"Lizzie, if you're not going to live by the rules of this house, well, you can just find another mother and maid, and cook, by the way."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do. There are things that are just not on. You've crossed that line, again, and I'm sick and tired of it."
"That's three cliches, mom."
"I don't care what that is. You'd better--"
"Better what?"
"Stop. Stop, I say. Where'd you get such sass?"
"From you."
"Out you go."
At that my mom's hands grabbed my shoulders and turned me around. She marched me--my cliche--to the front door and pushed me out onto the porch. She grabbed the wildly swinging screen door and pulled it shut and locked it. She looked out through the screen door, her face now a blur peering out at me.
"You're taking this. . . . Unhinged, you are. Unhinged."
Sunday, June 7, 2020
No bearing
Alternate ending, considered to have no bearing on a canonical narrative.
Sissy stormed out of the diner and crossed Highway 50. She stood there and with the feeling of stamping one foot repeatedly in defiance, she signaled to hitch a ride with an oncoming semi. He blew right past and in the wind-wake and dust he created--no, that her so-called partner created, she actually stamped her foot three times.
Meryl looked out the screen door of the diner and called, "You really are deranged. You'll be back straight away." A moment later she added, "The loneliest road in America is not the easiest place to hitchhike."
A white pickup truck slowly approached Sissy and stopped. The next thing Meryl didn't see was Sissy, just the tailgate of that white pickup heading east. "She'll be back," she said to herself, not a doubt in her soul. She turned and stood at the counter waiting to pay the bill for two half-eaten breakfast specials.
Sissy stormed out of the diner and crossed Highway 50. She stood there and with the feeling of stamping one foot repeatedly in defiance, she signaled to hitch a ride with an oncoming semi. He blew right past and in the wind-wake and dust he created--no, that her so-called partner created, she actually stamped her foot three times.
Meryl looked out the screen door of the diner and called, "You really are deranged. You'll be back straight away." A moment later she added, "The loneliest road in America is not the easiest place to hitchhike."
A white pickup truck slowly approached Sissy and stopped. The next thing Meryl didn't see was Sissy, just the tailgate of that white pickup heading east. "She'll be back," she said to herself, not a doubt in her soul. She turned and stood at the counter waiting to pay the bill for two half-eaten breakfast specials.
The poem that I wrote*
On Sunday, November 24, 2019.
This is the poem I wrote the other evening that you asked about. Before reading, you need to know it is part of a novel or drama I am working on about a character, Johnnie Passnstyle. The writing I am doing is like a novel and like a play.
So there is a cast of characters plus a narrator, a kind of chorus figure, in this case a kind of genderless voice. This person stands apart from the others on stage and tells a story, makes comments, introduces action, etc., like in Greek plays and in Shakespeare. Below the poem in its final form plus a kind of translation of the ideas.
[the poem begins]
Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
a choral voice no words to sow.
Without words direct from others?
S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
No wise insights to impart,
from stories! that'd be their start.
Time has passed and passes now,
like waves wash'd against life's prow.
Seasons come and seasons go:
We know not what we would know.
Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
could accelerate time anon apace.
I would try such a narrative trick
and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
But only she can say what went and passed,
so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
I yield the stage to our only sage.
Johnnie's words let this story wage.
[end of poem]
This is translation, but the poem itself is better and more than this.
Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
[I feel sorry for me. I am complaining.]
a choral voice no words to sow.
[I am like a narrator with no words to say.]
Without words direct from others?
[I ask the question about not having words from other people.]
S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
[Without those words, I, genderless, have only my preferences about what to say.]
No wise insights to impart,
[I have nothing wise to say or teach.]
from stories! that'd be their start.
[It is from experience or stories we hear, that is how one gets something to say.]
Time has passed and passes now,
[Time goes on.]
like waves wash'd against life's prow.
[Life is like a boat at sea with waves that bump against the front of it.]
Seasons come and seasons go:
[More time passes now measured in seasons.]
We know not what we would know.
[And still we have nothing to say, or do not know what to say . . .]
Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
[I am envious of the narrator (chorus) in Shakespeare's Winter's Tale.]
could accelerate time anon apace.
[He or she could speed up the narrative by summarizing details.]
I would try such a narrative trick
[If I could, I would try the same trick in storytelling.]
and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
[I would do this by shortening what my heroine has to say, or summarize what has happened that we didn't see or hear on stage. Her shtick (Yiddish) is her story that is very familiar to her to re-tell.]
But only she can say what went and passed,
[Only she is able to say what happened to her.]
so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
[So I had better stop my little song, this poem--it must be boring for you.]
I yield the stage to our only sage.
[I am stopping, will leave the stage of this play, and will give it to the only one who can speak with authority.]
Johnnie's words let this story wage.
[Let her, Johnnie, use her power to struggle to tell the story in her words.]
At this point the novel-drama of Johnnie Passnstyle continues in the heroine's words and in verbatim conversations that she is able to recall, and report, exactly (a talent she has).
_____
* Also posted on Passnstyle' blog.
This is the poem I wrote the other evening that you asked about. Before reading, you need to know it is part of a novel or drama I am working on about a character, Johnnie Passnstyle. The writing I am doing is like a novel and like a play.
So there is a cast of characters plus a narrator, a kind of chorus figure, in this case a kind of genderless voice. This person stands apart from the others on stage and tells a story, makes comments, introduces action, etc., like in Greek plays and in Shakespeare. Below the poem in its final form plus a kind of translation of the ideas.
[the poem begins]
Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
a choral voice no words to sow.
Without words direct from others?
S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
No wise insights to impart,
from stories! that'd be their start.
Time has passed and passes now,
like waves wash'd against life's prow.
Seasons come and seasons go:
We know not what we would know.
Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
could accelerate time anon apace.
I would try such a narrative trick
and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
But only she can say what went and passed,
so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
I yield the stage to our only sage.
Johnnie's words let this story wage.
[end of poem]
This is translation, but the poem itself is better and more than this.
Unenviable me--my cry of woe--
[I feel sorry for me. I am complaining.]
a choral voice no words to sow.
[I am like a narrator with no words to say.]
Without words direct from others?
[I ask the question about not having words from other people.]
S/he, that is me, left with druthers.
[Without those words, I, genderless, have only my preferences about what to say.]
No wise insights to impart,
[I have nothing wise to say or teach.]
from stories! that'd be their start.
[It is from experience or stories we hear, that is how one gets something to say.]
Time has passed and passes now,
[Time goes on.]
like waves wash'd against life's prow.
[Life is like a boat at sea with waves that bump against the front of it.]
Seasons come and seasons go:
[More time passes now measured in seasons.]
We know not what we would know.
[And still we have nothing to say, or do not know what to say . . .]
Enviable I, the Winter's Tale, its choral voice,
[I am envious of the narrator (chorus) in Shakespeare's Winter's Tale.]
could accelerate time anon apace.
[He or she could speed up the narrative by summarizing details.]
I would try such a narrative trick
[If I could, I would try the same trick in storytelling.]
and eclipse my dear heroine's shtick.
[I would do this by shortening what my heroine has to say, or summarize what has happened that we didn't see or hear on stage. Her shtick (Yiddish) is her story that is very familiar to her to re-tell.]
 |
| 'We meet not others along life's way but ourselves.' |
But only she can say what went and passed,
[Only she is able to say what happened to her.]
so better that I this ditty leave--at last.
[So I had better stop my little song, this poem--it must be boring for you.]
I yield the stage to our only sage.
[I am stopping, will leave the stage of this play, and will give it to the only one who can speak with authority.]
Johnnie's words let this story wage.
[Let her, Johnnie, use her power to struggle to tell the story in her words.]
At this point the novel-drama of Johnnie Passnstyle continues in the heroine's words and in verbatim conversations that she is able to recall, and report, exactly (a talent she has).
_____
* Also posted on Passnstyle' blog.
Monday, December 17, 2018
He looked at the cashier in a way that said, "Are you from outer space?" To which she replied to the inaudible question, "Indeed." He then looked down, confused. How should he understand this latest ambiguous remark? She held out her hand. Within seconds, he took it, turned it over and kissed it. She blushed and muttered something inaudible and declared, "What will it be, your good looks or cash or credit?" "Credit," he said. She waited a long moment and then said, "This is the only time I can do this." He thanked her and held up one finger in a remember-me (or -this) sort of way, which she took to mean he would--remember her and the favor. He started to go and she asked when would they meet again. "After work," was his reply and he walked away without turning back to see her reaction. She then turned and dropped some no small change into the cash register drawer and said, "Next."
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Red waiting room
The floor pattern is straight columns and rows.
Then, sameness's face relieves you no more.
Ever this open office, so closed, goes.
See here, and people that go by dot gov,
no matter whether this country or that,
engender no true fondness or dear love.
No help for those who stand, sit or sat.
Red is all a bureaucracy begat:
In that door, the tape's endless before us.
Yer blood will boil hues and brains fry in fat.
Patterns and lines, red tape--there's the end-us.
Now listen to me. The most can be said.
Help from hell here? a polite "Drop you dead."
Monday, May 25, 2020
Museums for cheap tourists
Whether or not Jesus ever existed--I allude to those textual critics all over YouTube who make this claim, or strongly suggest it--the religions that "He" inspired inspired great works of art and architecture, not to mention other cultural contributions worthy of, for example, reading (C. S. Lewis, John Milton, Gerard Manly Hopkins).
So whether God-from-psychological-need, or having had an inexplicable mystical experience assuring one of something other and better,
or
True, that is s/he/it is irrefutable/historical fact--therefore evidence-based surety of existence, I still bow in reverence and respect and wonder and appreciation in the museums I go to, if admission is free, or as-you-deem-appropriate: to wit, Christian places of worship.
In my travels, I have visited these museums and without fail come away moved to silence by the simplicity or sumptuously adorned collections and installations on display. I recommend these culture centers.
Okay. I am a cheap tourist.
So whether God-from-psychological-need, or having had an inexplicable mystical experience assuring one of something other and better,
or
True, that is s/he/it is irrefutable/historical fact--therefore evidence-based surety of existence, I still bow in reverence and respect and wonder and appreciation in the museums I go to, if admission is free, or as-you-deem-appropriate: to wit, Christian places of worship.
In my travels, I have visited these museums and without fail come away moved to silence by the simplicity or sumptuously adorned collections and installations on display. I recommend these culture centers.
Okay. I am a cheap tourist.
Free love, free dove*
There once was a lass from Brno,
who thought all men she did know.
But when she met me--
Her! I drove up a tree.
And she teased me a man with her show!
At the tree I gazed up as one should,
and I saw what everyone could.
There in little distress,
a shorter wonder-filled dress,
she promised me whatever I would.
For my view she backed the way down
to my waiting arms all around.
But against my delight,
she took a quick flight,
and escaped away to the town.
After I turned and that way I ran
as fast and faster--I can--
but when she got home,
I was left all alone.
So thus with my song I began.
She looked out the bed window
and said 'I'll not be a widow.
Climb the vine to me.
We can play like we're we.'
Sooo . . . went up for a jolly good go!
We two we trans-sported our love
until fate looked down from above.
He's a nasty old trickster.
Sad, I'm not longer with her.
She's back up her tree, a dove.
The moral you see--drive no girl up a tree,
for there you ne'er get what you see.
It's better to know
how things usually go.
For then you will like her--be free!
_____
* A Valentine's poem for . . . someone.
who thought all men she did know.
But when she met me--
Her! I drove up a tree.
And she teased me a man with her show!
At the tree I gazed up as one should,
and I saw what everyone could.
There in little distress,
a shorter wonder-filled dress,
she promised me whatever I would.
For my view she backed the way down
to my waiting arms all around.
But against my delight,
she took a quick flight,
and escaped away to the town.
After I turned and that way I ran
as fast and faster--I can--
but when she got home,
I was left all alone.
So thus with my song I began.
She looked out the bed window
and said 'I'll not be a widow.
Climb the vine to me.
We can play like we're we.'
Sooo . . . went up for a jolly good go!
We two we trans-sported our love
until fate looked down from above.
He's a nasty old trickster.
Sad, I'm not longer with her.
She's back up her tree, a dove.
The moral you see--drive no girl up a tree,
for there you ne'er get what you see.
It's better to know
how things usually go.
For then you will like her--be free!
_____
* A Valentine's poem for . . . someone.
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