Flash(card) Fiction #002 — RAVENARK

[Source]

(À la 1960s) 

Because I am still having too darn much fun with these...

And in the event you've forgotten how it all worked

in this post, I'll gladly reprint the

Instructions:

Read between the lines.

(Or between the words, as the case may be.)

Ah! You've got it! Now let's begin the story:

RAVENARK

But,

Even so, he walked determinedly, but with little feeling—aside from the ache 

for home—as if in a trance, as if, perhaps, one might feel on an opioid.

But despite its obvious beauty and verdant surroundings, its Romanesque 

features felt bleak, and he sensed a certain doom.  Yet it was to there he was 

headed—for he had somehow known, though had not been told—where 

a gathering of literati were to exchange similes and metaphors and sip 

from grand glasses filled with champagne.

Upon entering the domain (was it the House of Usher?) he eyed

what appeared to be a vision(was it real? he could not discern) a

 petite, flaxen-haired, alabaster-faced woman, and he was 

instantly buoyed by her beauty.

The dazzling woman noticed the stranger, too—his wide shoulders, his 

dark hair and serious countenance—who was now approaching her carefully. 

She adjusted the silky ribbon around her tiny waist and stepped backwards a few feet, 

her skirt brushing against the hardwoods, whisk,whisk.

As he advanced within steps of her, she recognizing what she thought to be 

a familiar face. "You are William, the Anthropologist, are you not?" she asked.

And

he replied, "but I am a poet, immersed in the origin of words. 

And, please, call me Bill." He took her hand gently in his, and his heart 

felt heavy as his lips grazed the soft posterior of her hand. 

"Ah!" she chirped. "I'm Samantha, and I see

 

Like so many others here," she smiled.

"Yes, you could say that," he replied. "Come sit with me, we'll dine, and 

I'll tell you more." He took her by his hand and lead her to the banquet. 

Was it possible the feeling of gloom was beginning to lift from his shoulders?

They sat together at the expansive mahogany table and he filled

their glasses with wine.

He looked earnestly at Samantha, and spoke, as if 

reciting something he long ago heard: "

They can be found in the lurid tarn and gray sedge," he said

in a monotone voice, as though he were spellbound. 

Samantha shifted back in her chair, bewildered. 

She felt that the

He sensed her puzzlement, and after a long, awkward silence 

(as if it could have been more awkward than his hypnotic blather)

"It is as if I am like the Raven and you, the Skylark," he explained.

"Forgive me, I've had little sleep. I've been working on a poem 

for some time.  I know I must appear an enigma (he was, in fact, 

perplexed himself). Please permit me to read my poem to you." 

He pulled a piece of paper from his trouser pocket and read:

"The raven cawed

The skylark awed

Her bracken cover

exposed

terrified

now less blithe

she flied

across the heath

away from Raven

so dark

but the shaggy corvid

Bill so thick

gained quickly

on the little stick

of a bird

who scattered beholden

of her bids

Raven panted forth

a flood of rapture so divine

harmonious madness

in his mind

and seized the skylark

for his kind.

Nevermore, nevermore."

Samantha sat still, eyes fixed on his. "Yes, well," she said, "

I'm feeling the need for fresh air."

Bill took her hand and held it tight. "Please, I implore you. I'm sane.

Don't you think?"

"I don't know what to think!" she squawked. "To be honest, I'm a bit frightened."

Bill, himself afraid he'd lost her affection, pulled Samantha from 

her chair and cried, "I'll take you outside at once!" 

He led her beyond the heavy, arched doors, beyond the patio, through the 

dense field. He moved as if he were sleepwalking, transfixed by the 

luminous moon. But he was quickly roused by a flock of geese 

overhead, and stumbling for words, said,

They came to a pause at the top of the slope, and looked beyond the river. 

Lights sparkled from the tall buildings, stars fell from the sky, and Bill, 

again, felt overcome with trepidation.

 His legs grew spongy and he sensed himself losing equilibrium just 

before he tumbled down the hill to the edge of the river.

Samantha shrieked with great 

and ran to him. 

Bill rose from the damp sod unaware of where he was or how he 

had come to be there, but keenly cognizant that he had, once again, 

left his lonely bed while still asleep. 

He was mortified.

He was afraid of what his somnambulate-somniloquist self

 might have done, for he knew that

Samantha understood immediately—though his discordant tune hurt 

her ears—sweet, empathetic soul she was. "Don't fret, dear William. 

I had a feeling it was you, the Anthropologist, all along." 

She continued, "Its all right, 

"

They held each other tightly. This was a relationship 

he'd long want to study.

And a passionate embrace ensued.

"By the way, my sweet Samantha," William smiled,

his heart heavy no more, 

""

And then he kissed her.

[Source]

 Together they flew away—William's

 tail quivering with joy—he'd never again somnambulate. 

He was home.

THE END

Friday Night Frolic — Are You Still Dreaming?

It is preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else, 

that prevents us from living freely and nobly.

 ~ Henry David Thoreau

Adbusters Corporate Flag

You know, about the Dream. The American Dream: Justice, Freedom, Equality? Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness? Oh, that's right, the American dream has fizzled along with your investments and savings—if you've been so lucky as to have saved at all.

Really though, are you still dreaming?

Or are you weary to your bones?

The dream, as James Truslow Adams wrote in his book, The Epic of America, is the "[...] dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement..."  Yes, life should be better for all. It should, dammit. Now wake up from the dream. (If you are, in fact, still dreaming.) Because that dream is over. Poof.

Things are beginning to get a little ugly on Wall Street (as if they were not already grotesque). And elsewhere. Police and protesters are clashing across America. Our government's leaders praise the youthful anti-establishment protests overseas, but in America—Land of the Free, Land of Hope and Promise—peaceful activists are being arrested and even run down by police scooters. Who knows what's next.

"...It is a difficult dream for the European upper classes to interpret adequately, and too many of us ourselves have grown weary and mistrustful of it..." 



I'm dreaming...

I can't help it, I wonder what's gone wrong.

Our young have taken to the streets in an assemblage of civil disobedience, giving temperate expression to anger. I pray it remains peaceful. They do, we do, of course, have every right to protest. As we should. We must rise against corporate greed and confront Wall Street, the banks, the thieves with their crimes! After all, our government (ha!) simply won't do it. They won't. They prefer to bail out the thieves. With our money.

We are still a nascent country. We are still trying to find our way and we are floundering. Worse, we are drowning in our own greed. And make no mistake—it's not just Wall Street or big corporate or the banks. It's a two way street. Greed runs both ways. Greed throws rationality out the window. Greed takes hostages and then forgets about them. Disposes of them. Makes casualties of them. Greed never looks at the fine print. Greed signs contracts while disregarding consequences. Greed makes ill-advised and just plain wrong decisions. Greed gives bogus advice.

"...It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position."

What we are sorely in need of, as individuals and as a nation, is self-actualization. You laugh. Bwahaha! I mean it,  we need to get ourselves self-actualized and but quick. Has our collective dream become solely the pursuit of mounds of money? Does that trump all?  I think not. (Though many's the time I've been mistaken.)

The disparity between the wealthy and poor is profoundly absurd. And no matter how one spins this dubious distinction when it comes to a full stop it is transparently clear that it's a dizzy and thickly layered black blotch against humanity.



I'm still dreaming...

What if, my OWS and Working America and Adbusters friends and All those interested in reform—and I don't care from where the financial backing comes—what if we considered doing more than just hanging around financial centers throughout the country. Now that OWS has gained momentum, what if the cause were to  use the cash to find us a new leader—hell, we should All use our cash for that purpose—to broaden the candidate pool (the pool obviously ought to be emptied, political parties sucked down the drain, cleaned and re-filled with a fresh, clear, odorless solution), and not another politician chained to big corporate and financial institutions, but someone, some thing, who's nested in the loamy grass of the earth. Someone, some thing, that understands the heart and soul of a country, its people, it's greatest desire, its dream—we could search Thoreau's woods and root him out—and what if we stood him firm on packed soil (though he may not come so willingly—who, what, in their right mind would)—brushed him off a bit and tossed him into the pool (which has been cleansed of its greedy, beastly, sell-your-soul-to-the-devil political system that has never truly represented We the People)? What if? What if we rewrote the whole damn system?! Our new earthly candidate won't need to answer to or feast with the great corporate powers that be. The People will back him! You think he'll get eaten alive like a vegetable? The People will back him! He will serve humanity. Humanity will feast!

Uh, I am having night sweats. I am turning and tossing...

Oh, dang, I just woke from my dream!

... But it's all right, it's all right
You can't be forever blessed
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day
And I'm trying to get some rest
That's all I'm trying to get some rest.

* * * 

Paul Simon turned seventy yesterday. When he wrote  American Tune back in the 1970s our country was in high turmoil. We were in the midst of the Vietnam War, the Pentagon Papers were laid out for public consumption and horror, and the Watergate scandal sealed Nixon's fate. The American people had been mislead and violated. 

History does have a tendency to repeat itself.

And then comes Simon with his textured and rhythmic, So Beautiful or So What, which the Rolling Stone declared "His best since Graceland."





The road to America's self-actualized soul is littered with obstacles. The journey is long. The GPS is our collective conscience. I hope we never lose sight of it: our destination—our Dream. I hope we've enough fuel to get us there. 

Transcendental Tuesday

Shot with my Hipstamatic for iPhone

Look how bright everything is today! Fall is brilliant. Fall is a cache of the year's bounty that transcends seasons. It is a boldly sensual time of year. The brightest orange Begonia blossom I've ever seen sits on the deck table, bursting with its here-I-am-savor-my-succulent-blossom-love-I'll-give-for-as-long-as-I-can-give-in-these-final-holding-on-to-grand-summer-slouching-into-autumn-days Begonia magnanimity.

No, no one can argue this color. 

But why are my photos always crooked? 

Today, I'm working on answering that question and tweaking this blog's pages. I've deleted a couple of pages below the header and added, after much deliberation, an "About Me" page entitled Meet the Suburban Soliloquist. Creative, no?

I am thinking about adding old letters. And postcards. I wonder if anyone kept any of my old letters and how badly composed they may be. I am thinking about changing the header photo for some original artwork. Yet again.

I'm happily in that zone. It's about time, eh? 

Begonia essence, I have read, balances feelings of insecurity, quells the blues, increases body awareness and sensation, and eases fear. It does so by collecting the body's misplaced fragments and fusing them back together—a healing tonic for the heart and soul. I keep sniffing the flower. I think it works.

Friday Night Frolic — Running Lights and Bulls

Andy Warhol. Cow 1976.

Racing to an appointment in Boston yesterday, the Suburban Soliloquist jumped off the highway and on to a one-way secondary road where she drove beneath a traffic light just after it turned yellow,  attempting, admittedly, to thinly beat the red light get past the light before it turned red. Just beyond the light, she was pulled over by at state trooper. A state trooper. The bulky, thick-necked trooper lumbered over to her car, his wide-brimmed Smokey the Bear hat snug on his unusually large head, his big, brown leather boots clunking like an ungulate, and without a hello, demanded her license and registration as though through a bull horn: License and registration. She promptly handed him the requested items and said, meekly, "The light was yellow as I passed under it."

“Ma’m, the light was red,” he replied in a deep, monotone voice.

“Officer, it was yellow. I wouldn't have gone through a red light.”

“Ma’m, you don’t want to argue the point. I saw it. The light was red.”

The Suburban Soliloquist was clearly annoyed (as was the trooper). Why won't he listen to me? It's like talking to a cow. Or is it a bull? He looks like a bull. “I’m quite certain it was yellow,” she mooed. 

She glanced at her watch as the trooper stamped back to his vehicle—clomp, clomp—lights still whirring red. She was late for the appointment. She was udderly utterly frantic. There was virtually no traffic on the adjacent street (also a one-way)—where only a right turn could be made at the stoplight onto the one-way street where she was parked. She had made sure, before she crossed under the light,  that no car was turning right on to the road. She had never received a citation. Well, at least not in the past twenty years or so—that is sort of like never. She had received only warnings. Of which there had been several.

She is not a reckless driver. (She wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.)

The state trooper sat in the front seat of the grey and maroon vehicle, removed his hat from his mammoth head, and fiddled with electronic gadgets at the dashboard. The Suburban Soliloquist surmised that  he was checking her records. It took a long time. I wonder if he’ll give me a warning, she thought. Window rolled down, she tapped her fingers on the car door's outer side. She was becoming aggravated. Hurry up, dammit. She looked at her watch again. Autos of various sizes and colors whizzed by. She thought some of them might have run the red light, whereas she had merely beaten the red light.

When the bullish trooper returned he did not issue her a warning, as she had anticipated hoped.  Instead he handed her a piece of white paper and said, “I’m giving you a citation for running the red light.”

Her eyes brightened, “I did not run the red light!”

"M’am, I know you ran the red light. I saw you run the red light. So you ran the red light,” said the bully trooper whose speech had become more pressured. He did not look pleased. He looked like he might write her an additional citation. She saw smokey vapor stream from his nostrils. She thought he might gore her.

So, the Suburban Soliloquist thought it best to nod her head and say, "Ok, I'm sorry about that, but it looked like it was still yellow to me."

The trooper snorted, tipped his ridiculous looking hat at her and walked away. She slipped her license back in to her wallet and gazed at the citation: One Hundred and Fifty Dollars for running beating passing through a red light. $150.00! Preposterous. That is highway robbery, she thought. Everything went red.  I'm going to fight this bull!

Then, she remembered she was months overdue for her vehicle safety inspection. Fortunately, the mad bull had not noticed this error. He wasn't that smart after all. 

She drove off to her appointment, for which she was very, very late.

Later, she discovered that some ungulates actually listen (and clearly see):

The New Hot 5 is a New Orleans style jazz band that's getting, of late, a lot of press. This September alone, they were featured on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno;  Today on NBC (as video of the week); and, Good Morning America, as well as other news outlets. Their Jazz for Cows video has gone viral. And it looks like their new website was launched as a quick response to all the attention and interest. 

But they're not shy when it comes to sharing their talent with species other than the bovinae.  



Dr. Steve Call is a professor at Brigham Young University and is the ensemble's tubist and leader. All of his band mates are former BYU students trained in traditional jazz. The instruments played are the tuba, clarinet, trumpet, tombone and banjo!

Man (maybe even state troopers?) and bovinae patiently await their inaugural CD.

On Holding On

[source]

So the girl has pink eye. Hahaha! (Madwomen's caw. Yet again.) Is it Karma? Is this family in some mad swirl of karmic misfortune? This, after not too long ago being rushed to the hospital with a bad infection that had crept from her little toe to nearly her knee—completely unnoticed by me until she came home with a fever and pointed to the red line worming its way up her left leg. Truly, it's become a comedy of ails.

And I'm beginning to question my mothering skills.

I scramble eggs, steam vegetables and slice watermelon. I do whatever it takes to not lose my cool, to refrain from admonishing myself, to quell frustration over yet another setback and delay. Another day in which I'll get even less done.

Yes. It's minor. Keep it in perspective. Just another trip to the doctor's office. A Monday out of school. On the bright side, I imagine we've by now met our health insurance deductible.

This morning, on Blogger analytics—of which I rarely visit as it doesn't tell me anything other than referring sites or urls or keyword searches—I found under "searched keywords": girls with pulled up school skirts.

I've experienced chills several times over the last few months, but gazing at this, I froze. The search pointed to a photo, from last year, of my daughter in her school skirt. What was I thinking? And I was writing (more than a year ago, and poorly so) about  tailors and uniforms!

I question the wisdom of ever writing about my children. I rationalize by telling myself that Lulu is my daughter's nickname. Not her real name. Not even close to her real name. Lulu. As in Lucy. As in Luuuucy, you've got some 'splaining to do! (This, I kid you not, was a vocal warm up favored by my former voice coach, but it happens to be the perfect catchphrase for my daughter—especially when I take it up a few octaves.) Oh, Luuuucy, what do you have to say for yourself?

Keyword activity it not limited to perverts. Would-be writers Google quite a bit, too. Especially those with a certain weakness in the apology letters department.  To wit:

1) sorry handwritten;
2) apology letter for boyfriend;
3) sweet apology letters to him; and,
4) letter of apology to a sister in law.

Come on people, if you cannot compose an original, heartfelt apology letter to your beloved (well, maybe your sister-in-law is not a beloved, in which case you oughtn't bother) you ought to rethink the relationship. Actually, your beloved ought to rethink the relationship. If only the beloved knew. The would-be-writer-offenders are ultimately directed to this post. I wonder if they might try my son's approach.

Where was I going with this? Oh, I know, I was about to fall apart. I was want for a rant. And a caw. In the grand scope (of which I've seen many lately) of things pink eye is nothing, yes, yes. It's a day of missed school. It's gel in the eye. It's a nudge to get that new pair of specs for the girl—ones she can actually see from. (Yet more evidence of mother's neglect!) Contacts won't do for days. It's finding my twelve-year-old daughter in her room, head buried in TIME magazine, reading "Playing Favorites —Never mind what your parents told you. They had a favorite child —and if you have kids, so do you. Why it's hardwired into all of us."  It's Lu wryly smiling and asking: Do you have a favorite, Ma? It's me responding:  Well darlin', yes I do. (Her eyes widen.) I have a favorite son. And I have a favorite daughter. Lu, again: Oh Ma, that's a good answer. That's the best answer ever. Come over here, that deserves a big hug.

We've learned to put a lot on hold during the past few months. It's really not so bad. But I tell you this, if the U.S. draft is reinstated, that'll be the final straw. I'll be hightailing it to Canada.  I'll get a little apartment in Montreal and my son will attend McGill University. Let 'em try finding us. We'll be on hold.

Friday Night Frolic - The Bad Wife

[source]

His lower abdomen is punctured with tiny holes for the trocars, blown up with CO₂ 

and the wall is illuminated. 
She walks the city streets in Boston. Back Bay and Beacon Hill. He is in able hands.
There is nothing else to be done.
Three hours in the OR and three more in recovery. A stroll in the Public Garden.
The Swan Boats have been stored for the season. Still, the city's oasis sings botanic.
A poke in Shreve, Crump and Low. Too sparkly.
Lunch at Figs. Crinkled spinach, bacon and Parmesan salad. She eats
the very last dark leaf.
A massage. Soft tissue, she says. Stares from the headrest at the mossy green carpet.
What are they cutting now?
Isabelle's Curly Cakes on Charles Street: They make a
damn good cupcake.
It is, after all, owned by renowned chef Todd English. (As is Figs.) At four bucks
a pop every morsel is savored.
The surgeon calls and says he'd been looking for her in the family
waiting area, expected her to be there.
I'm around the corner, she says. Oh, well, says the surgeon, he's going to be fine.
She repeats it. Collapses, shutters inward relief.
She goes to the waiting room. The attendant says the surgeon was looking
for her. He seemed disappointed, she says.
Thanks, she thinks, I'm the bad wife.
No one misses the Chief.
They let her run up to recovery—only on Ellison do they allow that, the attendant says.
She sees him on the gurney.
Bloated and wired with input and output, says he's happy to see her.
Boy, am I happy to see you. 
She collapses again. Smiles and says, the surgeon says you won't remember anything in
recovery. You remember the surgeon seeing you in recovery?
I do, he says.
Her hair is greasy with healing oils. She hopes he doesn't notice.
His head is wrapped in a cream colored blanket and he looks like an old Babushka.
She leaves him, again, to rest.
There is nothing else to be done.
Has dinner at PF Chang's—no Todd English at PF Chang's. Returns to the hospital.
Tubes and drains and Foley catheter. Instructions and prescriptions and precautions.
Call if this. Don't worry if that. He'll go home tomorrow.
The whole damn summer into fall. This'd better be the end of it, she thinks.
It's fall. Fall is not decay. Fall is renewal. Renewal.
There is nothing else to be done.
She drives him home the next day. Box of cupcakes on the backseat.



Kate Fenner, the Canadian musician with the rich and sultry voice, began her singer/songwriter career in the 1980's with the alternative rock band Bourbon Tabernacle Choir. Since the disbanding of BTC in the mid 1990's she has recorded two solo albums and several others with Chris Brown, with whom she founded BTC. 

Fenner's last solo recording (January, 2007), Magnet, produced by Brown, includes this beautiful duet with Brown:  



More from Magnet can be heard here.

And from her days with Bourbon Tabernacle Choir:



According to her website, Fenner and Brown are currently working on their own renewed collaboration—an album with an unscheduled release date. One never knows what's around the corner.

Friday Night Frolic - Welcoming Fall

Internet source unknown

Pondering the fall Frolic lineup as this rain drizzled last
day of summer walks out the door
the needle misses a few grooves and falls

into a troubling graphic transmission in which
the din pick up is where Michael Stipe et al
leave off

where minstrels of a certain character
examine the turn of each season

where one wakes to an amber fall
reddening maples sway, sprawl

shades of foliage from timber tall
shedding garnish raked by all

just before the seasons fall
a choir of bluebells stall

before the seasons fall
to the winter squall

the seasons fall
to football

seasons fall
the gall

fall



into the Decemberists—who've been busy with their own sort of transition (including the above transmission)—moving toward simpler American roots story telling and arrangements (assisted by a special vocalist and musician with whom we shall in the near future frolic), but not altogether abandoning the intricate high-brow narratives and sumptuous ballads written by Colin Meloy, the creative writing major and author of the pocket-sized sort-of-memoir The Replacements' Let It Be 33 1/3.

The Calamity Song video, inspired by David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, demonstrates a turn of direction that is evidenced by the Decemberists most recent release, The King Is Dead (January 2011). The video, shot in Portland, as noted on their website "portrays a game of Eschaton (basically, a global thermonuclear crisis recreated on a tennis court" as invented in Wallace's Infinite Jest.




From The Crane Wife (2003)—a stunning compilation of ballads that are as gilded as a New England autumn:



Welcome all. Welcome the fall!
(Which, despite its gall, so happens to be my very favorite time of year.)

Flash(card) Fiction

(À la 1960s) 

Because I am having too darn much fun with these...

Instructions:

Read between the lines.

(Or between the words, as the case may be.)

Very good. Now let's begin the story:

THE NEFARIOUS MR. BLANK 

(Though one would be forgiven for doubting the same.)

As it so happened the comedy, The Misanthrope, was being shown in the local theatre, but Mr. Blank did not see the humor in it. It served, rather, to accelerate his aggravation.

Everyone in the theatre gasped and scrambled beneath their chairs. Great masses of popcorn were heaved in the air.

But I tried. 

He kept shooting. The police rushed to the theatre and quickly intervened. Mr Blank was wrangled  to the ground, cuffed and brought to the lockup...

...where he denied any involvement and fabricated many stories.

(Particularly for his roommate, who stopped by police headquarters to wish him well. )

Mr. Blank's posturing was to no avail. He was booked for possession of a deadly weapon 

with intent to  kill.

Mr. Blank was promptly tried for his crime before a jury of his peers—including his roommate. The foreman, upon seeing Mr. Blank, thought him guilty. (Turns out, in this case, one could tell a book by its cover.)

Many people—among them, his roommate—carrying paddles, attended the courtyard celebration.

And also, 

What was it about this sentence that he could not understand? He tried. He tried.

Mr. Blank was escorted out of the courtyard. There was much pomp and circumstance.

Mr. Blank probably should have said that he was

Now Mr. Blank will have plenty of time to read Robert Frost and write parodies of many classic poems. Every now and then, his roommate will drop by with news of Saratoga and a paintbrush and canvas. They will never discuss politics.

THE END