tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282158192024-03-12T18:12:30.772-07:00Vain Fantasy"True, I talk of dreams / Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind ..." [Romeo & Juliet, Act I, scene iv]Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-29226853183079239722016-08-12T15:13:00.000-07:002016-08-12T15:13:08.273-07:00TO F.I.R.E. OR NOT TO F.I.R.E.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>STONE AGE CONFIDENTIAL: TO F.I.R.E. OR NOT TO F.I.R.E.<o:p></o:p></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Two ancient clay tablets were recently found deep within a
cave in Anatolia. One tablet has been carbon dated to approximately 50,000 years
old. Its writing pre-dates all previously known languages. However,
accompanying this tablet was another clay tablet, one that contains writing in
a primitive Sumerian cuneiform, and appears to translate the first one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">MEMO: from Og to elders<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">SUBJECT: Should the experimental discovery called
"fire" be continued?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>DATE: 50,000 B.C.E., Monday. <o:p></o:p></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"> F.I.R.E. is an acronym I invented for Fuel Ignited to
Radiate Energy. This substance has been known to occur in nature, apparently
the product of lightning strikes in forests. It has caused untold devastation
to the ecosystem as well as documented harm to human and animal populations.
As harmful as this substance has been, it has been argued by many that it
would be worthwhile to control “fire.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Recently breakthroughs in science have led to the ability to
create fires and to control them. Proponents have claimed beneficial uses
of this discovery. Its properties: vast quantities of heat and light —
are keys to the benefits as well as risks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Heat means protection from the
perpetually icy climate we are currently experiencing. Putting meat into the
flames seems to help some digest their food, especially those with poor teeth,
such as our elderly population — i.e., those who have lived past thirty
years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Predatory animals seem to avoid fires, especially at night
when they might be tempted to prowl near our caves. The light from the fires
also extends the time of day into night and enhances the storytelling that
gatherings near community and family fires seem to encourage. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Some have experimented with fire with mixed results. One
recent report claimed that a stone that was inserted into a fire began to melt.
When the fire cooled, a substance that was harder than the stone appeared. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">A
young man struck this material with a stone. “Points of hot lights” emanated
from it that caused another fire to begin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">A girl claimed that she pounded this
material with a stone and sharpened its edge to a point that was stronger than
a stone or bone spear point. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"> However, the dangers of fire have become apparent and
alarming. The substance produces a by-product that has come to be called
“smoke.” Inside the cave, it causes burning of the eyes, choking, deposits on
the cave ceilings of a black coloration and distasteful smell. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Injuries from mismanagement of fires have been frequent,
ranging from blistered fingers to singed hairs and fur pelts to deaths from the
mere presence of the fire, when it seems that it eats all the breathable air
and caves are left with just deadly smoke. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Proponents of this invention argue that progress demands
acceptance of new discoveries. Survival of our species depends on it,
especially in these hard times. They argue that we must learn to control
nature, to conquer it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">This raises a basic philosophical debate. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Should we try to
control nature or learn to adapt to it? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">On one side are our traditional storytellers,
who believe in and fear the spirits who created everything and provide order. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">On the other side are those who insist that curiosity must be encouraged, and
that progress and our very survival depends on it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>RECOMMENDATION:</u><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">This subject needs further study. The council of elders
should assign the problem to a committee to set a policy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">The committee should
answer the following questions:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">1. Should further experiments into the usages of fire be
banned, controlled, or permitted to proceed without regulation? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">2. Should shamans be allowed to begin using the fire in
religious rituals, such as sacrifices that some have claimed will appease the
glacier entity? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">3. Should these decisions be made by the council of elders,
or should it be put to a vote of the whole community? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Respectfully submitted,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Og.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="font-size: large;">Inscribed on tablet by Meg. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-34276130549486096922014-09-11T12:42:00.000-07:002014-09-11T12:42:17.121-07:00You Gotta Have Friends ...<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>“If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend I hope I should have the guts to betray my country ... Dante places Brutus and Cassius in the lowest circle of Hell because they had chosen to betray their friend Julius Caesar rather than their country...” </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">(<b>“What I Believe”</b> E. M. Forster.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>“A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and The Great Betrayal”</b> by Ben Macintyre is about an upper class Brit who was a respected official in their Secret Service until he defected to the Soviet Union and revealed that he had been a KGB agent for more than twenty years, including World War II and the Cold War. It soon became clear that he was one of at least five who had been college friends and had spied for the KGB. All were considered trusted friends with many others in the British and American governments of the period, who were shock at the disclosures.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>How could Philby and the others betray their country and their friends? </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>How could they have gotten away with it for so long? </i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The subject of this book has fascinated me for a long time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I am not the only one. Graham Greene, who knew Philby when they both worked for the British Secret Service during World War II, was shocked when he found out about his friend’s treason. Greene turned the story into <i><b>“The Third Man.”</b></i> It is a story about a man who discovers that his boyhood friend who he idolized is really a villain. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">David Cornwell, who writes spy novels using the pen name John Le Carré worked for the Secret Service in the early 1950's when Philby and other spies were first exposed. He wrote the Afterward essay for this book, in which he notes that his <b><i>“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy”</i></b> was based on the relationship between Philby and Philby’s college chum, Nicholas Elliot. Elliot was later to be a high ranking MI 6 officer and was one of the last to believe that his lifelong friend, who he admired to the point of idolatry, was and had been a Soviet spy who had deceived him completely. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ian Fleming, of James Bond fame, had also been recruited into Naval Intelligence and had known both Philby and Elliot very well, counted them as friends. His novels were in effect efforts to rehabilitate the image of British intelligence in the Cold War after the scandals involving Philby and the others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer...”</i></b> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My reference for this last bit of wisdom is, of course, <b><i>“The Godfather.”</i></b> The implication of the advice given by the elder Don to his heir, Michael Corleone, seemed obvious in the context of the devious chess master class being conducted by the father for his son. The warning seemed to be that friends might be as dangerous as enemies. The Don’s trusted inner circle consisted only of family, although eventually Michael sadly learns that he could not even trust his own brother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Researching the phrase, I now find that there have been other interpretations. Some sources claim that Sun Tsu, the Chinese warrior / philosopher, wrote of the importance of knowing your enemy as well as you know your own self, and Machiavelli agreed with the advice when he wrote <b><i>“The Prince,”</i></b> for Italian Renaissance Dons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The sources put a slightly different spin on the interpretation of these words. Keep your friends close because they are the ones who can be trusted. Keep a close watch on your enemies so that you will always know what they are plotting. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Whatever the twist, the ramifications of this philosophical detail are evident in the history of espionage. Friends, enemies, trust — these are the subjects of Macintyre’s book.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>“A Spy Among Friends”</b> analyzes the scandal that rocked the British and American spy communities in the 1950's when it was discovered that five high ranking officials in the British government were Soviet agents and had been turning over secrets to their KGB handlers since the 1930's. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The so-called “Cambridge Five” had been college classmates during the Great Depression when a majority of students in Britain and America ardently advocated anti-fascist, anti-Nazi, leftist, socialist and in many cases communist ideals. Some even joined the Communist Party, attended meetings, shouted, enjoyed the free spirited Bohemian atmosphere that included open minded attitude toward eccentricity and sex, including the then criminalized (but often tolerated) practice of homosexual sex. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That the radicalized students of Britain’s prestigious colleges were sons of the upper classes was not surprising. Rejection of one’s parents is a traditional part of the rebelliousness of growing independence. Every generation goes through the process of questioning and even trying to overturn the assumptions of the previous generation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Most leave college with some ideals intact but learn to adapt to the realities of life in “the real world.” A few “drop out” and a very few dedicate themselves to undermining the Establishment. Even fewer turn to active treason. In the Viet-Nam era, protesters were wrongly accused of treason — broadly characterized as ‘lending aid and comfort to the enemy’ — but this label has been rejected by law and most of society in a democracy — except for those very few who resorted to terrorism, violent acts of sabotage and rage. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In the atmosphere of the 1930's, Soviet agents were able to recruit a few to not only espouse ideals, pay Party dues, but to become committed spies for a foreign power, to steal their government’s secrets and give them to Soviet Russia. These young men were well-placed to do the deed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Kim Philby’s father was a famously eccentric British diplomat who served in India, later converted to Islam and became an adviser to King Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia. He recommended his son to the British Secret Service. When asked about his son’s communist leanings, he downplayed it as a natural and normal student fling.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">According to Nicholas Elliot, Philby was accepted into the Secret Service because he was “one of us.” That means he had the right family, the right education, the right name, the right friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Donald Maclean’s father had been an important member of Parliament. After college, Maclean worked for the Foreign Office, eventually stationed in Paris, London, Washington, Cairo. All the time he was spying for Moscow, turning over secret documents and intelligence. He began this in the critical pre-World War period, including when the Soviet Union had signed a non-aggression pact with Germany, and into the war era when they were our allies, and then the Cold War. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anthony Burgess also settled into the Foreign Office during the war. Son of a naval officer, he was recruited to be a Soviet agent as early as 1932. Having gained a position of trust, he was able to provide the KGB with secret documents relating to NATO and the Marshall Plan. He too served in the British Embassy in Washington during the Cold War, and was privy to American secrets, which he relayed to his handlers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anthony Blunt was a bit older than the other Cambridge spies. He was an upper class intellectual, an art history professor who later advised the Queen on matters of art. He was a distant cousin of the royal family. He was teaching French at Cambridge when the others were students, and is suspected of being a spotter for his Soviet spy contacts, pointing out potential recruits, including Burgess and Maclean. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">During the war, Blunt was one of many intellectuals brought into the British intelligence agencies. He worked in MI5, (Britain’s FBI) and was privy to secrets code-named “Ultra” which involved products from the ultra-secret Enigma machine that broke the German code. Blunt then relayed secrets to the Russians. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The fifth member of the circle is said to be John Cairncross, who relayed Bletchley Park secrets to the Soviets during the war and later, NATO secrets. Actually, there were other members of the British upper classes who betrayed their country for what they deemed to be the higher ideal expressed by the Soviet Union. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Kim Philby is the most notorious of the Cambridge spies because he was the most highly placed to do the most damage to his country. He went into MI 6, the British Secret Service, which preceded and influenced America’s OSS and later CIA. Philby befriended agents of the newly formed American spy agency while in London. These included James Jesus Angleton, who adored and tried to emulate Philby, in dress, style, alcoholism, eccentricities. Later, when Philby was sent to Washington as liaison to the CIA, Angleton was then high in the administration. Over long alcoholic lunches Angleton shared secrets, which Philby shared with the KGB. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Philby turned over secrets to his KGB handlers which resulted in the deaths of hundreds, possibly thousands, including many within the Soviet Union and other Eastern Bloc countries who had been spying for Britain and the United States. Once his treason was revealed, the harm was even greater because an extreme reaction set in, including Angleton’s obsessive and futile search for other “moles” which resulted in purging from the ranks of the CIA many experts on Russia, China, and other communist countries due to suspicion that their interest made them potential traitors. Combined with the McCarthy era paranoia, this purge left us without competent intel and analysis for a long time. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The author spends a good deal of time trying to analyze Philby’s motives. He was a complex personality, full of contradictions and flaws, of which an enormous ego and a sense that he reveled in his secret life as a spy, that he kept from everyone who thought they knew him, seem to be the most psychologically significant. He fueled his sense of his superiority to everyone because he knew something they didn’t and he was fooling them all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But the author not only tries to answer how such a person could betray his country, his family and his friends. He is also interested in the corollary: How could he have gotten away with it, especially within a community of professional spies? After all, common sense would hold that spies would be the most cautious, most vigilant, most precise people when it comes to vetting agents, keeping secrets. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In college, Philby and the others were known to have been, at the very least, admirers of communism and the Soviet experiment, if not outright members of the Party. How could this have been shrugged off as a disqualifying point? Burgess and Blunt were flamboyant homosexuals. Why didn’t this raise a red flag about their vulnerability for blackmail, at a time when it was a crime. (Alan Turing, the mathematics and computer genius credited with code-breaking at Bletchley Park during the war, was later prosecuted for homosexual acts and hounded into suicide). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Ben Macintyre’s answer involves recounting the complex culture of the British class system, the “Old Boys Network” which valued breeding, family, and friendship. There was and still is a tradition of tolerant amusement at eccentricity and individual foibles within the upper classes of that highly structured society. Behavior, politics, and attitudes that the bourgeois would consider odd, immoral or bizarre are shrugged off as long as the person is deemed to be from an acceptable background. Homosexuality, alcoholism, infidelity, political extremism — no problem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Then there is also the context of the times.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The restlessness of “flaming youth” between the World Wars is well documented. Evelyn Waugh wrote about the “Bright Young Things,” the wittiest, best educated of their class whose hedonistic frolics became subject of amusement for readers of columns. The disillusionment brought on by the disaster of World War I included distrust of the Establishment and patriotic marches that led to the horrors their elders had wrought and suffered. For many, the Russian Revolution seemed to exemplify an ideology (and for a few the only essential one) that had merit and vitality, especially after the rise of fascism in Italy and then in Germany and in the face of the worldwide Depression. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Now comes the looming crisis of a second war against Germany, this time fascist Germany. The best minds are needed. College radicals who have matured might be considered appropriate choices to fight this threat. And the fact is that they were competent, effective workers for the British government — as long as its interests didn’t interfere with their greater loyalty — to the Soviet Union.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Philby rose quickly in MI 6 because of his talent and brilliance. His anti-fascism was real and he fought the Germans whole-heartedly. The Soviet Union became an ally and then it was easy to justify sharing secrets with them, even if doing so violated overly strict policies of his own government. He and others even have argued that withholding secrets from an ally was “wrong.” After all, the Brits shared intel with the US, why not the USSR? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But after Germany’s defeat, his spying continued and clearly benefitted the Soviets and harmed Britain. Having been made head of counter-intelligence, he knew the names of Russians who spied for Britain and were going to defect. He told the KGB who killed them and their families. In an operation that sounds like a prequel to the Bay of Pigs fiasco in the CIA, a group of armed anti-communists were sent into Albania to try to foment a revolt there. Philby informed the KGB and they were captured and shot as soon as they landed. Another time, he provided the KGB with a list of East German Catholics who wanted to see a post war democracy instead of communism in East Germany. They were eliminated. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Eventually, defectors from the USSR and Eastern Bloc countries who were in the KGB disclosed the presence of “moles” in British secret services. Suspicion, investigation, and then the shock — Burgess and Maclean defected to Moscow. Their ties to Philby were clear and suspicion mounted. Still, he denied, withstood investigations and survived. His survival was due in no small measure to friends within MI 6, especially Nicholas Elliot, who was the strongest advocate of his innocence for years — until even he could no longer deny the obvious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In a climax suitable to a Le Carré spy novel, Macintyre recounts taped conversations between Elliot and Philby in a hotel suite in Istambul, in which Philby admits his deception although not fully detailing his crimes. Philby is offered a deal: if he returns to England and admits his guilt fully, including a debriefing of all his actions, he will not be prosecuted. The offer is given because it would have been too embarrassing for the government to try him for his crimes. Elliot gives Philby a few days to think about it before deciding. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Instead, Philby contacts his KGB handler, who arranges to smuggle him onto a Russian ship and he shows up in Moscow, along with Burgess and Maclean. They all lived there for years and died there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The book delves into issues about friendship that often come up in our lives, if not in the dramatic context of treason. A friend whose son passes the Bar Exam will ask if I will recommend his son or daughter to those of my friends who might hire ... or appoint ... or accelerate an application.... Why? Well I’ve known the family for ages. They’re good people....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>“No man is a failure who has friends...”</i></b> (Clarence, in <b>“It’s A Wonderful Life.”</b>)</span><br />
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Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-88233897207377292772014-08-14T20:28:00.000-07:002014-08-14T20:28:23.770-07:00THE CREATIVITY / MENTAL ILLNESS DEBATE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSytyC7-dlmHdiRqy_-y4KihjDT5EpY2X3-UAku3FuMPCc_vpWkNYCdRpLcu71NRoEpl-B-kgMiIKv_2gfpC0FS0nuvaRqa4s0uKOKFbLcdm7C_CbGMnT472tJ3ccINbKwXHSrCw/s1600/Touched_with_Fire_book_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSytyC7-dlmHdiRqy_-y4KihjDT5EpY2X3-UAku3FuMPCc_vpWkNYCdRpLcu71NRoEpl-B-kgMiIKv_2gfpC0FS0nuvaRqa4s0uKOKFbLcdm7C_CbGMnT472tJ3ccINbKwXHSrCw/s1600/Touched_with_Fire_book_cover.jpg" height="320" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Kay Redfield Jamison</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some years ago, I theorized — without much more than anecdotal surmise --- that there must be a connection between creativity and mental illness because so many artists, writers, performers, and other creative people have been found to suffer from suicidal depression, self-destructive obsessive addiction, or some other form of “abnormal" behavior. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A book by by researcher Kay Redfield Jamison titled <b>“Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament”</b>, 1993, seemed to support the notion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The author cited several studies which examined the lives of noted creative figures and argued that their experiences strongly suggested a connection between "creativity" and some forms of mental illness, particularly what used to be called "manic-depression." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She also included in her list of candidates many who lived in the age before what we would consider modern psychiatric diagnoses, but who she deemed to be qualified because their biographers or contemporaries noted serious behaviors now associated with this disorder. Most had spent time in "asylums" or psychiatric hospitals, had tried to or succeeded in killing themselves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As evidence, she also offered evidence of their self-analysis in correspondence, fiction, poems, even painting. She concluded that a high percentage of creative writers reported "intense, highly productive and creative episodes," which they themselves described as "manic." Others reported severe mood swings affecting creativity. In sum, the experiences many of these creative people described fit in well with clinical criteria for major mood disorders. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">However, since then, other mental health researchers have taken pains to contradict these findings, pointing to flawed testing, contradictory evidence and exposing the reliance on anecdotal and unreliable observations by contemporaries. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">See for example: http://blogs.scientificamerican.com/beautiful-minds/2013/10/03/the-real-link-between-creativity-and-mental-illness/</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The recent deaths of Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Williams have reinvigorated the debate with articles quoting experts on both sides. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Eg: http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/people/2014/08/13/robin-williams-is-there-a-link-between-genius-and-mental-illness/14016255/</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My own genius son, Greg, has debunked the romantic notion of “mad genius,” pointing out that creativity demands discipline and concentration, both difficult for the mentally ill person who is in the throes of depression or psychosis, or under the influence of addictive drugs like cocaine, heroin, and the like. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But I still think of someone like Sylvia Plath. Her poetry, which she certainly worked out with discipline and concentration, was also certainly at least an expression of her depression, which was the central issue of her life for many years and which ultimately killed her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Can we really ignore the knowledge that Robin Williams was a self-described self-medicating sufferer of bi-polar disorder when we watch his “manic” improvisational brilliantly observed raps. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">He was surely an artist who carefully honed his craft on many stages. He was born with an extraordinary gift, which he used to express his need for love and approval from audiences. He studied at Julliard and exhibited a sharp intellect. He worked hard for the laughs and the strong feelings he earned from his audiences. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is not to argue that mental illness is needed for creativity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It does not suggest that suffering from mental illness qualifies as a criteria for creativity. The ramblings or scribbling of severely ill people are most often sadly incoherent products of troubled minds, not defined as art except by the broadest standard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Neither does it rebut the truth that mental illness is far more often a hindrance to the productivity of the artist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It remains to be proven whether, as some artists believe, if deprived of their demons, whether by medication or therapy or something else, they will lose their gift. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Certainly there are many artists who would not fit into a definition of any mental illness. Probably, most are merely nuts — like the rest of us. </span><br />
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Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-6796907553175416332014-03-03T13:54:00.001-08:002014-03-03T13:54:17.512-08:00MY READING PROJECT PROGRESS<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Some people look forward to retirement in order to travel or begin another career, to teach, or to accomplish some other long deferred dream. I have done all the traveling I wish to do and I would bore students by lecturing too much. I have been fulfilling a lifelong promise to myself – to read more, especially things I read or was supposed to read during my hurried and often wasted education that lasted for about twenty frustrating years. Now, I am reading those things — at least some of them, at least some parts of some of them to see if I should have paid more attention.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My bookcases are filled with paperbacks and hard covered books and I can’t afford the room to buy more. My brother still goes to the library. I don’t have the patience to wait for the ones I like to be returned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To be honest, I prefer the convenience of the Netflix model to the outmoded technology of lending, a la Blockbusters. With the benefit of modern technology — the e-book — I am able to continue my obsessive practice of reading several things at once, that is, jumping from one to another after a chapter or two of each. Since my preference is for non-fiction, this is feasible to do without forgetting the plot thread of my reading: history or biography books lose little in this manner. And there is an unexpected benefit — since my interests are fairly narrow — or at least conjoin in odd ways. I find that several things I read coincidentally make reference to happenings and characters in others. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>For instance, I am reading about Martha Gellhorn in a biography about her (“Gellhorn: An American Life” by Caroline Morehead) and also one about Lillian Hellman, (“Lillian Hellman: An Imperious Life” by Dorothy Gallagher) which also mentions F. Scott Fitzgerald, as does a book about the writing of “The Great Gatsby,” which includes reference to “The Beautiful and Damned” and some events of 1927, which is the subject of “One Summer: America, 1927” by Bill Bryson. My fascination with the 1920's led me to Evelyn Waugh’s “Vile Bodies,” on which a movie, “Bright Young Things,” was based.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Even the fiction I am reading seems to correlate nicely with other reading: Eric Ambler’s classic, “A Coffin For Dimitrios” takes place in Turkey and the Balkans in the aftermath of World War I, also the setting of “A Peace To End All Peace,” by David Fromkin, a history of the fall of the Ottomans after World War I, which set the stage for the intrigues in the middle east. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Los Alamos” by Joseph Kanon is a mystery novel set during the Manhattan Project of World War II, also the subject of “Genius” Richard Feynman’s biography by James Glieck, and of course, “The Making Of The Atomic Bomb” by Richard Rhodes, which is more general and deeper about the same subject. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Reading about Lincoln or, generally, about the Civil War, you have to come across some of the same anecdotes, characters, and sense of the man and the era. My latest reading includes a novel titled “I Am Abraham” by Jerome Charyn, which is in the first person as if written by Abe, admitting to us his human faults, fears, marital problems. It dovetails with the other recent book I found about him, “Lincoln the Lawyer” by Brian Dirck. Ever since I discovered that Lincoln had been a criminal trial lawyer who defended murderers, I have longed to discover more about that part of his career. My thesis is that his legal training and talent contributed largely to his rhetorical genius as well as his political and ethical ideas. I am finding support for that notion in my reading.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One of the first books I read during this search was James McPherson’s “Battle Cry of Freedom: the Civil War era.” It led to Doris Kearns Goodwin’s best seller (one of the few best sellers I was drawn to) “Team of Rivals.” It was then a short jump back in time to “Manifest Destinies: America’s Westward Expansion and the Road to the Civil War” by Steven E. Woodworth. In all of these sources I was hoping to find support for my suspicion that Lincoln’s obsession about keeping the union together was influenced by his hope for a continental nation as a guarantee of peace and prosperity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought that our founding fathers were conscious of Europe as an example of the fractious nationalism that they were desperate to escape and to avoid for the nation they called by the name of the continent: America. “Napoleon: A Biography” by Frank McLynn and “Warfare and Society in Europe, 1792-1914" by Geoffrey Wawro provided some evidence for this argument. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>What followed logically were a string of books about World War I. “The Great War: A Combat History of the First World War” by Peter Hall contains diary entries of many soldiers, generals and privates, relating the miseries of that war that was supposed to end war. The origins of that war are covered in “The Lost History of 1914" by Jack Beatty, which argues that there were many missed chances to avoid the war. It is a companion to my re-reading of Barbara Tuchman’s “The Guns of August” and “The Zimmermann Telegram.” An alternative story about the same era is “To End All Wars: A Story of Loyalty and Rebellion, 1914-1918" in which the author, Adam Hochschild, documents that forgotten battles by conscientious objectors in England and Ireland who actively opposed the war. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Reading the classics was also a goal. I began with Mark Twain, whose novels I have to confess were always difficult for me to get through in school. The dialect was part of it but mostly it was the mere fact that it was “assigned”. But now, I read “Huckleberry Finn” aloud to myself and loved it, laughed aloud many times and found the language to be subtle and appropriate to the often melancholy mood. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On a roll, I decided to read “A Tale of Two Cities” and that worked, too. I always admired Sydney Carton as depicted by Ronald Colman in the movie. This character strikes me as a precursor of an anti-hero of later, noir type books of the Hammett and Chandler genre. I have “The Complete Works of Charles Dickens,” tentatively begun “Bleak House” but I am scared to death by the table of contents (thirty seven chapters?). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Reading several Sherlock Holmes stories proved disappointing. Remembering the brilliant logic of the great detective that I enjoyed in my boyhood, I realized that the writing was of the dated “tell it don’t show it” school and the deductions were rather contrived.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Classics led me to Shakespeare’s complete works as well. I have always loved “Hamlet” and “Julius Caesar” and that led me to “Merchant of Venice” “Richard III,” “Macbeth” and “Romeo and Juliet.” I began “The Tempest” and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” but haven’t yet been able to make much progress. I have learned that continuing this project demands some discipline, which in this context means abrupt detours from dead ends, maybe returning later (when the street is paved).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Movies have also influenced my reading. “Shakespeare in Love” inspired a look back at the play it plays with, and in reverse, re-reading “Macbeth” made me watch and enjoy Polanski’s movie. PBS presented the “Henry Trilogy: Henry IV, Part I & II, and Henry V” which led me back to better follow the plays. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My enjoyment of history and movies got me into “Master and Commander” and “Post Captain” by Patrick O’Brien which reminded me of “Horatio Hornblower” which I loved when my mother took me to see it at Radio City Music Hall when I was ten. The movie “Troy” encouraged me to re-read “The Iliad” and a companion critique, “The War That Killed Achilles: The True Story of Homer’s Iliad and the Trojan War” bu Caroline Alexander, which elucidated the classic poem as an anti-war epic rather than one which glorifies the idea of war.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The movie, “The Good German,” led me to the book on which it was based, written by Joseph Kanon. It’s “Casablanca”-like story about World War II and the search for Nazi scientists at the start of the Cold War re-stimulated my interest in that era. I read “Inferno: The World at War, 1939-1945" by Max Hastings, “The Nuremberg Trial” by John and Ann Tura. This led me to “The Brigade” by Howard Blum, which is about Jews who fought the Nazis. As I mentioned, another Kanon novel, “Los Alamos,” reminded me about Richard Feynman. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the subject of the holocaust, I read Deborah E. Lipstadt’s “The Eichmann Trial” (partly due to my nephew Max’s discussion about the book about her libel trial that he adapted for a possible movie). That led me recently to read a novel by Robert Harris, “An Officer and a Spy” which relates the story of Major Picquard’s exposure of the truth in the Dreyfus Affair (the overview of which I had read in Tuchman’s “The Proud Tower.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jewishness led me to curiosity about the history of “Jerusalem” by Simon Sebag Montefiore and “Zealot: the life and times of Jesus of Nazareth” by Reza Aslan. In something of a circular trip, I began “FDR and the Jews” by Richard Breitman and “Hollywood and Hitler: 1933-1939" by Thomas Doherty, all of which cover the general subject of the origins and effects of anti-Semitism. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My fascination with films also tempted me to read biographies of “Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations” by Peter Evans; and “Jean Arthur: the actress nobody knew” by John Oller. Re-reading “Catch-22" led me to “Now and Then: From Coney Island to Here” a memoir by Joseph Heller of his childhood in my old neighborhood. Other biographies I have tried include “J. Edgar Hoover: The Man and the Secrets” by Curt Gentry and “A Perfect Spy: a novel” by John LeCarre, which is autobiographical. “Churchill” by Paul Johnson (as well as Churchill’s own “the Gathering Storm”).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>One unique novel was “Jack 1939" by Francine Mathews, which imagines the college student Jack Kennedy as a spy for FDR in Hitler’s Germany. Another book on which a movie was based: “A Most Dangerous Method” by John Kerr, delves into the origins of psychiatry with Freud and Jung. “Lady At The O.K. Corral” by Ann Kirschner explores the lives of Wyatt Earp and his “wife / mistress” Josephine Marcus. “Muhammad Ali’s Greatest Fight” by Bingham & Wallace, covers the Supreme Court’s ruling in his draft problem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>World War II also provided the fascinating story of three American generals: “Brothers, Rivals, Victors” by Jonathan W. Jordan. My interest in Paris and World War II and crime led me to a fascinating novel / memoir about the search for a murderer in occupied Paris, “Death In The City Of Light” by David King. That also led me to “Brave Genius: by Susan Carroll, which chronicles the story of Albert Camus and Jacques Monod, two friends who worked for the resistance and later won Nobel Prizes in their fields. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Crime and noir genre stories have always attracted my attention. I re-read favorites, “The Maltese Falcon” and “The Big Sleep” along with “Farewell, My Lovely.” I also discovered Jim Thompson, reading “A Swell Looking Babe,” “The Getaway,” :The Grifters” and “Pop. 1280" to which I added my Netflix access for the movies that were based on these novels. Another Eric Ambler thriller, “Journey Into Fear” was basis of a classic film (directed by Orson Welles, starring Joseph Cotten). I re-read “Casino Royale” by Ian Fleming to remind me about the pleasure of reading about 007 instead of watching a parade of CGI explosions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> At Greg's urging, I began "Cryptonomicon" by Neil Stephenson, but find it tough sledding. Like some other contemporary writers, Michael Chabon being another, I have trouble with the style. I was reared spoiled by writers who stick to a far more economical narrative technique. But I will keep at it. </span><br />
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Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-13201107720713405932014-03-03T13:38:00.000-08:002014-03-03T13:38:51.607-08:00LILLIAN HELLMAN: An Imperious Life by Dorothy Gallagher<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzshh52beNjwFiesafnxMyp5YqGDIHlv9KDv4vfA5dkkMHfTca8fJVa_i5fulwsopnLKRIXONKTUl8_bjkcbtpXCumLSF-hDOrz6zX1IVF6d-X2i6mp4sILKiQ7tYk1B6d7iHG1Q/s1600/Hellman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzshh52beNjwFiesafnxMyp5YqGDIHlv9KDv4vfA5dkkMHfTca8fJVa_i5fulwsopnLKRIXONKTUl8_bjkcbtpXCumLSF-hDOrz6zX1IVF6d-X2i6mp4sILKiQ7tYk1B6d7iHG1Q/s1600/Hellman.jpg" height="200" width="153" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lillian Hellman is one of those legendary literary figures whose name pops up in so many interesting contexts that you feel you know her. Beware of stripping away the veneer of legend. What lies beneath may be disappointing, even ugly, depressing, shattering to your long held faith.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I first heard of her through my interest in movies and Dashiell Hammett. They were lovers for many years and it was said that he modeled Nora Charles on her. She wrote the courageous play, “The Children’s Hour,” (1934) about two teachers tragically accused by a student of being lesbians. The second movie version, with Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn (1961) seemed to be an apt metaphor for the McCarthy era — like Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible” which was about the Salem witch trials. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had heard that Miller, Hammett and Hellman were all victims of the HUAC witch hunts. Hammett went to jail, and Hellman bravely challenged the committee, famously writing: “I refuse to cut my conscience to fit the fashions of the day.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>TV often showed the movie version of Hellman’s anti-fascist play, “Watch on the Rhine,” starring Bette Davis and Paul Lucas. Davis had starred in another adaptation of a Hellman play, “The Little Foxes.” Both were directed by William Wyler, Hellman’s good friend. She had written the screenplay for “Dead End” on of my favorite Depression era films, which starred Humphrey Bogart, also directed by Wyler. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman next came to my attention in the 1970's with her memoir, “Pentimento” which included a story called “Julia.” The movie starred Jason Robards as Hammett, Jane Fonda as Hellman and Vanessa Redgrave as her tragic and heroic childhood friend who was killed by the Nazis. The film won three Oscars.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This book claims that the image was almost all bullshit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is refreshing to read a biography written by someone who is not an apologist or in awe of the subject. Dorothy Gallagher’s book has been called by reviewers bitchy, and a hatchet job. It is scathing in its criticism, nasty in its tone. Even her acknowledgments of Hellman’s achievements — her talent, her skill as a playwright, her wit, are often grudging, sarcastic, and conditional, accompanied by far more convincing “Buts”. When she does relate Hellman’s version of an event or person, Gallagher conditions it with “maybe” or “possibly.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman’s life also touched other characters whose lives interested me: Hemingway, Martha Gellhorn, Dorothy Parker. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>According to the author, Gellhorn and Hemingway both despised Hellman, denied her inflated claim of involvement in the Spanish Civil War cause. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Parker, though a life-long friend who was helped financially by Hellman during her decline, was a posthumous victim of Hellman’s predatory greed when she became her executor and tried to negate Parker’s wish to leave her estate to Martin Luther King and the NAACP. Hellman made nasty remarks about both: “he’s just a southern preacher.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman also became executor of Hammett’s estate, made vast sums exploiting his copyrights and tried to deny his daughters their share.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Although admitting Hellman’s talent as a writer, Gallagher asserts that Hammett gave her the plot of “The Children’s Hour” from a story he had heard about a trial in Scotland. She strongly implies that he deserves more credit for her work than Hellman was willing to admit. He was so much a part of Hellman’s writing, with advice, editing, revising this and all of her plays, that after his death, she wrote no more plays. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman’s anti-fascist, anti-McCarthy courage was not so courageous, nor very noble. She was not “right” about her steadfast support for Stalin, dishonestly and stupidly ignoring obvious facts contrary to her beliefs of the righteousness of the Soviet Union and the Communist Party. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman was foolish in other respects as well. In what seems a bit mean-spirited gossip mongering, Gallagher points out that tor years Lillian Hellman paid for therapy with a psychiatrist who was little more than a charlatan. He gave celebrities advice about their health and sex lives, had sex with some patients, fleeced others. Gallagher claims that George Gershwin and his lover, Kate Swift, were both his clients. He had sex with Swift, told Gershwin, who had a brain tumor, that his headaches were from neuroses. Hellman took his advice regarding her many love affairs. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In detail, Gallagher snipes at almost every aspect of Hellman’s life, exposing the meanness, self-deceiving, selfishness that Gallagher documents in Hellman’s work, her relations with lovers, friends, the public. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is ironic that Gallagher’s book is published as part of a Yale Press series called “Jewish Lives” because, according to the author, Hellman was a pretty bad Jew. She was born into a nominally Jewish but very secular family whose German ancestors landed in Georgia in the 1840's and thrived in business in the antebellum south. Hellman’s father married into the wealthy family, but he was a failure in business, died leaving her mother a poor relative of a rich family, an obvious and traditional source of resentments. Two of her famous plays, “The Little Foxes” and “Another Part of the Forest,” were about southern families corrupted by greed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Her fictitious families (called the Hubbards) are not overtly Jewish, a fact which Gallagher sees as a noteworthy example of Hellman’s less than noble denial of her Jewish identity. I think this is a weak argument: if Hellman had made the family Jewish, it would have been dismissed as stereotypically (for the time) anti-semitic. Gallagher also quotes Hellman’s occasional negative quips about Jews as further evidence, but I have heard this stuff all my life, sometimes from members of my own family. Although Hellman readily acknowledged being Jewish, she denied any knowledge of the religion or identified with it as “race” or a “people.” This is not unusual, especially among that era’s long assimilated Jews, and especially those raised with no real sense of community. Hellman looked down her long nose at New York ghetto Jews. This too was not unusual for her time and society, even among liberals. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gallagher make a similar point about “Watch on the Rhine” which Hellman based on Otto Katz, an anti-Nazi German who was a communist and a Jew. Hellman amended both of those traits, creating her hero as a liberal generic anti-Nazi resistance leader. Gallagher also notes that Hellman’s friend was later “purged” by the Soviets, tried and executed for imagined crimes against the state, facts which Hellman ignored in her blind love of the Party. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman was also involved in the dramatization of Anne Frank’s diary into the play. She was offered the chance to write it, but turned it down, suggested Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich, two non-Jewish screenwriters who had written the scripts for the “Thin Man” movies. She advised them to diminish the Jewishness of the story, deleting the girl’s ardent self-identification as a Jewish victim. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Contrary to Gallagher’s implied criticism, I think both of these modifications are justifiable as commercially viable choices. I think that Hellman was no different from many Jewish artists of her generation, who suppressed their Jewishness to assimilate. Her friend George Gershwin knew it and did it too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Although Hellman was actively and vocally anti-Nazi from early in the 1930's, she was quoted as focusing more on the evils of fascism in general and against communists in particular than on the Jews, even after exposure of the holocaust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It is in Hellman’s life-long commitment to communism that Gallagher finds the richest paydirt. Gallagher indicts Hellman for many sins of deception, stupidity, immorality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She points out that both Hellman and Hammett had lauded Stalin and the USSR despite news of the brutal purges of Trotskyites and other opponents, the suppression of dissent including artists, writers, and intellectuals, the forced famine of the Ukraine. Their worst sin was continuing blind approval of Stalin long after others had abandoned the Party in the face of the non-aggression pact with Hitler. For most this was a last straw. But Hammett and Hellman both hewed to the party line: now refusing to criticize their new “ally” Hitler and in fact bitterly attacking those who abandoned the Party line as weak liberals, until all was forgotten after Hitler attacked the Soviet Union and eventually, the U.S. entered the war as Stalin’s ally. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman later in life dissembled, tried to revise her previous stances, claiming that she never wholly supported Stalin, etcetera, grudgingly acknowledged her ignorance of the true facts, while still keeping to her general leftish bent. Gallagher challenges even this, noting all the many chances Hellman had to learn the “true facts,” including several visits to the USSR during which she could have learned the truth of Stalin’s evil but chose to stay ignorant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Which brings me to Gallagher’s overall theme: that Hellman ignored the facts and hid the truth about almost everything in her work, politics, life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The crux of the thing occurs when “Julia” became famous. A woman named Muriel Gardiner wrote a letter to Hellman and then wrote her own book, noting the coincidence between her life and “Julia’s.” Gardiner had been raised in wealth and privilege, but in Europe had become an active anti-Nazi, had gone to Austria, worked for the resistance, and eventually returned. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Critics began to question the sources of Hellman’s supposed memoir. No corroborative evidence existed to support Hellman’s claims. Eventually, Mary McCarthy, writer and critic, was asked by Dick Cavett on his T.V. show about overrated writers. She named one, Lillian Hellman. Pressed by Cavett to explain, McCarthy uttered one of the most quoted jibes ever: “Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the’.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Hellman sued McCarthy for slander, and died before the suit came to trial. But the damage was done. Gallagher cites many sources to challenge the veracity of the Julia tale. It never happened, not to Hellman, or her childhood friend, if she ever really had one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>After noting all of the discrepancies in the details of Hellman’s account of the “Julia” story, Gallagher poses the theme of her book this way:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“It was no secret to Hellman’s friends that she ‘didn’t know the boundary between fact and fiction’ as Norman Mailer said after she died. In her personal life this mattered only to her friends: they could take her with a grain of salt, or not at all. But Hellman had a public life, and she wrote about it. She wrote about herself as witness to the world — in Moscow, in Spain, in Vienna and Berlin . . . at the very time of crucial historical events. Her readers saw the world through her eyes. She wrote about her relations with celebrated people . . . and her readers saw them through her often unadmiring eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Does it matter if she was actually in all of those places, at those times, and if she saw what she said she did? Does it matter if one or many of the stories that make up her memoirs are invented? Readers enjoy them and, after all, every memoirist, everyone who tries to tell a true story for that matter, fails to some degree. It is not the truth that is tricky and unreliable, as Hellman would have it. Memory is the problem: the color of a dress, the arrangement of furniture in a room, the words of a conversation — these things can be lost or confused. Truth remains in the facts; facts can be verified, but only if the writer cares to do so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Hellman either knew or did not know Julia. . . . She did or did not belong to the Communist Party.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Gallagher quotes “historian and author Timothy Garton,” about the “‘frontier’ between ‘literature of fact’ and the ‘literature of fiction’”:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Imagination is the sun that illuminates both countries. But this leads us into a temptation . . . ‘look just across the frontier there is a gorgeous flower — the one novelistic detail that will bring the whole story alive. Pop across and pick it. No one will notice.’ ... But if we claim to write the literature of fact, it must be resisted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Why? For moral reasons, above all. Words written about the real world have consequences in the real world. ... moral reasons are sufficient; but there are artistic ones too. Writers often cross this frontier because they think their work will be enhanced as a result. Reportage or history will become literature. Paragraph for paragraph that may be true. But as a whole, the work is diminished.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“... It is the one question was always ask of those who bring us news of the world. Did that really happen? Is it true?” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In our time, other memoirists have been exposed as frauds; journalists have manufactured news, invented sources, imagined interviews. So what? Isn’t it all entertainment. “Infotainment?” the web, blogs, free lance agenda driven reporting is the new norm. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>These questions I’ve thought about with regard to the border of art and reality, the difference between fact and truth. Does the artist have any responsibility to tell the truth? Does the goal of entertainment always justify or excuse deception? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Movies and novels are meant to entertain. Art aspires to some more: to express beauty, to tell at least a part of the truth about nature, humanity, life. Artists talk a lot about seeking truth. There is something called “poetic truth” which implies seeking a deeper reality than exists in “mere facts.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All art is a lie, we are told by modern and post-modern philosophers. Of course, this clever argument is a truism. Yes, a painting of a pipe is not a pipe. Yes, Ben Kingsley was not Gandhi. T.E. Lawrence looked nothing like Peter O’Toole and many of the events of “Lawrence of Arabia” did not happen. This was a fictional story, not a documentary, and even those make choices to include, omit, emphasize, dramatize facts about the subject, take a point of view. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The greatest works of historic historians have all included biased reportage. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And yet I have often been troubled by things I have read and watched about things I knew about, and knew to be false, deceptive, manipulative. As a lawyer, I groan at the misrepresentations of the law and the system I know. Acquaintances in other professions have similar complaints: doctors, teachers, ministers, even movie makers, moan about dramas about their professions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But “it is only a show, or “only a movie” I am told. True, and I can ignore the dramas that don’t purport to be anything other than mere entertainment. No one can take seriously Perry Mason’s weekly ability to pluck the guilty from his courtroom audience, although I do remember when this show was popular, that we lawyers took the time to caution prospective jurors not to expect us to pull that rabbit from our hats. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My problem comes in the kind of “docudrama” that is intended to do more than merely amuse or entertain: but to expose an issue or to send a message, to teach. “To Kill a Mockingbird” is a good example of a courtroom drama that sends a message. I have never heard a southern lawyer complain about any lack of authenticity in its depiction of the rape trial and I have no qualms about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>But what about other legal dramas or satires which are intended to reveal something about the law or lawyers or the justice system. “The Verdict” is one of those. Lawyers protested the implausible plot that had an incompetent alcoholic shyster suing a Catholic hospital for medical malpractice while the prestigious firm representing the Church planted a spy to have sex with the plaintiff’s lawyer. After the lawyer insults the judge, incompetently prepares and argues his case (which if real would have been settled), the jury returns a huge verdict in his favor, ignoring the judge’s instructions. This is the happy end of the movie, which every lawyer laughed at, knowing that any judge would have reversed the verdict, and any appeal would have left the client poor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But it was a good movie. Paul Newman was great in it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Al Pacino was terrific in “In Justice For All,” in which he is forced to defend a corrupt judge, but then exposed his guilty client in court. Friends mimicked his tag line: “No, judge, you’re out of order; this whole system is out of order!” wished they had the guts to shout it in their cases. But some took it as an indictment of defense lawyers and their corrupt complicity in an unjust system, a dangerous distortion of reality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The most outrageous example is the oldest one: “Birth of a Nation” in 1915 depicted the rise of the KKK as a justifiable and even noble response to the asserted evils of the reconstruction era. With D.W. Griffith’s immense artistic skill taking full advantage of the new technology of the cinema: editing, musical score, close-ups, stirred emotions of the audience to a fever pitch. Race riots resulted in lynching of Negroes and supported the nationwide revival of the Klan, resulting in fifty more years of murder and repression. Yet President Wilson, the great intellectual and morally pious president, praised the movie as “writing history with lightning.” </span><br />
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Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-37759990354245811062010-05-26T09:17:00.000-07:002010-05-26T09:24:16.867-07:00Defending<span style="font-family:courier new;">He was tired of arguing. He was tired of defending. He was tired of losing.<br /><br />It seemed that he had been arguing all his life. Among his earliest memories were the arguments at the supper table which he had been encouraged to join. His father, grandfathers, brother, mother, all had reveled in lusty dispute. The subject matter hadn’t seemed to matter to any of them. They argued about the food, the weather, the Friday night fights, McCarthy, unions, anti-Semitism, Eisenhower. The feel and smell of the oil cloth on the kitchen table was still fresh in his memory, as vivid as the recall of the feeling of those arguments. He seemed to have lost most of his arguments even then. The feeling of losing an argument — the tightness in his throat, the tears that welled, the heavy chest that hurt so much — those feelings never left him.<br /><br />He remembered little of his boyhood friends. Their faces, their voices, were lost to him. But he did remember the fights — which were just aggravated arguments — in which he always ended up with a humiliating nose bleed. He would wind up in a head lock. He would be fighting to hide blinding tears, but couldn’t stop the nose bleed. That had always stopped the fight, scared his enemies. They didn’t know that his nose bled easily. Sometimes it bled when he sneezed violently, or when he blew his nose with too much force during an allergy attack or one of his frequent colds. It was something he had gotten used to. It didn’t hurt. It was just something to be a little ashamed of. Eventually, he learned to use it to his advantage. When an argument escalated to pushing, then swinging and wrestling, he stood with blood dripping from his nose, his fists balled and cursed a dare to keep fighting. He spat blood and wiped it with his sleeve and tried to look crazy. That usually scared his enemy enough to back off, and others to respect and fear him a little bit. It even gained him the sympathy of a girl who wanted to nurse him with tissue plugs and ice wrapped in her hankie.<br /><br />He liked to watch black and white movies, romantic ones about idealistic, naive losers. He believed the lines in “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” about “lost causes” being the only ones worth fighting for. He liked “Twelve Angry Men” in which Henry Fonda stands alone against the ridicule of eleven jurors, and turns them around, to justice. Gregory Peck in “To Kill a Mockingbird” inspired him. He liked Garfield and Bogart, read Hammett and Chandler and thought a lot about codes of honor and irony.<br /><br />He remembered little of his classes in high school except the arguments with his teachers. He argued with passion about things he thought he knew more about than his teachers. He argued about “Hamlet” after he had read it for the fifth time, memorized the lines, watched Olivier’s film, and then seen Richard Burton on Broadway. He felt he was Hamlet, morose and defensive about his father. He saw himself as a tragic figure, alone and righteous, misunderstood and fighting for justice alone among people who thought him mad. He liked that idea back then. He thought it would make him attractive to girls, at least a certain type of girl, who would recognize his special sort of quality.<br /><br />Later, he argued with college friends about ideas. Truffault vs Godard, Goldwater, The Beatles vs. The Stones, JFK, Civil Rights, Viet-Nam, Nixon, were all subjects of passionate arguments.<br /><br />When he became a public defender, he though he had found a calling and a family. The other public defenders seemed to revel in argument as much as he did. Like habitual gamblers who would bet on rain dripping down a window pane, he found others who would argue about the merits of white vs. wheat bread with vicious abandon. For a long time he loved it. He would go to court, argue with judges and prosecutors and bailiffs for his clients. The more hopeless the cause the more ardently he fought. He lost often of course, but it wasn’t so bad then. Back in the office, he would tell his story and they all seemed to understand, to sympathize, to value the fight.<br /><br />He even developed a philosophy about losing. Baseball was his metaphor for defending criminals. In baseball, a batter who hits .300 for a lifetime goes to the Hall of Fame. Batting .300 means failing in seven of every ten at bats. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs in ten thousand at bats,struck out many more times than he homered.<br /><br />He had been raised in Brooklyn in the 1950's and rooting for the noble losers against the pinstriped rich was inbred. And he was Jewish. That added to his sense of separateness, and of righteousness against the majority.<br /><br />That became a metaphor for his love life. He lost most of those arguments too, struck out looking most of the time. When he finally found a girl who laughed at his sad jokes, smiled at his sadness and kissed the hurt away, he fell so deeply in love and need for her that he waited a long time for her to come to him. When she did, he wondered why. Every time he caressed her, he felt surprise, at sensations he felt, and those he saw she was feeling. He kept waiting for her desire for him to drain away. He tested her with periods of feigned indifference. When time passed without love-making, he suspected every moment that she was lost. Then would come the inevitable argument. He would talk, she would cry and rant. She would angrily complain about his skillful use of words to win. Then they would clutch each other and he would feel the same amazement at how much he still wanted her and the same disbelief that she still wanted him. When she died, he felt as if he had known it would happen, had deserved to be left alone. He realized that he had lost all of the important arguments.<br /><br />He couldn’t remember when the fatigue became overwhelming. He had been arguing now for clients for more than thirty years. His batting average was probably not Hall of Fame stature, but he had won his share. Yet, now it seemed that the highs of the wins were far less convincing than the lows of the losses.<br /><br />The fear of losing had always been there, from the first. There had been retching, cramps, smoking, sleeplessness, the mental constipation that kept him rigid for long stretches. He had overcome the sweats and plowed through with gritted teeth. He had suffered embarrassment, survived terrors of incompetence. His inherent sense of his inadequacy was suppressed long enough for him to function on an acceptable level for periods of time, but over the long haul, he had not been able to conquer his suspicion of his worthlessness. Even when he won, deep down he knew that he had performed a mere trick. He had fooled some into believing he was confident and correct.<br /><br />Now, the prospect of a loss had become almost unbearable. With each new case, he foresaw the inevitable. He pre-experienced all the arguments he could make, imagined the counter arguments which would be made by his opponents, the prosecutor and the judge who would deny most of his pitiful arguments. He could see the faces of jurors, see their eyes looking away in embarrassed pity as he argued, as he spent his remaining energy on another futile plea.<br /><br />It was his special gift and curse as a lawyer to be able to see both sides of any issue with clarity. He could envision both his arguments and the best answers to them. Sometimes his opponents failed to make the best arguments. At such times, he smiled inwardly, knowing that his chances to win had increased. But the gift took its toll. It meant that he could never be completely committed to the righteousness of any argument he made. He had already weighed it with the opposing view and often had lost to himself already.<br /><br />Now he was tired of arguing with himself. He lost most of those arguments and was depressed most of the time.<br /><br />After his wife died, he argued with his son, who had inherited his passion for contrariness. He lost most of those arguments too, but with a sense of pride now mixed with the frustration of losing. Losing to his son, he knew, was healthy in a way. Every son, he had read or been told, goes through a period of challenge to his father. He flexes his manhood by knocking over the old man at his own game. But he felt a profound sense of sadness about the arguments. When they argued about “trivial” things, he took them as exercises, with little at stake but the competition of debate. He was often surprised and frightened by the passion his son brought to the arguments. There was rage in his conviction, viciousness in his assaults. There was pain and anger that he recognized as expressions of resentment and deep hurt. It depressed him even more and he conceded arguments, felt more fatigued and fearful that his arguments would at last force the only person whose understanding and respect he craved to hate him.<br /><br />So he avoided arguing with his son as much as possible. His nature was such that it left him with little to say to his son. It was as if his only means of expression was stripped, and he felt a deep sadness. He now treated his son with detached superficial politeness. He felt utterly alone.<br /><br />It was not only arguing that tired him. It was the fact that he was a defender. Although he had always been a vigorous and aggressive arguer, he had always felt more comfortable defending. When young, he could not have been a prosecutor. That was partly because he was Jewish. He identified with the minority view, distrusted the righteousness of the powerful State over the individual. He had even argued with friends that they were not true “conservatives” if they favored the State over the accused. He alienated his friends who had claimed to be “liberals,” claiming himself to be a “conservative.” He argued that a true “conservative” opposed the police power of the State over the individual. He playfully argued that he was the true “conservative” in defending accused criminals. He had won many of these tricky debates over his lesser acquaintances, reveling in these minor social victories.<br /><br />In the 60's, he had been a hero to his friends and acquaintances as a defender of civil liberties. But as time passed, his social relations became murky. He found that people began to ask: “How can you defend such people?” They meant accused rapists, child molesters, street gang drive-by killers. His wife was a feminist and she had begun to apologize for him, to “explain” him to her friends: “Oh, he’s not like those lawyers who destroy women and children on the witness stand. He’s ethical. He defends the Constitution, not criminals.” The social arguments eventually became tedious to him, too, and he avoided explanations and temptations to defend himself, resorted usually to lame wit or off-putting gallows irony. By the 90's, he felt as if he were a member of an extinct quaint religion, the last New Dealer, the last pre-Israeli Jew. He avoided his old acquaintances and had few friends except those contemporaries who, like him were relics of the past public defender days. They were old men who had shared war experiences which could not be understood by anyone but the few who had survived them.<br /><br />The Law changed too over the thirty plus years that he had spent defending. The pendulum had swung so violently that it now was all but futile to argue. The arguments had been whittled away over the years, so that little was left to say, little hope for the defense. Frightened voters and liberal governors and presidents and legislatures had eliminated the “technicalities” of civil liberties, streamlined procedures, increased sentences, to insure the prisons were filled with<br />his clients and their brothers and cousins.<br /><br />He was now over sixty. In his youth he had seen such men as he was now, bent and shuffling the corridors, vowed he would never be one of them. He was one of those old sad men. He had no energy, no enthusiasm, no faith, no patience.<br /><br />He felt that his professional life was a metaphor for his personal life. He was tired of defending himself to himself, and of losing the arguments. He saw the faces of the jurors as they filed into the courtroom and avoided his glance. He steeled himself for the verdict, clenched his teeth. His back and neck were sore. He had not slept for a long time. His mouth was dry. He thought about staring defiantly at the jury, but the anger passed. He sat passively as the judge asked if they had selected a foreperson and reached a verdict.<br /><br />Despite his resignation at defeat, his heart thumped and he rocked in his chair. </span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-86407767961484114142010-05-09T14:40:00.000-07:002010-05-09T16:06:26.358-07:00Flies<span style="font-family:courier new;">Jonathan was a mild man. He enjoyed the scent of flowers, the sound of mellow music. He loved the poor, pets, most children, red sunsets, formations of geese. His heart was filled with these sorts of love. He had little patience for hate. He feared violence, anger, or any other extreme emotion.<br /><br />Jonathan was a tolerant man. Except for the common house fly. He hated them. He could abide moths, mosquitos, roaches, or other pests. Flies were the only living things he truly hated. He had an irresistible impulse that led him to kill flies.<br /><br />During his life, he had killed thousands of flies. He had begun as a small child. The first he had ever killed had buzzed around a light in his playroom. He had swatted it with a plastic stick, and it had fallen, helpless, at his feet. When another entered his bathroom as he bathed, he splashed, squealing with delight when the fly fell into the tub and drowned.<br /><br />Killing flies soon became his favorite game, eventually his hobby, and quickly thereafter, his obsession. When he was fourteen, a steaming summer shower had forced him indoors. The rain herded scores of flies into his house through frayed window screens. He killed forty-two flies that day, a personal record up to that date.<br /><br />The walls and ceiling of his room were dotted with spots that marked the moment of death for innumerable flies. He killed them in every conceivable way. He squashed them with comic books (his favorite weapon was a DC Batman Monthly, which had just the right sort of heft as well as a sort of poetic satisfaction). He batted them with commercial fly swatters - although he soon discarded them as less than sporting. He skillfully snapped towels intercepting their daring zagging flights. He shot them down with water pistols and drowned them when they spun wing heavy to a landing. He poisoned them with spray, trapped them in hot fudge the way that tar trapped the saber tooth tigers, suffocated them under overturned glass traps.<br /><br />The obsession continued throughout Jonathan's life. He kept mental records of his scores. When the seasons changed and the numbers of flies became scarce, he became sullen and depressed. He walked around his apartment aimlessly, carrying a rolled up magazine, hunting with ears sharpened by a lifetime of experience.<br /><br />One evening in the forty-second winter of Jonathan's life, he noticed a familiar buzzing in his otherwise silent room. Reaching for his ever close weapon, he searched the room for his quarry. He could see nothing, no movement, no shadow of movement. The buzzing continued, teasing.<br /><br />The volume of the buzzing sound increased in his ears, becoming so apparent that he was unable to concentrate, or to sleep despite the fatigue the constant sound induced.<br /><br />Jonathan sought medical help. A doctor found no injury or ailment to account for the buzzing. Still, it persisted, until Jonathan in desperation demanded futher tests. A series of expensive scans, imaging, using the latest machinery, failed to discover any cause. Medication was prescribed to deaden his senses. Jonathan toyed with the idea of detaching his auditory nerves, but could find no doctor willing to do it.<br /><br />The buzzing worsened. Thinking became impossible. Jonathan had no choice; the blood flowed when he punctured his own eardrums, but the blessed silence made the pain tolerable.<br /><br />Now, he could see flies darting in their crazy frantic patterns, could sometimes feel the tickle on the hairs of his arms as they landed, as they tasted his salty sweat, as they departed an instant before his slap could get them. It was worst during the long, restless nights. Summer and winter, Jonathan kept his air conditioner churning at full blast. He buried himself under blankets in the cold.<br /><br />Still, he felt the teasing presence of the everpresent insects. He would switch on the light, search out his tormenters, and in the rare instance when he found prey, would smash them with a damning curse. Exhausted, he would return to bed, and more often than not, be awakened later with another sense of silken wings brushing his cheek. He would be compelled to resume the hunt again. And so the night would pass.<br /><br />In time, he had used up all of his sick pay and was fired from his job. He locked himself in his darkened room, sealed the windows and doors, sprayed hourly with insecticides. The flies laughed at his efforts.<br /><br />When they broke into Jonathan's room, his emaciated body was found in a praying position, arms thrown over his eyes. In his right hand was a rolled up newspaper. The room was airless, rank with chemical fumes. Dozens of spray cans were strewn about. Death was ascribed to suffocaation, poisoning from skin absorption, lung congestion. His body was an awful sight. The coroner refused to finish the examination. The biochemical hazard team carted his body away in leaded containers, buried him deep in the earth.<br /><br />There was not a fly within miles.<br /></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-30536731173874106182010-05-09T14:06:00.000-07:002010-05-09T14:19:35.307-07:00Lieutenant Early's Pass<span style="font-family:courier new;">"Lieutenant Early's Pass" By Margaret Porter.<br />© 1945 by Margaret Porter<br /><br />I was doing my toenails when Sally called me to say that her Joe had a 24 hour pass and that he and a buddy had taken a suite at the Mark. Joe had begged Sally to bring someone for his friend and so naturally Sally thought of me. I didn’t require too much persuasion; all she had to say was, “Maggie, do this for me, just drinks and steaks, on the boys of course.”<br />The bar was filled with feather merchants and with the scent of optimism and lime. I dodged my quota of lounge lizards before I found them in a corner, crowding a little table. Her Joe’s hand like a puppeteer’s was hidden, and Sally’s face was buried in his neck. When she saw me, she flushed and straightened her skirt.<br />“You’re early,” Joe said, standing with some difficulty.<br />“Hello, Lieutenant,” I said. “I was lucky to catch a cab waiting out front.” Sally pecked me on the cheek and Joe held a chair for me before he slid back into the banquette next to Sally. Joe asked me what I was drinking and went to get the drinks.<br />I lit my cigarette. Sally giggled. “Joe’s really nervous about tonight,” she said to her compact. “He’s hinting about something, but you know how that is.”<br />I didn’t really know how that was, but I guessed that Sally was dramatizing herself into a dither because I had seen her do that enough times. We were roommates and I was supposed to be her friend and was expected to say something big sister-like to her at that point, but I wasn’t much into the mood at the moment. So I smoked my cigarette and looked at my watch.<br />“I don’t know much about him, except that Joe says he’s cute.”<br />“Okay,” I said, although cute didn’t seem like a word Joe would use.<br />“Look, I know you’ve heard it before, but I tolerated that metals guy last month, didn’t I?”<br />He was not in metals; it was — well, something like that and it was three months ago, but I didn’t argue the point because basically Sally was right. So I just shrugged and listened to the buzz from the room, which was brain filling enough.<br />Joe got back to the table with four drinks and slid back into his seat before he gave me the rundown. “Paul told me to get a drink for him; he’s running a little late. He’s up in the suite. He’ll be down in a few minutes. You’ll like him.”<br />I sipped and smoked. Joe looked anxiously at Sally then at his drink. “I — there’s something you have to know about Paul.” Joe stopped there until he was sure he had registered, and the warning siren went off a few beats after he stopped talking. I looked at him and he gulped once, lowered his eyes along with his voice. “Paul was burned pretty badly about a year and a half ago in the Pacific. He’s okay now but he still has a few scars and he’s probably a little self-conscious about them. So ...”<br />Sally jumped in. “You didn’t say anything about that.”<br />“No? Well, it’s not something that I just throw out. I mean, hey, can you get a date for my buddy, he’s scarred up. Besides, it’s not that big a deal.”<br />“Then why did you mention it?” Sally was still pitching for me — and showing something to me I guess.<br />“I don’t mind,” I said.<br />“I just didn’t want any awkwardness. He is a good guy, a really good flyer and he’s got plenty of guts.”<br />“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “I don’t mind, really Joe. I’m sure he’s nice.”<br />The rest of the conversation was a little tense because Sally felt the need to continue to work at Joe on my behalf. I was pretty quiet for me, amusing myself with the drama probably. Joe did most of the talking, but he didn’t say much more about Paul except that he was the best instructor at the base, which didn’t help much.<br />I was finishing my Gimlet when a shadow appeared behind me, and Joe lit up at the same time. He stood and shook his buddy’s hand as if they hadn’t seen each other since Pearl Harbor.<br />“Margaret Porter, Sally Flynn, Lieutenant Paul Early, U.S. Army Air Force.” He grinned, grasped the man’s shoulder, pointed to his chest. “D.F.C., Air Medal, Good Conduct—”<br />”Cut your engine, Joe,” the shadow said. “How do you do, ladies?” The shadow shook my hand and reached over to shake Sally’s and from Sally’s smile I guessed it was going to be all right. Then he disappeared for a few seconds and came back with another chair and sat so that I could see his face and that Sally knew her onions.<br />She started chattering about how nice the hotel was, and Joe talked about the dinner reservations he made in the famous restaurant on the roof. Sally mentioned the name of the band, teasing Joe about the trumpeter and when he fell for that, she tossed in the drummer just for fun. Lieutenant Early didn’t say much and neither did I. He watched whoever was talking and so did I, but I could see that he wasn’t looking at me when I looked at him.<br />“I don’t know about music,” he said. “I’m not much of a dancer.”<br />“I am,” Sally said. “I’m so glad you like to, Joe.” Then, she felt compelled to add, “Maggie, you won one of those marathons, didn’t you?”<br />“In college, just a lark.”<br />Lieutenant Early spoke into his glass. “What college, Miss Porter?”<br />I named the school, told him that I had dropped out after two years to go to work. He asked what I did. Sally told him we were both at the newspaper, tried to inflate my job into more than what it was, to impress him with my intellect. It wasn’t a bad try; I already had the Lieutenant figured for a type who might want to know that.<br />I asked him where he went to school. He just said, “Stanford.”<br />“You’re from the Bay Area?”<br />“Yes.”<br />Joe interpreted. “Paul told me he never went more than fifty miles away from home until he joined up in ‘39.”<br />I took out another cigarette and Lieutenant Early brought out a lighter. It surprised me; he wasn’t smoking, and besides, I didn’t think he was noticing what I did. In the glow, I saw his hand shake and the first sign of a scar, a puffy red hairless patch near his uniform shirt cuff, about where his wristwatch band was. In the dim glow, I didn’t see any scars on his face or on the part of his neck above his collar or on the front of his neck above his black tie. He lit Sally’s cigarette but he didn’t light one for himself.<br />The Lieutenant left the table to get another round of drinks and while he was gone, Sally pumped Joe about him. “He’s a dream,” she said. “But he’s so quiet.”<br />“Well, he’s not dull, I can tell you that.”<br />“Maybe he’s the strong, silent type,” Sally suggested for my benefit. “He does sort of resemble Gary Cooper.”<br />“Well, in a way, but with more hair.” I must have been showing signs of flight to cause Sally to draw pictures for me. So I made up my mind to do some drawing of my own.<br />He returned without drinks. “The table’s ready,” he explained. “I told them to bring the cocktails to our table if that’s all right.”<br />It was more than all right for me. A good dinner was the whole point; I had run short of ration points and these dates were my main source of nutrition. He held my chair and took my arm as we wove through the crowd toward the elevators. I got a better look at the ribbons on his chest; I knew from my work on the newspaper what most of them meant.<br />The men must have tipped the maitre d’ pretty handsomely because our table was choice, and we fielded a few envious glances when we were seated. The cocktails were already there, and Sally grabbed Joe to hit the floor before they sat down.<br />Lieutenant Early sipped his drink and I sipped mine. He lit another cigarette for me before I came up with a question I thought might do the trick. “I’ve never been up here before. Have you dined here often?”<br />“Nope. First time for me.”<br />“They make good Gimlets.”<br />“That so?”<br />“Have you ever tasted them?”<br />“Uh-uh.”<br />“They’re pretty awful.”<br />“Have some Scotch.”<br />“Oh, don’t think so, not my taste. Gin or vodka are my speed. They seem to take on the taste of whatever you put in them, even the ice. But Scotch — like the lacquer from the inside of the casks or whatever they store it in.”<br />He swirled the Scotch in his mouth, made a face, said, “Maybe that’s what I like about it.”<br />If I was going to be a reporter, this was a challenge I couldn’t evade. “What do you fly, Lieutenant?”<br />He actually looked away from the dance floor while he answered me this time. “A desk mostly these days.”<br />I said, “Oh. Sorry.”<br />Then he surprised me; he smiled. “No, Miss Porter. I’m the one who’s sorry. Look, this was probably a rotten idea. I’m not usually this rude; I’m helping out a buddy.”<br />“Really? Me, too.” I told him how Sally had put it to me about the date.<br />He almost laughed, and I could see that his eyes were blue. “I guess we were both Shanghai’d under false pretenses.”<br />“I didn’t really mind,” I said. “I could use the protein.”<br />“Fair enough. I guess I could too.”<br />“You do look a little thin but I didn’t want to mention it.”<br />“Joe told you how I was — burned?”<br />“Not much. He just said you’d had it rough.”<br />“Okay,” he said, “that says it.”<br />That was it until the salad came.<br />The band stopped long enough for Joe and Sally to come skipping back. Sally kept up the chatter and Joe encouraged her so that Lieutenant Early heard all about our apartment and the cats and the neighbor lady who complained when we played the Victrola too loud. Joe complained about barracks life and the training flights they had been taking every dawn for the last two months. Lieutenant Early didn’t add much except to agree with Joe’s remark about the handling of the new P-38's.<br />“Paul went down to Lockheed and told them how to do it right,” Joe said with a sort of pride.<br />“Is that right, Lieutenant?” I wondered how Early would handle that kind of praise.<br />He picked at his salad. “Not really. They had a good notion about it before I stuck my nose in.”<br />Joe was into his third or fourth cocktail by the time the steaks arrived. He kept blabbing and I could see that Lieutenant Early was squirming. I said, “Joe, I’m not sure Sally and I really care too much about all that technical stuff.”<br />The Lieutenant gave Joe a look and it was enough to slow him down. Sally picked up on the tension and turned us over to the band, which was playing something that had been popular on the hit parade before the war. She shushed us so that we could listen to the trumpet solo. The band had a girl singer, and she crooned about moonlight for a few minutes, which allowed for the subject to change.<br />The steak was good and I concentrated on sawing, but noticed that Lieutenant Early didn’t eat very much. I said something about it and he looked at his plate as if he felt a bit guilty. He asked if I wanted it. I did but told him I didn’t. Sally piped up that we would take it home — for the cats.<br />Before the coffee, Sally dragged Joe to the floor, and to my surprise Lieutenant Early asked if I wanted to dance. More out of curiosity than anything, I nodded. He took my hand and stood us on the edge of the floor. When he held me, I felt that I had to support him, he was that fragile looking. It was the first good look I had of him, though he still looked past me as if I was incidental.<br />His shoulder felt skeletal; his blouse hung from it as from a hanger in a closet. Holding his hand was like holding a bird, like the bones were hollow. I had an image of him as a flyer, like some sort of bird, with fine feathers, insubstantial and weightless, graceful and comfortable only in the air.<br />It was a slow romantic dance and my hand wandered toward his neck, just to see if he would fly away. He didn’t, but let my hand stay there and I touched the blond hair above his collar. I felt the second hint of a scar at the hairline, a raised area coming from under his collar that was different from the smooth tense muscles in his neck. When I touched it he didn’t react but I sensed that he knew what I was doing. I imagined that he was wondering what it was doing to me. I tried to be casual about it, tried to look up and catch his eyes but they were unfocused, staring somewhere over my head. Then he closed them, swayed to the rhythm of the music, forcing me to do the same.<br />When the song ended, he dropped his arms and I began to walk back to the table without his prompting. He took my hand and followed me. I felt the gesture was progress; I was training some kind of wild and vulnerable forest creature to trust me. Sally and Joe came back and began to snuggle as the singer went into another romantic ballad.<br />The waiter brought brandy with the coffee and Joe offered a toast. “Paul, here’s hoping you can add to your score.”<br />“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Sally asked, with a giggle.<br />Joe laughed, said, “What a mind my girl has.” He pecked Sally’s cheek. “I only meant that my pal is an ace and we’re counting on him to show the rest of us out there how it’s done.”<br />Sally was very excited about this news. “No kidding, Paul. Are you really an ace?”<br />“Sally, you goose,” I said. “It means five kills, not that he’s a swell tennis player.”<br />Joe laughed and Sally felt compelled to say, “Gee, Mags, I know what it means. I’ve never met an ace before is all.”<br />“I don’t think the Lieutenant really wants to talk about that, Sal.”<br />“Why not? It’s something to be proud of,” Sally squealed.<br />“It was a long time ago,” Lieutenant Early said. I could feel him looking sideways at me as he sipped his brandy. But when I looked back, he looked away.<br />“Midway,” Joe said. “June, ‘42. Helluva show, wasn’t it, Paul?”<br />Lieutenant Early didn’t look very happy about it. “Would you like to get some fresh air, Lieutenant?” I asked.<br />“Say, there’s a balcony in the suite,” Joe said. “Great view of the bay. Why don’t we move the party, kids? I mean, we are paying plenty for it.”<br />Sally gave me a pleading look and before we knew it the check was paid and Lieutenant Early had my arm and we were headed for the elevators.<br /><br />***<br /><br />The Golden Gate Bridge was camouflaged under its cloud by the time we saw it from the balcony. Lieutenant Early brought me a glass of champagne and stood next to me, close enough for me to think he was going to hint at something. Before I could dope it out, Sally found the station she wanted and the radio squalled. She and Joe started singing “Mairzy Doats” and tried to get us to join in. I spent some time covering for the Lieutenant and eventually Sally and Joe got the point and drifted away from us. When they finally found an excuse to retreat to Joe’s bedroom, I was relieved. We wandered back out onto the balcony.<br />“Sally’s got it bad for Joe,” I said.<br />“He’s a good egg. I wouldn’t be too concerned.”<br />“How long have you known him?”<br />“Oh, flight training, early ‘40, I think it was. We were in the same class.”<br />“Really?” I couldn’t help stare at his ribbons. “You seem more ... experienced.”<br />“This?” He touched the D.F. C. ribbon. “I didn’t get that until this year.”<br />“They don’t just give those away, or the rest of fruit salad, either.”<br />“No, you have to outrun your pals when the bombs fall.”<br />“Is that what you did, Lieutenant?”<br />“It’s Paul.”<br />“Okay, Paul. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m training to be a reporter, remember.”<br />“It’s okay, Margaret. They tell me to talk about it; the docs at Lanterman. Therapy, they call it.”<br />I had been to Lanterman Hospital, seen the wards with broken men. If Paul Early had been there, it was not for a rest. He must have seen it in my eyes. He said, “They did a first rate job there. Spent the first three months flat on my stomach.”<br />“Not much of a view that way.”<br />“Wouldn’t have mattered. My eyes were bandaged the whole time.”<br />“Was your face burned?”<br />“Not a lick.”<br />I thought he was going to say more but when he didn’t, I spent the silence trying to decide whether to pursue the issue. I had almost begun to form a different question when he exhaled so deeply that I thought it might be his last one. I decided to keep throwing questions at him until he opened up a crack which he finally did — in spades.<br />“The fire started behind the cockpit,” he fnally said, like he was reciting someone’s report of the incident. “Flames came up from under the seat and back, but I was fighting the controls and grabbing for the extinguisher.” He put a hand in his pocket, leaned against the rail and looked out over the blacked out city. “I guess I kind of aimed it at my face a few times. The rubber and plexiglass sort of melted a bit and made toxic smoke. I breathed some of it.”<br />“How were you able to land?” I managed to ask.<br />“Didn’t exactly land,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. The gesture took something out of him. His voice was low when he said, “Hit the water a mile off shore.”<br />“I notice that you stay away from the light. Are your eyes still sensitive?”<br />“Sensitive? Not my eyes, no.” He seemed to think that was pretty funny. He laughed and even in the dim light of the balcony I could see what it did for his face.<br />We wandered back into the room and could hear the sounds from the bedroom. That got us both laughing. I don’t remember which of us suggested leaving but there were springs in our strides as we walked out the door. I let the Lieutenant navigate for us. He didn’t ask for advice, cruised past the bar and out the door onto the street. When a cable car slowed right in front of us, he swept me with him and lifted me onto the runner with an ease that shocked me.<br />We rode all the way down the hill to the turntable. On the way I told him how much I loved the town, that I’d moved from Los Angeles looking for a job and didn’t want to go back even after the first three fell through. I told him about the one I found and how I had hopes of turning it into something like a career. I told him all of that between Nob Hill and the Wharf and I don’t remember if he asked about any of it.<br />We strolled along the dock until the barricades stopped us. By the time we reached the end of the line, he knew as much about me as he wanted to hear. I wasn’t surprised when he stopped and held me or when he looked out over my head toward the bay and then closed his eyes while he touched my face with his fingertips. By the time he kissed me I understood things about him that his words hadn’t revealed. I whispered, “Let’s go back,” but it really wasn’t necessary to say it. He kissed me again on the cable car and he steadied me during the climb. I don’t remember the walk into the hotel or the ride up the elevator or anything else much until we were lying side by side.<br />With the blackout curtains, we were inside a cave a thousand feet down. The dizziness I felt had nothing to do with the drinks or the disorienting darkness. It was the way he touched me that did it. His fingertips knew more about me than his eyes did. I kissed his eyes and then his fingertips and he put them to work again. My fingers discovered that he kept his eyes closed all the time, just as he had done before.<br />In the dark I found everything else I had a right to know about him, but afterward he seemed to feel the need to explain what I already had guessed. He began to speak as if he was in the middle of a thought. “Just a lot of assumptions piled on top of one another,” he said.<br />“I don’t need to know, Paul,” I said..<br />“The third month she came to see me. I was pretty used to the dark by then. Her voice — and the silences in between gave me the answers.”<br />“Was it the burns?”<br />“I guess. Must have looked like a hot dog on the barbeque back then.”<br />“It’s not so bad now, Paul.” That was my first big lie to the Lieutenant. In reality, his back felt like a chenille robe with a frayed irregular pattern. The welts and hollows made an intaglio that I tried to interpret in the dark. When he touched my back, I fought the self-conscious sense that he was envious, until his fingers made me forget everything that didn’t matter.<br />Now he was saying, “They couldn’t find any skin to graft from. The fire cooked all the fat, I guess.”<br />The scars on the backs of his arms were merely roughened skin. The rest of his body seemed unscathed. I ran my fingers along the hairs on his arms and he let them stay on his chest so I rested my head there between my hands on his breast. His skin was smooth and hard; with my eyes closed, the rhythm of his breathing made me imagine I was on a raft on Lake Tahoe. My fingers tried to imitate the way he spoke and listened with his and I began to understand more.<br />When he next spoke, I noticed that his voice made vibrations that lent a meaning more profound than the sum of his words which came from the dark. I had to shiver to focus on the words and they didn’t make sense until I heard them again inside my head. “Funny thing,” he said, “it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be.”<br />“No?”<br />“Arms more than the bad ones on my back.”<br />“I did a story at Lanterrman,” I told the dark. “Fingertips have all the nerve endings close together.” I held his fingers and put them to my lips. “They’re spaced far apart on your back, so it’s not as sensitive.” Even as I spoke the words I doubted them. Wherever he touched me I burned.<br />The sudden incongruous sound of a glass shattering spooked me. Reflexively, I clutched at Paul’s arm and his hand held my shoulder tightly to calm me. Then we heard shouting. “Oh, poor Sally’s gone and done it this time,” I said.<br />Paul shushed me and we both listened to the hubbub, like a radio drama playing in the next apartment, complete with sound effects: slamming doors, screamed promises, defensive explanations, whining. Paul began to laugh and I couldn’t help myself either. My best pal was miserably in love and it was so damned funny. Finally there was silence.<br />“You think it’s a peace conference?” Paul asked.<br />“Not likely, knowing Sal.” I shrugged, kissed his hand. “A truce maybe, a temporary cease fire.”<br />“Maybe we better reconnoiter.”<br />Paul tossed me a robe, slipped on his undershirt, put a towel around his waist, and we dared to go into no-man’s land. The radio was still grinding out swing from the roof of some other hotel. Paul found Joe smoking a cigarette on the balcony, steaming about “Goddamn dames.”<br />I found the “Goddam dame” in the bathroom. She was freshening her quivering lips while mascara dripped in black streams onto her glistening cheeks. I got most of the story eventually, enough to know how it was going to end. Paul came in after a while, put his arms around my waist and I stifled a giggle as I represented my side’s interests and he spoke for his. After a few more parlays we negotiated an exchange: Sally would let Joe take her home; I would stay — as a hostage until hostilities were over.<br />When they left we collapsed in a joyous heap and rolled around until I confessed that my stomach hurt. Paul asked if I was hungry and I didn’t have to stop laughing to enjoy that one. He called Room Service and between the two of us we picked the menu clean.<br />When he kissed me and carried me to the bedroom, he said, “Maybe I should have ordered for Joe.”<br />I threw back my head and laughed, almost hitting the doorframe. “I don’t think so, Paul. Ten to one he’s not coming back tonight.”<br />“You’re kidding. After that donnybrook—”<br />“You haven’t been on the loose very much, have you, Lieutenant darling?”<br />“No. I guess I haven’t.”<br />“Well, you’re not going to be, not if I have anything to say about it.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />The food arrived before the phone call from Joe. We ate on the bed, the lamp light muted by my black slip covering the shade. Finally I collapsed, stretched out, moaned. “God, if I eat another bite, I’m going to explode.”<br />Paul seemed to find that remark pretty stimulating, or maybe it was the way I stroked my belly while I said it. He raked the tray and all the dishes from the bed, shut the lamp, and began to work me over again in the pitch dark.<br />He raised his head, murmured, “Did you say something?”<br />I raised my arms over my head, murmured into my hair, “Never mind, Lieutenant, keep doing whatever that was.”<br />After a long while he rested his head on my belly. When I could speak without gasping, I stroked his hair, said, “That must be what it feels like when you’re pregnant.” I laughed but he didn’t seem to get the joke. “I only meant—”<br />”I know, Margaret, it’s pretty funny.” He plumped a pillow with a fist and lay stiffly across from me, held my legs against his chest. I could feel his eyes looking into the dark, at the ceiling, could almost see his forearm cover his face.<br />I decided to wait him out, but the silence and the dark got to me. I whined for a cigarette, reached for the light.<br />“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll find one.” He hopped off the bed and somehow found my package, lit one with his lighter. In the glow, I saw his stooped shoulders and then it was dark again when he exhaled a wracking, searing cough.<br />“Are you all right, Paul?”<br />“Yes.” He handed me the cigarette and turned away.<br />I told him I would put it out but he insisted that he was all right. I smoked it almost all the way down before he spoke again. His voice came from across the room. “The Zeros come out of the sun — to nail you on the first pass. Usually do.”<br />I waited for more. There seemed to be breathing and I imagined a shiver. I wanted to walk over to him, to kneel at his feet while he told his story, but I didn’t dare move or breathe.<br />“My third sortie of the day. Dog tired, slept some on the way out, I think. Almost swerved into Chuck McKenzie, ‘til he gunned his engine to wake me.”<br />I wanted another cigarette, chewed my polish instead.<br />“The training — don’t think of anything — anyone, especially not — not her. You’re not coming back, so forget about her. You’re dead, see?”<br />“I think I do,” I said.<br />“Yeah. So I did that, concentrated like hell, and after a long time it worked. Burned her out of my head. Then, once I did that, I was able to concentrate some more and I killed myself off.”<br />He laughed about it and I tried to smile, but of course he couldn’t see that. His eyes were boring into the dark and seeing something different.<br />“I figured if I’m dead already and she’s gone, I got nothing to lose, so I can go whole hog. That, I guess, that’s what saved me those first days when we were getting mugged pretty badly. Japs must’ve thought I was nuts. Maybe I was.”<br />I realized I was crying when I felt the saltiness tickle the corner of my lip. I brushed the traces away quickly as if he might see it, which was ridiculous in the dark, but it seemed to be very important that he not know.<br />“Then — that flight, the last one, when I was tired, maybe dreaming, I wasn’t ready for her to come back.”<br />I bit my lip to stop the quivering, covered my mouth with a fist. I was sure he couldn’t hear, couldn’t know.<br />“Just a second, maybe two; that was enough. Never saw the bastard, never heard the sound, no engine, no brrripp. No zing, no thump. Just the damn smoke.”<br />“That’s all?”<br />“Yeah, just smoke.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />I waited for him to go to the bathroom before I turned on the lamp and quickly collected my things. I switched it off before I fled the room, carried everything into the other bedroom, locked the door. I allowed myself a quick cry in the shower, toweled off and dressed quickly, stuffed my stockings and undies into my purse. No makeup or lipstick, avoided the mirror.<br />When I opened the door, he would be standing there, a rail thin shadow, hunched against the wall.<br />The conversation was going to go this way: I would say, thanks for a wonderful evening. I can’t remember when I’ve eaten more, it’ll hold me for a month. I’m grateful for that. And he’ll say, it was my pleasure, Margaret. And I’ll laugh at him, say, is that the name I gave you? No, it’s not Margaret. I lied about that, too, of course. You know, we working girls never give our right names to the men we entertain, especially the servicemen. I’ll tell him: they don’t give theirs either. Can’t even remember the guy from last night. I’ll say, got another date tomorrow night — a naval officer, I think. Nice fellow, I hear. I’m so awfully bad with names, it’s an embarrassment. And then he’ll try to remind me of his. But I’ll stop him and laugh about it, laugh at him, if I can manage it. That should do the trick.<br />I opened the door. He wasn’t standing there. I headed for the exit but the entry light switched on and he trapped to me under it. I covered my face from the light. “Thanks for the dinner. I gotta run.” He gripped my arms. “You better let me go, mister, or I’ll call the—”<br />”Stop it, Margaret,” he said.<br />“Oh, I’m not Margaret. I mean, that’s not my real name.”<br />He wrapped me up and I spoke to his dog tags. “I don’t want you to look at me. I must be a fright without make-up.”<br />His fingers were in my hair. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t have to look; I know your face well enough.”<br />“No, you mustn’t. I mean, you don’t mean anything to me.”<br />“Stop it, Margaret. Too late for that.”<br />“That’s absurd. You’re just a meal ticket.”<br />“Listen, I know what you’re trying to do, but—”<br />“I’m just trying to get out of here in one piece, Lieutenant.”<br />“It’s not the same,” holding me very tightly to his chest. “I’ll be okay this time,” the voice like a boy convincing his mom and himself he could be trusted to leave home.<br />That’s when I lost it. My legs weakened and he carried me. I faced his fragile chest, my hands gripping the back of his blouse. “Damn right, you’ll be okay,” I said. “‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, I won’t be here waiting for you. Not this dame, not me. I’ll be having a ball with the smart guys who make all the dough and spend it on bright, willing girls like me.”<br />“That’s a hell of a speech,” he said.<br />He was right, it was a damn good speech. The tears were an especially good touch and the tremor in my voice, very convincing, just the right tone of bitterness. When he put me down, he tilted my chin, held my face in his hands, and wiped away the tears with his lips. When he did that, the rest was all for nothing, the residue washed away in the dark.<br />When the light came, we breakfasted together and I smoked too much as he showered and dressed as I watched him. We didn’t say anything more to each other; it had all been said during the black night in the dark. Before he walked out, he took my face in his hands one more time and closed his eyes and smiled. I closed mine, and when I opened them, he was gone.<br /><br />***<br /><br />After another yellow dawn, following another black night six months later, I dragged myself up the stairs, careful as always to do it without waking Mrs. Costello. Sally was still in bed when I walked in, placed the milk bottle in the ice box, fed the squalling cats, put coffee up, began to read the newspaper. I slogged through the strange names that the new year had brought to everyone’s lips: Caen, Pelilu, Kwajelein, Saipan. My little story about sugar substitutes was buried, cut to ribbons of course and stashed under a used tire advertisement on page ten.<br />By the time I’d finished the second cup, Sally had dragged herself into the dinette. Fighting through a powerful yawn, she asked, “So how was the big night?”<br />“Not as big as I’d hoped.” The toaster popped.<br />“Serves you right for high expectations.”<br />I shrugged. “I’m going to stay away from newspapermen, I think. Too complicated. They’re either frustrated poets or unhappily married or both.”<br />“With frustrated wives and unhappy lovers,” Sally agreed.<br />As a reward, I gave her one of the slices of toast, then buttered my own. She was shaking a foot on the chair, resting her cheek on her knee. That meant she was itching about something.<br />“What more you want to know? No, I’m not getting the crime beat, ‘you’re too much woman,’ the bastard says. And yes, more ‘drives’ for me; strings, nylon...”<br />She wasn’t with me. I waited for her eyes to show before I asked, “Sal, what is it?”<br />“I got a letter from Joe.”<br />“What Joe?”<br />“Joe Donnelly.” The plate was full of crumbs. It went into the sink with the coffee cup.<br />“Lieutenant Donnelly, my Lieutenant Donnelly, my darling Joe.”<br />The percolator was full of chicory grounds, checked them for signs of life. “Like your Ensign Smith, your Sargent Jones.”<br />“That’s right, Maggie.”<br />“Hey, you know the grocer’s son, the good looking kid, Vince?”<br />“What about him?”<br />“He might be good for a pound of real beans if you play your cards right. He gave you the eye, remember?”<br />“Sure, Mags.”<br />“I better change out of this dress. It’s got to go to the cleaners and I think I tore a seam.”<br />She put a hand in the pocket of her robe as if she was going to pull a gun. “A lot of the letter’s censored.”<br />“Where’s the sewing kit, Sal?”<br />Sally pointed to the rattan basket near the radio. “Don’t know where he sent it from. It’s dated a month ago.” An envelope was in her hand; wartime onionskin, with “V-Mail” red and blue trim.<br />I unbuttoned and stepped out of the dress, examined it. There was a torn seam. I turned on the radio: Sunday noon, might catch “The Lone Ranger.”<br />“There’s something about Lieutenant Early.”<br />War News, opera, more news, settled for music. “Damn, just when I’m in the mood for a good serial, there’s not a damned thing. Isn’t that always the way.”<br />“Mags.”<br />“I heard you, Sal. Say, do we have any more black thread?”<br />“You used it to repair your slip the other night.”<br />“Yeah. That’s right. Some day I’m going to date a gent who cornered the market on silk, maybe go to Chinatown, get picked up by a Chink there. Oh, here it is.” There was just enough thread left to do the job, but it wasn’t going to be easy. “These damned needles, the holes are getting too small for me. Maybe I need glasses after all.”<br />“I’ll do it, Mags.” Sally’s arm was on my shoulder. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” She daubed my eyes with a tissue.<br />“Okay. My eyes are burning; I do need sleep, got a headache, too.”<br />“Sure, kid. Go ahead, take your time.”<br />“Yeah. It’s going to be a hell of a hangover, when it starts.”<br /><br />***<br />In the dark, in the depths of the bottomless pit of the dark, I was now able to concentrate for long stretches of time. With perfect silence and blackness, I could force a crowd of blurred faces to appear. I could even discern specific vivid details of those faces — especially smiles, upturned mustaches, dimpled chins, heads tossed back in laughter. But if I let my thoughts drift, the fatal image returned to fill the vacuum; then, I would hold on too tight and had to bite my lip and squeeze my eyes to stop the dizziness and eventual nausea from taking over.<br />After hours in the darkness, I could force someone like Tom Jennings into my mind; he was blond too, though not so blond. And there was that boy, the one with the octopus arms in the rumble seat of Andy’s Chevy back when. What was his name? No matter, his face, that was the thing to remember — and the touches that weren’t the same but were some sort of touches after all. With some effort I could almost picture the sports columnist who made a pass at me the other day. He’s good looking, always liked a man with a pipe — got that outdoor squint too.<br />In the hours before dawn I could recover sounds but that was dangerous because those were harder to shut out. The foghorn would interfere with concentration and some music that rushed into my head without warning might set me off the track.<br />And then, finally, fatigue would overtake me if I was lucky and before the light crept under the curtains, while I was still enveloped in black, the darkness would win..</span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-32778837087882600792010-01-18T12:18:00.000-08:002010-01-18T12:50:00.587-08:00"Chimera" - A Prologue<span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><strong><em>By Arthur Brewster</em></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><strong><em></em></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><strong><em>PROLOGUE</em></strong></span><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:130%;"></span></em></strong><br /><em>[NOTE: The reader is welcome to skip this portion of the narrative, which contains Mr. Brewster’s somewhat eccentric personal observations about sex. I have included the essay at his insistence, but against my better judgment. To paraphrase the oft-ignored editorial tag line, "these ideas do not represent those of the ghostwriter." MPB]</em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Men have little appreciation for the depth of the power women have over us. I’ve spent a good part of my life trying to deal with this fact, to recognize it, understand it, and, finally, to overcome it. I’ve tried to be scientific and rational in my approach to what is basically a very emotional — and perhaps even a spiritual, problem. I have reached certain conclusions. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I should confess that I am not a scientist; I see myself as more like one of those 19th Century English gentlemen, a self-educated naturalist, who simply observes, reads a little -- my modern equivalent is the Nature Channel -- and lives long enough to reflect on experience and reason. I have done all of that with curiosity and a drive to understand my life, especially as it relates to the women who were part of it. On this topic, I am frequently, as you shall see, simply a rambling fool, as are most men on the subject. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Nevertheless, I have come to believe that this power women possess derives from the needs of evolution. Women surely will be offended at this hypothesis, but I have observed that most female mammals were designed to await the roaming male and to lure him, then decide whether to mate with him. The male seems to be attracted to almost all females and will mate with any or all who will accept him. Females, it appears, are far more selective than males. The basis of their selectivity among all mammals was and, among humans, still is somewhat influenced by the genetic imperative to determine whether the male will make successful offspring. In humans, this has become slightly more subtle than with pigs, or even chimpanzees. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Primitive human society divided the roles of the sexes according to practical necessity. Generally, males being bigger and more aggressive, became hunters, or perhaps the cause and effect were the other way around. No matter, it is a fact. Females were child bearers and therefore had to stay put, became gatherers, and thus, accepted the burden of establishing the patterns for domestic social life. Males banded together, left the females with the elderly, the infirm, and small children, and went off to chase their dreams and to conquer their nightmares by killing them. They returned to tell tall tales of their bravery, to paint them on the walls of their caves, to heal their wounds, to eat, to rest, and to make new children. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">All of this resulted in females needing to develop a subtle understanding of human emotions and the psychological underpinnings of sexual attraction. Female humans were not born with plumage or musk, were not seasonally in heat, but could mate far more frequently than other animals. They needed to compete for the "best" males and devised strategies for success.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br />From these meager facts and dubious theories, I have deduced that the pleasurable aspects of the sex act — including seduction, foreplay, infinite acrobatic positions, the wonderful variety of non-reproductive acts, the concentration on duration, multiple simultaneous orgasms, as well as cuddling afterward — were all advances invented or encouraged by the female for several purposes.<br /><br />First, athletic sexuality in her mate was viewed as an indicator of virility, a necessity for evolution to progress; second, all these devices contributed to the bonding the female hoped would keep the male interested in her and the incidental goal of procreation; and third, because of her understanding of the male’s need for competition and the perpetuation of his illusion of his own sexual power. This last purpose shows the sophistication which females developed in understanding the power of emotional dominance.<br /><br />Whether my theory is true (and I have no basis in scientific expertise to support it — just an accumulation of my own wry observations), the fact is that women have a far greater comprehension of their own emotions. Most men have a primitive emotional vocabulary. When faced with the need to articulate feelings, we men tend to express ourselves in terms of what we think, even when we use the words: "I feel."<br /><br />Let me give you an example, which you will surely recognize, with but few variations. When in the course of a serious discussion crucial to a relationship — a conversation which the woman has begun, usually while the man is in the middle of doing something really important to him — like watching the seventh game of the World Series, or something educational like a re-run of "The Man Show" — the woman will ask: <em>"How do you feel about us?"</em><br /><br />If the man has lived for any length of time in the world of women — and the given proposition that he is in a relationship posits that to be so in this case — he will have a vague sense of mild alarm that something may be at stake. He will make a face, shrug, and after some thought, will say something like <em>"I feel like we need to communicate more," in the hope that such words will placate the woman and show that he is "sensitive."</em> His ear will still be tuned to the TV, but he will be ready to shut it off if absolutely necessary.<br /><br />She will then insist: <em>"But how do you feel about us?"</em><br /><br />He knows enough to now aim the remote — and at least press mute. He will grope for words, perhaps take her hands in his, look deeply into her eyes, and say something like: <em>"I feel that we are doing okay in general, but that we have things we need to work out. It’s probably my fault."</em><br /><br />It now seems to the man that he has made a breakthrough: he has reached deep down and dredged the truth, revealed something about himself, making himself vulnerable, and therefore has shown commitment.<br /><br /><em>Not even close.</em> He has expressed what he thinks. But the woman doesn’t want that. She has been crying, maybe whining, or screaming. She is nauseous, hyperventilating. She hurts as if she was punched in the stomach. She is in a dizzy panic as her life ebbs away. She wants to know if he <em>feels her pain</em>.<br /><br />This, obviously, is how Bill Clinton became elected — gained the votes of more women than any candidate in history. He had the vocabulary to speak to women. It apparently made him very attractive — whether on TV or under the desk in the Oval Office.<br /><br />Many men asked the logical question: <em>How could the President of the United States risk everything for a blow job — from Monica Lewinsky, who isn’t even very attractive?</em><br /><br />For most women, the last two clauses of that question are irrelevant, and many would cite their inclusion as evidence of male depravity. But for men, they are necessary conditions.<br /><br />If the question was modified to: <em>How could the President of the United States risk everything for a blow job — from (for example) Claudia Schiffer, who is the hottest babe on the planet?</em> there would be no need for an answer.<br /><br />Actually, Clinton’s actions were completely normal for a man. The answer is instinctively understood by anyone who knows how men behave when faced with sexual arousal.<br /><br />Some scientists refer, somewhat sarcastically, to the existence of two brains in men’s bodies: the little reptilian one, which is, at such times, dominant over the larger, but more uncertain, thinking brain. Whether such an organ actually does exist, or is merely a metaphor, it is apparent that men react sexually on the most primitive level, over which our rational minds have no control and little comprehension.<br /><br />Men have no long term memory about sex. No matter how many times our internal computers have crashed from being led around by our penises acting like dowsing sticks, the next hard-on always deletes the file containing the last bitter experience. In a similar way, women forget the pain and misery of pregnancy, childbirth, infancy, and, eventually, want to do it all over again. It is all chemistry, designed by Nature for the very logical purpose of ensuring procreation, and developed by the human species for far more complex, but equally natural, purposes.<br /><br />The result is that when a man — whose rational mind requires law and order, truth, justice, loyalty, fidelity, and other promises he truly intends to honor — when such a man sees a woman with a jiggling rack with firm round nipples defined in the cloth of a blouse, hormones are triggered like saliva in Pavlov’s pooch, and images invade his brain unrestrained — at least for the time it takes for the synapses to fire and spread from his reptilian depths to the lobes responsible for rationalization and then action.<br /><br />Many times the larger brain can wrest control, and the man goes about his business, filing away this rack among all the other racks he has encountered since his mother began nursing him. His natural sense of logic and order grades them, puts them in perspective and he goes on about the business of hunting — which in our advanced society means the hunting for business, i.e., making money.<br /><br />Actually, this reaction doesn’t require a "great rack" for most men. It may be just any set of breasts, whether they are boobs, hooters, titties, or boobies. They may be a tiny pair owned by a pimply teen running for a bus or a middle aged overweight postal worker sorting through the mail resting on her ample bosoms.<br /><br />No matter whether men think of themselves as "calf men" or "ass men" rather than "breast men," it is scientifically clear that the earliest and most primitive of attractions was the breast. This makes sense because it is usually the first thing that feeds them, tastes great, feels warm, and has a pleasing shape (something like an egg?). Of course, female babies also suckle, but I haven’t quite worked that out yet. I’ll leave it to K.D. Lang to explore the issue, for the time being.<br /><br />Parenthetically, this phenomenon of breast attraction has occupied gobs of my thoughts and I have come up with another junk scientific theory to explain it. It is not because large breasts are indicators of fertility or better nurturing, because it seems that size in this case does not determine the ability to feed infants or the quality of the product. It may be that the fat cells of larger breasts suggested greater resistence to Ice Age chills and provided comfort in an era before the invention of the pillow.<br /><br />Whatever the reason, it is clear that men have — generally, I admit — preferred women with larger breasts since time began. Ancient art, including fertility statues of the oldest civilizations, strongly suggest the case.<br /><br />The logical result, assuming the preferences of genetic selection, was that women with large breasts were able to mate with less need for conniving, while smaller breasted females had to be wiser in order to attract and keep a mate. Mendel’s and Darwin’s laws inexorably yielded the result that in a thousand generations, the dumb females with small breasts gradually all but died out (at least became a rare recessive characteristic), resulting in the modern phenomenon of smart small breasted women being numerous, relatively speaking. Because large breasted women did not have to be as smart, dumb broads with big racks are more numerous and continue to thrive, especially in L.A. and parts of the Midwest.<br /><br />Parenthetically, cosmetic surgery may change the entire future course of evolution and eliminate the need for genetic engineering.<br /><br />On the subject of "ass men," which seems to be the second most popular obsessive preference, the prevailing theory (not mine, but I have heard it from other men who have their own theories) is that rumps trigger some ancient memory of primitive sex, because "doggie style" was the preferred position for most mammals, including early man.<br /><br />I have already explained the popularity of other sexual positions, and it should be apparent that a wise female generally prefers those which permit her to keep an eye on her mate without getting a stiff neck.<br /><br />Back to the main theorem about male attractions. Males do not need to be aroused by breasts alone; it might be an upper arm, or lower lip, a color or texture of lipstick, a gently curved or muscular calf, a pointed or lip-moistening tongue, any sort of hips, shoes which reveal a heel or toes or which elevate the calf and firm the rear, a color or style of hair or the complete absence of hair, a shape of nose or eyebrow, a dimple, an ear lobe, a shoulder, an elbow. Or it might be something as ephemeral as an offhand gesture: a yawn, smile, pout, a look back at her nylons to see if there is a run. Of course, it can even be a voice — I know a few "voice men" who can get a hard-on when hearing a husky woman’s purr from across a noisy restaurant, or when speaking to a disembodied female-sounding voice on the telephone — and who spend fortunes for the pleasure.<br /><br />The point is that men are slaves to these powerful drives without comprehending them in the least. Women who sense this have great power — and all women do to some extent. If they haven’t learned it long before the day after puberty began, their mothers, older sisters, friends, teachers, every female they encounter, all provide ample role models.<br /><br />Art, literature, media, celebrities, and certainly, advertizing, are all so pervasive and obsessed with the subject of what will arouse a male that it is the rare female who is not fully apprized of the available arsenal by the time she is out of the crib.<br /><br />When females decide to join the fray to lure males — which in modern society now starts in earnest no later than in sixth grade (around age 11), females fully understand the purpose and subtleties of eye make-up, push up bras, tattoos, nose rings, giggles, dancing, notes with hearts drawn on them and all the other, and ever imaginative newly invented means to their goal.<br /><br />I remember almost the exact moment when all this began to affect my life, though at the time and for many years afterward, I did not have the least notion that it was happening. I have now developed a theory about that, too.<br /><br />The best moments of a man’s life, when he has the least stress and the most freedom, occur when he is about 12 years old, the day before the occasional boner — which since infancy has been merely his most available toy — has suddenly become a purposeful and incessant annoyance. Before that instant, the boy’s needs are few, his problems are simple and uncomplicated — the needs met by, and the problems handled by, the adults who care for him. The typical boy has few compulsive drives, hence little need to learn, to impress, to earn, to spend, to entertain, to plan. Friendly competition and comradery are all he lives for. Eden is an understated metaphor for this state of boyhood.<br /><br />Suddenly, like an overflowing bathtub, his hormones reach the flood stage and can no longer be stemmed. From then on, he begins a race he can never win or even end of his own will. He will wistfully yearn the rest of his life to get back to where he was when he was 12. Finally, when his lifelong hunger gradually recedes until it disappears, he no longer needs to work, to impress, to spend. Adults and children will once again take care of him. If he is lucky, he will have the wit and the time to reminisce, and when Spring breezes blow skirts in the park, he will, as my grandfather once wryly noted, "still look and smile, and barely recall the reasons why." And then he will die contented, having returned to Eden.<br /><br />The gun sounded for my race when I was almost 13 years old. Up to then, as I recall, my life had been manageable, if not ideal in every respect. I had two parents who took care of my needs if not all my selfish wants. My father was not a world class hunter, but he provided adequately. Food was on the table for dinner and in the fridge all day for other meals and snacks. My mother was no great cook, but I was so used to the tastelessness of her cooking that I preferred it to the meals and snacks set out by my friend’s parents when I visited their homes after play.<br /><br />School was no problem for me at that age; I was a fairly good student, getting good grades with little effort. I made no connection between school and the necessity to earn money, felt no real drive to learn about the world. School was a place where my friends congregated for most week days during most of the year.<br /><br />In my society, I was "popular" enough, sometimes accepted as a satellite of the most popular kids, but really more comfortable in the "B" flight, even recognized as a leader among that lesser group. I had friends with whom I shared the important aspects of relationships among boys my age. I had developed enough skill in sports so that, while not being the best athlete, I was also not the last one chosen for the games we played on our street. Our games were seasonal. We played stickball, touch football, basketball, roller hockey, "It."<br /><br />And we had fights. Arguments about sports often led to fights, and I had established my position within my society when it came to this critical occupation. I was respected, even if not feared, by all but the most psychotic of our tough companions. In Autumn, we had fights in piles of dead leaves; in Winter, we had snow fights; in Summer, we chased each other around the beach and into the water. Between the end of school and dark, I was out on the street, playing. Brooklyn, New York in the 1950's might not have been Hanibal, Mo. in Twain’s time, but Huck Finn had nothing on me when it came to barefooted carelessness.<br /><br />At dark, supper was on the table. During supper, I often quarreled with my kid sister, not realizing that she was using our disputes to test her nascent feminine power. My parents were not impartial referees: <em>"Don’t be mean to her,"</em> they scolded me. <em>"You’re older — and you’re a boy."</em> I objected that <em>"She started it,"</em> resented her ability to cry on cue, using those blue eyes my parents loved, to secure her victories. Much later, my sister became a born-again Feminist and told me that she resented our parents’ favoritism more than I did, because it reduced her to <em>"only the girl,"</em> thereby discriminated against and diminished as a person.<br /><br />I was flabbergasted that my sister was able to turn my gripe into her cause; even more amazed that she had managed to make me feel guilty for my part in her loss of self-esteem. I have since given the matter more thought and have come to admire my sister’s ability to use her power for any side of any issue to make her point. It is an awesome proof of my theories.<br /><br />Back then when I was twelve, after dinner there was TV, little homework, the pleasant chore of oiling my baseball glove while listening to games on the radio. When he was out, I sometimes read my older brother’s <em>Playboy</em> with faint amusement; like a cat watching TV for the movement of the images, I had little understanding then of the implications of what I was looking at.<br /><br />In seventh grade, I fell in with a group of friends who wanted to stay after school to dance in the auditorium. <em>Blackboard Jungle</em> had recently provoked panic among adults about the newly coined evil of juvenile delinquency. The dance program was the brainchild of a progressive teacher who, thinking to keep the kids off the streets and out of mischief, brought a portable record player and encouraged kids to bring their rock ‘n’ roll records, and to socialize.<br />I did not understand until it was too late that the concept of <em>socialization</em> was a feminine euphemism for taming the natural bucking of colts, so that we could be ridden in comfort and safety. This socialization process never ends. It employs phrases like <em>"use your words"</em> when fists or hammers are sensibly raised by toddlers during disputes, proceeds to toilet training (which continues after marriage with the repeated warning to <em>"put the seat down"</em>), advances to table manners, and becomes deadly serious when applied to gift giving, thank you notes, flowers, treatment of in-laws, swap meet shopping, decorating, and similar activities which are necessary to break the spirit of the colt and keep it broken long after he is a sway back nag.<br /><br />Dancing was the tool which led to my socialization. From the time I could walk, my mother had often bragged about winning a Charleston contest when she was a teen in the 1920's. She loved to sing, mostly to the radio playing swing music, and had a collection of 78's, the thick vinyl RCA and Decca records of Frank Sinatra with Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Harry James, and her favorite group, the Andrews Sisters. My mother would sing along with <em>Ba Mir Bist Du Shoen</em> or Harry James blaring <em>And The Angels Sing</em>, and she taught me to dance the Lindy Hop, which I sometimes performed with her at family occasions to the delight of grandparents and other antiquities.<br /><br />At first during the after-school gatherings, I stood on the sidelines watching the dancing, joking with friends about the girls who were mostly dancing with each other in their poodle skirts and saddle shoes. Then I noticed that the dances they were doing — to Elvis’s slurring <em>Don’t Be Cruel</em>, or Jerry Lee Lewis’s thumping <em>Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On</em>, or Little Ritchard’s squealing <em>Tutti Frutti</em> — were a lot like my mother’s Lindy Hop, but with a few updated skips which I later learned had been modified in Philadelphia and popularized on <em>American Bandstand</em>.<br /><br />So I tried it and quickly became the most popular boy in seventh grade — to the girls of the seventh grade.<br /><br />This turned out to be the turning point of my life. As soon as I put my arm around a girl’s waist, held her hand, noticed that she followed with glee my every suggested move, something began to stir. The juices — aroused by Jerry Lee’s suggestive, rumbling piano, and the snarling words: <em>"Come on over baby, we got a chicken in da’ barn-a ..."</em> were unstoppable.<br /><br />Someone brought some slower dance songs. The first was innocuous enough: <em>The Stroll</em>, which was a line dance, but had a growling sax line that vibrated deep down and forced the girls to make movements that I found strangely pleasing without knowing quite why, or how they did it. This led to another plateau: Johnny Mathis, singing <em>Chances Are</em> and <em>Wonderful, Wonderful</em>.<br /><br />At first, the slow dances done to these songs seemed boring; there was no athletic skill and rhythm required as in The Philly, now my forté. Also, I was shorter than most of the girls of the seventh grade, and was self-conscious about standing face to face with them to emphasize the point, which was irrelevant when we were moving faster.<br /><br />Then I danced with Sonya Shearson. She liked to Philly and became my best partner. We seemed to have a natural rapport. She always knew when to twirl under my arm and when to come back and never missed a step. She laughed at my feeble jokes, and when I missed dancing for track practice a few times, she mentioned it in class and said she missed me. One day, when a slow dance was played after a long series of sweat inducing fast ones, Sonya didn’t let me walk back to my friends who were standing near the juice table. Instead, she drew close and we started to dance the way I had seen them do on Dick Clark’s show.<br /><br />I knew how to do the steps to slow dances, and Sonya followed, moving backward as I swayed and stepped forward in time with the song’s gentle provocative rhythm. Something happened there while my face was close to Sonya’s kinky thick black hair. I smelled her, and, unknown to me, pheramones wafted, and hormones were triggered, and synapses flashed.<br /><br />My next memory is making out in her finished basement, humping desperately, one ear attuned to the window nearest the garage door for her mother to come home. Apart from that one ear, the rest of me was intent at learning the skills needed for unlocking mysteries that now seemed far more crucial than how to hit a curve ball.<br /><br />I did not have an inkling then, but the gentle curve of Sonya’s budding breasts were a slippery slope that I would never recover from. Soon, I would be thinking about buying her gifts, gathering the courage to ask her to <em>go steady</em>. I planned for an ID bracelet, and a necklace with a silver dollar cut in two, half for each of us, to seal the deal, as was our tribal custom. I had to get an after school job to save up for these tokens, this tribute that was needed to pay for the favors I was seeking.<br /><br />In no time, I was obsessively concerned with my looks. Every new pimple gave me cramps. My hair required taming; I needed presentable clothes. This required more money and led to unbearable stress, but had rewards. Sonya became my "date" at my bar mitzvah, and all the miserable pinching by aunts and cousins, the misery of learning the Hebrew, and fear of looking absurd in front of the entire world, all of that was forgotten during the party afterward when we danced to all the slow songs, and made out in a dark corner, and I felt like I was at the center of the known universe.<br /><br />That was in June. Sonya spent the summer with her parents in the Catskills while I spent it watching the Dodgers win the pennant again, and delivering clothes for a dry cleaner on my bike. By September, I had saved enough for the ID bracelet (engraved <em>"To Sonya with love, Artie"</em>), and the silver dollar necklaces. I hid them in my drawer and waited for Sonya’s return from summer vacation.<br /><br />Of course, you’ve guessed the rest. By September Sonya had metamorphosed into a more advanced creature, now surrounded by a sensuous but vaguely ominous glow. She was unapologetic about the high school guy she had met during the summer and the fact that she was hopelessly and giddily <em>in love</em> with this <em>older man</em>.<br /><br />I kept the gifts in my jewelry box — among other obsolete artifacts from that bygone era: cuff links, tie clasps, collar stays — until I was well into my Forties and approaching my umpteenth move and my second marriage.<br /><br />If I had been sensible, able to think rationally with the larger, but less potent, brain which evolution had provided, I would have learned the lesson from <em>The Sonya Disaster</em> that might have saved me. The misery of her rejection was crushing enough to scar me for life; I would never be so naive and trusting as to assume a female was thinking or feeling as I was.<br /><br />But rather than giving up the whole enterprise as I had given up baseball when I found that I was not good enough at it to allow me to feel good, I entered high school and ran smack into girls who had matured to another level of being, and reeked of chemicals far more formidable and omnipresent than Sonya’s had ever been.<br /><br />And the one that changed everything, Penelope Miller.<br /><br /><br /></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-80319317929428150142009-10-25T19:48:00.000-07:002009-10-25T20:00:41.483-07:00Conversation With A Finch<span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><em>Long before there was such a thing as a blog, I kept a journal. Not every day, not even every month or every year, but I’ve been doing it now and then, off and on since junior high school.<br /><br />Recently, I found this entry.<br /></em><br />July 6, 1988.<br />Last weekend I relaxed, doing so with a tense determination that is so characteristic of my attempts at relaxation. The few moments I was able to loosen up were attributable to a finch. Or a sparrow, some kind of common little bird. He forced me to relax. I think it is impossible not to relax when having a conversation with a little bird.<br /><br />I had slipped out to the patio early Sunday morning, while Greg was watching wrestling and Bijou was doing the Times crossword. The sun was beginning to burn the moisture from the gray morning overcast. By noon there would be just enough smog to filter the color from the sky.<br /><br />I was getting some time on the new patio chairs — we bought the ones from France, $1,000 worth of plastic, but stylish plastic, and I had to admit, comfortable plastic — at least when I had the chance, as now, to steal a few moments to sit on one of them. I had adjusted it to one of its four hundred and twelve positions, settled in and put the coffee mug on a napkin on the plastic table when I noticed the sparrows or finches or whatever they were. I’ll call them finches because it types faster.<br /><br />They were flittering about the yard, about six of them as near as I could count as they swooped and perched, darted from tree to roof to fence. I also noticed a mockingbird back there and a crow that thrashed clumsily in the top of the palm in Al’s yard next door.<br /><br />There were no airplanes, no helicopters yet. We were near the flightpaths of most of the airports in L.A. County, a feature of the property that the realtor had neglected to emphasize, but the winds must have been wrong because this morning the windows did not rattle even once.<br /><br />I was sitting, thinking about the cost of the patio furniture, looking out at the yard, estimating the next expense, fixing the coping of the pool, musing how the new wooden back fence already needed another coat of waterproofing and stain, when the finch hopped over and perched on the wrought iron fence that enclosed the patio.<br /><br />It was a male, I guessed from his fluffy little red breast. He was about ten feet from me and I kept very still. He stared at me a moment, cocking his head in that jerky way birds have. I could see he was nervous about my presence, but he was gamely hanging in there. He whistled, and soon another finch, a brown-gray one, hopped over to the patio just outside the fence. She — I assumed this was a female because she was so drab — looked up at the male and chirped. He didn’t look back, but he responded with a few whistles, and he hopped up to the spider plant.<br /><br />The spider plant was on a a ledge within the patio area, a few feet closer to me, but a bit higher than the top of the fence. From there, he looked at me again, then at the baker’s rack that held twenty or so potted cactus and succulents. That’s when I realized what was happening. Last Spring a mockingbird couple had built a nest in a bush near the breakfast room. At the same time, a dove couple had squatted in on of my onion plants on the ledge on the wall opposite the spider plant.<br /><br />We had watched the progress of the two nurturing families. Each had hatched their offspring: three noisy yellow beaked mockingbabies, and one very quiet, well-behaved dovebaby. A vagrant white tomcat had murdered the mockingbabies in their beds one night just for kicks. I had found their ravaged little bodies in various parts of the yard one morning. The dovebaby had matured and flew away, leaving me with a massive clean-up for my onion plant.<br /><br />The drama had been traumatic for Bijou. She had first seen the saga as a “learning experience” for Greg. She had read books about the mating and nesting habits, from which she had recited each morning at breakfast. Greg, of course, was underenthused; it was too much like first grade. When the tragedy occurred, Bijou was quite shaken. She grieved for weeks. Greg was riveted by the gruesome details.<br /><br />When I noticed the twigs this Spring in the wandering Jew on the baker’s rack, I immediately dumped them and moved the plant to a low shelf. Recently, I had moved it back to the top, where there was more sunlight. I now realized that the new nest had been the finches’ project. They had returned now to try to rebuild their property.<br /><br />The little fellow was perched on the spider plant, spurred by his nagging mate, peering at the purple wandering Jew, at me, back to the inviting plant-home. He was as close to me as he dared come. The plant was a few feet from the $200 chair I was using as a foot rest. The wife chirped at him. He chirped back, telling her that he dared not come closer while I was there. She insisted. He implored me, cocking his head and whistling.<br /><br />Bijou appeared at the patio door and both birds flew away.<br /><br />Later, when she had gone, the fellow returned, alone this time. He sat on the wrought iron fence and whistled to me. I knew what was happening. He was apologizing, man to man, for invading my privacy and for being so pushy. I knew what I had to do. I puckered my lips and whistled, sucking in air, trying to imitate his song. At first, he seemed startled by this, but he held his ground and whistled back. That’‘s when we talked.<br /><br />“Look,” I said. “I sympathize with you. I’m married too.”<br />“Yeah, he said, blinking. “I saw. I like her red hair.”<br />“Me too,” I said. “Your wife’s nice, too.”<br />“She’s okay.”<br />“But I can’t let you nest in my plant.”<br />“It’s cool,” he said.<br />“It was too traumatic, the last time. I won’t go into a long story, but ...”<br />“Hey, you don’t have to explain. It’s your plant.”<br />“And there’s the bugs that come along, these tiny flies.”<br />“I know.”<br />“And the mess. And it doesn’t do the plant much good.”<br />“I guess,” he seemed to shrug. “I hadn’t thought about it.” He whistled for emphasis. “Well, I just thought I’d ask. You know, she was pretty set on it.”<br />“I could tell.” My guilt feelings were obvious.<br />“Well, forget it,” he said. “It’s not like this is the only tree in the forest. So to speak.”<br /><br />There was an awkward moment and Greg stormed out to tell me he had nothing to do because mom told him he couldn’t watch wrestling. “She says its too violent, but I told her its not real. Tell her, daddy, its not real and its okay to watch.”<br /><br />Of course, the finch was gone by then.<br /><br />I haven’t seen him since and it is pretty late in the Summer I imagine for nesting. But maybe next Spring....</span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-61344307712668530892009-05-09T14:14:00.001-07:002009-05-09T14:24:49.612-07:00Becoming My Father<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2jEZz1-0ys3_Q-q47g7Bcq6vBr5L8dts1HkhO2P3wuC-CnH_yve-xBWSACRsi7g56aVY2LB7C-z2s0mNlxNH9n1TDj-ZP26hTpt4W0vMOvXy6o68t1VLnp5mF3AzQmMQWIgNoQ/s1600-h/dad.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 251px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 315px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333936007702881058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2jEZz1-0ys3_Q-q47g7Bcq6vBr5L8dts1HkhO2P3wuC-CnH_yve-xBWSACRsi7g56aVY2LB7C-z2s0mNlxNH9n1TDj-ZP26hTpt4W0vMOvXy6o68t1VLnp5mF3AzQmMQWIgNoQ/s320/dad.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">It seems that</span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">No matter how much a man tries</span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">to avoid it ...</span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">It is almost impossible ....</span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;">to avoid</span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;">becoming his father...</span></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U05SDbPswOyVjtDOgOHPM48Wkll2IZCxvOXjNa4FYNZzbzZrCG2EpRcp_hFgSZ7KWY84bpAz_0YK9I3TeteAx2_MFGmP5GVRAMB1XTazPPxz-aD-YwL_-7VYrpCEAy3bwrS8Lg/s1600-h/IMG_0626.JPG"></a></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U05SDbPswOyVjtDOgOHPM48Wkll2IZCxvOXjNa4FYNZzbzZrCG2EpRcp_hFgSZ7KWY84bpAz_0YK9I3TeteAx2_MFGmP5GVRAMB1XTazPPxz-aD-YwL_-7VYrpCEAy3bwrS8Lg/s1600-h/IMG_0626.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333936579706355954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4U05SDbPswOyVjtDOgOHPM48Wkll2IZCxvOXjNa4FYNZzbzZrCG2EpRcp_hFgSZ7KWY84bpAz_0YK9I3TeteAx2_MFGmP5GVRAMB1XTazPPxz-aD-YwL_-7VYrpCEAy3bwrS8Lg/s320/IMG_0626.JPG" /></a></div><div> </div>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-42810313447938417572009-04-26T15:09:00.000-07:002013-11-17T20:03:45.662-08:00"JAWALI'S DREAM"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7nM1CJBG7dPd4WZlw4I7fU1qUMJSxZtClTRleftSdLkskWjsyCMWg15lmaFJPfu-dr1bSW7YNmX5f3no807W6QLdPbvbBObUoIdlEPdmxcVEqoR-sYXLX7zDWFm8P5FYs2St3Q/s1600-h/Jcover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329134469180947730" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW7nM1CJBG7dPd4WZlw4I7fU1qUMJSxZtClTRleftSdLkskWjsyCMWg15lmaFJPfu-dr1bSW7YNmX5f3no807W6QLdPbvbBObUoIdlEPdmxcVEqoR-sYXLX7zDWFm8P5FYs2St3Q/s640/Jcover.jpg" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 392px;" width="627" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>ONE ...</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMa3te2uvGriWvoCu7fKYmSfpJSElo46xd4DVYHXVDKCUIbUZOy2kYAEfv1CKOBuSCMKEybq09MQy_T3Xyi0zVlCLjJ4kZfCNByvYyDVQL5CCIm8lZE5pmwGGrR3YT9PWtYXacQ/s1600-h/J01.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329134302500088850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMa3te2uvGriWvoCu7fKYmSfpJSElo46xd4DVYHXVDKCUIbUZOy2kYAEfv1CKOBuSCMKEybq09MQy_T3Xyi0zVlCLjJ4kZfCNByvYyDVQL5CCIm8lZE5pmwGGrR3YT9PWtYXacQ/s640/J01.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 291px;" width="465" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">TWO ...</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQsIOr_KHeVjn0Xiu_GheYXB171kpC6kLY8tBQG09J1__DdKJtGDvu0VTUB17cSC6ZmwqvWHM5FyckeJiXPsuxyYJGSdbFInY6vd0ZgBRDxSTxuH0WfPk_Yg0IfEWy0EgA6hmS7A/s1600-h/J02.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329133909862999714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQsIOr_KHeVjn0Xiu_GheYXB171kpC6kLY8tBQG09J1__DdKJtGDvu0VTUB17cSC6ZmwqvWHM5FyckeJiXPsuxyYJGSdbFInY6vd0ZgBRDxSTxuH0WfPk_Yg0IfEWy0EgA6hmS7A/s400/J02.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 388px;" width="388" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>THREE ....</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0PniGTptIkL-qKw0tG4JaOlKKaiAMbK7HGyexGAZAz7ogn_aLzh26Q9ZcqNEFgvw9KlUPgSsP_d768dyWsk-JbGquR4te6Z6S3Dp8jC0Ik3Bh4I2u6h8kFeoawjCP4xHFerkaQ/s1600-h/J03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329131887245740306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0PniGTptIkL-qKw0tG4JaOlKKaiAMbK7HGyexGAZAz7ogn_aLzh26Q9ZcqNEFgvw9KlUPgSsP_d768dyWsk-JbGquR4te6Z6S3Dp8jC0Ik3Bh4I2u6h8kFeoawjCP4xHFerkaQ/s640/J03.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 291px;" width="465" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">FOUR ....</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqqGK9LZAMy56g_8fEwTZkfUbUBX6qiFUJDXsillM-SLJFsDIFusjLe2gXDawuwQmwpqqhm76F2qjeRmffVCX_IOjyzEWZoPIRJkSWNYzP6NfoYg1oIofjNm4yfsPGq6Gyo0dOQ/s1600-h/J04.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329131687471980658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqqGK9LZAMy56g_8fEwTZkfUbUBX6qiFUJDXsillM-SLJFsDIFusjLe2gXDawuwQmwpqqhm76F2qjeRmffVCX_IOjyzEWZoPIRJkSWNYzP6NfoYg1oIofjNm4yfsPGq6Gyo0dOQ/s400/J04.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">FIVE ....</span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdSWfMG2gkTZaQBNE-F3bxKuijdbEJh0BApvlN5w4ugkqLUC-NwQlT9tIF0-DeRnDIqKU9B0ksOjjhS6EXAfXsClqJ2evZsloXehNZDRTmRnVprav7H37XuSzQcWUc9Qb64FBWQ/s1600-h/J05.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329130370253560306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsdSWfMG2gkTZaQBNE-F3bxKuijdbEJh0BApvlN5w4ugkqLUC-NwQlT9tIF0-DeRnDIqKU9B0ksOjjhS6EXAfXsClqJ2evZsloXehNZDRTmRnVprav7H37XuSzQcWUc9Qb64FBWQ/s400/J05.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 326px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>SIX ...</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPuGwrjNAqxzhY5AX5fmb6RRFBTht2Pb0I6LumTB-W7jMxDy-mHf9aDfxZUqwn6RuwtIIefRwv_X9LN-Bxesb5Gkr10KOQiu5aqQsnR30NenbvNKsjJrgfwciARgA3omjMhRS2Q/s1600-h/J06.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329130175792008738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPuGwrjNAqxzhY5AX5fmb6RRFBTht2Pb0I6LumTB-W7jMxDy-mHf9aDfxZUqwn6RuwtIIefRwv_X9LN-Bxesb5Gkr10KOQiu5aqQsnR30NenbvNKsjJrgfwciARgA3omjMhRS2Q/s400/J06.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>SEVEN ,,,</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1Pb1e04sb8kwTe-a3D9CkSnwqrh8qNL9os-qwsaQOQh24bGBF17C6vAcpwd4N2_7m766SfVTw3j09zYsOGY2fmgl-zI5LX0elwXoMZRDS7AzJi3adAOyFxc3VJeRo4FGX8q0Cg/s1600-h/J07.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329129329001102594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1Pb1e04sb8kwTe-a3D9CkSnwqrh8qNL9os-qwsaQOQh24bGBF17C6vAcpwd4N2_7m766SfVTw3j09zYsOGY2fmgl-zI5LX0elwXoMZRDS7AzJi3adAOyFxc3VJeRo4FGX8q0Cg/s400/J07.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUF2r3mgvQY9JOHK8gQSu6e_6oOFGfC7ZyOy03a-LpzeXWlqJ77ml1zinvgBQBBEc_4FUvi4r8PuSBXO_CXld1zA3T3Ze9AjEzh_ON6JPrMvYCS_BKg8YfQ741dyJPK9SuZ_-82Q/s1600-h/J08.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329129112608295234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUF2r3mgvQY9JOHK8gQSu6e_6oOFGfC7ZyOy03a-LpzeXWlqJ77ml1zinvgBQBBEc_4FUvi4r8PuSBXO_CXld1zA3T3Ze9AjEzh_ON6JPrMvYCS_BKg8YfQ741dyJPK9SuZ_-82Q/s400/J08.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 314px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>EIGHT ...</b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6AaKz9BC-XuXZHhZdNfElIDfOyLBHQAMeup8LkRqVmRq2YCULn7F4kRA4e4Q8ovht8DRBMm_iUxxz0-CH3V-gWqmKtzwhMq0zUdsB2r63R_cyB-ta4SizRu9bhbU9uNo3JaD9A/s1600-h/J09.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329128561636572114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO6AaKz9BC-XuXZHhZdNfElIDfOyLBHQAMeup8LkRqVmRq2YCULn7F4kRA4e4Q8ovht8DRBMm_iUxxz0-CH3V-gWqmKtzwhMq0zUdsB2r63R_cyB-ta4SizRu9bhbU9uNo3JaD9A/s400/J09.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL8qQjtO4viJ4J4_YzflGOu68PLb7h8kQKCmuCEur1_Jm3TG7cz9fdb7WuWD7AxSyxyUhqnIm0JwFV6M8OTv-Kb0bfA3EUyF2MujPSCFSRI8BgAguQorDLDC0OFJa07frEMT2Lg/s1600-h/J10.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329128345729187074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpL8qQjtO4viJ4J4_YzflGOu68PLb7h8kQKCmuCEur1_Jm3TG7cz9fdb7WuWD7AxSyxyUhqnIm0JwFV6M8OTv-Kb0bfA3EUyF2MujPSCFSRI8BgAguQorDLDC0OFJa07frEMT2Lg/s400/J10.jpg" style="float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 291px;" width="291" /></a><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">NINE ...</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoekAnxM8rT3Ps7sZO3WhUQaLMOpjWOSLLp0wLz-KBCniO4Webfhzk9EfVMBVSL2tBCIWcm8pPyp5Zdy9nO7TW05fZzlAmL2z44mcWffKODLfNmD976V3B3DGjEj-WZ6iycizd6g/s1600-h/J11.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329127788627520930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoekAnxM8rT3Ps7sZO3WhUQaLMOpjWOSLLp0wLz-KBCniO4Webfhzk9EfVMBVSL2tBCIWcm8pPyp5Zdy9nO7TW05fZzlAmL2z44mcWffKODLfNmD976V3B3DGjEj-WZ6iycizd6g/s400/J11.jpg" style="float: left; height: 400px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>TEN ...</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>ELEVEN ...</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>.... THE END</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;">© 200</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;">9 M.P.Borenstein</span></div>
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Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-77742233641296858132008-11-27T12:22:00.000-08:002008-11-27T13:08:17.956-08:00Bombay aka Mumbai<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9mniOXiT0EE7P4wpVPNcqWUY8aH5fwMzHH8pJZkXSmb3EPk-YVRCgtQOQFqPwEwlLIbe1iO9sAqv49oTkvdMMoYLX46cXQtOru-hqeID9BVo5AZctOvq80YW4va-Z4Tka2MDEA/s1600-h/India+arch2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273446542368461362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 154px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG9mniOXiT0EE7P4wpVPNcqWUY8aH5fwMzHH8pJZkXSmb3EPk-YVRCgtQOQFqPwEwlLIbe1iO9sAqv49oTkvdMMoYLX46cXQtOru-hqeID9BVo5AZctOvq80YW4va-Z4Tka2MDEA/s320/India+arch2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Between August, 1974 and July, 1975, Bijou and I travelled around the world. We spent about a month in India. From the daily journal I kept at the time, these are our experiences in Bombay, now Mumbai.<br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>5 September Thursday New Delhi to Bombay</strong><br />The contrasts of India are very evident here— what is beautiful good and pleasant, and what is ugly, evil and unpleasant.<br /></div><br /><div>We checked out early and tried to get a taxi, several of which were near our hotel, to take us the few blocks to the Indian Airlines office where our airport bus was waiting. In every city in Asia, the taxi customs differ. In Delhi there are meters but the drivers try to set flat rates. Many refuse to go by the meter at all, especially on short trips. We have haggled and by and large, have gotten our way. But now we were over a barrel with our bags to shlep and bus to catch. We paid through the nose and it started our day on a sour note.<br /></div><br /><div>We carried the bags off the taxi, painfully dragged them to our waiting area and later dragged them again in the stifling heat to our bus. A porter picked them up and put them in the luggage compartment a few feet away. After we got in, he came round and demanded 50p for each bag for everyone on the bus. One Indian became indignant, seeing in the practice all that is wrong with India: "People expecting pay for doing little or nothing." </div><br /><div><br />Another passenger was an absurd looking Westerner: he wore a white sun hat over his shaved head, a red shirt and sarong, sandals. He was hefty and hairy-armed but had the manner of a sad "faigele." Later we chatted with him. He was on his way to an ashram to study yoga. He showed us the mosquito net he’d gotten and offered us a Dunhill. He was an Australian and called the porters "Johnnie." As he paraded through the terminal, he got stares from Indians and Westerners— he was a very unlikely person.<br /></div><br /><div>The flight was routine, hampered only by the worry of going into a city without hotel reservations. In Delhi we had spent the good part of an afternoon trying to get Pan Am, Indian Air, or a travel agent to help us. Pan Am referred us to India Air, who shrugged, a travel agent would only help if we wanted a 4 or 5 star hotel. India government office was polite but no help.<br /></div><br /><div>On our arrival, Bea went to fetch the bags and I found a hotel reservation desk but the phone was out of order, not unusual in India. But he was pleasant and we amiably chatted away and hour. Eventually, we found a room at the Y. The usual scruffy little guy tried to porter our bags, hail us a taxi—of which there were dozens in line. We gave our directions to the driver with the usual uncertainty about whether he understood and was using the meter, refused to tip the scruffy guy for the aid he had offered which we had declined, and were off.<br /></div><br /><div>After a 45 minute ride through and around the "suburbs" and the city—which has several peninsulas and harbors— we were in the vicinity of our Y. This I knew from following the landmarks on our map. But the driver couldn’t find it. He would stop for directions, each time a cabbie, doorman or cop would chatter in Hindi and point and he would drive and fail to find the street—which is a major thoroughfare in the heart of town. After 3 or 4 of these stops, I got out and stopped a passerby and by prodding and urging we finally found it.<br /></div><br /><div>The cost was $3.00 which I angrily paid, though trying to be philosophical—ever try to get a cab in the rain in NY? The Y room was a delight: clean, airy modern and with continental breakfast which cost the same as the dive in Delhi. We relaxed, then consulted our guidebook: the Taj Hotel, nearby, had a buffet lunch for $2.50, it said. Also in that hotel was a Pan Am office and government tour office.<br /></div><br /><div>We set out. Architecture was English, the streets crowded with auto traffic implying affluence, shops of all kinds were enticing, there were the usual calls to change money or to help, some begging children and some raggedy men sleeping in doorways. But nothing like Calcutta or even parts of Delhi. It was only mildly annoying. We found the Taj Hotel easily—we could hardly miss it—a tall Miami type luxury hotel on the harbor near Gateway to India Arch. We strolled through the terrazzo floored lobby and took the lift up to the ballroom. By its elegance and quiet we could see we were in financial trouble.<br /></div><br /><div>We took a menu from the captain’s desk. The fare was expensive Indian and Continental. At the front we could see the large columned room. The price was not enticing: 28 rupees, with tax the total for the buffet was about $9 for two. We moaned and so did our stomachs; our stomachs won.<br /></div><br /><div>Buffets are always intimidating. You want to get your money’s worth and there are so many good looking things set out—you want a little of everything and you end up stuffing yourself and enjoying it less—maybe a metaphor for world travel. Of course the pastries were a fabulous special treat for both of us—we were tempted to stuff a few in Bea’s huge purse. The knowledge that the leftovers from the diners here could feed half the city was a bit disconcerting and the vapid string orchestra playing benign waltzes and reels added to the aura of unreality.<br /></div><br /><div>Bea became furious with me when I complained about the experience and resorted to her well-worn hyperbole: <em>"You always struggle over making a decision, then always regret it and never enjoy the experience you chose!"</em> I became angrier because ... it <em>always</em> hurts when it strikes the mark, and too deeply, especially from her, someone— the only one I care anything about what she feels about me. Which of course I didn’t say—didn’t even get at the time. We let the moment pass, but it was on our chests as much as the pastry.<br /></div><br /><div>Now stuffed and logy, we went to Pan Am and had to leave our precious air tickets so they could see about our desire to go to Kabul—there was doubt about whether it could be done without extra cost, and we would have to wait until 4. It was now 2 p.m. and we decided to nap. We had spent a restless night. We both still suffer coughs from our lingering colds and the past days have caused increasing tensions between us.<br /></div><br /><div>Bea fell asleep and I read until 4. I dressed and let her sleep. I went out to do our chores. I went the same way to the hotel, being accosted only a few times, seeing a man in rags compete with a pigeon for nuts fallen from a vendor’s roaster, and another whose wracking cough brought phlegm to a hole in his throat. At Pan Am after another bout with the dim-witted worker I got the tickets for Kabul. It meant a 7 A.m. flight on IA back to Delhi and then a 1330 Afghan Air flight to Kabul. Monday would be dreadful, but ... The clerk was annoyed but agreed to try to reserve a hotel room for us there.<br /></div><br /><div>I then changed money at Cooks—I could get a better rate on the black market but I am paranoid about that. I have never been "smart" about money. I bought some Indian cigarettes and inquired at the tourist desk for the Elephanta Caves tour. The caves are sculpted Hindu Gods on an island across the harbor. Boats leave every morning from Gateway Arch—except during monsoon season—when they often don’t go at all—May to mid September.<br /></div><br /><div>So again our timing is awful. It has become clear what we suspected before we came to Asia—this was the absolute worst time of year to travel. The intense heat and humidity are draining, the rains depressing (as in Kathmandu), difficult. It is off season for tourism, which is a plus in some ways: easier to get hotel room, rates are lower. But empty restaurants are often dreary, and waiters with no one else to wait on are annoyingly attentive. Transport and activities are curtailed. Add that to the usual difficulties of any travel and especially in the East— strikes, like the one of Air India; and international politics—which prevented our visits to Taiwan and Korea. We still worry about Turkey / Greece / Egypt / Israel on that score.<br /></div><br /><div>Plus the rigors of suitcase life, the close quarters and being together constantly, with the ever present money worries, and our different personalities, all these have added to the tensions between Bea and I. It has opened old salved over wounds caused by our differences, now sore and bleeding.<br /></div><br /><div>It is of course a test and we are today at a low ebb, but we can muddle through and survive and are determined to do it.<br /></div><br /><div>After my jaunt I fell into a coma-like sleep and was only dimly aware of Bea’s insistent call for food. I put her off—"in an hour, Okay?" ... "another ten minutes" ... Then I finally admitted that I would rather sleep than get up and traipse about looking for another cheap meal in a dingy restaurant. Bea demurred, but after a while—during which I immediately fell asleep—she insisted on eating.<br /></div><br /><div>I grudgingly stirred, whining all the way. This annoyed her. She dressed in a huff and stormed out alone. At first, I was angry enough to let her go, if that’s the way she felt. But soon my conscience woke me up and I went out after her. The streets were dark and filled with strange faces. I became frantic with concern for her safety ... and my loneliness ... after what must have been only a few minutes but seemed to me to be much, much longer. Bea with her white pink skin, light hair and long thin body has been an attraction everywhere in Asia, especially here in India, with children, other curious women and particularly the men who already have a fascination with Western women as proved by the many advertisements pointedly using them to sell everything.<br /></div><br /><div>I found her at a greasy spoon open air restaurant nibbling at a yellow sandwich and sucking on a lime. I sat with her and groggily chatted. She was sore as hell, but I think a little relieved that I had come. I ate some salty fried fish—they had a big menu but only fish and coffee were available.<br /></div><br /><div>We got into a conversation with a man from Ceylon who was stuck in Bombay trying to get to Teheran. We had the same problem—prevented from doing it by the Asian Games there, which made accommodations scarce. He was going to Europe to stay with friends in Berlin. He worked in the tea business and had lived for some time in East Africa. We talked about food. They eat locusts, grasshoppers, roaches in Africa which he had tried. He seemed somewhat shocked that the French eat snails and frogs legs. In a Masai village he stopped short of drinking the local thirst quencher: milk and cow blood. It turned out he was also staying at the Y. We all strolled back together.<br /></div><br /><div>Bea fell asleep before we could resolve our spat and I stayed up to finish Maugham’s "The Razor’s Edge" which has always had something to say to me in an unreal, romantic way.<br /></div><br /><div>A note on Hinduism: I have been studying as much as I can about it and talking about it with as many people as I can. It is a remarkable religion—in its complexity it is all things: a faith, a world view, a philosophy, a psychology, an ethos, a mythology. It allows for intellectuality, mysticism, spirituality. It is dark, joyous, witty and somber. It is ascetic and sexual. It is strongly symbolic but provides concrete idols to worship. It contains a panoply of Gods, each with traditional functions and personalities, yet at its heart is monotheistic or in some modes, pantheistic. It is distinctively Indian, but has survived by absorbing the beliefs of many other sects and other major religions. To the pious it provides a faith in eternal peace and a satisfactory if tortuous means of attaining it. To the casual or even agnostic Hindu it provides a sense of community with holidays and festivals, an identity in its rituals, and justification of a way of life.<br />In my examination it seems to be a perfectly fine religious system.<br /></div><br /><div><em>Then why is the country in which it is practiced so fucked up?<br /></em>Does the religion which defines the value system hold responsibility for the society it serves and influences? Or maybe there is nothing "wrong" with India fundamentally. Maybe it is merely "backward" because by accident of history, climate, or geography, it joined the "modern" world too late. Am I putting too much stock in my own ideas of "The Good Life"? If Hinduism is right, then life on earth is the hell and will always be so even with our comforts and "progress" which are only superficial and transitory and obstacles to the search for true "Goodness" and Peace of Mind.<br /><br /><strong>6 September Friday Bombay<br /></strong>A few words about food. When traveling to different countries a major interest for us is eating the local foods. In the States we were used to some Asian foods: Chinese of course, Japanese, and even Indian "style" cuisine. But eating is always an adventure, a sample of local customs which reflect to some extent the personality, degree of wealth, the eccentricities of each place.<br /></div><br /><div>Some friends who had preceded us on similar trips advised that Asia is for buying, Europe is for eating. I am sure this is true; as Bea insists that nothing compares to French cooking, even in the commonest of kitchens. Of course, Italian food we know and love. Perhaps these foods will not be as strange, exotic or adventurous as the foods we have eaten in Asia, just as Europe itself is less alien to our experience.<br /></div><br /><div>Tonight we strolled along a broad cool avenue to a restaurant where we ate a meal in a style which was new to us, even here in India. We were brought various vegetarian dishes served in metal bowls on a silver metal tray, a "tali." (Phonetic spelling, to my ear.) There are light breads and rolls called "puris". You tear a piece and dip into a bowl with your fingers and eat. You must only use the right hand (awkward for me) since by custom this is the clean one. The waiter hovers and refills your bowls. He leaves a pitcher of water because the dishes are spicy. At the end he dumps rice on your tray if you wish and you pour the leftovers in the rice, mix it together and eat with your fingers. So now we have eaten with chopsticks, spoons, spoon and fork, and hand.<br /></div><br /><div>I have also noticed a definite difference in the rice served in the countries we have visited; though it is the staple of all— the grains somehow all seem a little different, whether from the type, or the preparation, I don’t know. I remember reading that sushi chefs in Japan study for rice for a year as part of their education. The rice here seems particularly hardy, rich and fluffy when at its best.<br /></div><br /><div>We must rest now because we are stuffed like little pigs.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>7 September Saturday Bombay<br /></strong>It is funny how days that begin inauspiciously have often ended with our best experiences. This day we began listless, without much ambition. We have been at low tide for a few days now; our energies seemingly drained. We have slept away huge chunks of days and lain in bed reading and dozing for hours. It is partly our colds which linger annoyingly, the ever present heat which causes malaise and the let down of spending our last days in India.<br /></div><br /><div>We decided quickly that Bombay had not much to offer—it is a bit prettier, its architecture a bit more exotic, new skyscrapers, art deco apartments, cathedral like public buildings. It has a harbor, the usual hectic smelling bazaar, a great deal of traffic on its wide avenues; but not much of the tension of the other cities. Of maybe it is there but we have simply gotten used to it. Even the child beggars here seem better fed, their hearts not really into their pleas.<br /></div><br /><div>We supped continental dinner, lobster thermidor, and strolled back ready to read—I bought and began "War and Peace" of all things to read on holiday! Then we got into a 2½ hour discussion about Hinduism, Sikhs, prejudice, travel, etc., with two young Indians: the guy who is the night clerk and a young woman who is an engineer. It was friendly, funny and informative. They were intelligent, witty, tolerant, worldly, fine people.<br />It reinforced my notion that there is nothing particularly mystical or threatening about India. The people are different only in custom and superficial mannerisms; but they want the same things, have the same frustrations, prejudice and ignorance about the way things are and ought to be. It gave me a much warmer feeling for the country and people than our first impression.<br /></div><br /><div>I guess that is why India is so "difficult" to figure out. You have to "get past" the first and most vivid negative impressions in order to see more deeply into the vast complexity and discover—not The truth—but other truths.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>8 September Sunday Bombay<br /></strong>We have spent our last full day in India in an enjoyable and worthwhile way, visiting Elephanta Caves on an island 6 miles from Bombay. They contain sculptures of Hindu Gods which are chiseled from the solid basaltic rock of a mountain in the 6th or 7th centuries. As a monument it is in the category of the Taj Mahal, the Gold Buddha of Bangkok and the Great Buddha in Nara (which was created around the same era) in awesomeness and achievement.<br /></div><br /><div>All four are interesting to me because of the effect they have—and were meant to have—on the viewer: respect, for the skill of the artisans, sure, but more, respect for the power and wealth of the patron religion or ruler which ordered its creation. Imagine the impact over the Ages of the visitors to the shrine of the Gold Buddha, 52 tons of gold, in a society which is poor beyond our conception. The huge statue in Nara in the solemn shrine must have inspired enormous awe at the power of such a symbol.<br /></div><br /><div>Ironically, the Taj Mahal is the most awesome because of its intrinsic "artistic" beauty, but also because it is a tomb, a shrine to one dead person in a world in which millions live in anonymity. As a romantic symbol by a man of enormous wealth, power and arrogance created as a monument to a woman he loved, a miraculous extravagance.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong>9 September Monday Bombay to Delhi to Kabul<br /></strong>Today we believed that our flying luck had finally run out, after so many flights, including those on exotic airlines like Indonesian, Royal Nepal, and now Indian Air.<br /></div><br /><div>Our jet taxied to the runway at Bombay airport and sat there in stifling heat for what seemed like an eternity. The cabin temp felt like it pushed way over 110 as we sat, without cabin air conditioning, either because of a malfunction or in prep for take-off. Peering from my seat in the second row through the open cockpit door, I could see no planes ahead of us in a cue which might cause such a long delay and for a long time there was no explanation.<br /></div><br /><div>The Indian businessman across the aisle sat in his business suit trying to look business like reading his wilting newspaper while stains of sweat darkened the collar of his shirt.<br /></div><br /><div>The stewardess finally opened the door, which allowed the temp to lower a few degrees as new air drifted into the cabin. Bea, who always nears the boiling point as the thermometer rises, had been getting redder around the nose and ears. I fanned her with a magazine while I was not craning to see if the pilots were still alive.<br /></div><br /><div>Suddenly the pilot announced that there was a "slight mechanical problem" and that it was nothing to be alarmed about and that it would be repaired shortly. A ramp appeared at the doorway and a workman climbed the steps and entered the cabin. He wore Indian Air overalls and carried a toolbox. I watched as he entered the cockpit and kneeled on the floor behind the pilot. He unscrewed a plate, and began to probe what looked like wires and cables.<br /></div><br /><div>After another long period, during which I watched Bea closely for signs of faint, my attention was jerked toward the cockpit by a loud "clank, clank" sound. The workman was on his knees pounding with a hammer at the works under the plate. My eyes became huge.<br /></div><br /><div>After a short time, he rose and left. The stewardess closed the door behind him. I expected her to tip him. The engines whirred and we began to move.<br /></div><br /><div>I held Bea’s hand tightly and kissed her fingers. I told her I was glad we had this brief time together and that I hoped we would spend eternity in a cool place.<br /></div><br /><div>We grasped our hands until we landed in New Delhi.<br /></div><br /><div>Now we only had to survive our next flight on Afghan Air to Kabul.<br /></div><br /><div>We found that our flight was canceled, and we had to wait for hours in the airport for a seat on the next one. </div>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-26760434275419329972008-03-29T13:11:00.000-07:002008-03-29T13:19:21.575-07:00Haunted HeartIn the night, though we're apart<br />There's a ghost of you within my haunted heart.<br /><br />Ghost of you, my lost romance,<br />Lips that laugh, eyes that dance.<br />Haunted heart won't let me be,<br />Dreams repeat a sweet but lonely song to me.<br /><br />Dreams are dust; it's you who must belong to me<br />And thrill my haunted heart,<br />Be still, my haunted heart.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Music by Arthur Schwartz with lyrics by Howard Dietz, 1948.</span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-47666579334446157702007-09-22T21:32:00.001-07:002009-04-12T10:06:39.701-07:00Suicide: A Love Story [1st Draft]<span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">In a mental hospital, a patient sat in a chair in front of a therapist’s desk. He was very calm, amused and curious about the decor, the photos and things that told him about the therapist.<br /><br />The patient was Mark Abel, 53, an apparently successful and contented man who made enough money to retire earlier than most. He had a wife and two children. His wife left him after the children left the home in their mid-20's. She remarried and has raised her second husband's child. Mark had several relationships since then, but none lasted very long. His daughters have their own lives. One is close to her mother, the other is detached from both of her parents. She married an Orthodox Jew and moved to Israel.<br /><br />Mark had been hospitalized because he attempted suicide by ingesting pills. He was discovered by a housekeeper in the morning. He was rushed to the hospital and was in a coma for three days. Eventually, he recovered. The hospital psych recommended transfer to the psych unit after Mark casually stated that he would “do it better next time.” Mark had willingly committed himself after being assured that the commitment was for no longer than 14 days.<br /><br />Mark began to think about dying because he lost interest in life. His mother died a year ago of cancer after suffering from Alzheimer’s for 5 years. His father had killed himself 3 days later.<br /><br />But those facts were only the spark of his decision to end his life. He had not disclosed the true reason. Maybe he didn’t really know, himself, what it was. But he had made up his mind.<br /><br />The shrink was Marilyn Asher. She was 47, twice divorced. Childless. She had married in college to a medical doctor, and settled into a suburban existence, considered herself a trophy wife. Bored, she had affairs and divorced after a minor scandal. She returned to college, earned a degree in medicine to prove to her ex-husband and his friends that she could surpass him. She gravitated to psychiatry after her second husband, also a doctor, left her for a younger version of herself. She became depressed, self-medicated and became addicted to anti-depressants. She had suicidal thoughts and one weak attempt. She underwent therapy and when “cured” returned to do her psychiatric residency.<br /><br />The first therapy session went something like this:<br /><br /></span><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Why did you try to kill yourself?<br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Why do you want to know?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />So I can understand you.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />What if you do?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />To help you.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />To help me kill myself? No, of course not. Sorry.<br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />You still want to.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />No comment.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />You were heard to say, 'I’ll do it better next time.'</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />You think that means I’m going to try again to kill myself?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Doesn’t it?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Maybe I meant that I’ll do better in my next life.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Okay, is that what you meant?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />What do you believe?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />I’m afraid you mean to end your life. The question is why.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Either way you pose a danger to me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />How so?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />For one thing, if I say my life sucks,you’ll diagnose me as depressed, and prescribe anti-depressants. If I say that I am tired of life and expect to do better in the next life, you’ll find another category which amounts to being insane and you’ll have me involuntarily committed. But if I just don’t say why, then you can’t do a damn thing.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />I see.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Okay. Now you’ve got me pegged<br />as hostile, and that goes against me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Not at all.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Bullshit. I am hostile, at least<br />to the way you see your job."</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />How do you know how I see my job?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Now, who’s hostile?<br />Anyway, you’re trying to save a life.<br />That’s noble, I suppose.<br />Taking your Hippocratic Oath seriously.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Shouldn’t I?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Well, I don’t care to get into a philosophical debate about quality of life or dignity.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Isn’t it about those issues?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Not interested in issues.<br />I don’t want to be an issue or a cause.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Neither am I, really.<br />I’m not here for a cause.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Are you pro-choice or right to life?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Do you mean as regards abortion?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />What’s the difference whether we’re talking about the start of living or the ending of it? It’s still about choice - except the sperm or foetus doesn’t get the choice. Should I have the same choice as a foetus?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />I suppose. But it's not the same, is it?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Well, I think I have a good enough reason to want to end my life. I always hated those movie biographies about famous people. You know, complete lives don’t make great drama. Ray Charles became repetitive and irrelevant. He just got old, so they wisely ended the movie half way through it. Same with Johnny Cash. Imagine what the bio of Brando or Orson Welles is going to look like.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />You think the rest of your life is irrelevant?<br />Or that you’ve become grotesque?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Maybe I’m just bored.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />Okay, so its about love, then?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />I’ve had all the love I want or need. </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Have you? What if you meet someone tomorrow?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />I don’t want to. Don’t have the energy to go through it again. No snappy comeback for that one? Could it be you’re kind of feeling the same?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />We go through periods of feeling that way.<br />It doesn’t mean I want to end it all.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Fair enough. That’s okay for you.<br />If I were you, I’d probably feel the same.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Why?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />I just have the sense that you’re going to find someone or some thing to keep you interested. But if you dont in say 10 years, you may tire of the game, too.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Maybe </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />Okay so there I am.</span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">By the end of the session, Marilyn knew that she was desperately in love with Mark but didn't know how to tell him.<br /><br />In the middle of the second session the next day, the answer came to her. She told him that if he dies, she will die, too.<br />When Mark was late for his session on the third day, Marilyn went to his room. She found him there. He had swallowed half of the pills in a bottle. Marilyn took the rest.<br /><br />They were both found and taken to the hospital and he was revived. He discovered that she was also alive. He went to her room, sat beside her bed. She awakened, drowsily saw his face.<br /><br />Their conversation went like this:<br /><br /></span><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />Where are we?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Mark<br />Not heaven.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />I was hoping.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Mark<br />It's okay. You win.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />Win What?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Mark<br />Me. For whatever that’s worth.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />How did I win?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Mark<br />I tested you and you passed.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Marilyn<br />That's nice. How?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">Mark<br />Suicide attempts are a cry for help, aren't they?<br />That's what you said?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />Yes.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />So I called for help -- before you came.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />You knew that I would find you.<br />But how did you know what I would do?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />I didn’t. But I had to find out.<br />You had 3 choices. You could have done nothing,<br />respecting my choice to die.<br />Or you could have tried to revive me.<br />Or you could have done what you did.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Marilyn<br />You bastard.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"><br />Mark<br />I know. It was a risk.<br />But some risks are worth it.</span><br /></div>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-80143733929512466592007-02-14T16:16:00.000-08:002009-04-12T10:08:43.909-07:00Soulmates - A Dialogue<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">AIDAN</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Do you believe in ... uhm, whatchcallit?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">When you die and come back?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Reincarnation?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Reincarnation, yeah. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I’m not into Eastern stuff.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Not really. Do you?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Well, not the hindu thing, </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br />where you keep going up and </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">down<br />the ladder based on </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">performance<br />-– worm to dog to human</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">and back again if you screw up.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I mean, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">what did the worm do to </span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">get to be a dog?</span> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">You’re right, that’s hard to swallow.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">You really think about these things? </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Well, not all that much, you know.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I’m really a live for today kind of guy. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Yeah, me too, I guess.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I mean, it would be nice to </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">believe in some kind of future. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Sure.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But how can souls keep recycling?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">There’s billions more people </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">living than ever before.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">So where did all the new souls come from?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Exactly.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But there is this theory.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Who’s theory?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I don’t know.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I heard about it somewhere.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">What really happened is that </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">when the first people died,</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">they had huge souls see,</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">and when they died,</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">their souls split apart into pieces.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">And the next generation got only a piece of a soul. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Oh, that’s a funny thought.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">So, when you meet someone</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">and you fall in love ...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">It’s really because you each</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">have a small piece ...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Of the same soul?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">And something inside of you, </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">what, senses that?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Yeah, that’s why it’s hard to see, sometimes.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But wouldn’t there be a lot of people </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">living who have a piece of the same soul?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Well, sure, but they might be </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">spread all over the world.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Maybe one is in Tibet,</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">and another in Africa or Iceland.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">You’d probably never meet them.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But some people fall in love</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">more than once.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">It doesn’t seem likely that </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">you’d run across more than one part </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">of your soul during your life.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">That’s what I think.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">So, I guess you can fall in love </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">with somebody who doesn’t share your soul. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Maybe that’s why it fades so fast.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But if you do find someone who does, </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">you don’t throw that away</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">cause its as perfect as its ever going to be.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I didn’t know you were such a romantic.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I’m not. I’m only saying.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But you are. More than I am.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">That’s okay.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But what if you have to leave </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">your soulmate ‘cause, I don’t know, </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">say you’re not ready.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Well, that’s what’s so great about this idea.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">There’s another chance out there somewhere.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">More soulmates.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Pretty risky, though.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Life is risk.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I don’t know.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Look, let’s say we’re soulmates.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">What? You and me?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Yeah. Just what if.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Ok. What if.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">And we don’t connect. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">We fly by and zoom off like ...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Planets?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Comets, yeah.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Okay. In separate ...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Directions, yeah.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">That would be ...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Sad?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Sad.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">But not really a disaster.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">If there is a you,</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">then there must be another you out there.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">And a you?</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Aidan</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Sure. I don’t think I’m all that unique.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Evie</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">I never met anyone like you.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">Fin</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /></span></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-1148445979541470622006-05-23T21:30:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:17:35.722-07:00"CHIMERA" - Chapter 3<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >[Artie has managed to "date" the fabulous Penny Miller, and actually screwed up enough courage to kiss her - several times - on the lips - on the bench - a "soul kiss" or "French kiss" as we used to call it. This is where I lose Artie, because I knew a girl at our school who could have been the girl he calls "Penny Miller" and there is no way Artie could have gotten within a mile of her, much less touched her knee. Well, he says he had a "date." Yeah, right. So what. Anyway, Artie's "memoir" is about to get raunchy, so beware ... mpb]</span><br /><br /><br />We never formally dated again.<br /><br />That year, we were both active at school in separate crowds. Penny Miller wrote short stories and poems for the school magazine and I was still involved with sports. My group of friends were mostly jocks and the girls who hung around them. Penny played flute in the orchestra. She worked on the staff of the <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Sophomore Sing,”</span> an annual musical show put on by the class. She wrote the “book,” a <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Twilight Zone”</span> take-off in which Ulysses finds himself transported to our school and runs into clever parodies of teachers and students there. It was a big success, and she won a prize at the year-end assembly.<br /><br />Penny found the first excuse for us to get together without actually “dating,” at her house after school, supposedly to do homework and watch Dick Clark.<br /><br />We opened the books, turned on the T.V., danced a little, and at one point, she looked at me with a peculiarly intense gaze, which I sensed to be a silent question — wanting something from me.<br /><br />I was a novice in the arcane art of interpreting signals from females. That kind of look from a girl was like the mysterious look a cat gives you that may seem to be inviting a tender touch, but could just as easily be prelude to a nasty scratch.<br /><br />My previous attempts with other girls had usually been faltering and often misfired. But somehow, despite the fact that Penny’s aura should have made her impossible to approach, I acted with almost complete assurance - as on our one and only “date.”<br /><br />I pecked her on the cheek and she kissed me on the lips so hard our front teeth tapped painfully. I made a teasing joke about it and we kissed again. We continued to kiss and hug until her mother came home.<br /><br />That day, while we did some homework and flirted out of the hearing of her mother, Penny began to tell me about what she called her <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Life Script.”</span><br /><br />I’d never thought farther than the next ballgame or summer job and was shocked at how thoroughly she had planned out the rest of her life.<br /><br />She would go to an Ivy League college and teach English Lit. while she wrote intense poems and satiric short stories and tried to be published in avant garde journals. She wouldn’t get married until she had established herself as a writer, and that only after she had <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“really experienced life,”</span> which is what <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“good writing”</span> required. But once she had lived <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“fully”</span> and written about it, she would have to marry because she knew it would be difficult to support herself and she wanted not just career, but home and family, too.<br /><br />She expected to marry a wealthy guy from a good family who would support her dream and allow her to write novels in their home. They would live in the country and he would commute to The City and she would raise their children, educating them herself in art, music, and literature. She would write <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“realistic”</span> novels and achieve a sort of limited fame in literary circles as an eccentric artist with a mysterious, tragic aura.<br /><br />I didn’t know how to respond to Penny’s elaborate plan, but from the ardent seriousness of her description of it, I decided not to poke holes in the defects, or to criticize it in any way, but rather to support her ideas, which seemed to be very important to her, and which she seemed to want me to understand.<br /><br />I viewed this development as an important breakthrough, though I didn’t really appreciate the significance of Penny’s sharing these thoughts with me, which in fact elevated us to another level of intimacy in her mind.<br /><br />After that day, we began to weave a pattern without planning it. It sort of just happened by itself. We kept our separate group of friends and involvements apart from our friendship with each other, but we found time for what Penny called <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“a rendezvous”</span> two or three afternoons every week. We made concentrated efforts to be alone, either at her house, or outside on park benches. We both felt the drama of what quickly became an addiction to the risk of our secret <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“affair.”<br /><br /></span>The next few times we found excuses to get together, our kisses advanced in intensity, grew longer, deeper, our tongues more adventurous, our hands wandering further each time. Later, when the weather warmed up, we rode our bikes to Prospect Park and made out on a blanket on the grass under a huge maple tree.<br /><br />Once, we took the Coney Island Avenue bus to Brighton Beach, kissed on a bench on the boardwalk, walked on the beach near the shore. I dared her to follow me out onto the breakers, the huge slimy boulders that separated the beaches. We sat under turbulent clouds, with waves crashing, smelling the oily, fishy ocean, kissing and talking about Greek myths.<br /><br />Over those months, this adventure evolved into an exciting secret life. None of our friends knew about us, and we didn’t talk to one another about what we did with our friends. We eventually stumbled onto a vaguely defined pact. We would each teach the other what we learned from other partners about <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“sex stuff.”</span><br /><br />Because I had few real opportunities for other partners, I used some of the stuff in books my brother kept under his bed, like <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“A Stone For Danny Fisher,”</span> which had some well worn dog-eared pages that I could use as a manual for borrowed experience.<br /><br />Later, when I tried something new, Penny laughed, said, “Wait a minute, I read about that - I think it was in <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">'The Group.'</span>"<br /><br />I admitted using vicarious literary sources for inspiration and, to my great surprise and relief, Penny thought it was a terrific idea and admitted doing the same.<br /><br />We then shared our reading material and openly discussed new discoveries. Penny and I would try these things out with each other. Remarkably, whatever I imagined and tried with her seemed completely natural and inevitable, not to say incredibly arousing.<br /><br />Invariably, when a certain point was reached, we both sensed it had to stop, either because her mother might come home and find us, thereby ending any future for this pleasure, or because I was going to embarrass myself by spouting all over my pants.<br /><br />At one point, Penny exuberantly referred to us as <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Lovers,”</span> no doubt influenced to hyperbole by her reading. I didn’t correct her, or scold for exaggeration or pretense, but the fact is that we were not lovers, in either the romantic or literal sense.<br /><br />That is, we neither professed nor pretended <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">love</span> for each other; nor did we complete the circle with an act, whether it be defined in romantic terms as <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">lovemaking,</span> or clinically as <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">intercourse.</span> In the words of our parents, we didn’t <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">go all the way</span>. In the competitive terminology of my crowd, I never <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">scored.</span> Penny was not the kind of girl who <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">put out</span> and, horny as I was, I didn’t want to think of her as one.<br /><br />I never bragged or even mentioned anything that happened between us to anyone, least of all my friends, who were accustomed to pre- and post-mortem descriptions of all sexual encounters, real or imagined. In fact, after our one and only date, we never appeared together in the company of any of our acquaintances.<br /><br />Our mutually understood joint status was as trusting close friends, intellectual equals, who happened to be privately and innocently experimenting with each other’s bodies as a sort of a science homework assignment.<br /><br />Truthfully, it didn’t seem like that much of a big deal at the time, at least in the beginning. I mean, it just seemed natural, not dangerous or anything like that.<br /><br />Because we liked each other, and not more than <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">like</span>, there was nothing at stake, no chance of rejection or the heartache associated with such activities. It seemed that we had solved the adolescent problem of exploring the mysteries of the opposite sex without being burned severely in the process.<br /><br />I accepted the arrangement willingly and gratefully because I never really expected more than a stolen temporary and superficial relationship with any girl like Penny Miller. From the moment she’d accepted me as an amusing school friend, I’d achieved more than I had a right to expect. When she then evinced interest in me for sexual purposes — even if it was in order to find a <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">safe</span> object for experimentation, which she would later put to use in the far more serious business of finding a boyfriend, lover, husband, or material for <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“realistic”</span> novels — I was ecstatic.<br /><br />Because we were not <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“in love”</span> with each other, there was an informal comfort level to our involvement that made it delicious fun, in an almost childish, playful way. Because our playing was hidden from our friends and parents, it was almost unbearably exciting.<br /><br />One warm Spring afternoon while we were cuddling on her bed - avoiding some stuffed rabbits and elephants that viewed the event with silent amusement - my hand on Penny’s breast under her blouse and bra while she rubbed my crotch and kissed my cheek, she croaked two magical words: <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Let’s undress.”<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein</span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-1147799511945459662006-05-16T10:10:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:15:26.397-07:00"CHIMERA" - Chapter 2<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >[In Part 1 Artie rambled on about his supposed freshman year in a Brooklyn high school in the late 1950's. He claimed that his mind was fixated on girls and he described the smorgasbord of Jewish & Italian girls that he was hungry for - I apologize for his sexist views. Then he claimed to notice a different sort of girl, "Penny Miller," who he seemed to be completely goofy over. All year he watched this goddess'in a poodle skirt from afar - with no guts to do more than smile at her. MPB]<br /><br /></span>I was well into my sophomore year before I’d mustered the courage to entertain the absurd notion that it might be within the realm of slim possibilities to ask Penny Miller for something like a “date.”<br /><br />We were in the same English class again. We sat only a row apart this time because Mr. Fohr did not seat alphabetically or by height. For weeks I watched Penelope Miller closely as she bent over her desk, unaware in her deep concentration of my spying, writing in her loose leaf binder in a meticulous hand with all the letters of equal height in a round style that gave me a hard-on every time I looked at her hand wrapped around her pen and her tongue peeking from a corner of her lip.<br /><br />Penny Miller was even more stunningly beautiful than she had been when I first saw her way back when we were mere freshmen. The summer had reduced the few remaining childish angles in her body, refined the curve of her calves and breasts and rear, but had not affected the arch of her high cheekbones or the slim grace of her arms and hands or the complete picture that was even greater than the perfect parts they were made of.<br /><br />Over the first few months of the term, we small-talked occasionally in class and I made her laugh a few times, enough so that it gave me a faint hope she might at least tolerate my presence, if not actually go so far as to like me. She had a funny wheezy, barky laugh to go with her voice, which was husky, as if always close to laryngitis, forcing me to suppress the desire to clear my throat. Her voice and laugh were so sexy I could barely sit in my seat in class. I found myself crossing my legs to hide the goings on inside my lap, though it was painful wearing jockey shorts.<br /><br />I knew little about Penny Miller’s social life outside of that classroom; I was sure she must have a boyfriend, though I’d never seen her with one at school. I imagined that he might attend a different school, be a senior, or maybe even be in college. Although she was only fifteen, that gap seemed in my depressed moments to be infinitesimally smaller than the gulf between us.<br /><br />Until The Fates appeared and showed a way to bridge the chasm. The Fates were much on my mind that year because we were studying Greek Mythology. Mr. Fohr, our Zeus, pointed his capricious thunderbolt and ordained that groups be formed for a class project. Some time after Thanksgiving but before Christmas vacation, we were grouped in threes to team together to write a report on “The Iliad” and present it in class.<br /><br />I don’t remember the third person on our team, a sign of my focus on Penny Miller. We talked about the project in class and two times after school in the library. Penny was an enthusiastic savant on the subject, able to expound in dizzyingly alluring detail about Ajax, Achilles, and Agamemnon as if she had met them at summer camp. We each did our research and Penny volunteered to write the final draft for the presentation we were to make the next day.<br /><br />That morning while my sister and I fought for sink time to prepare for school, our phone rang. It was Penny’ mother. She had gotten our number from the phone book. No one had unlisted numbers in those days.<br /><br />Penny was sick and was not going to school but she had finished the report last night. I agreed to pick it up from her house on the way to school. The Millers lived on Ocean Parkway, near Kings Highway; my house was about five long blocks away. I had to run to make it to her house and then race again to catch the school bus.<br /><br />She lived in one of the upscale apartment houses in the neighborhood. It had a doorman and a desk like a hotel and a marble lobby and two Art Deco wood paneled elevators. By the time I got to her apartment door I was sweating despite the cold December air, my shirt tail was out of my pants and one of my shoe laces was untied.<br /><br />I cleaned up as well as I could before ringing the bell, hoping to see Penny wearing a baby doll or maybe a robe which would open up revealingly, like one worn by a woman I’d delivered clothes to when I worked for the dry cleaners last summer.<br /><br />Her mother answered the door, wearing what my mother would have called a “going-to-The-City” dress. She did not invite me inside, but asked me to wait and closed the door. I thought she’d gone to get Penny but she hadn’t. She returned with the report which was in a manila envelope, thanked me and closed the door while I was stammering my concern for Penny’s health.<br /><br />During English class I decided to stop at Penny’s house after school and talk to her. I rehearsed all day what I would say and imagined many scenarios about how it would go: she would have the sniffles and be looking very pale and she would offer me tea, and she would be feeling miserable and I would make her laugh, and we would share a look, and she would fall in love with me. Or she would not really be sick, but I would catch her making out with a boy, a neighbor, that college student who she had been having a hot affair with, and she would coldly thank me like the women who I delivered clothes to, and maybe tip me a quarter.<br /><br />Either scenario seemed far-fetched but I’d already developed a penchant for pre-experiencing moments like that. The goal was to prepare me for any eventuality; it would cushion the disappointment when it came; and in the less likely occasion of a positive experience, I would be able, I hoped, to function rather than freezing up completely — like I usually did with men on base and the game on the line.<br /><br />Penny answered the door, wearing a bathrobe that revealed nothing to me. She looked merely beautiful, with her nose red and her eyes watery and puffy; she held a box of tissues. I managed to relate that the report went very well and that we all probably got A’s. She was pleased about it and apologized for not being able to read her part. I told her that I read it for her and the teacher said it was the best of the three. That was a lie, but not much of one. He had praised our work, most of which she had done.<br /><br />We stood in her foyer a little awkwardly after that because I’d forgotten to rehearse a transition from this part into the asking her out part, and since she was sick and I didn’t know how long she was going to be sick, it didn’t seem like the timing was right. So I said I hoped she felt better and she thanked me with a weak smile and I left.<br /><br />All the way home I felt really stupid for not saying more to her, and I thought of lots of things I should have said. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“You look very pretty like this, vulnerable and pale, like Camille. It makes me want to take care of you.”</span> Or <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“I hope I get sick so that we can share our germs and a box of Kleenex.”</span> That might have choked a giggle out of her, if not the admission of love I was hoping for.<br /><br />When she didn’t show for school the next day, I decided to call her that night and find out how she felt. I would tell her all about class, the work she missed and discuss the reading due the next day. I would offer to come over and read to her if her eyes were too puffy to read. I would say that as soon as she got well, I wanted to take her to see a movie to cheer her up.<br /><br />I found her number in the phone book and after dinner I waited for a private moment when my parents and sister were watching television and I could use the phone without notice. With my heart pounding, I mis-dialed twice, my fingers slipping from the holes before the disk fully rotated.<br /><br />I paused, dispatching bad thoughts. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“Mis-dialing is an omen; I should forget the whole thing and see her in class.” “No, shmuck, it’s only a phone call.”</span><br /><br />The third time I dialed carefully. Her mother answered it on the fourth ring, just before my nerve gave out. I’d forgotten that she would probably answer. I almost hung up, but managed to stutter my name and that I was calling to see how Penny was. Her mother was politely formal, saying that I was <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“sweet”</span> to call and that Penny was feeling better and would be at school tomorrow.<br /><br />I thought she would hang up on me so I blurted, “Well, its very urgent that I talk to her, Mrs. Miller, because the teacher gave us some special assignment for tomorrow and she should be prepared for it if she’s coming.”<br /><br />To my surprise, her mother again said I was “sweet” and that of course Penny needed to know that, and for me to wait a moment. I heard her call to Penny and say, “It’s that boy, the one who picked up the report. He has a message from your teacher.”<br /><br />Penny came to the phone. Her voice was even huskier than usual, though not as scratchy as it had been the day before. To my surprise I was able to coherently relate the ostensible reason for the call and she was very grateful and said I was “<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">very</span> sweet” to call.<br /><br />I had such a boner that I kept thinking that I should have whacked off before calling her so that I could be thinking more clearly and not be talking so fast. The next line was going to be my big transition where I said that when she got better, I would take her to the movies to cheer her up, but I hesitated because I hadn’t planned for her to be better already and going to school the next day.<br /><br />During another sickening silence while my mind raced for a way to say it, she said, “Well, I better get to reading. Enid called earlier with my math homework too and I have a ton of it. So, thanks again, Artie, and I’ll see you tomorrow in class, okay?”<br /><br />I said, “Sure, bye.”<br /><br />Well, that was really depressing, I thought, as I jerked off later in the dark and replayed the call in my memory.<br /><br />The sound of Penny Miller’s voice on the phone was unbearably sexy as it reverberated in the hollows of my mind while I stroked away and recalled every word she spoke. Her voice on the phone was like velvet mixed with sandpaper, thick as hot fudge when it’s not runny and hot but after it comes out of the fridge rich and gritty. It was perfect for her: mysterious and dangerous, but at the same time teasing and girlish. Her phone voice matched my image of Penelope Miller, which I’d etched in my mind with the permanence of a Greek statue, but one with arms.<br /><br />The next day in English class I was dreamily staring at the board when she came in almost late. I felt a note slip under my left hand. I caught a glimpse of Penny’s hand pulling away before the teacher noticed. Penny’s cheeks were tinged in red. She rubbed her nose with her Kleenex, and a little smile escaped as she blew gently.<br /><br />The note was in her perfect round letters:<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >“Artie, </span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Thanks again for everything. I think you’re very sweet. </span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Do you want to go after school for a lime rickey? </span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Pen.”<br /><br /></span><br />I didn’t breathe as I read the note over and over, analyzing each word like a World War II cryptographer. "<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Thanks</span>" was pretty neutral, but "<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">everything"</span> was pregnant with possibilities.<br /><br />"<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">I think you’re very sweet"</span> was the best of all. I had to suppress my boner, just reading that phrase for the tenth and eleventh time.<br /><br />The <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">"lime rickey"</span> was a soft drink specialty of the candy store on Kings Highway near her house. It was a place and invitation that encoded a breath of a hint — taken with the <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">"very sweet</span>" part — that she might actually like me, though it was also possible that she simply may have been trying to be polite.<br /><br />She could have been one of those girls that sent thank you notes to everyone for everything.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">"Thank you for the very sweet birthday present.” “Thank you for not spitting on me in the school bus today.”</span><br /><br />But I had a soccer game that afternoon, which was a Friday, and it was a dilemma. There was still a slim chance I might get to play for a few minutes — unless it snowed and the game was canceled, I thought hopefully. A quick glance out of the classroom window told me that a blizzard was not going to happen, no matter how much I willed it.<br /><br />Near the end of the period, I bit my lip and turned her note over to the other side, held my breath, and scrawled:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“PEN,</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Can’t do it — big soccer game. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">But how about a movie tonight?? </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I think you are sweet too. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Art.”<br /><br /></span>I folded it up and put it on her desk just as the bell rang. Penny Miller looked at the note and frowned, then smiled at me and allowed a few fog-shrouded words to escape. “Okay, sure. Why not.”<br /><br />I finally breathed. Breathing was wonderful.<br /><br />The saxophone voice continued. “Pick me up after supper about seven-thirty? Gotta run. See ya.”<br /><br />That night I picked her up at her house at exactly seven-thirty, figuring that punctuality would count. I had to run most of the way due to delays necessitated by my painstaking preparations: carefully choosing clothes, especially pants that wouldn’t strangle me while I sat in a movie theater with a hard-on; re-combing my hair thirty two times with enough Brylcream to lubricate an engine; covering as many zits as I could without requiring bandages or surgery; and finally, destroying thousands of breath germs with my father’s mouthwash that tasted like battery acid.<br /><br />Penny’s parents treated me in a way that surprised me at first: that is, with complete indifference. Her father read his newspaper, watched the TV, did not even deign to give me a once over. Her mom stood nervously smoking while listening intently to someone more important on the telephone. After initial relief that I would not be scrutinized and found unacceptable, I began to feel queasiness of another sort. They must be so used to guys coming to date their daughter that it had become routine. They treated me so casually that I felt I should have taken a number.<br /><br />Worse, I began to think that the comfort level they evinced at my presence was insulting, because it suggested that they saw me as posing very little danger for their daughter. Well, there are advantages to being the non-threatening type. Maybe I would show them, I dared to imagine.<br /><br />Penny had washed her hair and it was very blond and fluffy, forming a sort of golden halo around her face. She wore a turtle neck ribbed blue sweater, plaid skirt, and black leg tights under her pea coat. I mentioned that it was very cold outside that night. Her mother wanted Penny to wear a hat; Penny refused, insisting that her hair was dry, and that she would not catch a “chill,” but yielded to a muffler and gloves. Her mother wanted her father to drive us to the movie house and luckily he shot that down with a grunt.<br /><br />While I walked with Penny to the elevator, I kept up a stream of banter that I hoped was clever and funny but sounded to me like inane chatter. Penny giggled in her squeaky laugh in the elevator as I made a face at an elderly couple, and their nasty tiny dog yapped at me.<br /><br />Outside, the air was biting and our breaths were smoky as we walked on Ocean Parkway toward Kings Highway. The street lights cast black shadows and the tree branches were bare and stark. The sky was black and thick smoke came from the exhausts of cars waiting for the light as we trotted across the long intersection toward the lights of the theater district.<br /><br />We saw “The Left-handed Gun” with Paul Newman, a western about Billy The Kid. I remember that I held her hand during the show, paid for Jujubes and Bon Bons and a Mary Jane bar, teased her about her voice, and made whispered jokes about the people in the theater.<br /><br />After the movie, we took a booth in the candy store and Penny had tea with a cinnamon stick and honey and I had a hot fudge sundae. I gave her the cherry and I dared a teasing sex innuendo about that and luckily she laughed a sincere laugh.<br /><br />There were other school kids there and I was very proud to be seen with Penny because by then everyone knew she was one of the Beauties at the school, and that us being together on a date was a shock. We talked to a few people; one guy who had flirted with her now tried to horn into our table, but it was late and Penny accepted my urging to leave with no sign of coquetry.<br /><br />I held her gloved hand all the way back. I kept talking, thinking about whether and how to try to kiss her. Ocean Parkway was a very wide avenue with four lanes of traffic in each direction. On one side, there was a bridal path lined with trees that paralleled the traffic lanes and separated it from another street with parked cars and another wide sidewalk. The paved walkway on the other side had benches under the trees and then another two driving lanes and parking near the curb.<br /><br />I steered toward a bench on the walkway near the front of her apartment building and we sat down on it. She did not, as I dreaded, say <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“It’s late,”</span> or <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“It’s too cold, we better go in.”</span> Either would have been understandable and true.<br /><br />I looked at Penny Miller, my mind a blank. She looked ahead to the cars going by and sniffled. Her hands were stuffed into her coat pocket. Her breath was smoky.<br /><br />“How are you feeling?” I asked her with real concern.<br /><br />“Okay,” she said, glancing at me a bit furtively I thought.<br /><br />She was fingering the Kleenex she had drawn from her coat pocket. I kept looking at her with what must have been a dumb smile on my face.<br /><br />“What?” she asked.<br /><br />“Huh?”<br /><br />She barked a giggle and made a more serious, though not a severe, face. “You’re kind of staring at me.”<br /><br />I heard my voice, as if coming from somewhere far from my mouth, say something truthful and unrehearsed to a girl for the first time in my adolescence. “I like to look at you. I do it a lot when you don’t know it in school.”<br /><br />Penny Miller squirmed in her seat. “I’ve felt you looking at me.”<br /><br />I was thinking, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">"lots of guys like to look at you. You better get used to it if you’re going to be as beautiful as you are at this moment."</span> But I didn’t say that. I said, “I hope it doesn’t annoy you, Pen.” That was true, too.<br /><br />She looked as if she was thinking about how to answer. Maybe she wanted to say, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">"all the guys look at me; I like it."</span> But she didn’t. Finally, she said, “No, it doesn’t annoy me, not really,” and she shook her hair. “It makes me a little self-conscious but.”<br /><br />I heard my voice say, “I’m sorry, its just that — I like you a lot.”<br /><br />Penny Miller then said, “I like you, too, Artie. Just as much, I think.”<br /><br />That should have stopped me cold, but it didn’t. For some reason which I’ve analyzed in odd moments for the rest of my life, at a crucial turning point in history, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">chutzpah</span> emerged at just the perfect moment. I felt relaxed and in control of myself, with a calm self-assurance that I’d never felt this far from second base, and certainly not with any girl, and Penny was not just <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">any girl</span> to me.<br /><br />My voice was strong and clear, saying, “I’m dying to kiss you.”<br /><br />Penny Miller looked at me. She didn’t smile exactly; it was more of a puzzled look, indecisive maybe, a look which I interpreted as seeking a polite way to let me down.<br /><br />So I turned to wisecrack humor. “Hey, I don’t care if I get sick. At least then we’ll have something else to share, like germs?” I was proud that I finally fit in a version of that joke I’d rehearsed.<br /><br />She did laugh a little. “I don’t think I’m contagious anymore.”<br /><br />“So its okay then?”<br /><br />“Yeah, its okay.”<br /><br />I leaned closer and she quickly wiped her nose with the Kleenex, sniffled and turned her face up to me. Her eyes sparkled watery blue in the light of the street lamp.<br /><br />I kissed her gently, barely brushing her lips, stole a look as she closed her eyes, and I pressed my lips to hers. I held her shoulder with my hand on the back of the bench and held her gloved hand with my other hand. Her cheeks were pink and her nose was chafed. I took the Kleenex from her hand and daubed her eyes and her nose.<br /><br />She chuckled again, a foghorn of a laugh. I leaned over and kissed her again, felt her tongue touch mine and could barely stand it.<br /><br />She whispered in a croaking voice, “That was nice, Artie.”<br /><br />I told her I hated my name, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Artie</span>, because it was so dorky and I always got my cheeks pinched when one of my relatives called me Artie.<br /><br />She said she would call me <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Arthur</span> from then on because it was “more elegant, like King Arthur.”<br /><br />I reminded her that the most famous Arthur was Arthur Godfrey, the corny TV host. “Besides,” I said, “King Arthur in the story kind of loses Guenevere to Lancelot, doesn’t he?”<br /><br />She laughed about it and from then on called me <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Arthur</span> or <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Arturo</span> when she wanted to tease me, and <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Artie</span> when she wanted to retaliate for my teasing.<br /><br />We kissed again, and it is that kiss that I still can taste. It was a kiss that was subtly different from the experiments I had been used to. I felt something I could not then define, but later knew was some sort of feeling that had moved beyond titillation or curiosity. I didn’t know whether it was because of something I was feeling or something she had done.<br /><br />It didn’t occur to me that it could be because of something that she was feeling. I had no way of comprehending how that could be possible. Yet today, almost a half century later, the sensation and the meaning of that kiss still lingers with me, as a shadow of a dream.<br /><br />Somewhere deep within, I must have dimly sensed what Penny Miller was trying to convey by that kiss: that it was a message — an offer, a plea; but the substance was something I could not decipher.<br /><br />It was clear that after each kiss, we each became more comfortable, more trusting, permitted more entry to levels of — and I never would have then used or thought of the word — intimacy.<br /><br />She told me that she was tired of being called Penny and Pen. I asked her if she minded that people made fun of her when we read “The Odyssey” in class and the teacher mentioned Odysseus’ wife, Penelope.<br /><br />She was very serious when she said she liked <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Penelope</span> as a name because in the story, Penelope had turned away all other men, steadfastly believing Odysseus would return to her.<br /><br />“But of course, my mom screams my name, <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">‘Penelope!’</span> when she gets really mad at me.”<br /><br />I laughed because Penny had said it in a funny way, with a squeaky mock scream, something like Imogene Coca on Sid Ceasar’s show. I said something like, “I swear I’ll never call you ‘Penelope’ in anger, but only when I want to remind you to wait for me.”<br /><br />She seemed to like that a lot, and asked me to kiss her again, which I did, thinking that it was even more exciting having her ask me to kiss her, resulting in my boner almost causing me to double up.<br /><br />When I could breathe, I told her I wanted to give her another name, one that only I would call her. After some unacceptable tries I no longer recall, I settled on “Kid,” telling her that it was because our first movie was about Billy The Kid.<br /><br />I was really thinking about a movie I’d seen on television with Humphrey Bogart called “Casablanca,” where he called the younger Ingrid Bergman, “Kid.” It didn’t exactly fit us because Penny and I were the same age, but it made me feel more “mature.” I really felt the way toward Penny that Bogie felt about Ingrid, somehow protective and responsible, though I couldn’t have explained it at the time.<br /><br />Penny seemed to understand the idea, as she was to “get” most of my screwy notions, and she seemed to like it. At least, she didn’t stop me from calling her “Kid.” Or from putting my hand on her leg when we kissed again.<br /><br />She told me that “Miller” had been changed by her grandfather from “Millstein” and I told her that “Brewster” had been “Brownstein,” so that was another thing we had in common.<br /><br />I kissed her again in the elevator and once more, secretly, at her door, daringly, excitedly, knowing her parents were just on the other side, smugly sure that I was a safe one.<br /><br />When I went to bed alone that night to review every detail in the dark, I realized that there were few moments I would have changed. It had been perfect. It was the best sex I’d ever had up to that point.<br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >[Part 3 will come soon. I will give you a teaser, the first line -MPB]:</span><br /><br /><br />We never formally dated again.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein</span> </div>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-1147799348772722172006-05-16T10:07:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:12:51.079-07:00"CHIMERA" - Artie Brewster's 'Memoir' - Chapter 1<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Artie is an old high school friend of mine from Brooklyn. I haven’t spoken to him for 40 years. Somehow, he tracked me, and sent me the following in the form of an e-mail. He called it “Chimera,” which I had to look up. </span><br /><br />Chimera N. Gr: chimaira Gr.Myth: 1. a fabulous monster; 2. An impossible or foolish fancy... Chimerical adj. 1. Imaginary; fantastic; unreal. 2. Absurd; impossible. 3. Indulging in unrealistic fancies; visionary.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">I am guessing that means this “memoir” is mostly bullshit. But I’m going to publish it in my blog anyway, because bullshit memoirs seem to be acceptable -- these days. Here it is, only slightly abridged to clean up the dirty parts.</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span><br />My Hebrew School rabbi insisted that the Genesis story about Creation was the emmis, The Truth. The way he told it, God, the Omnipotent King Of The Universe, created the world in six days. On the first day, He worked on the heavens, the earth, and the oceans. But The Know-It-All Genius was working in the dark, which apparently accounted for some of His screw-ups, like hurricanes, floods, and that slimy tarry stuff I always got on my feet at Coney Island. It wasn’t until the second day that He got the idea to flip the light switch.<br /><br />I received this version of history with some skepticism, especially after catching the rabbi in the act of parking his car a few blocks away from the temple on Shabbas before he began to sneak up to the temple on foot. I had been ordered to walk the twenty blocks from my house after being caught by my grandmother pedaling my bike to Schul. I rode my bike every Saturday after that, hid it in an alley — until one Saturday, it was stolen.<br /><br />The moral lesson revealed by that episode was not matched until my first day at Lafayette High School, which was spent on the basketball courts waiting for the teachers to end their strike. Was my duty to support the teachers’ struggle or to pursue my education?<br /><br />Conflicted though I was between my father’s ardent unionism and my “socialization” as a dutiful Jewish boy, I’d tried to enter the imposing grey stone building on Benson Avenue in Bensonhurst. But some Bath Beach Italian guys, who wore leather jackets and carried argumentative switchblades, had taken a scrupled stance in support of the picketing teachers and, incidentally, extended summer vacation one extra day by blocking the entrances. That served as a practical solution to my own qualms — and taught me an important lesson. Moral choices should be delayed until events ripen.<br /><br />And so it was that I had to wait until the second day for my first view of someone who almost restored my faith in some Greater Power. Penelope Miller, by the Grace of some unseen hand, was in my freshman English class.<br /><br />In those days, Freshman classes were seated either alphabetically or by height; either way I was in the front and Penny Miller was near the rear. But I soon found myself twisting in my seat, and trying to steal looks at her, then quickly snapping my head away before she caught me staring. If our eyes met, I knew for sure that I would be struck dumb or turned into a pillar of salt or a slab of marble. The gulf between us was far greater than the five rows of chairs that separated us in Freshman English. There were volcanic peaks, shark infested oceans, and rivers of molten lava to cross.<br /><br />It was immediately evident to me that there was something terribly amiss with this female type Thing. She was out of place in my world; she seemed to have descended from some etherial region of my imagination: a creature from mystic legend, science fiction, or a Hollywood inspired wet dream. Even at fourteen years old, I could tell at a glance that — if Penny Miller was human — all of my previous hormonal fantasies about girls had been childishly understated.<br /><br />I couldn’t have described her then in words, and probably can’t now, so many years later. Using my slim fund of metaphoric knowledge as it existed the first high school year, I can say that the difference between Penelope Miller and all of the other females I had previously encountered was algabraic: If other females = X, then Penny Miller = X∞.<br /><br />I should here explain that, sociologically, our school’s population in that era was roughly half American Secular Jewish, half Brooklyn Second Generation Italian. This produced an oddly compatible association of similar, yet unique sub-cultures co-existing in a bubbling stew of adolescent curiosity and fear.<br /><br />I must admit that my instinctive preference was for the Italian, rather than the Jewish, girls. I believe now that this bias was due to my mother, who was Romanian, often mistaken by strangers for Italian. I shared her Olive complexion and jet black hair. My mother loved to flirt and tell naughty jokes. She danced and bounced her bosoms with frisky delight at family affairs. She loved to eat spicy food, and fancied herself a Gypsy. In the words of some forgotten comic, “Oedipus, Schmedipus, I loved my mommy.”<br /><br />The more attractive of the Jewish girls I had seen tended to be on the standoffish side. They practiced a form of seduction which was so heavily encoded with barely audible innuendo that I was at a loss to figure them out. The Italian girls were less mysterious; they tended to be more blatantly erotic, at least in my fantasies, because they were more exotic, tantalizingly accessible, sneering with implied lust, and daring you to cop a feel.<br /><br />The Jewish girls wore sweater sets and pleated skirts, white socks and “tennies.” They wore their hair in pony tails or bouncy natural curls. They were mostly named “Sharon” or “Eunice” or “Bernice.” The Italian girls wore sheer stockings and black pumps with straps that showed their heels, and tight skirts that showcased their asses, tight sweater sets that previewed their breasts — or at least their bras — in excruciating detail. Their hair was sprayed to a concrete immovable set, smelled strongly of alcohol and floral perfume. They were named “Maria,” “Gina” or “Marianne.”<br /><br />In the first few months of high school, my hormones made few cultural distinctions. Stalking the halls, I might have been swimming in the warm Coney Island waters crowded with assorted females in bathing suits and hiding my boner.<br /><br />Maria Mangeone’s stockinged heel as it lifted free of her shoe while sitting at her desk caused me strangling pain. A bra strap showing from Eunice Kagan’s sleeveless blouse was enough to give me cramps. The pink pilling that identified the forward curve of palm sized breasts hiding inside Bernice Moskowitz’ mohair sweater set me off. Gina Cappazola, sitting in the cafeteria across from Marianne D’Amato, freshened her lipstick while peering at her compact and my concentration was gone for the afternoon.<br /><br />They were all attractive, at least in some particular. Certainly, it didn’t take much to attract me at that age. Some girls had one alluring feature or combination of features that I surveyed like a shopper while walking the halls or sitting in class: thrusting breasts, round firm tush, flowing hair, inviting full lips, teasing eyes.<br /><br />But in my memory’s admittedly hyperbolic eye, Penelope Miller’s looks were of another species, a miraculous mutation, a monumental leap in evolution, a composite of all the best features I could have imagined in a girl — a superwoman. Her appearance was something I had never seen in real life and was totally unprepared for; I was unnerved by her flawlessness.<br /><br />For one thing, she was neither definably Jewish nor Italian in appearance; I couldn’t fit her in with any of the other girls in the class. The phrase: “She looks like ____” (fill in the blank with any pitifully inadequate superlative, beginning with “a goddess”) could not be spoken without conscious understatement.<br /><br />It wasn’t just that she had no particular “ethnic” features I associated with the other girls, some of which, in and of themselves were appealing. Neither was she my vision of some non-ethnic white bread paragon of the kind I had little contact with at that age, but had seen in movies and in magazines. She was neither comparable to Marilyn Monroe nor Audrey Hepburn, or any fantasy object in between. She was neither “Annette,” nor “Darlene” of the sexiest show on television, “The Mickey Mouse Club.” She was far above those shadows.<br /><br />Penny Miller’s facial features were subtle and delicate, a perfect balance of sensuality, intelligence, and elegance. She was breathtakingly stunning, the kind you watch from a distance and avert your eyes as she nears, like oncoming high headlight beams. In repose, she exuded a sort of eerie calm, an unguarded innocent sense of assurance.<br /><br />I have since seen many and known some of Penelope Miller’s genera of beautiful woman: who stand in elevators, ignoring awestruck stares with distant, icy mien; who with fresh wholesome American airs exercise in mylar, oblivious to the gasps they evoke; who enter rooms amidst stunned murmurs and whimpers. Penny Miller, as I remember her at fourteen, was something apart from even these exceptional beings I have seen during my long life of awareness of such creatures.<br /><br />Beneath the dazzling symmetry of Penny Miller’s face, there was something even more unfathomable than mere striking beauty, a shell of mystery that separated her from others, even those girls I had written off as beyond my scope.<br /><br />I had long realized that, to girls, I was destined to be categorized as “nonthreatening,” a boy who girls trusted, because I was clearly without any dangerous or sexy aura. Even in the unforgiving Darwinian blackboard jungle, this was considered a pitiable label.<br /><br />Because I could be trusted not to overstep prescribed boundaries, there was a small sub-class of sympathetic girls (the sort who would later become social workers with the disabled) who ventured to invite me to their finished basements after school to dance, and then to make out on narrow sticky naughahyde benches beneath wood paneled walls. But humping was as far as I’d ever gotten in eighth grade; now I was a high schooler and expected to graduate to more complex and challenging activities. I had resolved to change the way girls thought of me, take more risks, no matter the likelihood of rejection. This was my primary goal in freshman year, that and making the baseball team.<br /><br />Unfortunately, I’d discovered early that I was the kind of kid whose reach exceeded his grasp in both endeavors. My desires outdistanced my abilities by planetary measures. I knew this was a curse which had to be accepted as much as the bump on my nose, being left handed, and all the other immutable infirmities of my looks and abilities. In school, I was learning to adapt to my intellectual limitations, to promote strengths and manage weaknesses. Any subject that required comfort with numbers would always be a boring puzzle; if words were allowed, I could manage to get along. Accepting these realities would narrow choices for me, eliminating entire careers but opening others that might provide some “succor” (I used to like that word - it sounded dirty but isn’t), even while dashing childish dreams of becoming the next Oppenheimer or Chuck Yeager.<br /><br /><br />In the same way, I was learning that I would always struggle to be satisfied with the type of girls who went for me; to resist the trap of yearning for the girls whose pursuit offered only inevitable misery. I was beginning to suspect that this necessity to compromise, to settle, to accept mediocrity, was a constant that would trickle into all facets of my life; in fact, it would become the theme of my life. With a heavy heart, I gathered the sense to narrow my range, to accept the challenge of wanting those who wanted me.<br /><br />Considering these truths, it was immediately evident that Penny Miller was so far beyond my grasp that it was nonsensical to even dream that she might have anything to do with me, in a sexual way that is, which was the only way that counted to me at that age. It took me until December 1st to build the courage to even speak directly to her.<br /><br />By that time, she knew my name because I was a talker in English class, my arm always upraised to answer a question about the subject matter. In those days, I knew how to write a sentence within the rules, and could even spell, before spell checkers when spelling counted. I was such a nerd that I didn’t know yet that it was uncool to participate in class discussions much less to volunteer an insight, showing that I was bright and that I’d actually read and understood the material.<br /><br />I was slow to realize that there was extreme social risk in seeming to curry favor with the teacher, who was required by the prevailing social code to sweat through his curriculum without student assistance. Luckily, I was also a smart ass, and occasionally made clever funny asides that made the class laugh and the teacher scold me. As far back as fifth grade, I’d stumbled upon the discovery that class clowning could be a route to a certain limited popularity for me.<br /><br />A few of my wise cracks evoked tepid smiles from Penny Miller, as revealed by my frequent stolen looks for her reaction. But these blips were not enough to encourage me to take the plunge into the bottomless chasm that separated us.<br /><br />Penny’s general indifference to my charm was a minor setback, completely lacking in surprise, even somewhat comforting. Once you know you can never have the most expensive toy, settling for second best becomes acceptable, necessary for mental health. I was used to hand-me-downs from my brother. My closet was full of damaged model airplanes, one-legged tin soldiers, flashlights with chipped lenses. Even my Schwinn had lost a fender. I could make do.<br /><br />There were a few girls who showed interest in me in that first year. In my Algebra class, plump Gina Maione giggled at my jokes and allowed me — over a painfully long period of time — to persuade her to permit me to put my hand on her breast and then, after the glacial passage of eons, to move my fingers under her sweater and, eventually — with the coming of a new Ice Age — to slip a tip of a finger under her bra while we humped. All the while, I listened intently for the arrival of her parents, who would surely discover us, kill me and toss my hacked up body into the swamp near the school — or worse, would force me to marry Gina and to spend the rest of my life hauling garbage for La Famiglia.<br /><br />For the most part, I smothered my hormones in sports. At the time, I didn’t make the connection between sports and sexual urges, but it was clearly more than a coincidence that freshman sports was very big for almost all the boys. To a kid in Brooklyn in the 50's, baseball was like the military to a Prussian lad, the first love and the dream for a life’s work.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Artie sent me a lot more of this garbage, which I'll post later, if anybody cares.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein</span><br /></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-1147798673647226222006-05-16T09:56:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:20:21.368-07:00"After Words" - Act 1, Scene 1<span style="font-family:courier new;">The crying is what always gets to Ben. Acid that etches into his ... No, don’t say “heart.” Ben wouldn’t get caught in that trap again. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Okay, but Tracey sure knows the break-up drill. First and last: make it hurt; it’s her specialty. Red raw cheeks, stringy after-sex hair, “I-thought-we-had-something-going” patter.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">From the bathroom, Ben hears bottles dropping into a plastic shopping bag. Inching toward the front door, he whines, “Tracey, you don’t have to do that.”<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">Hears, “No(sniffle, sniffle),” breath catching. “I do have to do this. It’s called (sniffle, cough) closure.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“Oh yeah.” Ben lips the word, ‘closure.’ Mumbles, “I remember that one.” It’s an icy wind from his past: “closure,” what therapists prescribe to kill all the memories — the good, the bad, and the silly — like an indiscriminate anti-biotic. A laxative that empties your soul.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Tracey slinks from the bathroom. Drops the Ralphs bag full of discarded Ben mementos on the coffee table. Sits on her couch. Allows him to see a leg, thighs, a hint of crotch that he is going to miss. Covers with her robe and rests her arms across her stomach, bends forward to underscore the pain he causes her. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Eloquent, that’s what she is.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“You want the Bowl tickets?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Pleasant surprise escapes. “You got them?”<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">“Yeah,” with eyes saying, that hurt. “There were plenty left after all.” Takes a cheap shot. “Apparently not much demand for Greek folk music concerts.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“No kidding?” Ben regrets this, then thinks, fuckit, be tough. “You don’t want them?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">She makes a face that Ben remembers later as the one bright spot of the evening. Dumps the tickets into the bag with Ben’s parting gifts, holds the burden toward him, her eyes squeezed tight. Ben takes the bag without touching her hand.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“I found the (sniffle) blue briefs I bought you. I put them in there.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“Oh, yeah, thanks,” mumbled aloud. “Wondered where those went to.” Resumes his moon-walk retreat. “Better be going, Trace. Meeting at nine and you, probably, well ...”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Her hands press against her eyes. She runs fingers through her hair. “I’m calling in sick,” seeps through elbows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">“Sure, good idea.” Waits for the next volley, but her timing is perfect. He would have to stay on the hook for another in the string of silences. He owed that much. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Fingers near the doorknob, he risks one more word, just one: “Then ...” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">He hasn’t accounted for her talent for ambush. Tracey the Tracer, he once named her.<br /><br />Sniper bullets zing into Ben’s body without mercy: Thud! “Shaeffer, you’re just like the others, after all. You make a clean getaway, slink into the night.” Thump! “You won’t find anyone better than me, you know. Not in a million years.” Thwak!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">Wounded, he still finds the strength to grasp the knob. “I know, Trace, I won’t even try.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Walking the stone lane to the condo gate, wounds begin to sting. He post-mortems the exchange in his head. When he gets to the curb, he dumps the Ralphs bag into a trash container — after removing the Bowl tickets. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">“I know, Trace, I won’t even try.”</span> That was good, he says to himself later. That was at least something he meant at the time.<br /><br />Under the circumstances, it was almost admirable.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein</span><br /></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28215819.post-1147796476342808302006-05-16T09:16:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:22:09.675-07:00A Very Short Romantic Comedy<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="font-size:+0;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="font-family:arial;">ACT I</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Do I love you?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His question shocked her. Was he trying to be clever? He sounded confused, helpless, like he had missed something that was really important. He was terrified, as if asking, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >“Is there a spider on my back?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She hedged her bet. A gentle tease; a test. “Well, let’s see,” she said through a smile after wetting her lips. She put a finger to his face, actually touched it, traced a line that cut deeply from his brow to the bridge of his nose.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Your skin is pale, a bit clammy. Your eyes are ...” There she paused, trying to find a word for it, decided on, “trapped.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“No,” he said quickly. “No, that’s not it. Not at all.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She put her palm on his cheek to stop his rant. “No fever.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You sure? I’m feeling awfully warm.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You are? Well, that might be a symptom.” Still smiling, she asked, “Swollen glands?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He put his own fingers to his throat, where he thought his glands should be, the ones that hurt when he swallowed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“How ‘bout other glands?” This she said with a laugh in her voice. When he didn’t get it, she lowered her eyes and raised them and lowered them more pointedly until he did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Well, yeah, there’s that. But ...” he didn’t finish the “but” and she figured out what he meant by the shrug that followed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Still, it is some evidence.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“C’mon, be serious,” he whined.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It took her a while to say, “I am very serious. You’re asking me if you love me. Not if I love you, right?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Uh, that's right."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, no one ever asked me that question before.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Really?” It hadn’t occurred to him that the question was unusual, although, when he considered it, he didn’t remember ever asking it or even hearing it asked. Another thought led him to say, “I suppose all the guys you know always know that they love you, huh?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Once she figured out the meaning of that convoluted sentence, she really let go a laugh. “That’s right. Sooner or later, they all know that they do. Or that they don’t.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That’s when his breathing got away from him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ACT II</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You’re hyperventilating,” she said, her smile all gone. “Relax.” and when he didn’t, “Do you have a paper bag?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He gasped. “Am I gonna heave?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His chest was heaving plenty. She put her palm on his chest, and repeated “relax” a few times, but the words and action had the opposite effect on him. His pallor turned almost gray, but with silly red dots on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, clown make-up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Finally, she was really alarmed. She took his face quickly with both hands and pressed her lips to his, blew a lungful of air into him. That did the trick, and his shoulders sagged.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">ACT III</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When she inhaled, his tongue was sucked into her mouth and with it, his question was finally and certainly answered.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">By the time her lips unstuck from his, their bodies were lying side by side, tangled in a pile of semi-discarded clothing, bed sheets twisted like sheet metal after a tornado.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Finis<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Copyright © 2006 by Mort Borenstein</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Mortimerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10258255437279886326noreply@blogger.com0