November 28, 2012
Lost in the languid wake of the day. Absorbed in the steady
disjointed company of Ju while she dreamily putters around with some such
utilitarian item in her hand wearing the top half of her black trimmed in crisp
white uniform. Mimicking her mannerisms, I choose to ignore the obvious
something is wrong here yet if I don’t bring it up it will whither in the damp
air. She becomes animated only when I casually refer to the numerous gynormous
murdered venomous snakes discovered on the farm throughout my delirious exile.
Ju had been stalked by a broomstick length poisonous monster while caring for
many, many, many chickens during her stay on a farm somewhere far away! BFF
connections are presupposed in abstract bizarre endearing ways.
Tonight this small room
seems too large to cross,
And my life is that
looming kind of place.
Gjertrud Schnackenberg
Drug along Christian Wiman’s Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet and have been riveted
by the longing and tender, scratch across the chalkboard, surly and despondent poems
I read aloud in unrelenting Catholic nun ruler knuckle slamming piano
instructor earnest. Instead of turning it over to the library or adding it to
the For Trade pile, I intend to gift it to a kindred spirit I encounter in the
future who has inspired me to lovingly present it to them. It’s that kind of
book. Purchased from Copper Canyon Press at a holiday event at Fort Worden
in Port Townsend, WA where Taelor considers home and I a forgiving
springboard.
Phone jingled softly early in the day. Since I was holding
down the fort I answered cheerfully, after struggling to reach the handset from
behind the Christmas tree plunked in the middle of the table. The upbeat man on
the other end requested to speak with Michel and then Cristina. Claimed he was
on his way from Santos
and would arrive at 7pm. Nearing the end of the conversation he implied we
should switch to English. “No,” I responded, “I understand completely.” He was
clearly disappointed yet invited me to come and stay at their beach house
(whomever he is!) and we would meet soon. He verified the address and apartment
number. No one was expected, according to Cris so we would just have to wait
and see.
Spent the better part of the early evening with the
dark-complected from teenish to my age “babas” in the pristine vacant uneven
apartment complex courtyard since the moms had not arrived home from work. The rapidly multiplying kids (majority are
radical knee-sized cowboys) ran, screeched, horsed-around, teased, cried
inconsolably and rode flat-tired well-used bikes in circles ‘round and ‘round.
It was my sole opportunity to get some fresh air. The disgruntled babas used my
foot as a bad example of someone who chose to ignore the “shoes on” rules. See
what happens when you insist on taking off your shoes?
It was clearly long past 8:00 when the doorbell rang
impatiently and the squalling children tromped through to brazenly fling open
the front door. Obviously, I ventured, it is a familiar face to the gruff
security guard below. The door opened ceremoniously to Michel’s relatives. I do
not recall any of their names, unfortunately when a crowd swoops in labels
become a blur and inconsequential. My attachment is to their personalities. One
uncle is tall with a slightly overbearing enthusiasm as he lifts my hand to his
mouth in a smacking kiss and asks me to marry him. He sports a tweed jacket and
slacks, glasses tucked around his ears that he shares with his annoyed wife as
she unbecomingly squints at the tight font on the computer screen. She is
squeezed into a pair of thin slippery shiny pants that might have been
comfortable five years ago. Layers of fabric on top conceal her guaranteed
breathlessness reasonably well. Michel’s father appeared with streaming long
hot ironed straight hair once dangerously handsome and now agreeably good
looking with jeans and a pressed button down shirt. Hooked to his right arm is
his once petite Asian wife in teetering gold sandals, tight black stretch pants
and a belted white peasant top. Her toothy grin pleasantly approached me and we
kissed on the cheek. An aunt appeared as well as another uncle. She was dressed
prudently in a colorful skirt and top with a pleasant face and engaging smile.
The latter in a dark shirt and chino pants was on a determined well-intended
mission to visit their recently ill father from Pasadena, California.
He and I spent the majority of the time chatting about exposing ourselves on a
middle to swiftly approaching downslide of the path of life.
After rounds of wine of mostly French descent, a variety of
nuts, cheeses and Portuguese sausage everyone decided it was time for pizza
since no one had eaten dinner. Pizza, preverbal dark rich coffee and chocolates
followed until things wound up at 1:30am. By this time my foot could have been
cut off and preserved for a Macy’s Parade balloon next year.
No comments:
Post a Comment