Apparently now not only is the oft-invoked "war on terror "win-able but the President, contrary to an earlier statement, emphatically declares that indeed "we will win".
Good to know.
(And thanks to the White House spin doctors for straightening that out for us.)
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
out on the political trail
It's supposed to be about the economy. And it's supposed to be about the wars (the tangible conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan that continue to cost the very real blood of young men and women, the less specific "war on terror" that the President admits can probably never be completely won, and, for reasons that continue to escape me, the war in Vietnam.) As the GOP begins their own quadrennial political pageant (again championing and highlighting, if only for 4 days, their "compassionate conservatism"), it was supposed to be about these things...and, of course, 9/11 (why else for the Republicans to chose fiercely Democratic New York City as the site for their shindig?)
And yet an issue that neither President Bush nor Senator Kerry really want to get mired in keeps insinuating itself into the periphery of the spotlight. The Gay issue is one on which the candidates actually have a fair amount of common ground (Bush is adamantly against extending marital/civil union rights to gay couples; Kerry's support of gay civil unions is so tepid...and opportunistic...as to be just this side of non-existent) and one they'd probably rather not spend a lot of time dealing with when they're trying desperately to position themselves as moderates (at least by their own unique definitions of that nebulous term.)
Following the New Jersey Governor McGreevey's decision to resign from his job after admitting that he was gay, Ed Schrock, a conservative Republican Congressman representing the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area of Virginia, has quit his own campaign for re-election after allegations surfaced that he might be gay. Schrock, a married 63-year-old, has campaigned actively and vehemently against gay rights issues and so if the allegation is true he is the worst kind of hypocrite.
But, that said, it remains just that...an allegation. Schrock was "outed" on a blog dedicated to routing out hypocrites in political office. As of this writing, the Congressman has neither confirmed nor denied the allegations about his sexuality, he has just said that he was quitting the political stage before his family was dragged into a public spectacle.
The timing of the release of this "news" as the Republican Convention was beginning is, of course, more than a little calculated...but that's par for the course in the take-no-prisoners way in which political campaigns are waged (both by the candidates and their partisan proxies.)
And so, sadly, it goes.
And yet an issue that neither President Bush nor Senator Kerry really want to get mired in keeps insinuating itself into the periphery of the spotlight. The Gay issue is one on which the candidates actually have a fair amount of common ground (Bush is adamantly against extending marital/civil union rights to gay couples; Kerry's support of gay civil unions is so tepid...and opportunistic...as to be just this side of non-existent) and one they'd probably rather not spend a lot of time dealing with when they're trying desperately to position themselves as moderates (at least by their own unique definitions of that nebulous term.)
Following the New Jersey Governor McGreevey's decision to resign from his job after admitting that he was gay, Ed Schrock, a conservative Republican Congressman representing the Norfolk/Virginia Beach area of Virginia, has quit his own campaign for re-election after allegations surfaced that he might be gay. Schrock, a married 63-year-old, has campaigned actively and vehemently against gay rights issues and so if the allegation is true he is the worst kind of hypocrite.
But, that said, it remains just that...an allegation. Schrock was "outed" on a blog dedicated to routing out hypocrites in political office. As of this writing, the Congressman has neither confirmed nor denied the allegations about his sexuality, he has just said that he was quitting the political stage before his family was dragged into a public spectacle.
The timing of the release of this "news" as the Republican Convention was beginning is, of course, more than a little calculated...but that's par for the course in the take-no-prisoners way in which political campaigns are waged (both by the candidates and their partisan proxies.)
And so, sadly, it goes.
Monday, August 30, 2004
pride
A DJ in Chapel Hill, North Carolina organized a "heterosexual pride parade" this past weekend. 80-100 (depending on the news source) people marched carrying signs like "Don't hate, we're straight". It was, of course, a ratings stunt for the DJ's radio show as well as a lighthearted (and, in some cases, not so lighthearted) sarcastic jab at gay pride parades that happen all over the country.
Some gay activists took umbrage...other people took it as a joke...and some took it more seriously than they probably should have. But that's life in America...free speech is not absolute (the hoary cliche about not yelling "fire!" in a crowded theater and all that) but organizing and participating in such a parade is comfortably and undeniably under that 1st amendment umbrella.
That said, it will be nice we get to a point where pride...in whatever and whomever you are...is something that is such a natural part of our individual beings...and something accepted by others accept as a matter of course rather feared because it's something different than what they are or know... that we have no need make ostentatious collective displays to "prove" how proud you are to be what you are.
Some gay activists took umbrage...other people took it as a joke...and some took it more seriously than they probably should have. But that's life in America...free speech is not absolute (the hoary cliche about not yelling "fire!" in a crowded theater and all that) but organizing and participating in such a parade is comfortably and undeniably under that 1st amendment umbrella.
That said, it will be nice we get to a point where pride...in whatever and whomever you are...is something that is such a natural part of our individual beings...and something accepted by others accept as a matter of course rather feared because it's something different than what they are or know... that we have no need make ostentatious collective displays to "prove" how proud you are to be what you are.
Saturday, August 28, 2004
God Bless the Child
Ruby Brown was a blues singer. Some folks said that she was one of the best goddamn blues singers who ever lived...or, at very least, the best blues singer who ever played the Holiday's End, the dank little club where she held court on most weekends with her band and her two score (give or take) hardcore devotees.
Ruby didn't care about any of that...she just loved to sing. She loved to sing in that husky, smoldering, smoky voice of hers. To sing her bittersweet tales of broken dreams and broken dreamers...of jilted lovers and jilting heartbreakers...of passions lost and passions willfully indulged (in the shadows...in the wee uncaring hours of the night...)
Yes, Ruby loved to sing the blues. And she loved to casually smoke unfiltered cigarettes. And to laugh loud and hollowly at jokes she would never explain to anyone. And she especially loved to drink Johnny Walker Black from beer mugs.
She loved to feel the weight of burly, leather-palmed, cigar-smoking truck drivers on top of her wide-hipped, ample-bosomed body. They came to the club to drown themselves in watery beer and try to forget about their wives and/or their lives.
And they found some small solace in Ruby...she loved their world-weary, sweating bodies and the way their practiced hands roamed hungrily over her letting her slip away to another plane for a while.
She reveled in their smutty, boozy endearments...whispered feverishly and grunted uncouthly in the throes of lust and ill‑focused anger and loneliness offered as they tried to find from shelter from the vagaries of the world in the lush, liberating humidity of her sturdy golden body.
In their brutal gentleness she found some small measures of solace and amnesia in them...and, after a fashion and only fleetingly, she loved them for that.
But most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
The stories about Ruby's past were many...but all were unsubstantiated by her. She steadfastly refused to discuss her past with anyone. And, even when she had downed one mug of Johnny Walker Black too many, she never did.
Her reticence had, almost as a matter of course, gave birth to many colorful legends. Some said that she'd left a husband and 5 (or 6...8...12...the number varied by the storyteller) children in some backwater Midwestern town (or grimy East Coast ghetto...or insulated and insular bayou village in Louisiana) to come to L.A. in search of fame and fortune. ("Freakin' A!" Ruby would exclaim whenever she heard that one. She'd raise her mug and offer a toast "to hubby and all of the little rugrats".)
Others claimed that she'd left home...running away from her daddy...when she was 13 to move in with a 50-year-old blues harp player who taught her how to sing the blues (and how to drink...and how to smoke unfiltered cigarettes...and how to make love...)
Ruby just smiled wistfully at that one. (Old Nate, the harp player in Ruby's band, always just smiled enigmatically whenever he was asked about the veracity of this particular legend.)
The more fanciful among the usually-inebriated legend-weavers claimed that she had no beginning...no mama and no daddy...and that she would have no end. That she'd been put on this Earth to bring the healing power of the blues to the sad, tired souls whom God had led to her smoky, dingy little "church".
Ruby, for her part, tolerated the storytelling but resolved to leave her past in the past. She just wanted to sing.
And so she sang...urgent torch songs that could bring melancholy (and/or redemption) to the most calloused of hearts...roaring gutbucket blues stompers that could make a dead man dance (or, at very least, make him tap his foot admiringly, devil be damned, for a soulful instant.)
And always, at the end of the last set of the evening (and for no one but herself), there would be a mournful reading of Lady Day's self-affirming "God Bless the Child" that always, without exception, ended with a tear on her cheek and a perceptible choke in her voice.
"God Bless the Child" always made Ruby Brown cry.
And she sang it every night.
One August night, the air was thick with summer's humid heat and the Holiday's End's air conditioner was in its customary state of disrepair and Ruby and her quartet were playing languidly to a sparse, loyal gathering of regulars.
Ruby's eyes were closed as she swayed her hips lazily while Old Nate blew sweaty harp riffs over the rhythm section's chunky bottom. Richie, one of Ruby's more regular lovers, smoked his pungent cigar and smiled...fondly and expectantly...at Ruby's sassy, undulating body. None of them noticed when the tall man in the three-piece blue suit came into the club and sat at a table in the back of the room. He ordered a club soda and watched Ruby impassively.
Old Nate saw him first as he came out of an intense solo and a wince of recognition stole over his withered face. Ruby noticed him then and her face gray-green eyes went hard and alert.
Ruby abruptly called for "God Bless the Child", a song she never performed so early in the evening, and the band...spurred on by her sudden intensity and by Old Nate's urgent, wailing intro...launched into the song with a vengeful spirit of triumph...and finality.
Ruby sang the song..."god bless the child"...with sober, tear‑free eyes..."that's got her own"...staring all the while at the tall man in the three-piece suit. The man, undaunted, sipped his club soda and stared back.
The song ended with a flourish and there followed a long, tense silence. The whole room was keyed into her emotional state. Ruby stood defiantly, her hands on her hips, staring at the man in the three-piece suit.
The man finished his soda staring back at her all the while. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Ruby. He turned and walked out of the club without looking back.
Old Nate leaned over and whispered something to Ruby squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Ruby smiled weakly and nodded. Ruby shrugged her shoulders and picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black that was waiting, as always, at the bar for her. She took Richie's beefy, calloused hand and led him through the back door and up the stairs to her apartment above the club.
"Who was that guy?" Richie asked.
"My daddy," she said without rancor.
Ruby never sang "God Bless the Child" again.
She smoked her cigarettes...and drank her scotch...and loved her men...and let yesterday stay as far away as she possibly could.
And she sang the blues.
Ruby didn't care about any of that...she just loved to sing. She loved to sing in that husky, smoldering, smoky voice of hers. To sing her bittersweet tales of broken dreams and broken dreamers...of jilted lovers and jilting heartbreakers...of passions lost and passions willfully indulged (in the shadows...in the wee uncaring hours of the night...)
Yes, Ruby loved to sing the blues. And she loved to casually smoke unfiltered cigarettes. And to laugh loud and hollowly at jokes she would never explain to anyone. And she especially loved to drink Johnny Walker Black from beer mugs.
She loved to feel the weight of burly, leather-palmed, cigar-smoking truck drivers on top of her wide-hipped, ample-bosomed body. They came to the club to drown themselves in watery beer and try to forget about their wives and/or their lives.
And they found some small solace in Ruby...she loved their world-weary, sweating bodies and the way their practiced hands roamed hungrily over her letting her slip away to another plane for a while.
She reveled in their smutty, boozy endearments...whispered feverishly and grunted uncouthly in the throes of lust and ill‑focused anger and loneliness offered as they tried to find from shelter from the vagaries of the world in the lush, liberating humidity of her sturdy golden body.
In their brutal gentleness she found some small measures of solace and amnesia in them...and, after a fashion and only fleetingly, she loved them for that.
But most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
The stories about Ruby's past were many...but all were unsubstantiated by her. She steadfastly refused to discuss her past with anyone. And, even when she had downed one mug of Johnny Walker Black too many, she never did.
Her reticence had, almost as a matter of course, gave birth to many colorful legends. Some said that she'd left a husband and 5 (or 6...8...12...the number varied by the storyteller) children in some backwater Midwestern town (or grimy East Coast ghetto...or insulated and insular bayou village in Louisiana) to come to L.A. in search of fame and fortune. ("Freakin' A!" Ruby would exclaim whenever she heard that one. She'd raise her mug and offer a toast "to hubby and all of the little rugrats".)
Others claimed that she'd left home...running away from her daddy...when she was 13 to move in with a 50-year-old blues harp player who taught her how to sing the blues (and how to drink...and how to smoke unfiltered cigarettes...and how to make love...)
Ruby just smiled wistfully at that one. (Old Nate, the harp player in Ruby's band, always just smiled enigmatically whenever he was asked about the veracity of this particular legend.)
The more fanciful among the usually-inebriated legend-weavers claimed that she had no beginning...no mama and no daddy...and that she would have no end. That she'd been put on this Earth to bring the healing power of the blues to the sad, tired souls whom God had led to her smoky, dingy little "church".
Ruby, for her part, tolerated the storytelling but resolved to leave her past in the past. She just wanted to sing.
And so she sang...urgent torch songs that could bring melancholy (and/or redemption) to the most calloused of hearts...roaring gutbucket blues stompers that could make a dead man dance (or, at very least, make him tap his foot admiringly, devil be damned, for a soulful instant.)
And always, at the end of the last set of the evening (and for no one but herself), there would be a mournful reading of Lady Day's self-affirming "God Bless the Child" that always, without exception, ended with a tear on her cheek and a perceptible choke in her voice.
"God Bless the Child" always made Ruby Brown cry.
And she sang it every night.
One August night, the air was thick with summer's humid heat and the Holiday's End's air conditioner was in its customary state of disrepair and Ruby and her quartet were playing languidly to a sparse, loyal gathering of regulars.
Ruby's eyes were closed as she swayed her hips lazily while Old Nate blew sweaty harp riffs over the rhythm section's chunky bottom. Richie, one of Ruby's more regular lovers, smoked his pungent cigar and smiled...fondly and expectantly...at Ruby's sassy, undulating body. None of them noticed when the tall man in the three-piece blue suit came into the club and sat at a table in the back of the room. He ordered a club soda and watched Ruby impassively.
Old Nate saw him first as he came out of an intense solo and a wince of recognition stole over his withered face. Ruby noticed him then and her face gray-green eyes went hard and alert.
Ruby abruptly called for "God Bless the Child", a song she never performed so early in the evening, and the band...spurred on by her sudden intensity and by Old Nate's urgent, wailing intro...launched into the song with a vengeful spirit of triumph...and finality.
Ruby sang the song..."god bless the child"...with sober, tear‑free eyes..."that's got her own"...staring all the while at the tall man in the three-piece suit. The man, undaunted, sipped his club soda and stared back.
The song ended with a flourish and there followed a long, tense silence. The whole room was keyed into her emotional state. Ruby stood defiantly, her hands on her hips, staring at the man in the three-piece suit.
The man finished his soda staring back at her all the while. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Ruby. He turned and walked out of the club without looking back.
Old Nate leaned over and whispered something to Ruby squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Ruby smiled weakly and nodded. Ruby shrugged her shoulders and picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black that was waiting, as always, at the bar for her. She took Richie's beefy, calloused hand and led him through the back door and up the stairs to her apartment above the club.
"Who was that guy?" Richie asked.
"My daddy," she said without rancor.
Ruby never sang "God Bless the Child" again.
She smoked her cigarettes...and drank her scotch...and loved her men...and let yesterday stay as far away as she possibly could.
And she sang the blues.
Because most of all...most of all...Ruby Brown loved to sing the blues.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
heart of the city
Though I live in San Diego, I think it's more to the point to think of myself as living in the suburbs. The part of town I'm living in...Mira Mesa... is considered part of the larger city but it is separated from the main body of San Diego by an expansive military base and by the fact that we are, as you could surmise from the name, on something of a mesa (it's not like we're up miles above sea level or anything...but hey, a mesa is a mesa.)
San Diego is a big city...but, at its heart, its more a collection of villages and almost self-contained neighborhoods (each with its own vibe and pulse and style) than a sprawling, homogeneous metropolis. And, having grown up in the sprawling metropolis that is Los Angeles, that's one of the reasons I like it so much.
Life is the suburbs does, as a matter of course, have a different rhythm from life in the metropolitan heart of a big city like San Diego...something I reflected on as I journeyed into the heart of the city last night to have coffee with a group of friends (well, in my case, tea, since I've never developed a taste for coffee...the good folks at the omnipresent Starbucks are much more likely to sell me a CD...their artists' choice compilations are often quite amazing... than one of their frothy, polysyllabic concoctions :-)
There's a certain stillness to night in the suburbs...a quiet that is deep and comforting. On the other hand, there is a rush of energy to night in the city...a pulsating crackle that seems like it probably never stops. One's not "right" or better than the other, they're just what they need to be. And that's, of course, all to the good.
San Diego is a big city...but, at its heart, its more a collection of villages and almost self-contained neighborhoods (each with its own vibe and pulse and style) than a sprawling, homogeneous metropolis. And, having grown up in the sprawling metropolis that is Los Angeles, that's one of the reasons I like it so much.
Life is the suburbs does, as a matter of course, have a different rhythm from life in the metropolitan heart of a big city like San Diego...something I reflected on as I journeyed into the heart of the city last night to have coffee with a group of friends (well, in my case, tea, since I've never developed a taste for coffee...the good folks at the omnipresent Starbucks are much more likely to sell me a CD...their artists' choice compilations are often quite amazing... than one of their frothy, polysyllabic concoctions :-)
There's a certain stillness to night in the suburbs...a quiet that is deep and comforting. On the other hand, there is a rush of energy to night in the city...a pulsating crackle that seems like it probably never stops. One's not "right" or better than the other, they're just what they need to be. And that's, of course, all to the good.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
agreeing to disagree
"Freedom means freedom for everyone...people be ought to be able to be free to enter into any kind of relationship they want to."
That's Vice President Dick Cheney addressing a question about gay marriage and his own opposition to the proposed Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as a union between one man and one woman. At first blush it would seem odd that Cheney, the Bush administration's arch-conservative attack dog, would publicly espouse a stand so divergent from that of his boss...so divergent from the views of so many of his conservative brethren.
But then you have to take into account the fact that one of Cheney's daughters is a lesbian and it suddenly makes much more sense. It is, after all, hard to demonize and marginalize a group that includes your own flesh and blood...that includes the woman who used to be (and in some ways always will be) your "little girl".
The Vice-President acknowledges that the administration's official policy is the purview of President Bush but he retains his right to, on this issue at least, agree to respectfully disagree with that policy.
I wonder if Dubya's dogged opposition to gay marriage would chance if one of his girls came out of the closet? I guess we'll never know...
That's Vice President Dick Cheney addressing a question about gay marriage and his own opposition to the proposed Constitutional amendment that would define marriage as a union between one man and one woman. At first blush it would seem odd that Cheney, the Bush administration's arch-conservative attack dog, would publicly espouse a stand so divergent from that of his boss...so divergent from the views of so many of his conservative brethren.
But then you have to take into account the fact that one of Cheney's daughters is a lesbian and it suddenly makes much more sense. It is, after all, hard to demonize and marginalize a group that includes your own flesh and blood...that includes the woman who used to be (and in some ways always will be) your "little girl".
The Vice-President acknowledges that the administration's official policy is the purview of President Bush but he retains his right to, on this issue at least, agree to respectfully disagree with that policy.
I wonder if Dubya's dogged opposition to gay marriage would chance if one of his girls came out of the closet? I guess we'll never know...
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
a troubadour
There are some things in this life that stand out as gloriously, absolutely indelible and thrilling…little bits of wonder and magic that never fail to instill awe and envy and undying respect and affection.
Think of the burnt orange glow of a perfect summer’s sunset. Think of the music of a child’s unabashed laughter. Think of the way your heart beats just a little faster when think about someone you truly, passionately love. Think of the way your spirit soars when you contemplate creation…by the hand of nature in the boundless universe or by the everyday magic of life growing in a woman’s nurturing womb.
Think of the creators…the artists and poets, the thinkers and dreamers, the visionaries and the teachers. Think of the wizards finding nuance and majesty and bittersweet truth in words and images joined in unique, amazing ways…in ideas given life in myriad, marvelous new perspectives…in light and sound woven into challenging, heartbreaking, life-affirming, utterly wondrous colors, shapes and forms.
Think of the heralds and the troubadours…think of, for example, Ray Charles.
Listening this morning to a pre-release streaming audio of his last album (it’s due out next week as I write this), recorded even as his body was losing its final fight, felt like that magic I spoke of washing all over me. Even with his failing health, his majestic voice no longer as gloriously rich and soulful as it was in his youth, Ray Charles still understood how to touch…and share…that undeniable, barely definable connection with the infinite that separates the dreamers from the rest of us grateful mortal souls.
“Genius Loves Company” features Ray sharing duets with friends, peers, and admirers…Van Morrison, B.B. King, Gladys Knight, Bonnie Raitt, Willie Nelson, Elton John, Natalie Cole, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, Michael McDonald, James Taylor, and Johnny Mathis…and it’s a fitting, if bittersweet, testament to his lasting…well, how else to put it?...genius.
Think of the burnt orange glow of a perfect summer’s sunset. Think of the music of a child’s unabashed laughter. Think of the way your heart beats just a little faster when think about someone you truly, passionately love. Think of the way your spirit soars when you contemplate creation…by the hand of nature in the boundless universe or by the everyday magic of life growing in a woman’s nurturing womb.
Think of the creators…the artists and poets, the thinkers and dreamers, the visionaries and the teachers. Think of the wizards finding nuance and majesty and bittersweet truth in words and images joined in unique, amazing ways…in ideas given life in myriad, marvelous new perspectives…in light and sound woven into challenging, heartbreaking, life-affirming, utterly wondrous colors, shapes and forms.
Think of the heralds and the troubadours…think of, for example, Ray Charles.
Listening this morning to a pre-release streaming audio of his last album (it’s due out next week as I write this), recorded even as his body was losing its final fight, felt like that magic I spoke of washing all over me. Even with his failing health, his majestic voice no longer as gloriously rich and soulful as it was in his youth, Ray Charles still understood how to touch…and share…that undeniable, barely definable connection with the infinite that separates the dreamers from the rest of us grateful mortal souls.
“Genius Loves Company” features Ray sharing duets with friends, peers, and admirers…Van Morrison, B.B. King, Gladys Knight, Bonnie Raitt, Willie Nelson, Elton John, Natalie Cole, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, Michael McDonald, James Taylor, and Johnny Mathis…and it’s a fitting, if bittersweet, testament to his lasting…well, how else to put it?...genius.
Monday, August 23, 2004
August
we pause...looking forward, looking back...
and then you gently sweep us on...
your breezes heralding the soothing grey of autumn,
your lingering heat stoking and sustaining
the fiery undeniable passions in our blood...
we sail on, we sail on,
celebrating your brief hour
and finding sweet solace in so doing.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd.
and then you gently sweep us on...
your breezes heralding the soothing grey of autumn,
your lingering heat stoking and sustaining
the fiery undeniable passions in our blood...
we sail on, we sail on,
celebrating your brief hour
and finding sweet solace in so doing.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
enterprising nutsellers
One of the most clever things to come out of the Olympics is the advertising campaign for Emerald Nuts featuring Egomanical Normans, Extreme Nurses, Electromagnetic Navigations, and other wacky "ENs". The short spots are a hoot...often more entertaining than NBC's heavily edited (and, despite their promises to the contrary and a fairly good beginning, too often nakedly jingoistic) coverage of the games.
If you haven't seen the ads, the title of this entry is a hot link that will take you to the Emerald Nuts site (which is an entertaining stop on the web in and of itself.)
If you haven't seen the ads, the title of this entry is a hot link that will take you to the Emerald Nuts site (which is an entertaining stop on the web in and of itself.)
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Citizen Keyes
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2000:
"I deeply resent the destruction of federalism represented by Hillary Clinton's willingness to go into a state she doesn't even live in and pretend to represent the people there. So I certainly wouldn't imitate it."
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2004:
"When I was first approached with the offer to run for the Senate in Illinois, I was hesitant to agree, since I am not from the state. However, when all of these friends of mine sent me information on the unopposed Democrat candidate, Barack Obama, I agreed that it just seemed wrong that somebody with his record should kind of waltz into the United States Senate unopposed. "
I guess bemoaning "the destruction of federalism"...not to mention, blithely indulging in sanctimonious, self-serving hypocrisy...is subject to re-interpretation when personal interest comes into play.
"I deeply resent the destruction of federalism represented by Hillary Clinton's willingness to go into a state she doesn't even live in and pretend to represent the people there. So I certainly wouldn't imitate it."
Alan Keyes (resident of Maryland, failed Presidential candidate) in 2004:
"When I was first approached with the offer to run for the Senate in Illinois, I was hesitant to agree, since I am not from the state. However, when all of these friends of mine sent me information on the unopposed Democrat candidate, Barack Obama, I agreed that it just seemed wrong that somebody with his record should kind of waltz into the United States Senate unopposed. "
I guess bemoaning "the destruction of federalism"...not to mention, blithely indulging in sanctimonious, self-serving hypocrisy...is subject to re-interpretation when personal interest comes into play.
nightswimming
Nightswimming
deserves a quiet night.
deserves a quiet night.
I’m not sure all these people understand.
It’s not like years ago,The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.
Beyond the circle of blood family…the circle of love and hope and connection we are born into…is the circle of found family…the circle(s) we chose to join for one wondrously bittersweet reason or another. The circle of found family continues…from the time we can talk to the time we die and beyond…ever changing, ever waxing and waning, ever coloring the steps and choices we make on the path towards the light (and whatever lies beyond.)
The circle of found family is filled with friends and lovers…friends who become lovers…lovers who become friends…friends and lovers. Filled with former lovers, sighing nostalgically or spitting ruefully when our memories intrude unbidden in their nowadays thoughts; and former friends who danced with us for only a brief season before moving on. All of whom fade into the shimmering halls of memory gone but forever present just the same
There is an R.E.M. song…my favorite R.E.M. song in fact…that speaks, wistfully and tenderly, to this happenstance…and the happenstance of people, even people we love, knowing us without ever completely knowing us (sometimes because we don’t want them to know us completely…sometimes because all we want from others is the little piece we chose to accept and embrace, the sliver of emotional nudity we chose, consciously or not, to reveal.)
You, I thought I knew you.
Beyond the circle of blood family…the circle of love and hope and connection we are born into…is the circle of found family…the circle(s) we chose to join for one wondrously bittersweet reason or another. The circle of found family continues…from the time we can talk to the time we die and beyond…ever changing, ever waxing and waning, ever coloring the steps and choices we make on the path towards the light (and whatever lies beyond.)
The circle of found family is filled with friends and lovers…friends who become lovers…lovers who become friends…friends and lovers. Filled with former lovers, sighing nostalgically or spitting ruefully when our memories intrude unbidden in their nowadays thoughts; and former friends who danced with us for only a brief season before moving on. All of whom fade into the shimmering halls of memory gone but forever present just the same
There is an R.E.M. song…my favorite R.E.M. song in fact…that speaks, wistfully and tenderly, to this happenstance…and the happenstance of people, even people we love, knowing us without ever completely knowing us (sometimes because we don’t want them to know us completely…sometimes because all we want from others is the little piece we chose to accept and embrace, the sliver of emotional nudity we chose, consciously or not, to reveal.)
You, I thought I knew you.
You I cannot judge.
You, I thought you knew me,
This one laughing quietly underneath my breath.
Nightswimming.
Thinking back on my own ever changing, ever renewing circle of found family, I am struck by how lasting some of the connections have been. I am struck by how fleeting, though indelible still, others have been. Friends and lovers…friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…it is a wistful, tender, wholly incomplete list stretching from childhood…
…Bobby, Michael, April, Lloyd, Robin, Alan, “The Wizard of Os”, Gina, and some whose names I've lost…
…and on into my majority…
…Lori, Alvaro, Simon, Magdalena, John, Jesus, Steve & Anne, Nadelle, Joe, Marta, Debra, and others…
Friends. Lovers. Friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…slipping into and sometimes out of (sometimes acrimoniously, more often not) the circle of found family…gone but forever present just the same. It is as it should be…a circle never stops and never stops changing…and the tapestry of life is all the more vibrant for that.
The photograph reflects,
Thinking back on my own ever changing, ever renewing circle of found family, I am struck by how lasting some of the connections have been. I am struck by how fleeting, though indelible still, others have been. Friends and lovers…friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…it is a wistful, tender, wholly incomplete list stretching from childhood…
…Bobby, Michael, April, Lloyd, Robin, Alan, “The Wizard of Os”, Gina, and some whose names I've lost…
…and on into my majority…
…Lori, Alvaro, Simon, Magdalena, John, Jesus, Steve & Anne, Nadelle, Joe, Marta, Debra, and others…
Friends. Lovers. Friends who became lovers…lovers who became friends…slipping into and sometimes out of (sometimes acrimoniously, more often not) the circle of found family…gone but forever present just the same. It is as it should be…a circle never stops and never stops changing…and the tapestry of life is all the more vibrant for that.
The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder.
Nightswimming
deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.
deserves a quiet night,
deserves a quiet night.
******
“Nightswimming”
words and music by R.E.M.
©1992 R.E.M./Athens, Ltd.
Recommended listening:
R.E.M.:
Automatic for the People (1992)
Life’s Rich Pageant (1986)
Document (1987)
Out of Time (1991)
In Time: The Best of R.E.M. 1988-2003
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
America's finest city?
"America's finest city" is not completely living up to its rep these days. The cost of buying a home has escalated to ridiculous heights (a median price of over $400,000 as of this writing) and the highways and byways are more congested than ever ("mass transit" is something of a myth in our fine city.)
We pay an extra sales tax for reasons I'm not completely clear about and the only growth industries seem to be related to Indian casinos and real estate agents. And tonight the news tells me that half of the city's public swimming pools are going to close for the winter because of budgetary concerns. Close for the "winter". In San Diego. Yikes.
And...*sigh*... we've got the Padres and the Chargers (and thus for yours truly, a resident of more than two decades, it remains delightfully easy to maintain my loyalty to my childhood favorite Dodgers and Raiders.)
And, all that notwithstanding, we're still doing okay. We've got the sun (though we could use more rain...though I guess that having 11 months of sunshine with mostly comfortable temperatures is not really something we should be complaining about) and the people...and maddening and wonderful and diverse a lot as you will find anyway. We've got the feel of small towns (thanks to the distinctive neighborhoods that make up the city) with the expanse and convenience of a major metropolitan area.
"America's finest"? I don't know. But, all things considered, it will most certainly do.
We pay an extra sales tax for reasons I'm not completely clear about and the only growth industries seem to be related to Indian casinos and real estate agents. And tonight the news tells me that half of the city's public swimming pools are going to close for the winter because of budgetary concerns. Close for the "winter". In San Diego. Yikes.
And...*sigh*... we've got the Padres and the Chargers (and thus for yours truly, a resident of more than two decades, it remains delightfully easy to maintain my loyalty to my childhood favorite Dodgers and Raiders.)
And, all that notwithstanding, we're still doing okay. We've got the sun (though we could use more rain...though I guess that having 11 months of sunshine with mostly comfortable temperatures is not really something we should be complaining about) and the people...and maddening and wonderful and diverse a lot as you will find anyway. We've got the feel of small towns (thanks to the distinctive neighborhoods that make up the city) with the expanse and convenience of a major metropolitan area.
"America's finest"? I don't know. But, all things considered, it will most certainly do.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
learning stuff from the Olympics
I guess I never really knew that handball was a team sport played on a basketball court (or something akin to one) with soccer type nets on either end of the playing space.
NBC is sticking to its promise to use its networks to present Olympic events that have often been ignored by broadcasters...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC's announcers are still far too jingoistic for my tastes but that goes with the territory, I guess...they are broadcasting to a US audience...and I'm trying to ignore that as much as I can. (I'm a patriotic guy and I like seeing the home folks on the medal stand but it gets a bit embarrassing when the announcers frame everything through the prism of Americans winning...or losing...rather than celebrating the victors no matter what country they come from without "if only" caveats when it doesn't go the American way.)
As with most Olympic sports, most of us will pay scant attention to most of the contests being showcased these two weeks until the world gathers again in China in '08 but for now it's interesting to see them played with the highest levels of skill and commitment.
Beyond handball, I've watched badmitton (man, for a cute pastime that people play in their rumpus rooms, it certainly looks killer when it's played by grown men), beach volleyball (which still looks less like a sport than something you do after having a couple of beers down by the shore), synchronized diving (an interesting exhibition that), and ping pong...I mean, table tennis. I've seen folks shooting air rifles and shotguns and tiny women with lots of vowels in their names lifting three times their body weights.
I've watched lots of swimming and just enough football (I know that soccer is the most popular sport in the world but, I have to be honest, I still don't get the appeal of it.) I've watched some of the different kinds of rowing and dozens of sweaty guys riding bicycles through the storied streets of Athens under an unforgiving sun (guess nobody thought to ask Apollo to cut the guys a bit of slack :-) And the gymnastics...the pure physicality of the men and the more dainty grace of the pixie-like "women"...are, of course, all but unavoidable.
The Olympics are on...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC is sticking to its promise to use its networks to present Olympic events that have often been ignored by broadcasters...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
NBC's announcers are still far too jingoistic for my tastes but that goes with the territory, I guess...they are broadcasting to a US audience...and I'm trying to ignore that as much as I can. (I'm a patriotic guy and I like seeing the home folks on the medal stand but it gets a bit embarrassing when the announcers frame everything through the prism of Americans winning...or losing...rather than celebrating the victors no matter what country they come from without "if only" caveats when it doesn't go the American way.)
As with most Olympic sports, most of us will pay scant attention to most of the contests being showcased these two weeks until the world gathers again in China in '08 but for now it's interesting to see them played with the highest levels of skill and commitment.
Beyond handball, I've watched badmitton (man, for a cute pastime that people play in their rumpus rooms, it certainly looks killer when it's played by grown men), beach volleyball (which still looks less like a sport than something you do after having a couple of beers down by the shore), synchronized diving (an interesting exhibition that), and ping pong...I mean, table tennis. I've seen folks shooting air rifles and shotguns and tiny women with lots of vowels in their names lifting three times their body weights.
I've watched lots of swimming and just enough football (I know that soccer is the most popular sport in the world but, I have to be honest, I still don't get the appeal of it.) I've watched some of the different kinds of rowing and dozens of sweaty guys riding bicycles through the storied streets of Athens under an unforgiving sun (guess nobody thought to ask Apollo to cut the guys a bit of slack :-) And the gymnastics...the pure physicality of the men and the more dainty grace of the pixie-like "women"...are, of course, all but unavoidable.
The Olympics are on...and I'm learning stuff. It's all good.
Monday, August 16, 2004
a ceremony
The night would be still...cool and crisp with the heavens spreading majestically as far as the eye could see, as far as the imagination could fly...and sparkling with the afterglow of stars millions and billions of lightyears away from our fragile blue homeworld.
The night would be still waiting to be joined by two...the man, earnest but somewhat self-conscious; the babe, curious and trusting and guilelessly open-hearted...stepping out of a warm house to share a private moment that will, however subtly, strengthen the bond between them.
The night would be still and, enveloped by the welcoming darkness, the man would hold the child high...high to the glow of the golden moon, high to the ebon expanse of the cosmos...and speak words to the child that have special meaning to those of a specific time in the history of literary and popular culture (while having powerful resonance to any willing to embrace them): "Behold! The only thing greater than yourself".
The night would be still as the man drew the child back into the safe haven of his strong arms and, a fleeting kiss on a welcoming forehead later, the two slipped out of the night back into the warmth of the waiting house.
I've performed this little "ceremony" (inspired by a scene in the television adaptation of Alex Haley's best-selling cultural touchstone, Roots)...earnestly and self-consciously...three times in my life...with a niece (on a quiet night in Los Angeles when I was barely more than a child myself), a nephew (on a soft San Diego evening when I was man of long standing), and, most recently, with my granddaughter (under a warm Virginia sky.)
I doubt it meant much to them (they were babies still, of course, and remembering was, then perhaps more than later, a fluid thing)...but it meant a lot to me (the truth always should mean a lot to us) and they, all three of them, trusted me more than enough to embrace the odd, little experience with bright, curious eyes and soft, enigmatic smiles. That was more than enough for me.
The night would be still waiting to be joined by two...the man, earnest but somewhat self-conscious; the babe, curious and trusting and guilelessly open-hearted...stepping out of a warm house to share a private moment that will, however subtly, strengthen the bond between them.
The night would be still and, enveloped by the welcoming darkness, the man would hold the child high...high to the glow of the golden moon, high to the ebon expanse of the cosmos...and speak words to the child that have special meaning to those of a specific time in the history of literary and popular culture (while having powerful resonance to any willing to embrace them): "Behold! The only thing greater than yourself".
The night would be still as the man drew the child back into the safe haven of his strong arms and, a fleeting kiss on a welcoming forehead later, the two slipped out of the night back into the warmth of the waiting house.
I've performed this little "ceremony" (inspired by a scene in the television adaptation of Alex Haley's best-selling cultural touchstone, Roots)...earnestly and self-consciously...three times in my life...with a niece (on a quiet night in Los Angeles when I was barely more than a child myself), a nephew (on a soft San Diego evening when I was man of long standing), and, most recently, with my granddaughter (under a warm Virginia sky.)
I doubt it meant much to them (they were babies still, of course, and remembering was, then perhaps more than later, a fluid thing)...but it meant a lot to me (the truth always should mean a lot to us) and they, all three of them, trusted me more than enough to embrace the odd, little experience with bright, curious eyes and soft, enigmatic smiles. That was more than enough for me.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Olympic viewing tip
Try watching the diving and, most especially, the gymnastic events with the sound muted. Your enjoyment of the pure physical artistry of these events will be GREATLY improved when you're not subjected to the constant blathering of the "expert" commentators (who either are being paid by the word...or, more likely, just don't know when to shut the hell up and let the athletes' performances speak for themselves.)
you must remember this...
I wasn't feeling the opening ceremonies of the Olympics ("wasn't feeling"...man, I'm so hip sometimes :-) so I spent the time watching some of the counter programming. The American Film Institute counted down the 100 best songs from the movies. The list was, of course, flawed and highly debatable...but that was kind of the point. Take any 100 people and ask them to come up with such a list and you would get 100 completely different countdowns.
(And being the AMERICAN Film Institute, they only counted American made movies...which left great movie songs like "A Hard Day's Night", "Help!", and "Alfie" out in the cold.)
AFI's top 3 were:
"Over the Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz
"As Time Goes By" from Casablanca
and "Singin' in the Rain" from the movie of the same name.
Not bad choices. Watching the clips from the various movies was fun and while I was not in agreement with much of it..."Theme from Shaft" (#38)was ranked too low, "Stayin' Alive" (#9) and the insipid "My Heart Will Go On" (#14) were ranked too high, and "Flashdance...What a Feeling" (#55) probably shouldn't have been ranked at all.
Interesting that so many songs on the list were sung by Fred Astaire and Liza Minnelli. And cool that Public Enemy (the incendiary and amazing "Fight the Power" at #40) and Eminem (the Oscar-winning "Lose Yourself" at #93) made the cut among so many former Broadway showtunes and movie love ballads.
Any list eclectic enough to feature performances by Barbra Streisand, Paul Robeson, Bob Hope, Kermit the Frog, Bob Seger, Steppenwolf, Judy Garland, and Marlon Brando (crooning "Luck Be a Lady" from Guys and Dolls) is alright with a fan of all kinds of music like myself.
(Still would it have killed them to give a little love to something from Purple Rain?)
(And being the AMERICAN Film Institute, they only counted American made movies...which left great movie songs like "A Hard Day's Night", "Help!", and "Alfie" out in the cold.)
AFI's top 3 were:
"Over the Rainbow" from The Wizard of Oz
"As Time Goes By" from Casablanca
and "Singin' in the Rain" from the movie of the same name.
Not bad choices. Watching the clips from the various movies was fun and while I was not in agreement with much of it..."Theme from Shaft" (#38)was ranked too low, "Stayin' Alive" (#9) and the insipid "My Heart Will Go On" (#14) were ranked too high, and "Flashdance...What a Feeling" (#55) probably shouldn't have been ranked at all.
Interesting that so many songs on the list were sung by Fred Astaire and Liza Minnelli. And cool that Public Enemy (the incendiary and amazing "Fight the Power" at #40) and Eminem (the Oscar-winning "Lose Yourself" at #93) made the cut among so many former Broadway showtunes and movie love ballads.
Any list eclectic enough to feature performances by Barbra Streisand, Paul Robeson, Bob Hope, Kermit the Frog, Bob Seger, Steppenwolf, Judy Garland, and Marlon Brando (crooning "Luck Be a Lady" from Guys and Dolls) is alright with a fan of all kinds of music like myself.
(Still would it have killed them to give a little love to something from Purple Rain?)
Thursday, August 12, 2004
null and void
To the surprise of, I would hope, almost no one, the California Supreme Court has voided the nearly 4,000 same sex marriages that were sanctioned by the mayor of San Francisco back in February and March of this year. The wedding certificates that Rosie O'Donnell and her spouse and all of the other couples got are now interesting and provocative historical souvenirs but they hold absolutely no legal standing.
It was a noble gesture on the part of Mayor Gavin Newsom (not sure if he's savvy politician playing to the progressive hometown crowd or a true son of Don Quixote tilting against windmills despite the odds, but I guess it really doesn't matter)...but it was a gesture that was, of course, fated to come to this conclusion given the laws of the state...and the prevailing mood of much of the country.
I'm still failing to see how allowing same sex couples to marry will do irrevocable harm to the "institution of marriage"...we should be celebrating committed love between consenting adults not putting arbitrary roadblocks in its path...but this is an issue that reaches into the sanctimonious hearts of so many clutching their Bibles to their (sometimes truly pious and well-meaning, sometimes just plain intolerant) breasts and as such it will touch off vehement protest whenever it's even broached.
In the words of one of my heroines, Linda Ellerbee, and so it goes.
It was a noble gesture on the part of Mayor Gavin Newsom (not sure if he's savvy politician playing to the progressive hometown crowd or a true son of Don Quixote tilting against windmills despite the odds, but I guess it really doesn't matter)...but it was a gesture that was, of course, fated to come to this conclusion given the laws of the state...and the prevailing mood of much of the country.
I'm still failing to see how allowing same sex couples to marry will do irrevocable harm to the "institution of marriage"...we should be celebrating committed love between consenting adults not putting arbitrary roadblocks in its path...but this is an issue that reaches into the sanctimonious hearts of so many clutching their Bibles to their (sometimes truly pious and well-meaning, sometimes just plain intolerant) breasts and as such it will touch off vehement protest whenever it's even broached.
In the words of one of my heroines, Linda Ellerbee, and so it goes.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
sunshine on a cloudy day
When I was a boy I wanted to be a Temptation. Back then the Temptations were, to my young mind, the coolest, most stylish, sexiest cats on the planet. They danced like they were floating on smooth gossamer wings and they sang like you hoped the angels in the heavens could sing.
As Nanci Griffith wrote, "I was a child of the 60's; when dreams could be had through T.V. With Disney and Cronkite and Martin Luther; and I believed...I believed...I believed..."
And I believed. I believed in Bobby Kennedy and the Beatles; in Superman and Star Trek and Adam West as Batman; in giving peace a chance and that all you needed was love. I believed in my mother and my cousin Vernon and that my brother Guy wouldn't always be such a pain in my butt. I believed in the power of ideas and the power of music; I believed that your soul could be lifted and your life made brighter with the magic pouring through the speakers of a phonograph or an AM radio station.
When I was a boy, sometimes I wanted to be a Rolling Stone...or another Jackson brother...or a member of the Family Stone...or even a Monkee...but most times, in my child's heart of hearts, I wanted to belong on the streets of Motown, the breathing soul of young America...most times, I wanted to be a Temptation.
Most of the real Temptations have passed on now...but that sweet fire they stoked in me has never completely gone away. And I pray it never does.
I close my eyes as the bass line slides in, sweet and silky, and the music sweeps me in..."I've got sunshine on a cloudy day"...and, three glorious minutes at a time, everything is right with the world.
*****
recommended listening:
"My Girl: The Very Best of The Temptations" (2 magical discs of pure uptown, life affirming soul music)
As Nanci Griffith wrote, "I was a child of the 60's; when dreams could be had through T.V. With Disney and Cronkite and Martin Luther; and I believed...I believed...I believed..."
And I believed. I believed in Bobby Kennedy and the Beatles; in Superman and Star Trek and Adam West as Batman; in giving peace a chance and that all you needed was love. I believed in my mother and my cousin Vernon and that my brother Guy wouldn't always be such a pain in my butt. I believed in the power of ideas and the power of music; I believed that your soul could be lifted and your life made brighter with the magic pouring through the speakers of a phonograph or an AM radio station.
When I was a boy, sometimes I wanted to be a Rolling Stone...or another Jackson brother...or a member of the Family Stone...or even a Monkee...but most times, in my child's heart of hearts, I wanted to belong on the streets of Motown, the breathing soul of young America...most times, I wanted to be a Temptation.
Most of the real Temptations have passed on now...but that sweet fire they stoked in me has never completely gone away. And I pray it never does.
I close my eyes as the bass line slides in, sweet and silky, and the music sweeps me in..."I've got sunshine on a cloudy day"...and, three glorious minutes at a time, everything is right with the world.
*****
recommended listening:
"My Girl: The Very Best of The Temptations" (2 magical discs of pure uptown, life affirming soul music)
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
love and justice
I had a dream about love and justice last night. Quite literally about love and justice…or at least as literal as the dreaming mind deigns to be. There was a judge…a red-haired woman, I believe (details so sharp in the dreaming become hazy and impressionistic here in the waking)…who making crisp, firm decisions and brooking no complaints.
One by one, a long line of people stood before her bench. The judge scrutinized them and then, banging her gavel with a confident flourish, she sentenced them.
“I sentence you to love,” she told some sending them off to the right where they were met by smiling people…wives, husbands, lovers, children, parents, friends, it varied from person to person. Some of those sentenced to love seemed incredibly happy, others more dubious but resigned to their fates.
“I sentence you to justice,” she told others sending them off to the left where some were handcuffed and taken into custody by burly guards in crisp khaki uniforms and others were given money and car keys and allowed to leave, alone, through a door that opened onto a bustling city street. Some of those sentenced to justice seemed relieved, others apprehensive but resigned to their fates.
I’m not sure if my dreaming self was in line or just watching from the gallery (and, of course, I don’t waste time over-thinking these things…the dreaming mind is ever enigmatic and any meaning in dreams will make itself known if and when it chooses to.)
One by one, a long line of people stood before her bench. The judge scrutinized them and then, banging her gavel with a confident flourish, she sentenced them.
“I sentence you to love,” she told some sending them off to the right where they were met by smiling people…wives, husbands, lovers, children, parents, friends, it varied from person to person. Some of those sentenced to love seemed incredibly happy, others more dubious but resigned to their fates.
“I sentence you to justice,” she told others sending them off to the left where some were handcuffed and taken into custody by burly guards in crisp khaki uniforms and others were given money and car keys and allowed to leave, alone, through a door that opened onto a bustling city street. Some of those sentenced to justice seemed relieved, others apprehensive but resigned to their fates.
I’m not sure if my dreaming self was in line or just watching from the gallery (and, of course, I don’t waste time over-thinking these things…the dreaming mind is ever enigmatic and any meaning in dreams will make itself known if and when it chooses to.)
Monday, August 09, 2004
an orphan (one in a sporadic series)
From time to time, ideas come to me...lines, snippets of dialogue, even whole scenes...that have nothing to do with whatever I'm working on at the time. Sometimes these random writings are incorporated into full-blown pieces...and sometimes they remain as orphans, tantalizing teasers from the fickle muse that have no home. This then is one of the orphans which has been languishing in a file since it was born. The following was once the prologue to a semi-autobiographical novel...with the working title of Soul Deep... I've started several times. It is not in the current draft but may be restored before all is said and done.
******
My childhood was a series of shadows . . . shadows eluded, and shadows climbed into and embraced with all the strength one lonely little black boy could muster. Sometimes I thought the whole world was lost in shadows.
I used to imagine, in the way that only children can imagine, that the whole world revolved around me. Of course, I know all too well that it didn't . . . but that didn't stop me from wondering if (and indeed how) people moved and did things when I wasn't around to see them. Imagination was one thing I had in abundance.
Imagination . . . and memories.
One of my earliest memories is, almost as a matter of course, a painful one. It was a cold autumn morning; storm clouds were gathering ominously overhead. But I didn't care. My daddy was coming to spend the whole day with me. Only me. I was three.
I waited, bundled head to toe, at the gate in front of my mother's little house straining to catch a glimpse of his car coming up the quiet street. The icy breeze cut through me despite the coat and the scarf and the button-down cap Mama made me put on . . . but I didn't care.
Behind me in the doorway, my mother stood fuming silently. Her eyes were filled with hot, stinging tears that threatened to spill out every time I craned my neck at the sound of a car engine only to slump down dejectedly when it wasn't my daddy's car engine.
"Bastard," she hissed as she spun on her heels and stormed toward the telephone. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette and made a conscious effort to calm herself before she picked up the phone. My little sister Amanda was sleeping in her room, blissfully unaware of the drama playing out around her.
Mama drew the pungent smoke into her lungs and exhaled it slowly. She dialed the number she wanted and waited. It rang once . . . twice . . . thrice . . . twelve times in all. She dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. He wasn't home. And he wasn't, she was sure, on his way to pick up his son.
I stood at that gate for nearly an hour, crestfallen but hopeful just the same. I waited until the clouds finally opened and the rain began to fall. I turned, my face wet with both raindrops and my own quiet tears, walked back up the walk and up the stairs into the house.
Mama took my coat and scarf and cap and hugged me for what seemed like a million years. She said something about daddy . . . but I don't remember what it was. Amanda started to cry and Mama went to see to her. I went into my bedroom and flopped down onto the bed.
Daddy showed up two days later. He had forgotten. "Sorry 'bout that, boy," he said in that happy-go-lucky way of his.
He chucked my chin and smiled. "Think you can forgive the old man?" he said flashing his most disarming grin.
I nodded. I forgave him. But I never forgot the lesson he taught me on that cold, autumn morning.
******
My childhood was a series of shadows . . . shadows eluded, and shadows climbed into and embraced with all the strength one lonely little black boy could muster. Sometimes I thought the whole world was lost in shadows.
I used to imagine, in the way that only children can imagine, that the whole world revolved around me. Of course, I know all too well that it didn't . . . but that didn't stop me from wondering if (and indeed how) people moved and did things when I wasn't around to see them. Imagination was one thing I had in abundance.
Imagination . . . and memories.
One of my earliest memories is, almost as a matter of course, a painful one. It was a cold autumn morning; storm clouds were gathering ominously overhead. But I didn't care. My daddy was coming to spend the whole day with me. Only me. I was three.
I waited, bundled head to toe, at the gate in front of my mother's little house straining to catch a glimpse of his car coming up the quiet street. The icy breeze cut through me despite the coat and the scarf and the button-down cap Mama made me put on . . . but I didn't care.
Behind me in the doorway, my mother stood fuming silently. Her eyes were filled with hot, stinging tears that threatened to spill out every time I craned my neck at the sound of a car engine only to slump down dejectedly when it wasn't my daddy's car engine.
"Bastard," she hissed as she spun on her heels and stormed toward the telephone. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette and made a conscious effort to calm herself before she picked up the phone. My little sister Amanda was sleeping in her room, blissfully unaware of the drama playing out around her.
Mama drew the pungent smoke into her lungs and exhaled it slowly. She dialed the number she wanted and waited. It rang once . . . twice . . . thrice . . . twelve times in all. She dropped the receiver back onto its cradle. He wasn't home. And he wasn't, she was sure, on his way to pick up his son.
I stood at that gate for nearly an hour, crestfallen but hopeful just the same. I waited until the clouds finally opened and the rain began to fall. I turned, my face wet with both raindrops and my own quiet tears, walked back up the walk and up the stairs into the house.
Mama took my coat and scarf and cap and hugged me for what seemed like a million years. She said something about daddy . . . but I don't remember what it was. Amanda started to cry and Mama went to see to her. I went into my bedroom and flopped down onto the bed.
Daddy showed up two days later. He had forgotten. "Sorry 'bout that, boy," he said in that happy-go-lucky way of his.
He chucked my chin and smiled. "Think you can forgive the old man?" he said flashing his most disarming grin.
I nodded. I forgave him. But I never forgot the lesson he taught me on that cold, autumn morning.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
another thing I wish I'd said first...
Four things come not back: the spoken word, the spent arrow, the past, the neglected opportunity -
Omar Idn Al-Halif
The above quotation is on the long list of things I wish I'd said first. But, then again, I don't really wish I'd said this...or many other wondrous, precious, thought-provoking things that have brought wisdom, great and small, to the bright and bittersweet seasons of my life...first.
Life is, at its most basic and wonderful, about learning. As we live and love and laugh and cry and breathe and dream on the winding path from our mothers' wombs to the light at the end of the winding, ever-challenging path each of is traveling in our own completely unique ways, that which makes the journey most worthwhile is our ability to learn.
To learn from our mistakes.
To learn from our victories.
To learn from our defeats.
To learn from our elders.
To learn from our children.
To learn from our heroes.
To learn from our enemies.
To learn from all those who have lived and loved and laughed and cried and breathed and dreamed with us and before us.
As my life winds on down the path I've been set on, I hope never to believe that I have all the answers...and I pray never to believe that I've run out of questions.
Friday, August 06, 2004
rock the vote
I've been a big fan of Bruce Springsteen since 1977...the year the amazing "Darkness on the Edge of Town" album came out (the hype of '75...when "Born to Run" came out and Bruce was declared "the future of rock and roll"...hit right at the heart of my skeptical cynicism over the media trying to define what is cool for the rest of us and I shied away.) I haven't looked back (and yes, I came to embrace "Born to Run" and the albums that came before it.)
From then to now, I have been (and will remain) firmly in Bruce's army of loyal fans. That said, I wouldn't go cast my Presidential vote just because he told me to.
I will, of course, cast my vote because I think it's the price we should willingly and happily pay for our democracy...and the price we should willingly and eagerly pay for our right to bitch about the state of things. My one vote may not mean much in the grand scheme of things but it means a whole lot to me and I have cast it in nearly every election I've been eligible to participate in (in Presidential elections my personal record for voting on the winning side is 4-3 since my first vote in '76.)
Bruce Springsteen and a host of other pop stars...including John Fogerty, REM, Bonnie Raitt, John Mellencamp, The Dave Matthews Band, Pearl Jam, and the Dixie Chicks...are going to "battleground states" (Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, and, of course, Florida) to do multiple concerts on what's being called the "Vote for Change" tour.
The tour...sponsored by MoveOn.org...is supposed to encourage apathetic voters who might otherwise sit on their hands to get out on Election Day and vote. They don't seem to be FOR Senator Kerry as much as they are AGAINST President Bush but more power to them for putting their time and energy towards what they believe in...more power to them for trying to make a difference.
Will it work? I don't know. Most fans who go to shows will be there because they want to rock not because they're fired up to become a participating part of the political process. But if it gets even just a few more non-voters...of whatever age...to step up to the plate on November 2nd then it's all good (and if Toby Keith, Kid Rock, and Jessica Simpson want to organize a similar pro-Bush tour more power to them as well...it's a free country and the more voices being heard the stronger our democracy becomes and remains.)
******
Recommended listening:
Bruce Springsteen:
Born to Run
Darkness on the Edge of Town
The River
Nebraska
Born in the U.S.A.
Live/1975-1985
Tunnel of Love
Tracks
The Rising
From then to now, I have been (and will remain) firmly in Bruce's army of loyal fans. That said, I wouldn't go cast my Presidential vote just because he told me to.
I will, of course, cast my vote because I think it's the price we should willingly and happily pay for our democracy...and the price we should willingly and eagerly pay for our right to bitch about the state of things. My one vote may not mean much in the grand scheme of things but it means a whole lot to me and I have cast it in nearly every election I've been eligible to participate in (in Presidential elections my personal record for voting on the winning side is 4-3 since my first vote in '76.)
Bruce Springsteen and a host of other pop stars...including John Fogerty, REM, Bonnie Raitt, John Mellencamp, The Dave Matthews Band, Pearl Jam, and the Dixie Chicks...are going to "battleground states" (Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, and, of course, Florida) to do multiple concerts on what's being called the "Vote for Change" tour.
The tour...sponsored by MoveOn.org...is supposed to encourage apathetic voters who might otherwise sit on their hands to get out on Election Day and vote. They don't seem to be FOR Senator Kerry as much as they are AGAINST President Bush but more power to them for putting their time and energy towards what they believe in...more power to them for trying to make a difference.
Will it work? I don't know. Most fans who go to shows will be there because they want to rock not because they're fired up to become a participating part of the political process. But if it gets even just a few more non-voters...of whatever age...to step up to the plate on November 2nd then it's all good (and if Toby Keith, Kid Rock, and Jessica Simpson want to organize a similar pro-Bush tour more power to them as well...it's a free country and the more voices being heard the stronger our democracy becomes and remains.)
******
Recommended listening:
Bruce Springsteen:
Born to Run
Darkness on the Edge of Town
The River
Nebraska
Born in the U.S.A.
Live/1975-1985
Tunnel of Love
Tracks
The Rising
Thursday, August 05, 2004
"...or forever hold your peace"
The good people of the state of Missouri (or at least a plurality of the people who chose to vote in Tuesday's election) have decided to put an amendment in their state constitution to "protect marriage" by defining it as a union between a man and a woman.
At the same time, a judge in Seattle ruled that Washington's ban on gay marriage was unconstitutional.
Both of the major Presidential candidates are against gay marriage (though Kerry, somewhat reluctantly, endorses the concept of gay civil unions.)
And the possibility of an amendment to the U.S. Constitution defining marriage as a union between a man and woman continues to be bandied about.
And I have to wonder why so many people are so threatened by the possibility of gay couples getting married. Why would what other people do in their lives and relationships have any impact on their own lives and relationships?
"The sanctity of marriage"? A good number of heterosexual marriages are undermined by abuse and infidelity and half of them end in divorce. Marriage has thrived in the face of these challenges and one has to believe that it will continue to do so even if same sex couples are allowed the right to legally walk down the aisle.
"Stability for the children"? Again, half of marriages dissolve in divorce (sometimes acrimoniously, sometimes not) and a large percentage of children grow up in "broken" homes or blended families (myself, I grew up in a single parent home...hi, Mom!...and I turned out reasonably well...if I do say so myself.)
"The Bible says..."? The Bible also says that death (by stoning no less) is the penalty for adultery...it's easy to tapdance through the scriptures and make a case for anything you want. Using God to justify your own prejudices is, at best, disingenuous...and, at worst, baldly hypocritical and cynically manipulative.
Civilization won't grind to a halt if Martin and George...or Joanna and Karen...are allowed to legally wed and live happily ever after (or at least as happily ever after as any of us can.) If people of sound mind and caring heart want to share their lives with all of the benefits and sanctions of the law more power to them (this old world of ours could use more celebrations of love and life.)
We really should let that whole argument go so that we can once again turn our collective attention back to things which are really important to our society.
Like being outraged and/or...ahem...titillated by Janet Jackson's naked nipple.
At the same time, a judge in Seattle ruled that Washington's ban on gay marriage was unconstitutional.
Both of the major Presidential candidates are against gay marriage (though Kerry, somewhat reluctantly, endorses the concept of gay civil unions.)
And the possibility of an amendment to the U.S. Constitution defining marriage as a union between a man and woman continues to be bandied about.
And I have to wonder why so many people are so threatened by the possibility of gay couples getting married. Why would what other people do in their lives and relationships have any impact on their own lives and relationships?
"The sanctity of marriage"? A good number of heterosexual marriages are undermined by abuse and infidelity and half of them end in divorce. Marriage has thrived in the face of these challenges and one has to believe that it will continue to do so even if same sex couples are allowed the right to legally walk down the aisle.
"Stability for the children"? Again, half of marriages dissolve in divorce (sometimes acrimoniously, sometimes not) and a large percentage of children grow up in "broken" homes or blended families (myself, I grew up in a single parent home...hi, Mom!...and I turned out reasonably well...if I do say so myself.)
"The Bible says..."? The Bible also says that death (by stoning no less) is the penalty for adultery...it's easy to tapdance through the scriptures and make a case for anything you want. Using God to justify your own prejudices is, at best, disingenuous...and, at worst, baldly hypocritical and cynically manipulative.
Civilization won't grind to a halt if Martin and George...or Joanna and Karen...are allowed to legally wed and live happily ever after (or at least as happily ever after as any of us can.) If people of sound mind and caring heart want to share their lives with all of the benefits and sanctions of the law more power to them (this old world of ours could use more celebrations of love and life.)
We really should let that whole argument go so that we can once again turn our collective attention back to things which are really important to our society.
Like being outraged and/or...ahem...titillated by Janet Jackson's naked nipple.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
random notes
A mixtape for patriotic Americans whose sentiments run a bit deeper than the moronic promise to "put a boot in (someone's) ass"...
"The Star Spangled Banner" by Marvin Gaye (recorded live at the NBA finals...funky without losing proper reverence)
"America the Beautiful" by Ray Charles
"Chimes of Freedom" by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
"Back in the U.S.A." by Chuck Berry
"This Land is Your Land" by Cassandra Wilson with Regina Carter and Bela Fleck
"Living in the Promiseland" by Willie Nelson
"This is My Country" by Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions
"We Shall Be Free" by Garth Brooks
"Fanfare for the Common Man" by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic
"The Star Spangled Banner" by Branford Marsalis and Bruce Hornsby
"The Star Spangled Banner" by Marvin Gaye (recorded live at the NBA finals...funky without losing proper reverence)
"America the Beautiful" by Ray Charles
"Chimes of Freedom" by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
"Back in the U.S.A." by Chuck Berry
"This Land is Your Land" by Cassandra Wilson with Regina Carter and Bela Fleck
"Living in the Promiseland" by Willie Nelson
"This is My Country" by Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions
"We Shall Be Free" by Garth Brooks
"Fanfare for the Common Man" by Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic
"The Star Spangled Banner" by Branford Marsalis and Bruce Hornsby
time flows
Time flows…a quiet stream, a thundering river…
taking us on the sweet and bitter journey
from the light and back again;
Walk soft, bright traveler…dance in the light…
Walk soft…sing your song from the crucible of humanity
to the very heart of the heaven itself;
Walk soft…and swim surely as time,
a warm stream, a bright blue river…flows.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
taking us on the sweet and bitter journey
from the light and back again;
Walk soft, bright traveler…dance in the light…
Walk soft…sing your song from the crucible of humanity
to the very heart of the heaven itself;
Walk soft…and swim surely as time,
a warm stream, a bright blue river…flows.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
orange
Tom Ridge, the head of the Department of Homeland Security (who apparently will be leaving his job after the election because he can't afford to send his kids to college on his $175,000 salary), said today that a lot of the information that raised the terror alert levels on east coast buildings, led officials all over the country to ramp up security even at sites not mentioned in the information, and kept the media from sea to shining sea abuzz with feverish speculation dates back to the years 2000 and 2001. But, he continues to insist, "it was essential" to release it to the public and raise the alert level to "orange" for specific sites.
Okey-doke.
That these kinds of terror plans are long-term affairs is a given and only the most cynical amongst us would question the timing of portentous pronouncements from the White House's stalwart Homeland Security guy (who says that he and his department are apolitical when it comes to the job they have to do. And that is, of course, good to know.)
Only the most cynical amongst us would accuse Mr. Ridge and the administration of covering their asses so that when and if (more likely "when" than "if" given our open society and our busy, complicated lives which leaves us little time or interest to be look around every corner for terrorists) something happens they can...and indeed will... say that they warned us all along ("see...we told you that SOMETHING would happen in SOME WAY on SOMEDAY at SOME PLACE...we really called that one, didn't we? Maybe next time you'll listen to us!")
Indeed, only the most cynical amongst us would point out that the administration speaks of the terrorists as having being dealt major, debilitating, demoralizing setbacks when they want to show how they're winning the "war on terror" but, at the same time, that they also say that the network(s) of terrorists are apparently still organized, disciplined, and funded well enough to pose major threats to the homeland (a fact which often, coincidentally I'm sure, goes onto the front burner when the administration might want to change the story being spotlighted by the news media...say, just for example, the story of the Democratic challengers hitting the road after their mostly harmonious convention.)
*****
It is, changing the subject somewhat, good to hear that the Statue of Liberty, refitted with new safety features and restrictions, is reopened to the public for the first time since 2001. The great lady is too important a symbol of this country to be forever closed to the people out of fear.
Okey-doke.
That these kinds of terror plans are long-term affairs is a given and only the most cynical amongst us would question the timing of portentous pronouncements from the White House's stalwart Homeland Security guy (who says that he and his department are apolitical when it comes to the job they have to do. And that is, of course, good to know.)
Only the most cynical amongst us would accuse Mr. Ridge and the administration of covering their asses so that when and if (more likely "when" than "if" given our open society and our busy, complicated lives which leaves us little time or interest to be look around every corner for terrorists) something happens they can...and indeed will... say that they warned us all along ("see...we told you that SOMETHING would happen in SOME WAY on SOMEDAY at SOME PLACE...we really called that one, didn't we? Maybe next time you'll listen to us!")
Indeed, only the most cynical amongst us would point out that the administration speaks of the terrorists as having being dealt major, debilitating, demoralizing setbacks when they want to show how they're winning the "war on terror" but, at the same time, that they also say that the network(s) of terrorists are apparently still organized, disciplined, and funded well enough to pose major threats to the homeland (a fact which often, coincidentally I'm sure, goes onto the front burner when the administration might want to change the story being spotlighted by the news media...say, just for example, the story of the Democratic challengers hitting the road after their mostly harmonious convention.)
*****
It is, changing the subject somewhat, good to hear that the Statue of Liberty, refitted with new safety features and restrictions, is reopened to the public for the first time since 2001. The great lady is too important a symbol of this country to be forever closed to the people out of fear.
Monday, August 02, 2004
on the road to California
The rhythm of the rain on my truck’s windshield is too insistent to completely ignore. But I try to do so anyway. It’s going to be a long night and I can’t be bothered to think about anything other than the end of my journey. I’ve just enough coffee and cigars to keep me awake. I’ve got Garth and Willie and Loretta on the stereo to keep me company. I’m on the road to California, praying that that woman will still be longing for me after all of the time I’ve willfully let pass.
The road is glistening with moonlight and autumn rain and the reflections of other amber headlights zooming by at 75 miles an hour. My road is clear, paved with hope and regret and rediscovered love and passion; my road leads to an altar of love I’m willing and able to prostrate myself upon unabashedly. I’m on the road to California, praying that that woman’s eyes…bright and beautiful and easy to drown in…will still shine the way they only used to shine for me.
The night is dark and shrouded with uncaring clouds dancing their part in a fierce song cycle of life. My heart is gray and shrouded with the realization that most probably I’m far, far too late. But I don’t care. I’ve got to try anyway. I’ve got just enough hot coffee and pungent cigars to keep me focused. I’ve got Hank and Patsy and Emmylou to sing the words my inarticulate heart could never give voice to. I’m on the road to California, praying that that woman’s heart…big and bountiful and almost too tender to hold…hasn’t closed itself to me forever.
The shout of the thunder and the whip crack of the lightning are not enough to give me the slightest instant of pause. I’m on my way to salvation…on my way to forgiveness…on my way to the only arms that can give me welcoming shelter from the ongoing storms of life and love and bittersweet lust. I’m on the road to California…driving hard through the driving rain…praying that that woman will be waiting for me after all the time I’ve foolishly thrown away.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
The road is glistening with moonlight and autumn rain and the reflections of other amber headlights zooming by at 75 miles an hour. My road is clear, paved with hope and regret and rediscovered love and passion; my road leads to an altar of love I’m willing and able to prostrate myself upon unabashedly. I’m on the road to California, praying that that woman’s eyes…bright and beautiful and easy to drown in…will still shine the way they only used to shine for me.
The night is dark and shrouded with uncaring clouds dancing their part in a fierce song cycle of life. My heart is gray and shrouded with the realization that most probably I’m far, far too late. But I don’t care. I’ve got to try anyway. I’ve got just enough hot coffee and pungent cigars to keep me focused. I’ve got Hank and Patsy and Emmylou to sing the words my inarticulate heart could never give voice to. I’m on the road to California, praying that that woman’s heart…big and bountiful and almost too tender to hold…hasn’t closed itself to me forever.
The shout of the thunder and the whip crack of the lightning are not enough to give me the slightest instant of pause. I’m on my way to salvation…on my way to forgiveness…on my way to the only arms that can give me welcoming shelter from the ongoing storms of life and love and bittersweet lust. I’m on the road to California…driving hard through the driving rain…praying that that woman will be waiting for me after all the time I’ve foolishly thrown away.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
an orphan (one in a sporadic series)
From time to time, ideas come to me...lines, snippets of dialogue, even whole scenes...that have nothing to do with whatever I'm working on at the time. Sometimes these random writings are incorporated into full-blown pieces...and sometimes they remain as orphans, tantalizing teasers from the fickle muse that have no home. This then is one of the orphans which has been languishing in a file since it was born. This was the first draft of the opening scene of a story that eventually came to be called "First Day". The story was completed but the opening scene was completely rewritten for its final draft. This, the original opening, has languished in limbo ever since.
******
She shut off the engine of her car and sat looking, with both trepidation and unabashed joy, at the house . . . at his house. His directions had been perfect and she knew that this was indeed the place where her journey ended. She swallowed hard and glanced at the clock on the dashboard . . . she was on time . . . a few minutes early in fact . . . and she lingered, trying to allow her heart time to slow its beating to a calmer pace. She laughed nervously at herself, realizing that that was not going to happen. She took hold of her purse and opened the door and stepped out.
They had talked about this day for weeks . . . planned for it . . . made time for it . . . found its nuances haunting their dreams and coloring their workaday worlds...and now it was here and she felt as nervous as a new bride.
She chuckled again, realizing that the analogy wasn't too far off the mark.
The area was quiet and still...the stately houses set close enough to give the feel of a neighborhood, far enough to keep everyone's boundaries inviolate; vague whispers of coffee and chlorine and roses and wood smoke giving weight to the clear morning air; the idle song of a satisfied bird soothing from somewhere near. She locked the car door and went and opened the trunk. She struggled to get her suitcase out and slammed it shut, the sound echoing lazily through the stillness.
She put her keys into her purse and shut it tight and put it over her shoulder. She walked the suitcase up the walkway to the front door. The house was sturdy and solid, all of its drapes drawn giving it a vaguely forbidding aspect. The lawn was neatly trimmed and a well-tended bed of rosebushes stretched from the front off to the right all the way to the fence line. Masculine...strong but not ostentatiously so... forbidding and welcoming in the same instant...much like the man himself, she thought with pride and love bubbling freely through her.
She put the suitcase down and fussed with her clothes. Then she rang the bell and picked up the suitcase and waited.
He took a deep breath and opened wide the great wooden door. She was waiting, her eyes bright with anxiety and anticipation, her lips dry, a suitcase clutched with both hands in front of her ample, womanly body and a large black pocketbook slung under her right arm. She was wearing a simple but elegant black skirt that clung to the sweet curve of her hips and a cool white blouse that fell in haphazard and alluring folds around her breasts and her belly.
******
She shut off the engine of her car and sat looking, with both trepidation and unabashed joy, at the house . . . at his house. His directions had been perfect and she knew that this was indeed the place where her journey ended. She swallowed hard and glanced at the clock on the dashboard . . . she was on time . . . a few minutes early in fact . . . and she lingered, trying to allow her heart time to slow its beating to a calmer pace. She laughed nervously at herself, realizing that that was not going to happen. She took hold of her purse and opened the door and stepped out.
They had talked about this day for weeks . . . planned for it . . . made time for it . . . found its nuances haunting their dreams and coloring their workaday worlds...and now it was here and she felt as nervous as a new bride.
She chuckled again, realizing that the analogy wasn't too far off the mark.
The area was quiet and still...the stately houses set close enough to give the feel of a neighborhood, far enough to keep everyone's boundaries inviolate; vague whispers of coffee and chlorine and roses and wood smoke giving weight to the clear morning air; the idle song of a satisfied bird soothing from somewhere near. She locked the car door and went and opened the trunk. She struggled to get her suitcase out and slammed it shut, the sound echoing lazily through the stillness.
She put her keys into her purse and shut it tight and put it over her shoulder. She walked the suitcase up the walkway to the front door. The house was sturdy and solid, all of its drapes drawn giving it a vaguely forbidding aspect. The lawn was neatly trimmed and a well-tended bed of rosebushes stretched from the front off to the right all the way to the fence line. Masculine...strong but not ostentatiously so... forbidding and welcoming in the same instant...much like the man himself, she thought with pride and love bubbling freely through her.
She put the suitcase down and fussed with her clothes. Then she rang the bell and picked up the suitcase and waited.
He took a deep breath and opened wide the great wooden door. She was waiting, her eyes bright with anxiety and anticipation, her lips dry, a suitcase clutched with both hands in front of her ample, womanly body and a large black pocketbook slung under her right arm. She was wearing a simple but elegant black skirt that clung to the sweet curve of her hips and a cool white blouse that fell in haphazard and alluring folds around her breasts and her belly.
©2004 neverending rainbow enterprises, ltd. All rights reserved.
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