Refreshing Viewpoint

“Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting and doing the things historians usually record, while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happened on the banks. Historians are pessimists because they ignore the banks for the river.” — Will Durant, Life,
Oct. 18, 1963


This is copied from Futility Closet, a site that I have to keep in my email and stop to read every now and then to counterattack the usual banality of my life. The site always supplies something grounding and refreshing.

Excerpt from The Maze

Switching Annie to the other breast, Maisie glanced up and saw Bob in the doorway. She actually blushed a little and adjusted the diaper she had thrown over her shoulder. Like he’d never seen her breasts. “You are even more beautiful now. You look so happy and content. Lucky baby. What a cutie she is.”

“Thank you, Bob. How are you doing?”

“I’m dying inside. I keep thinking it’ll get better. But it doesn’t, even seeing you being all modest and motherly, like I never saw your tits? I should laugh, but I want to cry.”

“Bob.”

“I know you loved me. I know it didn’t go away. Lie to me and say it did. It’ll make it easier for me.”

“I can’t. It didn’t go away. It won’t. And I don’t understand it. I try not to think of it.” Annie was sound asleep and Maisie laid her in the little crib, tucked her breasts away and as she turned, Bobby was right there. “You shouldn’t. . .” But he placed his hands on her forearms and she felt like she was getting lost.

“See? That’s what I mean. That’s not going away. On that bike in Pennsylvania?”

“I know. We should have just kept going. But, this isn’t wrong. This is where I’m supposed to be. I told you, I don’t understand it.”

“Maybe it’s timing. I think all the time how it would be if we just kept going.”

“You shouldn’t.” She looked up at his face and he stepped a little closer.

“You can back the fuck away from my wife now, and keep your hands off her.” They didn’t hear Barney coming down the hall. He made sure of that.

Barely a year ago, same scene, different players. No, thought Maisie. Same players. Different roles. Except for me. Me. “Barney, it’s okay. He’s just saying hi. We’re just talking about Annie.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Raia.”

“Back off, old man. Everything’s cool.” Thought that sounded okay, even though he knew his mouth had gone dry and his heart nearly stopped--eyelids, scrotal sac and all its contents, disappearing into the depths of his body.

“Go, Bob. Go. Please don’t start anything, Barney.”

Unfortunately, Bobby had to walk passed Barney who was filling the doorway, standing with clenched jaw, clenched fists. Maisie stepped passed Bobby and took Barney by the hand. “It’s okay, Baby,” she said as she kind of tugged him toward the crib and the sleeping baby, trying to adjust the dynamic. “Bob. Go. Please.”

As he stepped passed Barney, through the doorway, into the hall, he turned, and feeling he had to at least get in the last word--since he had no waiting white stallion to escape on, his Maisie and her infant in his arms--Bobby muttered, not quite under his breath, “This is not over. Never think it is. Never.”

Barney started to lunge toward the doorway, but Maisie, not quite a hundred percent physically, tugged at his arm with both her hands, “Let it go, Barn. The baby?”

“It’s over, asshole. You don’t know how over.”

Bobby walked away reluctantly. Totally unwilling to let this rest. Determined it would not rest. But that guy is fucking scary. I wonder if she’s safe around him. But she treats him like a little dolly on a string. What the fuck is wrong with her? What does she see in him? I need another beer.

Writing

Something has to go "click" in my head.

I stumbled on a blog. The guy's name was Ray I think. I usually remember the name Ray. He was a writer. Some of you will stumble across it if you don't already know who I mean. He can write.

Lately, I think of everything in terms of long drawn out analogies. I think it is a way I explain things to myself. I did that long drawn out blog about the end product I come up with. For which I feel no shame. There is a place for that product and I think I handle it just fine. And it is what I want to do. Writing wouldn't do what it needs to do to the inside of my head if I had to keep a bunch of note cards and characters and plot lines sorted out. As it is, I have to search before I publish to make sure I didn't change someone's name along the way. So story one is the way I write. Story two is the way Ray writes. Process, not story or style.

Story One: I have a really pretty house. It is just a box. It is a pretty color. It has nice trees. It has a great yard. It has good proportions. It is large. It is a nice house. I change the wreathes on the front door for the season. I go to Michael's. I buy a wreath form. Sometimes I use last seasons. I strip it and start anew. I buy some fake flowers that make me think of something nice I remember, some color that makes me feel good. I buy some leaves that are the right proportion and color. I buy fake polystyrene berries. I am crazy about those berries. They have to be on every wreath. The size and the color have to be just right. Sometimes I use last seasons. If the white plastic is showing through, I color it in with a marker. I assemble the ingredients in a pleasing pattern. I put a little glitter on some of the leaves cuz my front door gets muy sun. Some times my daughter is supervising or assisting. "You should put a little more glitter here." "There are too many berries there." I have to make two because the front entry is double doors. They have to match but not identically. They have to harmonize. I make frequent trips to the edge of the yard to look back and see if the scale is pleasing.

One day a neighbor and her friend and their daughters knock to sell girl scout cookies. One of the first things the women says is, "I LOVE your entryway. I want to go home and copy it." My heart soars with the eagles. This is the end of story one.

Story two: A young man is walking along a stony beach on an island in the Outer Hebrides. It is chilly but there is a spring smell in the air. The beach is cross hatched with an occasional scarp. Farther down the scarp meets the water and the young man will not be able to walk further on the waterfront. But before he reaches the end of the beach, right around the place he first intended to turn and head back, he spots a very white baby lamb half way up the scarp. It is bawling piteously and very white but smudged with dirt and a little redness. It is in distress. The man, wearing a perfectly aged pair of Vasques, and happening to have an old thin pair of leather driving gloves in the pocket of his oiled cotton Barbour Mac, climbs somewhat carelessly, but with years of experience to support his efforts and grabs the baby lamb. He continues to the top of the scarp from which the lamb has fallen, carrying it over his shoulder and trying to hold its two back legs when he doesn't need both hands to keep his purchase on the craggy rock.

After he reaches the top and begins to walk over the barely perceptible path leading to his ancient but picturesque cottage, he examines the lamb and sees it is fine except for a few abrasions on its haunch from falling against the stone. He puts the lamb in the yard with the other few sheep he owns, some who have recently lambed. None of the ewes will let the baby nurse so the young man drives his little red car to town and buys special formula for abandoned lambs. He loves the lamb. The lamb loves him. The lamb thrives under his care and is always a bit brighter, a bit bouncier, a bit larger than the other lambs.Sometimes the other lambs, now young sheep, gang up to tease him, but they know he is the leader and usually they let him lead. He is a good leader anyway, they know. The next spring, when it is time to shear the sheep, the young man notices his favored lamb has a more lustrous, healthier looking crop of fleece than the others, so as he shears away, he keeps the wool from the special lamb separate. The wool goes to market as is usual. Walking around money. But the special wool he takes to his aunt's house who lives the other side of the tiny village. "This is wondrous wool," she says. "I will make a special sweater." And she does. Then the young man goes out in the world wearing the special sweater. As he progresses through the world many people say, "Hey, cool sweater." "Oh, what a lovely sweater." "Is that wool bleached? It is so very white."

Then one day the young man is on his way back home. He never stays away for long. He is on a pedway in an airport. Approaching on the opposite pedway is a lovely young girl. The pedway is very crowded but she looks up intently at the oncoming traffic as she notices a certain evocative scent of aftershave that gets her attention, and she spots the young man. "If I didn't have to run for this stupid plane, I would vault over this wall and make a move on that guy," she thinks, and gives him a delicious smile which he hungrily tastes as he moves past, returning a glimpse of self satisfaction over what might have been, as they both well know. As she moves on, the young girl, too busy to feel regret, thinks only, "God, that sweater he had on was gorgeous." The end of the second story.

So VERY Up

Well, Louie got the new transmission installed for his heart yesterday and that seems to be going fine. They desperately wanted to show us the one they took out and talk about how it worked and describe its various components. It was large and shiny and, strangely enough, shaped like a tombstone, but I didn't want the explanations because there were still little bits of blood and gore attached to it. He is asleep at home now, as usual. On the way from the hospital this morning, we stopped at the "Orgy of Gorging" pancake house near our home , (not its real name) and Delaney ate pancake and behaved delightfully, so that many smiles will last most of today and tomorrow for me.

PLUS, the KDPSelect program has kicked in, so I am rapt, watching those results come in, much as, I am just supposing here, that gubernatorial candidate with the dark secret would be watching his election returns.

Yes, I harbor dark secrets, many of them hinted at in my fictional works, many of them to be kept hidden beyond the grave. Except, I am not going to have an actual grave. But you get what I am saying.