some kind of mountain chain. Got in there. It's amazing.
Slipped away from camp that night. Got in there. They grunt, you think
it sounds like words, and if you're patient. If you can be patient,
teach, repeat, repeat the sounds. It's possible you're right. I knew
it. The first time I heard his vocal box. Learned on Agatha Christie.
I'm half British, so I speak weird, I know. And the first thing he
said, actually said I thought to me was. Armont. - I thought he would
work. Thought he could wear a suit and go to the club and drive a car
and be a...I don't know. But God. How I felt. (Pause) Almost six
months, now, we're married. Thought he would chip in, I mean like. You
chip a part out of a tree. You can fill it up with something else.
Something stronger. - He needs his trees. (Pause. Softly pleading) And
you! You're soft, gentle! What do you need with things
like...(Throttles herself about the neck. Catches her breath. Serious;
to both of them) Do you think I need that? Do you think I...(Pause.
Unsure) I don't...that isn't me, you know.
(FRANK's been quiet up until now because he's not sure of the
situation. He's eager to say something that will make it all better)
FRANK. Honey. Arleen. I love you, Arleen.
(She sighs as if he's not been listening. She starts eating something.
FRANK's disappointed)
ARLEEN. This is a picnic. Eat.
FRANK. I... (Pause; "never mind") Let me put on some Journey. (Reaches
for a tape player as the lights fade here)
PROSECUTOR'S VOICE. So that I can't see any reason why this jury
should not ask a -
ARMONT'S VOICE. Arleen! Why can't you -
DEFENSE'S VOICE. And I feel that that is sufficient cause for the only
one -
(A gavel raps to stop all this. Lights up on a courtroom. Only the
JUDGE, sitting on high, can be seen in the light. She wears an English
judge's wig and a black robe)
JUDGE. Armont Benjamin Ugatun, you will rise. (A light on ARMONT) You
have been found guilty by a jury of your...twelve people. On January
the seventh, nineteen ninety-four. For the crime of attempting to
defraud this government out of four acres of land and getting away
with it. All monies as a result of such a scheme are now property of
the United States government. All building materials on that said land
are also declared so. The maximum penalty this crime can allow is a
fourteen year imprisonment and a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar
fine. As you're busted, so to speak, the fine is right out. But. I can
still give you the maximum the law will allow, and sentence is passed.
Fourteen years, eligible for parole in half an hour. Case dismissed.
(Raps gavel. Lights out on JUDGE. ARMONT is very disturbed by this,
but has learned to control his temper while in jail)
Bailiff will please remand this man to the holding cell.
(ARLEEN has appeared on stage during this and can't decide if she
wants to do anything or not. Suddenly she shouts out)
ARLEEN. No, wait!
(BAILIFF enters and begins to escort ARMONT, who's now looking around
for his wife, away)
Please! Just a couple minutes. (ARMONT is excited. ARLEEN grabs
BAILIFF's arm who stops) I'm his wife.
(She doesn't believe it and gives a laugh. She presses her arm and
BAILIFF raises her eyebrows. She shrugs and stands off to the side
where she can see but not hear)
ARMONT. (Pause. Stifled anger) You remembered where I live.
ARLEEN. I've had thinking...
ARMONT. You've had...? You should try having a month or five weeks
to...
ARLEEN. Two weeks. - I've had time to think. I've -
ARMONT. (Becoming angry) Yeah, a lot of - why couldn't you...? Two
weeks...(He comes closer and she backs away. He pauses) I'm sorry. I.
I'm sorry. It's this. This...they've found me...but I'm coming back.
Yeah. I've found out I can just walk on...- We'll start, well what is
"scratch" anyway? I think we've still got that envelope, don't we?
That envelope?
ARLEEN. - You seem calmer.
ARMONT. Yeah, well. You make a fuss, make a row they hit you with a
club. It took me a while, but I realized that.
ARLEEN. (Pause; uneasy) Look all right.
ARMONT. Why didn't you -
ARLEEN. I'm not sure.
ARMONT. (Amazed) You're not...
ARLEEN. No. I mean...
(Makes the motion meaning "between you and me". This starts ARMONT
pacing, as if working up to anger)
Give me a reason. That's all I want, a reason. So we can.. not a
parking garage. - Calmer. - But how can it be...not the same? I don't
know if that's the word. The word..
ARMONT. (Can't believe it) I know we can do this. A half an hour.
What's a half an hour? Come on! I know how to - !
(He goes for her. She backs away from fright, and ARMONT explodes from
this lack of trust. BAILIFF is on her feet)
All this for you! Everything for you! What's a banana in a bunch? They
put those little blue stickers on them! You know how much I hate those
little blue stickers?! And you now've got to question...When I say
about the envelope...! Do you know what it's like to ooo to say it's
my coat, no don't hang me up! I wash my fingernails, but I have to
fight to take blood! Toilet paper? Who invented this stuff! Those
little blue tags?! Aug iii oo!!
(But the BAILIFF's taken ARMONT away. ARLEEN pauses. Silence. She
feels the loneliness. Lights fade here very slowly. ARLEEN takes a few
steps in ARMONT's direction in slow motion as lights go out. Beat.
Then lights slowly come up on FRANK, in a nightclub, waiting. He's
trying to sip a drink through a straw. Pause. ARLEEN enters,
distraught, and just stands there looking at FRANK. Long pause.
Finally he looks around, for the unseen force, and sees that ARLEEN's
watching him. He grunts that he's happy to see her and beckons her to
sit. She nods her head "no" but comes closer. He holds out a drink for
her and she takes it just so she can set it down)
ARLEEN. There wasn't anymore ripple in his eye. - The pupil. What
could I see in it? - I don't think there was anything to see.
FRANK. You very hampered. We have a nice time.
ARLEEN. I don't know anymore. (Pause) I felt I owed him...The strength
was no longer there. (Pause) Is that what I felt? If the ripple wasn't
there...was...
FRANK. (Doesn't understand) No. This not right. But I think Frank will
change your mind. Ease this. Ease this.
(Takes a big box, looking much like an engagement ring box, from under
the table. He's eager for her to like and open the nice gift. She
can't smile, and pauses. She opens it just for him. It's a Bride of
Frankenstein's hairpiece. She's surprised and overcome for a moment,
then regains her sadness)
I want you to be mine. I have often hear you say about him. Frank
knows how to treat you. He's in jail. He's nowhere. (She wants to
interrupt after "in jail" but decides not to) So I don't see why there
should not be something between us. There is something between us. I
will get you drink.
(He stalks off to the bar which is on stage. She looks at the wig and
tries to keep from crying. She takes the box in her hand, and wants to
take a step toward FRANK, but she's not sure. She doesn't know what to
do. Long pause. A love song starts on the jukebox. It effects ARLEEN
who slowly, painfully puts the wig back in the box and closes it. She
begins to back out a different way; she's decided, and makes a few
steps in the opposite direction of FRANK. Lights fade)
THE END
Ken Wilkinson
-------------
<red&
[email protected]>
3 poems
_above the alley_
up through the cool shadow
in through the open window
comes the sound of a slow ringing bell
the grey streets are narrow down below
and the bell sings of shining brass
swinging in a hand I imagine ancient
and smooth and bent around the bell
as a tree root through time accumulates itself
around a stone outcrop
reverberations shimmer and hang
inside the room
where fat bright yellow thick lipped vases
hold up the beautiful faces of dying flowers
and the woman in the bathroom
puts on her morning makeup
I know without imagining
how her fingers dangle
how her hands move
slender and careful over objects
how they pause before taking hold
and after
how they gently release the plastic cylinders
of lipstick and mascara
that click on the porcelain
between the squeaks of the hinged mirror's
opening and closing
*--==--*
_mist_
from this place
rain falls grey in the slanted light
off the edge
of the green mountain
*--==--*
_little demons_
this is what the little demons do
they look at you
through the open window at night
when you think that it's the trees
but it's the demons
nasty little demons
waiting inside you
inside the insides of your eyes
you can see them in the trees
because you are seeing them everywhere you look
they get in your eyes
they get inside your eyes
they live and they lie
then slide down
through the eyes
into the moist tender parts of the mind
then into deeper things
heart
bones
black insides of the bones
marrow black without light
lightless
because it's black
Illiterati
----------
by Shaun Armour <
[email protected]>>
**A Tale of Two Italos**
Reading doesn't always go quite as planned. Nor do the best laid plans
of literary columnists. Perhaps the biggest obstacle is one that
harkens back to college or high school--the need (or should I say
obligation) of reading under a deadline. Put me on a beach, with my
butt enmeshed in the weave of a hammock and a Herradura margarita in
one hand and I can fly through "The Brothers Karamazov" like, well,
like one flies through a margarita on the beach. I'll read the back of
my wife's skincare bottles in the bathroom, but tell me I have to read
something, and it's like your parents telling you to go outside and
play--sort of takes the fun out of it.
Where am I going with this? Well I was going to review this massive
book called "The Sleepwalkers", by Hermann Broch, a book Milan Kundera
called "One of the greatest European novels." Aldous Huxley described
it as "impeccable virtuosity". Thomas Mann, George Steiner and Hannah
Arendt all raved of it's brilliance. Clearly all these people are much
smarter than I am, and they loved this book that almost nobody else
seems to have read. Believe me, I tried to get through it, I put on my
fishing pants and started wading.
After a month of reading and nearly three hundred pages, I slipped
into a narcoleptic coma. When my wife revived me, my only words were,
"Reading hard! Deadline!" Her prescient response was, "What are you
thinking, trying to read a thousand page book by someone named
Hermann?" She went to the bookshelf, grabbed two books, tossed them my
way and said, "Now guys named Italo write readable books."
So here I am, deadline days away, and I have read two wonderful,
charming books by men named Italo. To be more specific, "Confessions
of Zeno" by Italo Svevo, and "If on a Winter's Night a Traveler" by
Italo Calvino.
I read Calvino's, "A Traveler" first, and what a stroke of good
fortune that was after "The Sleepwalkers". Calvino starts his novel
off with very specific instructions for the reader. He wants you to
get comfortable in preparation for the reading of his novel. Actually
he spends the first six pages discussing directly with the reader,
just how one might get the coziest on the couch, or the bed, or
nestled in an oversized chair. He recommends good light, keeping your
cigarettes handy and ways to avoid unwanted distraction. I genuinely
appreciated this advice. It's always nice when a novelist takes the
time to think about my needs. I don't think Hermann Broch had been
thinking about my needs. But I'm not bitter.
"If on a Winter's Night", you see, is all about reading. Don't
misunderstand--though this is confusing--there is a story. Actually
there are ten different stories. No, this isn't a collection of short
stories either. It is a literary maze, constructed by perhaps the
greatest Italian writer of the century. It is a novel created to defy
all standard expectations that a hapless reader might presume to
entertain. The novel you see, is about a reader, trying to relax and
read an Italo Calvino book. The reader is never named directly, so I'm
pretty sure Calvino was picturing me as he wrote the book. This
egocentric assumption is often confirmed throughout the novel as
Calvino speaks directly to the unnamed reader. It would be easy to
call what Calvino does in this novel a literary trick, but it works so
perfectly that it's more of a miracle.
About a chapter into the novel, just as your finally getting involved
in the story of a spy waiting to meet someone at a nearly deserted
train station, the story leaves off unfinished. Calvino surfaces to
guide you in your confusion. He helps you the reader realize that you
have a defective copy of the book, and so the novel takes you back to
the bookstore to get another copy. And that's where Calvino has you
meet the female reader, also with a defective copy. You and this
kindred literary spirit become detectives searching through novels,
raiding college libraries, travelling around the world searching for
the ends of stories. Oh, and you the reader get to fall in love as
well, but I won't tell you if you get the girl.
Calvino alternates between analyzing readerly impressions and guiding
you through ten different, brilliantly conceived unfinished novels.
Each of the ten novels has a different plot, style, setting and
writer. He does this with such an economy of means that the novel
concludes in under three hundred pages, which you might remember is
where I drifted of in the "Sleepwalkers", an unrelated, unfinished
novel. Up until the time of his death, Italo Calvino was considered
the uncontested King of Italian Magical Realism. Clearly this is an
author who wanted to make his audience feel importance and joy in
reading. Many people in this century have claimed that since James
Joyce the novel has basically been a dead form. Calvino defies
stagnation, envisioning and deftly creating endless permutations and
perspectives through which to see the written word. As complex and
labyrinthian as the novel gets, Calvino never leaves you behind.
Sometimes he holds your hand and sometimes he pushes you forward.
Either way, it's a place you want to go to. Calvino, clearly was
having a hell of a fun time writing this book, and he gives the reader
full license to have fun right along with him. I have a friend who
learned Italian just so he could read Italo Calvino in his original
Italian. This is not a negative commentary on the translation but an
supreme accolade to Calvino's virtuosity. Almost all of Calvino's
novels were translated by William Weaver, who since Calvino's death
has translated all of Umberto Eco's books.
After reading, "If on a Winter's Night" I was hooked on "Italo" books,
so I dove right into "Confessions of Zeno" by Italo Svevo. Svevo wrote
a number of novels around the turn of the century. They largely went
unnoticed until he met and was championed by James Joyce in 1912. Not
a bad guy to have in your corner.
"Confessions of Zeno", is the story of Zeno Cosini, a rich Italian
living in Trieste near the turn of the century. Zeno is a
guilt-ridden, hypochondriac with mild egocentric, delusions of
grandeur. Zeno, in an attempt to quit smoking and deal with his
obsession with phantom illnesses, consults a psychoanalyst who induces
him to write his memoirs for therapeutic purposes. Zeno only follows
his therapist's instructions as long it meets his own agenda.
Ultimately, Zeno uses his memoirs to reconstruct, reshape and
obfuscate his own mistakes and idiosyncrasies, thereby creating a more
palatable mythology of his own life.
Svevo manages to create a thoroughly likable and believable scoundrel,
who stumbles through life, with no real goals or talents. Even as Zeno
recounts his own version of his past, the reader can divine from the
memoirs what may really have occurred. In this way two stories are
told: Zeno's, and what the reader is able to read between the lines
and construct based on what is **not** said. Svevo manages to ask
serious questions, often in a hilarious way, about how we as
individuals define ourselves, and our lives.
As much as the reader might not want to, one can't help but sympathize
with Zeno. While he is a deeply flawed individual, he is also
extremely human. His vanity, foibles, and self-delusion are awkwardly
engaging. When Zeno gets drunk at a party and starts to say the wrong
thing, it is the reader who feels his embarrassment. It is easy to
make great, noble characters engaging; Svevo manages instead to make
us root for Zeno the bumbler. When Zeno asks three different sisters
to marry him until one finally accepts, we see not only a pathetic
character, but also an obstinate optimist who assumes sooner or later
things will go his way. Reading, "Confessions of Zeno", is like
watching an Italian opera buffa, where the audience yells out advice
to the clownish characters. While the reader could easily make better
choices than Zeno, it is simple to understand and forgive the bad ones
he makes, and twice as much fun to watch him making them.
Svevo, like his mentor Joyce, often uses a stream of consciousness
style for the writing of the novel. The structure of the book however,
remains clear, linear, and lucid. Zeno's life flows by in vignettes,
each one marking a different milestone in our protagonist's existence.
By doing this, Svevo manages the literary equivalent of time lapse
photography, creating a rich layered character while encapsulating his
life with a genuine sense of completion.
Both Calvino and Svevo deftly create bold, original characters while
eschewing any standard literary framework. Most importantly perhaps,
is that both these books are fun. This does not imply that the novels
lack depth--both books have important things to say--but each author
in his own way has found the internal humour of his creations. "If on
a Winter's Night a Traveler" lovingly ridicules the obsessive reader
while "Confessions of Zeno" finds it's humour in how individuals
manage to juggle their view of the world to make their own existence
more bearable.
All of this brings me back, guiltily, to my copy of Hermann Broch's,
"The Sleepwalkers", which sits precariously on the edge of my desk.
I'm sort of hoping I'll accidentally knock it off and lose it in that
little space between my desk and the wall so it can no longer mock me
for failing to finish it. The problem you see, is that the three
hundred pages I read of the "Sleepwalkers" were pretty damn good. The
writing was eloquent and often quite profound. From a technical
perspective there were times I was in awe of Broch, but, and this is a
BIG but, I never was able to make any emotional connection with the
book. There was a cold, emotionless quality to the characters which
I'm sure was intentional in keeping with the setting of the novel, but
it thwarted my efforts to really let myself get involved in the story.
Sooner or later I'll finish it, probably when I'm bedridden with the
flu, or break a leg climbing up the ladder in the used bookstore.
Until then, I shall retire it to the bookshelf in the section set
aside for books I am not yet smart enough to read.
About the Columnist
*******************
Shaun Armour lives in Toronto, Canada. He is currently in the process
of writing a novel, and likes bowling shirts and has his own pool cue;
alas, he cannot yet eat fifty eggs.
J.W. Drake
----------
<
[email protected]>
1 poem
_Drake Is Dead_
Drake could see the future,
Freeze-frame style,
Grainy with probabilities,
Chemically imbalanced.
But not in time to know
The present,
Not in time or place
To count.
Drake lived past the present,
In places too far
To mention.
It was hard to remember them, anyway.
Then they were monster,
Him the corpus,
Her the heart.
But two-headed.
Drake tested life like
Fitting candled eggs to normal curves,
To simplify the understanding.
He worked at knowing a present
Finely resolved.
There were times when
We never knew if Drake
Existed now or then.
He talked too loud, at times.
Sometimes they played at flowers,
Moments of growing,
Each tick a measure,
Cell pulses of fruition.
Look out, Drake!
Keep down, make them work for it.
Take all you can,
Now.
More flowers, deeply colored,
More likely to blossom
In too much heat,
And die.
Fierce blossoms are needed
To do time.
Drake sampled random measures,
Contrapuntally.
Let the truth in,
Let the truth win.
Drake made truth final
In his work.
Burned images, frozen contexts,
Melt the plastic, fade to never,
Take this one, too.
News From The Front Lines
-------------------------
John Freemyer, insipid reporter
<
[email protected]>
_Poet Charged With Fondling_
CONNERSVILLE (CN) -- A self-proclaimed 'anarchist poet' was charged
Sunday with fondling a woman who felt hypnotized while listening to
him read his poetry at Connersville Poet Corner. She was one of twenty
women who say he molested them during local poetry readings
throughout the course of the Bard Bardo Poetry Festival here in
Connersville.
Calvin Xavier, 43, who is recognized in the Connersville poetry
community as a "pornographer and sometimes great poet," according to
local fans, told police he needed to touch the women in order to
"release their muses and creative powers."
Twenty women have come forward so far to accuse Xavier. Sixteen of
them are poets, themselves.
The latest charge involves a non-poet who came to Xavier's reading to
learn about poetic expression. She told police she listened to Xavier
at a Poet Corner reading and fell into a deep hypnotic state when he
dimmed the lights, wrapped his face in duct tape and slowly chanted,
"Come to me now, eat my brain, eat my mind."
He walked from the podium and touched her breasts and put his hands
down her pants in an experience she said felt like 10 minutes but
actually lasted five seconds.
"She felt that she was not strong enough to fight him off and that she
felt that the audience at the reading would believe she was 'uncool'
and uncooperative if she struggled," police stated in a complaint.
Xavier told police he touched the women as part of the poetic
experience and that the women had consented to his touching them by
coming to his readings. He said he had conducted more than 100 such
Poet Touch readings over the past five years, police reports said.
Xavier defended his methods, telling reporters, "I know I am right to
touch women in the poetic sense but probably wrong in the prose
sense."
But Jade Scabit, a Connersville poet and teacher at Grace High School,
said sexual touching is not a part of his poetic sensibility.
"For these women, being mauled by a poet is like being assaulted by a
priest," Scabit said. "It is being ambushed by someone with whom you
put your trust. Poets are supposed to touch us with words, not with
their grimy hands!"
One woman said Xavier had fondled her to "invoke her muse," the
complaint said.
The Bard Bardo Poetry Festival continues through Saturday.
About the Contributors
----------------------
Stephen R. Ward is this issue's Featured Writer. Go to that section
to read more about Stephen.
Greg Gunn is a 38-year-old land surveyor currently residing in
Burlington, North Carolina, and suffering from an early mid-life
crisis. Tired of measuring angles and distances and elevations,
flinging ink on mylar maps and blazing trails for bulldozers in a
profession dominated by DOS and Windoze machines, he spends his spare
time happily pushing pixels and poetry on his Macintosh, learning
Photoshop and HTML, reading, or hiking in the southern Appalachians.
Allison Eir Jenks originally hails from Chicago, and is currently in
the M.F.A. program at the University Of Miami. She is the managing
editor of the "Mangrove Literary Magazine". She has been published in
over 100 magazines, anthologies and Internet publications, including
"256 Shades Of Grey", "Paramour", "The Fauquier Poetry Journal",
"Sivullinen", "Lexicon", "Paperplates", "Blue Sugar", "L'Ouverture",
"InterBang", "The Trincoll Journal" and "The Internet Herald".
Thomas Dunnam currently works in educational publishing and reads
poetry in Tokyo bars (often against the wishes of a significant
percentage of the patrons). He used to be a freelance writer until the
magazine he was employed by waxed too controversial and got shut down.
His prose poem "Halfhuman" appeared in POETRY INK 2.05.
Rebecca E. Hays spends her days playing with words and pixels,
creating eMail and icons, appreciating the whimsical diversity of
friends-found-on-the-Net. Virtually homebound from birth (40 years
ago) due to severe disability, she touches the world on a virtual
plane--and smiles affectionately at its perversely adorable caprice.
June Hayes-Light hails from the United Kingdom. She holds a Doctorate
in Psychology and Special Needs and works with children who have
emotional & behavioural problems. Her previous published work is
mostly associated with her professional activities and research. As a
wheelchair user, she is committed to disability rights and a majority
of her writing reflects this interest and the difficulties that
disabled people meet in society.
Ben Ohmart has had 100s of stories and poems in zines and journals,
and will have had 4 plays produced this year. Along with writing
lyrics and screenplays, he likes listening to British comedy (radio
shows especially) and collects an autograph or two.
Ken Wilkinson hails from Vancouver, British Columbia. When he's not
loafing in his leisure at an enjoyable pace, he can be found working
at Rufus' Guitar Shop where he loafs with great finesse under hi
manager's watchful eye.
J.W. Drake (actually a pen name for John Hansel ) lives in Tucson,
Arizona. He lives with his dog and writes poetry when he's not writing
a detective novel, eating, sleeping, or working for somebody else
doing ads, PR, or website design/maintenance.
John Freemyer lives and writes and programs multimedia projects
in Redding, California when he is not covering events for
the Masterson, Illinois "Champion News".
Calvin Xavier lives in his car--a 1975 Chevy Vega station wagon--and
travels the Midwest hustling pool and writing poetry. He calls himself
"the bastard son of Anne Sexton and Robert Frost." We call him a bad seed.
Writing Rant
------------
by Calvin Xavier
<address unknown>
**The Publishing Blues, or Just Write Dammit!**
There has always been a debate over how writers/poets/word-hacks
should justify their existence. Various publications (which shall go
nameless due to possible threats of legal action) are devoted to
helping writers get published, win awards and contests, and help break
through writer's block by featuring "how-to" articles which tell you
how to structure your novel/short story/screenplay/epic poem, etc. so
that publishers will want to publish it.
Well folks, guess what? These publications are a waste of your money.
Nobody really cares about what you write; all they care about is how
much money they can make off of you. So you have to ask yourself the
question:
"Are you willing to prostitute your words just to have your work read
by somebody other than your lover or family or local 'poetry writing
group*'?"
I have never been willing to do this. And I seriously doubt you would,
either.
Let's face some facts here, folks. The majority of people living in
America (where I live and write) can't read past an eighth grade
level. Which means that the average Joe Weeniebrain wouldn't know "The
Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner" from "Baywatch". It's a sad fact. And
there is nothing you can do about it as we race toward the 21st
century and an age of video-on-demand, Internet shopping malls, and
idiot push-button jobs where reading a good book means sitting down
with "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" to figure out why you
and your boyfriend are always fighting over which way the toilet paper
should come off the roll, over or behind? I am afraid for the future
of America, folks, and it's the liberals' fault for pushing equality
and freedom before moral responsibility and standards.
So what I write I write for my own agenda and I'll be damned if I'll
have some literary agent tell me to bend over and grab my ankles
'cause Random House has a helluva deal for me that is going to make us
rich rich rich. Because if I'm gonna get rich off of a book contract,
then Random House or whomever is going to make even more money. Don't
kid yourself; publishing is a business, and businesses are only in
business to make a profit, and they will do it at your expense.
And then there is the other side of the coin: the Academia. Now I
don't know about you, but I spent the majority of my higher education
back in the early seventies thinking I could change the world through
my writing; I planned on teaching during the day and writing at night
and having the best of both worlds. And then I woke up, smelled the
java, and got on with my life. The halls of Academia today are filled
with the potheads I knew back then. They don't care about changing the
world anymore; they only care about protecting their tenure and making
sure that everyone is treated equally under the conventions of
Political Correctness, which is just a sham purported by these
self-same professors living in their ivy league towers earning
outrageous sums of money for teaching maybe one or two symposiums a
year to justify their existence in an age of spiralling college costs.
Political Correctness has nothing to do with politics and everything
to do with the way educational institutions purport to educate the
masses so they can keep receiving government funding.
Well, guess what folks? I ain't buying it! I've been there and back
and I know better than to fall prey to some uppity feminist in
Birkenstockers ranting against the Romantic ideal in late 18th century
poetry because female writers during that time got the shaft when it
came to publishing poetry and even though Mary Shelley got famous it
was because she was married to a well-known and well-regarded poet who
was a founding member of the old boys club of Byron, Shelley and Keats
(sounds like a law firm, doesn't?). Instead of teaching literary
history as it happened, English Lit teachers today are rewriting
history to jive with their own biased interpretations of how and why.
Instead of taking a look at a work on its own, suddenly everything is
interpretive from some sort imposed and supposedly superior 1990s
viewpoint. Well, interpret THIS, baby, interpret THIS!
The halls of Academia are filled with folks who can't function in the
real world and wouldn't be able to make a living if it wasn't for
teaching. And just to make things real real clear, I'm talking about
the fucking English departments. If you are an English major, do
yourself a favor and minor in something useful, otherwise your first
job upon graduation will be delivering pizzas while quoting
Shakespeare.
So you if you want to earn money writing poetry and quality fiction,
give up any hope of becoming the next Stephen King or Danielle Steel
or Patricia Cornwall or whoever is the flavor-of-the-month writer this
time around. Because these people pander to the "Baywatch" crowd; not
that there is anything wrong with this, because it is a helluva way to
make a helluva lot of money. But selling your soul to the almighty
dollar ain't what it is all about.
What it is all about is Writing. Writing Writing Writing Writing
Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing Writing. Writing.
You have to feel it. You have to be it. And you have to do it.
Now, most folks think I'm insane and a total malcontent when it comes
to my opinion on this issue, and frankly I don't give a damn what
other people think. I don't have to justify myself or my reasons, but
I will make an exception in this case because I'm writing this column
for your enlightenment.
Yes, I am a purist when it comes to writing. Yes, I think what I write
has to mean something and be something to me. And yes I would like to
make money off of what I write. But I am not willing to give up
control of my words in order to do this. Nope, I'd rather die poor and
penniless than sell-out my words for a million bucks.
You see, even if I had all the money, it's not about the money. I
could be the richest son-of-a-bitch in the world and yet I would still
feel lousy as hell if I couldn't write. Money can't buy the
satisfaction of a finished poem. And that is the truth. Period. End of
story.
But this doesn't mean you have to abandon publishing altogether. This
wonderful thing called the Internet is ripe for self-publishing. And
there is always the independent press and the vanity press. Most folks
aren't going to make a bundle in the poetry gig; I've published over
sixteen books in the independent press over the past twenty-odd years
and I never made over $30,000 on them. That's total, not a piece.
You see, I don't write for money. I could, but I don't. I write to
write. And you should, too. Bukowski knew this, Rollins knows it, and
I'll be the first to admit it: Money is secondary; writing is
paramount.
And I end this column with a quote from one of this magazine's
contributors. As Rick Lupert said in his excellent column in the
previous issue of this zine, "I am a poet. Money isn't a part of my
lifestyle."
*more on this topic in my next column, dammit!
Submission Information
----------------------
POETRY INK is a free electronic literary journal written by and for
writers and poets with access to the burgeoning global community known
as the Internet. Rather than existing solely on the World Wide Web
(that part of the Internet getting all the media attention nowadays),
POETRY INK is designed to be downloaded to your computer and read
off-line. We encourage you to share POETRY INK with your friends,
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Since we are a free publication, our contributors acknowledge that the
only compensation due to them is the right to access a copy of the
issue of POETRY INK in which their work appears. Because POETRY INK is
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- as well as our own World Wide Web home page - we do not anticipate
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POETRY INK and print a copy on your own printer.
POETRY INK accepts submissions on a per-issue basis, with each issue
published on a bi-monthly schedule for a total of six issues per
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(April 15, June 15, etc.). We do not send rejection letters; if your
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eMail within one week of sending in your submission (or within two
weeks if you sent your submission via snail mail).
Our Submission Guidelines
-------------------------
* Your name, eMail address, physical (snail mail) address, and
telephone number must appear on each submission. Your name and eMail
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--------------
Spill the Ink! Read POETRY INK, the electronic literary magazine! For
details and complete submission guidelines, eMail us at
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