Lake Charles 9/11 Commeration

I am honored to be a small part of Lake Charles' Commemoration of 9/11. The program starts at 6:00pm on Sunday near the 9/11 Memorial on the Civic Center Grounds. Should inclement weather prevail, the program will take place in the Buccaneer Room and will last approximately 30 minutes. Join us if you can. Below is the program schedule:

– In Memoriam –

We reverently remember those who lost their lives on September 11, 2001.

At this time let us also remember the countless acts of bravery and kindness that followed.

Russell Keene

Killed in the attack on the World Trade Center

Kevin Yokum, USN Killed in the attack on the Pentagon

— Program —

Welcome........................................................ John Ieyoub, President–Lake Charles City Council

Guy Brame, President–Calcasieu Parish Police Jury

Presentation of Colors ................................ LCFD & LCPD Honor Guard

Pledge of Allegiance.................................... Boy Scouts Troop #5

Prayer............................................................. Pastor Todd Schumacher Chaplain, LCFD

Pastor Steve James Chaplain, LCPD

National Anthem......................................... Melissa Vaughn

Introduction of Guests................................ John Ieyoub

Remarks......................................................... Chief Keith Murray, LCFD

Chief Don Dixon, LCPD

Reflections..................................................... Ed Nelson

Beulah Yokum

Moment of Silence

The Day Our World Changed........................ Trée George

Written by Dr. Kirsti A. Dyer

Remarks......................................................... Mayor Randy Roach

City of Lake Charles

Amazing Grace............................................... Piper-James Dean

Benediction................................................... Rev. Dr. H. Leon Williams

Taps................................................................ Dave Scott, Ricky Peters

Gallery Print: Parchment Mornings

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This week only, everything on Studio-George is 40% off, including our signed limited edition prints. Coupon code: intro

Happy Shopping!

In addition to our own Prints and Notecards, we offer standard and custom printing services.

Printing: 

Simply want prints of your own photos? We do that. Using only the highest grade papers from Canson, Moab, Museo, Hahnemühle, Inkpress and Canon, we do prints from 4x6 to 13x19 on gloss, matte, metallic or canvas. Want your matte print with a hand-deckled edge? We do that too.

All of our printing is in-house. We employ no outside labor so when you order a print from us, every step of the process, from printing to packing, is conducted by us and us alone (just the two of us). If you call, we answer the phone. If you email, we respond to the email. If we have suggestions on paper or size, you hear from us directly.

Custom work: 

Want something more from your photos? Do they need minor adjustments to exposure, saturation or just a tighter cropping? We do that. Want your photo to look like a watercolor, pencil sketch, or oil painting? We do that too. Want your photo to look like a photo but have a larger than life look? We can do that. Do you have a great photo, but it is slightly out of focus? We can fix that. In short, using Photoshop, Corel Painter and a host of other programs, we can transform your photo into something unique, something more than just a photograph, something that will make people ask, How did you do that?

When we do custom work, you always see a proof of our progress and you have a chance to give feedback and direction. If we can’t do something, we will tell you. If the particular style doesn’t work for the photo at hand, we will tell you that too. In other words, the work becomes collaborative. We apply our creative sensibilities. You provide feedback. In short, we want you happy and we want you coming back and we want you recommending your friends.

Sincerely,

Trée and Stacie 
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Our Yorkie Collection is ready!

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Last Friday at the Porch Coffeehouse Reading

My Aunt, Me and Mom

The Poets

All of the poets who were in attendance (Vision/Verse 2011): Stella Nessanovich, Julie Kane (newly appointed poet laureate of Louisiana), J Bruce Fuller, Michael Shewmaker, Rita Costello, William Coppage, Darrell Borque (outgoing poet laureate of Louisiana), and Tree' George.

Vision/Verse (June 4th)

Time:
Saturday, June 4 · 6:00pm - 9:00pm

Location:
Art Associates Gallery
809 Kirby Street, Suite 208
Lake Charles, Louisiana


Vision/Verse, the annual poetry and art exhibition produced by Yellow Flag Press, is back for its third year in Lake Charles. The opening reception will be held on Saturday, June 4th, from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. at Art Associates Gallery located in the historic Central School Arts and Humanities Center. A reading of all the exhibit's poems will be held at the Central School theatre at 7 p.m. during the evening.

The exhibit reinforces the bond between the literary and visual arts by encouraging artists and poets to examine their own creation process and how it can be influenced by another art form, specifically how art inspires poetry and how poetry is influenced by art. It brings together artists and poets across Southwest Louisiana as well as across the nation, including Darrell Bourque, the current Louisiana Poet Laureate, and Julie Kane, Louisiana's next Poet Laureate.

The exhibit's opening reception is the end to a six month long collaboration between ten poets and ten artists. Each of the ten artists created a new piece of artwork based on one the originally submitted poems; simultaneously, each of the poets wrote a new poem based on artwork by one of the artists. At the end of the process, the exhibit is composed of forty pieces of work -- twenty of which were created for the exhibit.

Yellow Flag Press, a local press that specializes in limited edition broadsides and chapbooks, publishes the Vision/Verse poems as broadsides, visual representations of poetry. Each poem will have ten limited edition broadsides for sale. The first edition of each broadside is framed and hung in the gallery with its complementary piece of art.

Poets:

Maya Beerbower
Darrell Bourque
Kolleen Carney
William Lusk Coppage
Rita D. Costello
Trée George
Ava Leavell Haymon
Julie Kane
Stella Nesanovich
Michael Shewmaker

Artists:

Graham Austin
Lauren Brasher
Martin Castillo
Brendan Egan
Meghan Fleming
Tony Forrest
Josh Guimbellot
Heather Ryan Kelley
Chris Marcello
Allison Weeks Thomas

Reading this Friday night (June 3rd)

The Arts and Humanities Council of Southwest Louisiana and the Porch Coffee House & Café will present a reading by two local poets, Rita D. Costello and Trée George on Friday, June 3rd, at 7 p.m. at the Porch as part of the First Friday Reading Series. The reading series, which began in January, has showcased the talents of poets and writers in Southwest Louisiana and has helped to generate interest locally in building the Lake Charles literary scene.

Trée George was born and raised in Baton Rouge and received his B.A. and M.A. in history at LSU. He has lived in Tennessee and worked in sales and management training before starting a studio where he works to produce multi-layered artwork with photography, poetry, and fiction. His poems work closely with the prose poem instead of the more traditional forms of poetry. “As a visual learner, my poetry is almost always the byproduct of an image,” George stated. “I see first, write second.”

Originally from New York, Rita D. Costello has lived all over America and China. She is Director of Freshman/Sophomore English at McNeese State in Louisiana and co-editor of the anthology Bend Don't Shatter. Her work has appeared in journals such as: Glimmer Train, ACM, Baltimore Review, and Hawai’i Review. Costello has won the Glimmer Train Poetry Prize and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Testing iWatermark again

Testing iWatermark

First Card Design

Happy Mother's Day (a bit early)

finger of wind

I could open a vein this morning. I feel that pull, that flow, of sun rising, so silent in low spring arc, so relentless, this spinning, this rising and falling, this exhaling of heat into the darkness. And too, this giving of life. And I wonder of my waste, of what value is thrown into the ocean, of what feeds. Perhaps here, as I watch morning warm lucid petals, is my tether.

And I think of reading, of how I do so little anymore, of how I never wanted to read too much, never wanted to finish anything but the worst. I know this attraction, to lie in the summer grass and feel the breeze of life, cleansing. Life beckoning life. Brother to brother. This is how it feels. That kiss of warmth on my cheek. A brother looking back. A finger of wind calling forth.

___________

. . . I feel that pull, that flow, of sun rising, so silent in low spring arc, so relentless, this spinning, this rising and falling, this exhaling of heat into darkness. And too, this giving of life. . . . I know this attraction, to lie in the summer grass and feel the cleansing breeze. Life beckoning life. Brother to brother. This is how it feels. That kiss of warmth on my cheek. A brother looking back. A finger of wind calling forth. Come walk with me.

how

How does one write without what is not within? How does one add anything of substance to the daily narrative? What does it mean to build? And of addition, what is this? In a reality of change, can anything last? Is anything not relative? And of Love? What of this? This water and fish. This bird and air. So I say be damned all the clocks, especially the one on my wall that is an hour behind, that one I never bothered to change. It will be right again. I'd like to say the same.

Me

of where and why

Writing needs not retreat
but from one's self
that teeming spume of consciousness
forever obscuring the sea below


The pen longs not of sight or scenery
as the ear too hides behind silence absolute
or at least the idea of it
so pretty, so incorrigibly wrong


So too (And) the page seeks not the light
from a farmhouse window
or the wood nicked and scarred
through poverty's years


Red herrings them all
but shadows shimmering
whispering pelagic falsehoods
nefarious and treacherous
these diamond glimmers


Release, sweet orgasmic release
is sought, needed, prayed and begged upon
Inky depth sunk and cold amber raised
of dulcet rhythms, these
tribal beats as buried
as the heart
within satyric flesh


I need not vista, but vice
not silence, but sinuousness
Give me wine and song
and I'll write of women (woman)
as if their (her) blood were my ink
as if their (her) breath were
but the fire of god unleashed


for what is writing if not creation (this act)
to bring to life as soil to seed
the windswept field waving (dewy)
as the wettish page now damply symboled
of daybreak's warm smile
upon a cold pillow

Oh The Places You'll Go! Dr. Suess

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own.  And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets.  Look ‘em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don’t worry.  Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted.  But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out?  Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored.  there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame!  You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
‘cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

Man Overboard

I rise into the fog of morning. My nimbus mind smoked in dream. I hear the foghorn unseen of day tolling for tribute, the tax of a beating heart. First, coffee, to course the veins of sleep. Then a plan. Not for what it seems. Not to accomplish. Nor to attain or gain. Neither not the day to rise and bake. But a plan of this and that, of simple things like shower, diet, exercise. And too with nail-less hammer, to drive away the ghost of ego, that quicksand of immolation, of consumption. These simple things, this forward movement of mind seeking tether, seeking movement, to join the living and breathe the air of life into weary lungs, to know of creation, even if but to float, to be carried somewhere, anywhere but here, anywhere but this stagnation.

Universe Calling

Tumblr

Decided to try my hand at micro-blogging via Tumblr. Everything created and posted by and from my iPhone. Tumblr is fantastically concise, clean and cogent in design.  You can find me here: 

TréeGeorge

Self-portrait Percolated

Eye of Yul Percolated

Von Percolated

morning dawns cold

Morning dawns cold. Rooftops of frost. Fields of crystal dew. And somewhere, a pond stares in ghostly pale reflection, frozen as the child within.

First iPhone created fractal

First iPad created fractal

809. slippage

My hand is sore, something I only notice when I write. It is the holding of the pen by which I know it, this pain, know it is not natural, not the aging I see so clearly in the mirror nor some disease of unknown origin. My hand hurts to write and only when I write; otherwise, I feel no pain at all; the hand is, in every way, whole, healthy. The pain, to be clear, is not in the writing or perhaps I should say not in the act of writing, but rather it is in the hand, or more so, in my mind and transferred to the hand. And by this holding of the pen, I know. I am under extreme stress.

What I find most terrifying is not the stress, but that I must know it slant, know it by shadow, know it by degree of act and not of pure consciousness or unhindered awareness. This crass blindness to my own self is what I call slippage. I am aging. Life has found me wanting. In my premature weakness, in this calving of the psyche, I become, under the chisel, the hammer, as so many icebergs. And in this way, I see myself slowly floating away as one might if from shore, from what was whole, the country of oneself. And too, there is this sense that the shards shall never be whole again. One feels one is less than before. That what was there yesterday, is not here today. I suppose there is some correlation to knowledge and memory and the erosion that age imposes on experience. One feels as a book with pages missing, the story fuzzy, the fragments that remain as puzzling as the gaps. Like looking at a dry riverbed and wondering of the water that used to flow, must have coursed, as blood courses, in the living. Something died within me when Cait died. I can feel its weight on what remains. I carry it every day. And to think, I know it by my hand, by writing.

journal entry, John Discovery--written sometime shortly after departure from Polaris

darts and daggers

There is a difference between leader and follower, between a plan presented and a plan created. So much of life is solitary, our internal experiences ours and ours alone; unity and togetherness but illusions; protectors of our psyche as coats against the cold. And what of Love? This invisible thread that weaves a life between two, that stitches collar to coat. Does it not need two? Does it not demand an other? And do we not punish most with isolation, solitary confinement. Hate me if you will. Throw your darts and daggers jagged. But by Janus, don't walk away.

benthic stone

I dreamt he was a dolphin and she the sea. Again and again he dove, shimmering and arched. Again and again she sighed, glistening and parted. And where he leaped, I drowned. Slapped by her spume. Stung with her salt. Leap and dive, leap and dive. Sigh moaning upon sigh. The sky bright, burning bright. And still her waters heal him. Releasing and healing, releasing and healing. I saw this from the murky depths. This weaving of two lives. And then bubbles. My life rising into their wake. All is quiet now. I see them dimming, from a cage of benthic stone.

WIP: of cotton

WIP (work in progress): The piece below contains the original first draft and, in parenthesis, optional edits both inclusionary and ex. Although this does not make for the best reading experience, I hope it gives some insight into revision. Enjoy. 
 
She smelled of cotton and in this way (I found she) was linked to every woman (of significance) I knew. This smell (this redolent scent), (mind you), was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any perfume (fragrance), artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, (not air), of hands free of (from) polish, (and) skin soft in labor, (not lab). (Her) {she stood before me,} unadorned skin and the thin robe. (She stood with her) head turned upon my chest (and as) I leaned to kiss her neck, parting {holding aside} (her) golden hair, drawing breath. This breath, of a robe long in storage, an afterthought, random, as there were many other robes she could have chosen, was the memory of (love shown with) weary eyes. It was the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small, of meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had (ever) known of love, everything I (sought.) had (ever) wanted. We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made, easy and natural as breath, of that breath standing before bath, of arms that spoke where tongues would not, of (the) continuity {in the way} of blood, of no beginning, (and) {of} no end.
 
__________
 
revised: second draft
 
We made love as if love was all we had. We made love as one does when love is what is made. Natural as rain to ground, seed to sapling. In the peace of repose, we lie incandescent. Silence descending like dusk. Not even the sound of our breath is heard.
 
Chiaroscuro and sinuous she rises. I hear shape not sound. She moves across my still eyes and I am wordless before this nature, this lapping warmness that engulfs me. From the closet she emerges wearing only a thin robe. We meet in the bathroom before mirror and tub. Her arms open, taking me into her softness, her head pillowed upon my chest. Parting her hair as one would a curtain, I lean and kiss her cream white neck. She smells of stored cotton, of chest-of-drawers, of a time before I knew her.
 
In this way, she was linked to every woman I had known. The robe's redolent scent was not the cotton of fresh laundry or recent purchase nor did it compete with any fragrance, artificial or otherwise. It was the smell of earth, of hands free from polish, and skin soft in labor, of weary eyes and the economics of hard times, of character grown in poor soil. It was the religion of another generation, of hand-me downs, of bedrooms too small and meals too lean. She was, in this breath, in what could have been no more than a thimble of seconds, everything I had known of love, everything I sought.
 
By scent alone, she had entered the book of generations, had embedded herself in my mind and memory, this flower standing, dried and pressed between the pages of my past, of people and places that no longer existed, of those alive only in my memory. I knew from that moment she was both past and present, breathing and ghost. And I knew too, she would haunt me for all my days. 

808. into the nether regions

She waited at a table in the corner, alone. The contact was late. On the table, her slate glowed. A small red light illuminating her pale face. Her metallic hair aglitter. Rising, the red orb began to pulse, slow and steady in the way of breath in sleep. It felt this way, this slipping into the nether regions of consciousness, that place between wake and dream. As if one could walk between realms. And wasn’t it this way, of dying in pieces, of living with what could never be changed, of holding what could never be altered. Heavy as stone memory. So hard. To live this way. Shoulders always tired. Advice so unwelcome. For how does one leave behind the heart of identity? How does one deny the self? How does one disown the very narrative that is you?

Looking at her watch, all about glowed. A low hum of conversation, inebriated laughter, drooping eyes, clinking glass. The pulsing grew more violent. Wasn’t hard to imagine Bravo’s engines firing to life, of the crew preparing to disembark. Thoughts of Rog boiled in the gut. Visceral. This sense of being left. It was, she thought, her earliest emotional memory. Visions of her sister walking ahead, hand held by father. Her mother rushing to fill the void. Seeing her own solitary reflection in those quivering eyes, her dress dirty, hair disheveled, her mother’s hand reaching for what had already been lost. Still, no matter the number, no matter the direction, fortune or fame, that pull to the darkness remained. Woven in her very fabric. As much her as her hand. With a strength she couldn’t comprehend. Nothing but image and pain, hand in hand, of the two of them walking, neither looking back.

The waitress came, asked for her order. When she turned back, the red orb was gone. Her stomach settled on the thought, as if lead. Hollow, heavy, leaking poison slowly. Then he came. The transaction just a blur. Her vial again faithful. Removing the seal, she took a breath. Pain smiled. There would be no more hurt. No more leaving. No more anything.

_________

Kyra: Alert me as soon as Rog comes to.

Von: Will do.

Kyra: And Von.

Von: Yes?

Kyra: Thanks.

807. that alluvial stain

As the hour of departure drew near, Trev sat with pen and paper. Em was quietly packing, folding clothes with care, holding them with the dignity of sacred texts. He thought of the return to space, to the hardness of metal, of manufactured air. Of how very different life had been here with the cottage, the lake, the pathways through the woods, of the sun in the morning, of dusk descending, of the sound of wildlife, of birds and crickets and owls. He thought of reading by the stream, a blanket laid on a bed of clover. Of glasses raised and toasts given, of wine on the tongue and smiles as beautiful as butterflies. He thought of open windows and candles and poetry written as she slept, that gentle rising of breath, the softness of her bosom under a light throw, of how her hair flowed over tranquil eyes. He watched her now, moving from chest to bed, organized, he thought, like the daughter of a sea captain, always mindful of what to bring and how to bring it. He thought too of the hour, of their leaving and as if a window was open and a gentle breeze beckoned, he thought of the soft soil of this place, of its wonderful aromatic richness and in this thought, of richness, of fresh-turned earth, this mother of all they ate and drank, he thought of Em. Of the line between mothers and birth, of the dying to one thing in order to be born to another, of the movement of arm and leg, the sweep of a look, the tenderness in breath against the ear. So he wrote. No editing, no revision, no care but for the flow. Then he wrote it again. Only later, when Em was emptying the trash did she find what he had written.

We leave in an hour. I want you in the humid soil before the lake, to know your dampness, that soft domain, refulgent, indolent, of grass and flower, of skirt and thigh. I want your sigh seen as ghosts rising, your teeth unconsciously bare in desire, your eyes full of the stars beyond my back. I want to know your gravity and shiver warm and cold, warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that seduction known to finger and glove. There is here life, this fullness, this rush, this fit. This crashing of you into me, my world, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, to smell of your bloom flowering my shoulder, your lust in the tremor of calf and the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose, to reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. It is here, this last freedom released, unbound before fruit and flower, intoxicated in the way of poets with verbs and architects with nouns. But above all, I want not your soul nor your willing flesh sinuous and shimmering. I want what can never be taken, never be replaced. I want you, as you have never been, as you will never be again. I want dissolution. I want abject capitulation. The melding of our coin into new currency. I want it this night. I want it forever more.


As the hour draws near, my desire surges for soil, that alluvial stain, damp as damp to be, those soft domains moonly refulgent, this indolent night of sweet grass and bowed flower, of pleated skirt and willful thigh. I need this place of ghostly sighs rising from parted lips, of teeth bare before nature and eyes scarred of fallen stars. I ache to know your tidal gravity, to shiver warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that snug seduction known to finger and glove. This fit, this fullness, this silty rush of life, this crashing of you into me, our world as changed as the boy upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, the pungent flowering of my shoulder, lust in the tremor of calf, the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose and reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. I need this last freedom released, unbound and given flight. I want not your soul nor your flesh sinuous and shimmering. It is not in the hour, or minute nor second that I seek, but this eternal imprint of memory stained in the act of dissolution, abject capitulation, the melding of coin into new currency.

806. chatoyant eyes

T: When Yul stormed off did you have any idea what was going on?
K: I knew something wasn’t right, but my mind was preoccupied with Mairi and to a lesser extent John.
___________
Skeleton Chapter: This is where I simply tell you what happens as opposed to writing of it.
The relationship of Trev and Em, was to Yul, devastating. She saw that what they had, she did not. Unable to carry the weight of a moment that was of all moments, the sun to her long buried seed, she sought and found a supplier. Her vial, long empty, now full again. Only in this way could she cope, the pain released from her mind as the sweet serum entered her veins. On this night, she was a day out from resupply. To leave within the dusk was to leave her tether to life. To leave now, she thought, was death and pain. To stay she knew would be death too, but a sweet death, absent agony and anguish. What seemed a choice to everyone else was never volitional for her.
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Of what Rog saw:
She appeared as fire and hell, hypnotic chatoyant eyes singeing reason from my skull. Her breath, an updraft of wrath, contempt, of sun-licked anger, bellowed from parched lips. The wind of her tongue whipping my self-righteous indignation. My knees knew no brace. My arms hung impotent. Again her words came, jagged, raw, lacerating the flesh she had held so dear. I rose or so it felt for all seemed into, against, the air humid, heated, fierce as my very nostrils screamed and burned of her atmosphere. All was not as before. Facts came fast. She moved to a line once seen, now erased, snorted into the maelstrom. And I saw what I had never seen, the gutting, the spilling. She was of this, I was convinced, consumed. Just a wisp of what was.
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Yul, from her journal some weeks later:
It had been coming for some time. Or, perhaps it is more fair to say, what had been put in motion by birth, by fear and rejection, by a hatred I never understood, could never grasp or protect myself from, had been unleashed. Freed to wreck havoc. Fear reigning lawless. Memory violating me again and again; for who can protect you from what is inside? Who can hold what can’t be held, as invisible as the thought not thought, the word not spoken? So there is this falling, this pain so great, burning as only truth burns pure, that one seeks not salvation but surrender. I had found a supplier. Had told no one. In this way, I survived. The shipment coming tomorrow was my life, my protector, the love I knew I would never know. To leave without it was beyond my ability to imagine. It was as if asking Em to leave without Trev.
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T: So what did you do?
K: We left her.

805. Quotes: 10

When you accept that you can break, that at some point you will be broken, by releasing the idea, something magical, something stronger takes hold and you find a strength previously unknown.

Von heard whispering to the boy

804. you know what

We leave tonight, said Kyra.

Why tonight? Why not tomorrow morning? asked Yul.

It will make decompression easier.

Well, I don’t like it.

You know what Yul? I don’t give a rat’s arse what you like. We leave one hour past dusk. Say what you got to say. Do what you got to do. But we ain’t waiting on no one.

I call bullshite on that.

Chill, said Rog.

I just don’t see why.

Kyra looked at Mairi. You want to tell them why?

All eyes turned to Mairi. She began with an apology. Not everything she had told them about her and Dr X was true. And for reasons she would explain later, if they didn’t leave tonight, they might not be leaving at all.

Well frail me, said Yul, storming off.

Rog looked at the others with a shrug.

Rog! Turn and tuck or you won’t have nothing to turn and tuck.

Kyra turned to Von. Can you do something about that?

Nope.

Well, try, cause I ain’t got the time nor the patience. Oh, and Von?

Yes?

Tell John I need to see him.

803. tomorrow, we leave

We sit before the picture window, robed, eyes full of sleep. The house is empty of sound. A warmness in dawn, of the silent view before us growing. Two cardinals flit, as if for us, a private ballet. We don’t talk. There is no need. Her hand reaches for mine. She smiles, takes a sip of coffee, her eyes over the rim looking at me in the way of eyes emerging from still water. It is quiet like that and I can tell from the tilt of her head, the squint of her looking, the grasp of her fingers, all is right. And the day looks brighter.

Later, we walk to the lake to take in a final view. Not so much to look as to breath, to know the air of fawn and fauna. Flowers everywhere, open, shamelessly exposed. Each breath full of this flora, infusing lungs and memory. Tomorrow we leave, replacing the blue sky for inky darkness, the soft earth under our feet for cold metal. It is as if we are leaving life. Even gravity seems reluctant.

Again she takes my hand. Holding tighter this time and I know this turning of page, this closing of chapter. She knows too. The unknown of space before us made more acute by the lack of space between us. We have, as two roots, grown together, unseen to others but by evidence of bough and branch, a shine as wind in our leaves. We glitter. Catching light in a thousand ways, fragments of moments seen mostly by contrast.

The sun rises above the trees now and the lake shimmers away the last wisps of mauvish mallow. Everywhere, as not before, gentle sound. She closes her eyes. Breaths deep. And I watch her lean her head into the warmth of day. Her hand still holds mine. Her fingers moist in our heat. We mix this way such that what is hers and what is mine seems the wrong question just as mother and child to be are both two and one at the same time. I kiss her cheek. She smiles without opening her eyes.

Neither of us wants to leave this place of birth, of root so firmly grown. The fear of the gardener. Of transplanting. Will it take? Are we more than this place of tranquility?

802. a clear day

Yul: She’s a clear day and I’m thunder and lightning.

Rog: I kinda like your thunder and lightning.

Yul: Well, it ain’t always about you.