First School

The small, white, almost square building shone brightly in the rays of the early morning prairie sun, its windows glazed with reflected light. The flag on the flagpole was unfurling as the ever present Nebraska wind began to pick up. Children were playing in the small surrounding field bordered by tall cornfields, seemingly watched by tall green sentinels. The stalks were just beginning to lose their brilliant summer green to the dryness of early fall and were rustling in the wind. A metal swing set stood in the middle of the field with four wooden swings dangling from chains; and a wooden teeter totter bounced off the ground as children laughed gleefully bobbing up and down. All four swings were occupied by legs pumping the air in piston-like rhythm. 

At the door to the building, under the sign that said District 66, stood a slender woman in a simple shirtwaist dress with light curly bobbed hair and wire rimmed glasses sliding down on her nose. It had been an early morning for her as she got up before dawn to help her husband birth a calf from their prize young Hereford. He had found the pregnant, rust colored heifer lowing and struggling in the field with what was apparently a breech birth. The vet had to be called, and came in time to help free the calf and relieve the animal of her suffering, still wearing his pajama tops under a well-worn denim jacket. Luckily, all seemed to be well with the calf and the young cow. 

She watched and smiled as the little girl and her mother got out of the big black car along with the five Ferguson children who waved at their dad as he drove off, the tires kicking up dry dust on the gravel road. The mother and her child walked up to the building their feet slowly crunching in the loose pebbles. She had heard they were coming – the whole community knew about the Polish war refugees, the couple with two small children that Mr.  Schneider had sponsored to work on his farm two years ago. Who knows what they had gone through in their own country? The father spoke a little English but was difficult to understand with his strong Polish accent. She had heard that the man was a hard, quick worker willing to help in the fields, fix tractors or machinery, and butcher hares in the slaughter house where Schneider raised domestic rabbits. She, herself, did not care for rabbit meat, but there were plenty of people in the county who ate it during the war when other meat was scarce. Didn’t she read somewhere that the Germans and French had eaten rabbit for centuries? Maybe that’s where Schneider got the idea – his grandparents had come over from the old country and settled in this rich flat farmland with its winding prostrate river that reminded them of their homeland, land that was at the mercy of the weather and surrounded by open skies so that storms could be seen approaching for miles, long before they arrived, usually giving people time to seek shelter. Not everyone was always so lucky; she had known more than one farmer hit by lightning while working his field on his tractor. And the destruction of tornados was unpredictable and devastating. Farming the prairie was an occupation not suited to everyone. 

The teacher wondered how much English this child would know if any? There were some German immigrant children at the school who had arrived the previous year and they had learned quickly. Her own great grandparents had been Swedish settlers who farmed a homestead south of town near the Blue River. They belonged to the founders of that community and now lay buried in the town cemetery under the giant Cottonwood trees. But these were the first Poles that she was to meet. She wondered how they would do here in this small town with no one around that spoke their language. And how would they feel about being surrounded by people with German ancestry after being displaced from their homes by the tanks and artillery of German soldiers.

Now they stood in front of her, the tall pretty woman in her blue floral cotton dress and the little dark curly haired girl clinging to her mother’s hand, dressed in what appeared to be boy’s pants but wearing a blouse speckled with tiny pink and blue flowers. Her brown leather shoes looked a little big for her feet, maybe to give her growing room. The little girl kept her eyes down but would sneak quick glances at the playground where the children were playing. She had a determined look about her as though she knew this was something in her destiny, yet her face betrayed a vulnerability, a caution, perhaps a bit of worry? Her mother’s forehead was also furrowed but her eyes smiling as she extended the hand of her child to the teacher as though transferring her somehow to a safe person, a keeper of a safe place. She said the child’s name which sounded like it was Zo-shaa.

Zosia looked up into the teacher’s face and shyly returned the smile. This was the day she had been waiting for.  She would learn to read.  And this was the teacher her mother had told her about. Mother knew all about teachers as she had been a school teacher in Poland.  To Zosia, school was a fantastical place. She would be the only one going this year. Her brother was still too little, and the baby had four more years at home with Mama.  Zosia had overheard her parents talking with the neighbor weeks ago and the three of them kept looking at her as they spoke. They called the neighbor “Singer” in Polish because he would burst into song without any visible provocation. He even taught her mother an American song. Her father later told her Mr. Singer said there was a schoolhouse for all children two miles away. It would open in September and she would go. Zosia’s father had to be at the farm where he worked before dawn to milk cows and clean the barn so he was not able to take her, but Mr. Singer would be glad to give Zosia a ride to school in the mornings along with his five children. That first morning, Mr. Singer’s wife had offered to watch Zosia’s two younger brothers so that Mama could go to school with her and meet the teacher.

The teacher took the little girl’s hand in her own and gently patted it. She called out to one of the older Ferguson girls to come show Zosia around.  Susan, the blond, freckle- faced, 10 year old daughter of Mr. Singer came running and grabbed Zosia’s arm pulling her over to the playground. She showed her to some of the other children and told them her name. Several children gathered around to look at her and asked her questions but Zosia had no idea what they were saying. She was afraid to say the English word “Hello” even though she had been practicing it for days. She could feel herself shrinking inside like the turtle she and her brother had found last summer in the creek near their house. When one of the older girls pointed to an empty swing and motioned for her to sit down, Zosia did so. The girl pushed her from behind and Zosia went flying up in the air like a balloon. What an amazing free feeling! The swing went higher than she had ever gone. She could see way over the corn stalks to a barn and farmhouse far away. She could see her mother and the teacher standing outside the schoolhouse watching her.

The teacher took Zosia’s mother by the arm and led her into the one room schoolhouse. She touched  the desk where Zosia would sit, showed the mother where her child would hang her coat in the winter, and pointed at the children’s lunch boxes lined up on a shelf. She said many things but the mother did not understand the words, only the kindness and hope behind them.  Mama saw the wood stove in the corner and the water jug with the tin cup everyone could share. The stove was not unlike the stove in the village classroom where she had taught. The teacher’s desk stood on a little platform in front of the room and a blackboard spanned the wall behind the desk. Rows of desks of varying sizes filled the room as children from kindergarten to 12^th grade came here to learn.  Each desk was stuffed with books and there were books on shelves around the room, so many books that Zosia would learn to read.  And then maybe Mama would also learn to read in English. Children’s voices echoed in her head as she reached out and touched one of the books, but the voices Mama heard were Polish not English. She had to glance away so that the sudden moisture in her eyes did not betray her. 

The teacher mistook her tears for regret about leaving her child and put an arm around Mama’s shoulder speaking in reassuring tones about how Zo-shaa would be fine, she seemed to be a smart little girl and would do well. Mama nodded in response to the kind tone and the mention of her child’s name. It was amazing how much one could understand even without knowing the words. She heard the children’s laughter outside, laughter that was the same in any language. 

The teacher invited Mama to sit in a chair in the back of the classroom and gave her some water in the tin cup. She gestured at the clock hanging on the wall, and pointed at the bell she had to ring to call the children inside. All the children came running and chattering as they did every morning, and Susan had Zo-shaa’s hand in hers leading her to where she would sit. When quiet had been restored, the teacher announced that they had a new student, Zo-shaa who was from Poland. She expected they would all help her to learn English and feel welcome in this country which was new to her. Mama watched and listened and remembered.

First Impressions from Hong Kong

I knew I would like Hong Kong when the immigration officer pulled out a tin box covered in Hello Kitty stickers from under her desk, unlocked a flimsy pink plastic lock, and extracted an "immigration approved" stamp from inside it to stamp my passport with. Still giggling over a joke she was sharing with the immigration officer beside her and hardly aware of my nervous presence, she sent me on my way and out into the glittery neon world that is Hong Kong. I was met at the exit by the school director who welcomed me in the name of the school where I will be working, escorted me to the hotel shuttle, and gave me some sound advise on apartment rentals. 

Asia must have cornered the market on cuteness. Everywhere one can place a cute cartoon logo, you can find one. Double-decker buses fly past with happy face cartoons on the side. Advertisements, information, logos--all of it is light and cute. So far, people have been kind and helpful. Despite the fact that at 5 foot ten I tower over 99% of the local population, people see me as a "friendly giant" in need of assistance or advise. When I wandered over to the information booth at the hotel to ask a few questions, the girl behind the counter engaged me in a lively conversation on the advantages of living on Ma Wan Island over Discovery Bay and the difficulties local Chinese have studying English literature. 

The nature I have glimpsed from the airplane and bus window is impressive--lush green mountains in the shapes of massive green mounds reminiscent of the painted silk scrolls in the Asia wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and aquamarine water. Yes, I'm sure the cynics will chime in here and remind me of pollution, but for the moment, I have seen the grandeur of Asia...

19:00: Play: The Interpreter – A Lithuanian Drama

Free performance of the play ‘The Interpreter’ written by Laima Vincė and directed by Alicia Gian (USA) and Marius Mačiulis (LT). Seating is on a first come first serve basis and subject to capacity. Please arrive early for best seating. The house opens at 6:30.

Directors – Alicia Gian (USA)/ Marius Mačiulis (LT)
Playwright – Laima Vince
Stage Design – Angė Kupšytė
Costume Design – Indrė Budreckytė
Sound Design – Deimantė Ponelytė
Performance duration – 90 min. (without interval)
Actors:
Ridas Jasiulionis
Alina Leščinskienė
Arturas Varnas
Larisa Kalpokaitė
Laura Height (UK)
Renata Kutinaitė
Indrė Jaraitė
Tadas Gudaitis
Paulius Valaskevičius
Inga Filipovič

Knots are found in place of cut off tree limbs
Unfeeling, lifeless, blanketed in bark,
But still living, a part of the tree,
Their bodies decay, ever hardening,
Similar to stumps, to roots, to veins,
Their communion limited,
A slight touch of one another through bark,
Touching, trying, shifting closer 
To touch without touching                   (Virgis Malčius)

“We’ve already decided – we don’t talk about Lithuania when we’re together, because it’s cold there, it’s dark there, and it’s rains without stopping.”

Directors Alicia Gian and Marius Mačiulis say they labeled the bilingual production a “national patriotic drama” as a provocation – to make the audience reflect on what exactly this beloved motherland is. “She is like a young girl struggling to put on a national dress” Mačiulis comments. “Who will come and help her?”

They love their motherland from a distance, because each had their own reasons for leaving it. Adele could not support herself on a meagre retirement pension, so she went to England to find a job. Natasha was sold into sex slavery by her boyfriend. Joana left home hoping to find her true love. While Julius…

Julius used to believe in Lithuania, he shared in its euphoric experience of national liberation by helping it communicate with the English-speaking world. Twenty years later, he still does just that, but his Lithuania is very different now, scattered across the globe, though mostly over the British Isles. Julius lives in Buenos Aires with his Argentinian partner Xavier and every morning receives phone calls from welfare institutions in the UK, serving as an interpreter for fellow Lithuanians. They are the ones who personify Julius’s Lithuania – a homeless pensioner, an unemployed man abusing the British welfare system, a childhood friend named Joana with whom he used to play in a sand box underneath the singing pine trees. This childhood friend rekindles in Julius a nostalgia for his country while at the same time, reminds him of its betrayal. Joana stood aside when Julius became a victim of a hate crime in school. Perhaps, if she had come to him and wiped the blood off his face, he wouldn’t have left Lithuania. While communicating with Joana, regardless of distance, he rediscovers his Lithuanian identity which he left behind twenty years ago. Although Julius, played by Ridas Jasiulionis, sits thousands of kilometers away, he serves as the only channel of connection between Joana (Alina Leščinskienė) and the nurse (Laura Height) who treats her at the South London Women’s Health Clinic on nearly a daily basis. The two are bound together by a country neither of them has seen for years, and the more Julius thinks of it, all the more the distance between him and Xavier (Arturas Varnas) grows. It becomes harder and harder for Julius to maintain a professional distance between his work as a translator and his concern for his fellows citizens living abroad. Finally, he and Joana have to make peace with the difficulties of their past. A second chance – to wipe the blood away – can always be discovered.

 Laima Vincė is an author, translator, poet, and journalist. For more than twenty years, Laima has been interested in the historical changes happening in the Baltic states. When Lithuania was still occupied by the Soviets, she came to study poetry translation with Marcelijus Martinaitis at Vilnius University and to participate in the Singing Revolution; in 2008 she published a book of memoirs entitled “Lenin’s Head on a Platter” about the experience. After 20 years, in 1994, she returned to Lithuania as part of the Fulbright scholar program to teach poetry translation theory and creative writing at Vilnius University and at Vytautas Magnus University. She currently translates contemporary Lithuanian poetry and prose into English. She has received more than one national American award for her work such as the prestigious National Endowment of the Arts award and a PEN translation award.

In 2012, a reading of the play “The Interpreter” was staged at the National Drama Theater as part of the Lithuanian playwriting festival “Versme.”

This production is a part of the Baltic Pride 2013 events program. Performances on July 27th and 28th are free to the public courtesy of the US Embassy of Vilnius.

Seating is limited. Please arrive early to find a seat. Doors opens at 6:30PM.

For more information on the production please visit www.vkamerinisteatras.lt

Language: Mixed language production – Lithuanian and English

Location: Vilniaus Kamerinis Teatras / Vilnius Chamber Theatre, Konstitucijos pr. 23B

More information here.

Notes from Enroute to Iceland...

And so here I am,
skimming over the sunset,
trail blazing through cloud cover,
hurtling towards Reykjavik,
peeling a boiled egg
from the black chickens
I left behind in my backyard in Maine,
which I had the foresight
to boil before I left,
passengers staring at me,
as though I were
one of those village women
one spots occasionally
on provincial buses
heading nowhere
and somewhere...

july 19, sacred bee, craigslist, women for men, portland, 64.

stung by a giant bumble bee right next to my left eye

shamanic visioning, drumming, ancient sensings, intuitive connections.

earliest mornings birds singing around the house. crow caws for corn.

fog over ocean holding the smell of fish. expectancy. purpose. bright

yellow gold finch brings good luck.

Riding the circle of the island. Sun has risen into a hazy sky. Heatwave. Goldfinch, my mother's good luck bird, flies next to me, to my right. The ocean has a smell of fish. Seagulls dot the low tide seaweed. Some kind of fish is around, reminding me of years back when I was lobstering and pogies were chased by bluefish and came up onto the shore by the hundreds. Free bait. Today, I do not need to haul a lobster trap. I can simply enjoy the sense of smell of fish as I bike along. Pushing the bike up the last hill, I stop to smell a rose, wet with last night's rain and this morning's dew, I rub my forehead against the pink wetness, a blessing.

If I can see everything as a blessing, I'm okay. Yesterday going into the grocery store, I see something dark and enormous on my shirt, then under my hair and crawling. I startle and start to brush it off, ask for assistance, but what I learn is a giant bumble bee crawls up my face somehow and stings me at the corner of my left eye. I get an ice cube from a kid who works there. Ride with my groceries to the dump with my friend. I have had a dream where tiny white wiggly worms are in a cup of tea she gives me and she is then going into a bedroom and yelling at her son, somehow he is connected. After she dumps her trash, she is standing by the trunk, making loud brushing noises for a long time. She gets back in the car and says maggots have gotten into her trunk from the trash bag. Everything so connected. As to the bee, I mix a paste of baking soda and water, use ice, take benadryl and zone out, but the pain remains. An achy sort of feeling this morning. When I come back from the store, I go to the bathroom mirror to look at my eye, and a different stinging insect is on the other side of my hair. I simply shake it off and it flies away, but the bee. Sacred bee. I've just watched a video about women who take care of bees, their bee hives. The synchronicity of ancient practice of bee keeping and women's frame drumming. I touch the drum stored in the open space at my feet, and give it a quick tap, light a candle, and set it in the middle of the room. Burn a tiny piece of sage. 

I got burned by the sun a few days ago.. Staying out longer than usual, I did not notice it happening. I sat alone on some distant ledges, put my feet in a tide pool,

scraped a toe on a barnacle. Unfamiliar territory and tide so low there was no hope of submerging. I leave that area after a time and go back to the sandy beach, which was so full, I could not find a space to park my bike earlier. This time there is space and I go to the sand, submerge, sit, paint. A young woman opens up to my friend and me. Her mother had died when she was very young. Overdose. She opens her little wine coolers in their plastic tubs with rip off covers. One after another. I tell her I am in 'recovery' and she accidentally spills wine on my shirt. When I leave, I have her promise she will not continue swimming when nobody is there. I watch her from the top of the stairway while I'm leaving, swimming fluidly in the water, slightly drunk. It is like looking through a glass darkly, except I would never be content swimming when under the influence. I would have to find trouble. 

The big AA roundup this weekend on the mountain. I want to go and yet I don't want to go. First the oppressive heat and then the bee sting. I'll have to experience the feeling of loss. The separation from my tribe. I'm invited. A friend will even go to the lengths of driving over an hour to pick me up, but in the end I have declined. I'll have to lean into my feelings, as they say now, and trust that all is truly well. My mother's mantra. Yesterday, I've painted my lawn sale donkey head mask white with pink inner ears and I have decided I'll have to paint a sacred bee on its forehead, a reflection of where I am in the moment. The left side of my  head aches. I remember a few years back when a bee actually flew into my ear. My ear ached and eventually I had it checked out. I'd pulled/pushed the bee out of my ear with my little finger. Perhaps there was something I did not want to hear. Perhaps now, something I do not want to see from my intuitive knowing. I'll keep it as simple as possible this weekend and no matter what I do try and be present and not hurry or worry.

 A wonderful scent comes from seemingly nowhere.Almost like a cedar chest. The candle is burning. 

My Last Evening on Peaks...

So, I left the literature class I am teaching at the University at 6.45 and thought, "Oh, if I call a cab, I can catch the 7.15 ferry and be home a whole hour earlier." So, I call the cab. By 7.05 the cab has not shown up and it is not likely I will catch the 7.15 ferry. So, I save the cab fare and hop on the city bus, which happens to come speeding down the road the moment I have this thought. The bus lets me out smack dab in the middle of an enjoyable outdoor concert. I rock out to the music, meander down to the ferry, sighting a guy giving a reading at Longfellow Books flanked by a Star Wars Storm Trooper and a Wookie, lost in his own soundless Star Wars reverie behind the plate glass window, and get to the ferry terminal at 7.45. I settle in to wait for the 8.15. A woman from my neighborhood dressed in a flowery sundress and flat sandals breezes past. "Hey," she shouts over her shoulder, "want a ride to Peaks?" "Sure," I say, popping up from the bench, trotting behind her retreating back towards the warf, my stuffed briefcase unbalancing me. I climb into speed boat and settle down among piles of banana boxes overfilled with groceries for her three children. We speed off across the bay, see the sun set, a huge red orb in the ocean, and arrive on Peaks just a tad after the 7.15, just in time to watch as the Machigonne slowly chugs past us on its tired return to Portland.

Prologue to A Charmed Existence

 

            I stood in the doorway while the priest administered the last rites.  He anointed my mother’s forehead with holy oil and said gently, “Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed.”  Her eyes were closed, and I could not tell if she was conscious.

            As the priest was leaving, he squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “The doctor said it won’t be long now.  May God give you comfort and strength during this sorrowful time.  I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”  He looked at me with kind eyes and quietly left the room.
            I walked slowly to the end of the bed and picked up the hospital chart for Maeve Murphy O’Driscoll, age 82, admitted two days before with congestive heart failure.  I leafed through its pages as if they would decode the mystery of her.
            I inched closer to my mother.  Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow.  Her lips were gray, but what shocked me the most was her complexion, resembling blue-veined marble, cold and hard.  Out of nowhere a memory from my childhood washed through me.
            Each night our mother would tuck both us and our favorite stuffed animals in, kiss our foreheads, and turn off the light, saying “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”  But one night the routine was different.  Just as we were padding down the hall to our bedroom, the phone rang.  Mummy said, “Hop into bed, and I’ll be right along as soon as I answer that call.”  I climbed into my side of the bed with Rosy, my pink velvet rabbit.  Orla snuggled up with her blue corduroy elephant that she had oddly christened, “Turtle,” and promptly fell asleep as she was suffering from a cold.  When Mum came in, Orla was snoring softly.  Mum blew her a kiss and walked over to my side of the bed.  She sat down gently, kissed me on the forehead and just sat there, staring at my face.  I reached up and caressed her cheeks, warm and velvety soft.  “Mmmmh,” I remember saying, “Just like Rosy.”  She smiled and took both my hands, kissing them.  She glanced over at Orla and then leaned conspiratorially toward me, her index finger to her lips.  “Shhhh,” she said and then whispered in my ear, “Goodnight, my beautiful, perfect wee girl.”  She kissed me a second time on the forehead, and I felt doubly loved.  But more than that, special.  Mum turned out the light and said, “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”
          A rasping sound brought me back to the present.  I glanced down again at my mother’s ashen face with the lines of oxygen protruding from her nose and felt a tidal surge of unexpected tenderness and remorse.  “Oh, Mummy.”  I started to cry and reached for her hand, ready at long last to forgive.   Her eyes fluttered and opened and as they focused on me, she feebly squeezed my hand.  “Fiona,” she gasped, as if the mere mention of my name caused her anguish.  She took a few labored breaths.  “I need to...explain.  Please,” she pled, “Come closer.”  Grimacing, she closed her eyes.

            I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned nearer to her face.  Over the next few minutes I listened, first with confusion and then with astonishment, to the last words spoken by my mother.

            As she lay there with tears streaming down her cheeks, I knew that she wanted her daughter’s absolution more than her God’s.  But, I could not pardon her, as the priest had, for whatever sins or faults she had committed, for a new, rising anger possessed me.  Instead, I confessed the secret that I had harbored for most of my life.  As she listened her eyes widened and then closed, never to open again.
            I dropped her hand and stood, staring at her lifeless body.  At first I was speechless, but as the rage bubbled up inside me, it finally broke the surface.
            “A silent mouth is melodious.”
            I heard a sound behind me and turned.  There, in the doorway, stood the priest.  His fingers were clawlike as he clenched his Bible, and his eyes had narrowed.  He shook his head and said, “May God have mercy—”and then turned on his heels and left.
            I finished the sentence for him.  “On my soul.”

 

july 11 

a cardinal flies through the open screen door

then out

a crow feather finds me on the grass as i start

riding the circle

i hold it in my left hand and it comes with me

endless events swamp the island

i have a deja vu

can i slow down long enough to feel?

Anyone chasing ghosts with Laima tomorrow?

Laima is offering a fun event surrounding her middle reader book "The Ghost in Hannah's Parlor," which I loved reading. Anyone else up for chasing ghosts at 12:30?

http://peaksislandpress.com/2013/07/11/walk-with-laima-vince-and-discover-the-inspiration-for-the-ghost-in-hannahs-parlor/

"You Will Be Fine"

My love of reading started as a little girl when I discovered the Nancy Drew mysteries.  Fiction is what I prefer.  I love to escape from an ordinary life and meet intriguing characters, visit exotic places, have great adventures and solve thrilling mysteries.

It was always my dream to be a writer, but by age 56 all I had managed to write were business letters, e-mails, dull and dreary types of things.  Over the years I have read innumerable books on how to write fiction, but I never sat down and wrote a thing.  Then something changed.   I read a quote attributed to Andy Rooney, “My advice is not to wait to be struck with an idea.  If you’re a writer, you sit down and damn well decide to have an idea.  That’s the way to get an idea.”   I damned well decided to have an idea.  I became a closet novelist and over the last two years wrote 75 percent of a novel, A Charmed Existence.  Not even my best friends knew my secret.

And then last month, I saw Carol Eisenberg’s e-mail about Laima’s creative writing workshop.  I got nervous.  Should I sign up for it?  Suppose everything I had written was garbage?  Would I be able to handle criticism?  I sent Laima an exploratory e-mail, expressing my concerns, and received the response, “My workshops are designed to be a safe and nurturing place for beginning writers to take the creative risks they need to take to grow as writers.  Please do not worry.  You will be fine.”

So I decided to take the risk, and I’m happy to tell you, I was fine.  I have received nothing but encouragement from our little Wednesday evening group and in the process have made some wonderful friends in Laima, Elaine, Tricia and Joy.   I also met a brave little boy named Jimmy Brackett, I traveled to the Tallgrass Prairie National Park in Kansas, and I learned about someone whose life has been as different from mine as a person’s could be but whose losses, sadly, I have experienced and can relate to.   Every week I have looked forward to our workshop, hearing constructive criticism, sipping tea and watching chickens peeking through the sliding doors eavesdropping on us.

These Wednesday nights have been the highlight of my summer.  I want to thank Laima for her wisdom and guidance over the last six weeks, and I wish her the best of luck with her exciting new job in Hong Kong.  I know I will miss her, and I think I speak for everyone in our Wednesday night workshop.

You Know

In shock and mock disbelief

she asked as I doted on her-

Do you know who the me you love is?

The me of then or now

of days gone, eclipsed

black and bright, day and night

.

Have we aged or are we peaking?

Who else would that you be?

It is the you of here and now,

and here and now and then,

in flesh and imagination.

It is the you that I think and you believe you are.

In place and time

The all of you that is and will be

My Valentine

Thank you Tricia for your lovely post. I have truly enjoyed having all of you in my workshops. It was an incredible experience for me to discover so much talent right here in my own backyard on Peaks Island! 

Thank you to Laima Vince

We are all lucky that +Laima Vince welcomed us into her home and created a space this summer where Peaks Island writers could flex their imaginations and hammer out some wonderful pages. We'll miss her warmth, leadership, and phenomenal cooking when she heads off to Hong Kong, but trust that she'll keep in touch!

If you enjoy this forum, then I invite you all to subscribe to a kin blog, the Peaks Island Press: News on Peaks Island Authors. Peaks Island Press publishes interviews with authors and discusses island author events and their publications (at least the ones that I know about or can keep up with). I will be sure to post an entry about the creation of this Peaks Island Writers blog.

If you're curious about some of my writing, I invite you to explore a few pieces here.

How lucky are we to live in such a beautiful place with so many beautiful minds?

3. “Dear Lord”

            The gears in Zach Rivers’ brain began to slip.  Normally his training would kick in and he would execute an immediate and instinctive sequence of actions.  He would simply know what to do, how best to survive the situation, without prejudice or doubt.  Not now.  This bundle of bloody clothes and matted blonde hair was hijacking his training.  He was plagued by questions:  “Who is this?  What is she doing here?  What do I do to protect my seclusion?”  His mind slipped gears into a stall, then free floated in space:  open, empty, not thinking, like those first moments when he was about to solo.  A jazz player’s mind, composing on the spot.

            His mind rested with that image as he unlocked the door of his loft.  He turned on the lights, which bathed the space in gentle illumination from the recessed bulbs.  He picked up the body, feeling the dead weight in his arms, and walked into his vast living space.  “Never,” he thought, “why am I doing this?”  He amplified his question with, “this is insane!” He carried her to the living room area and gently put her on the overstuffed leather couch that faced the sliding glass doors leading to the small deck overlooking the harbor.

            She was out cold; her breathing regular.  Rivers rarely rushed his improvisations, taking an exploratory approach, interested in the journey more than the destination, and this was no different.  Music always focused him.  He remembered some tense situations working for the CIA when he would construct an approach he might have to a tune, which would diminish the anxiety.  Sensing that she wasn’t critical, and he could take his time, he walked to the shelves to the left of the couch that held his music collection and sound system.  He was working on an arrangement of John Coltrane’s “Dear Lord.”  Ballads always gave Rivers trouble.  At their basic level, ballads were simple, sentimental, romantic, and teetered toward taking a deep emotion and making it mundane.  On a deeper level, ballads articulated a longing, a quest for salvation, and verged on being a musical impossibility.  John Coltrane was a master of the ballad - one of many examples of his brilliant journey into the uncharted spaces of his being.  Trane would provide comfort.  Rivers looked under “C” in his large collection of discs, one of the few vices he allowed himself to have, and found “Classic Quartet” box set.  He pulled out disc four, which he put into his player, pressing track four on the remote.  He hit the repeat button, allowing Coltrane’s crystalline lament to fill the space with the spirit of unexplored emotionality.

He moved to his galley kitchen across the room.  Rivers found a ceramic bowl in his cupboard and filled it with warm water.  He fetched a couple of face towels and a plastic dispenser of grapefruit scented soap from his bathroom.  Turning the ceiling lights brighter he returned to the sofa where he saw blood everywhere:  clotted in her hair, smeared all over her face, her dress saturated, trails of dried blood down her beautiful legs.  He didn’t know where to begin, but her face, vulnerable in sleep, held a compelling pull.  He started there.  As he washed away the gore from her cheeks he felt like an archeologist in the process of uncovering some rare and mysterious treasure.  Despite the calming effect of the music, he had doubts about his actions.  He was nagged by the apprehension that what he was doing was nothing but trouble.  Was he losing control to a force greater than himself?  He thought, “Sure, I surrender all the time to the forces of improvisation when I play.  But the only danger there is hitting the wrong notes or running out of ideas.  What shit am I getting into here?”

The woman moaned, shifting his attention.  She was still breathing, and that was good.  He lifted her head and removed her hood.  He thought, “Christ, even as a bloody mess this woman is…” His thought was interrupted by her stirring.  Her body changed position, but she did not wake.  Another thought, “I have to focus. I’m becoming distracted; can’t think straight.”  He wanted to take off her raincoat, but did not want to wake her.  In sleep, she would not be in pain.  In sleep, he would be able to think without having to interact with her.  In sleep, he was safe. He studied her legs and saw what looked like teeth marks.  A small row of indentations between two deep punctures wounds.  “Looks like she was bit by some animal with sharp fangs.” He began cleaning the dried blood from her legs, examining them for further wounds.  Finding no more, he went into the bathroom, found some disinfectant and bandages in the cabinet above the sink, left the light on, and began to patch her up.  He carefully cleaned the wound with disinfectant, wrapped gauze around it, and finally taped the bandage in place.

When he finished administering to her leg he stared at her face.  He wasn’t sure what to do next.  There was so much blood. He wondered if she had been shot or stabbed. To continue to treat her he would have to take off her raincoat and bloody dress, and the potential for unpleasantness caused him to hesitate.  His mind slipped out of gear again.  She made a whimpering sound as if she were waking up.  She opened her eyes,  iridescent green cat’s eyes, and she stared at him.  Expressionless.  He couldn’t read her, which was unusual for him. He just stared back at her while Coltrane’s lamenting ballad filled the room.  For a moment he thought that he was looking into a mirror, those deep green eyes reflecting the same bewilderment. Then something stirred in her.  She grabbed him by his tee shirt and pulled his face down to her blood-drenched dress.  Her pull was strong, assertive, dominating.  It was as if she knew better than him what he needed and she was not going to accept any hesitation.  He found himself surrendering again. This time to her movements, as she found the triggers that sent waves of pleasure through his body.

She moved on top of him, worked her way to his groin and took charge.  He accepted her skills, forgot that thirty minutes ago she was at his mercy, and rested in the rising wave of pleasure that she was giving.  When it came to an end he tried to get up from the couch. She put a hand on his chest, gently pushing him down, and saying, like a mother would say to a child, “Shhhh.”  In the afterglow of being fellated he acquiesced, his eyes never leaving her face.

            She got up from the couch. Seeing the bathroom light on and the door open, she limped in that direction. She found a glass, drank some water, turned off the light, returning to Rivers.  She looked him in the eyes, gently touched his face with her hand.  He attempted to speak, but she put her fingers to his lips.  “Shhh.”  He obliged.  She bent down, kissed him gently on the lips and said, “Spascibo.”  This bloody and beautiful woman then rose from the couch, zipped her raincoat, put the hood over her head and walked out the door without looking back.  Rivers lay on the leather couch, unable to organize this last strange hour into any scenario that made sense.  His head was throbbing.

He got up from the couch to get an aspirin.  Turning on the bathroom light he went toward the medicine cabinet over the sink.  He hesitated when he noticed that on the cabinet mirror, in bright red lipstick, was the word “Grushenka.”

testing...

testing to see if i can post

wild thing....

recent storm on peaks island .. photo by kat farrin