Imagined thoughts of Kyra as Bravo departs:
My life as I know it is dead. Everyone I knew, every place I visited, gone. How to write of this, or even speak of it. Words and emotions have never been close. Translation falls to hell and frustration burns beyond the fingers to soothe. Where we go from here seems pointless. I feel like the soldier who survives the massacre, standing amidst smoke and fire, surveying a landscape of death, of the hand of fate upon the entire company, save one, save myself. Some ghosts still walk with blood in their veins. I know. I am one of them.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
792. water and fish and such
I would say you mean the world to me but that would be like a fish saying that water was important.
Overheard, Trev to Em
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
an easy smile
An easy smile. He never had it. Apparently, neither do I. I’ve been told not to trust my eyes. Been told that within his weathered visage, past those watery eyes, his heart was good. Fair enough. We all have our beliefs and who is to say what is real and what is not. But I know this. Treasure buried is still treasure buried. Won’t pay my bills no more than that check he said he’d write, that night, over several beers, to buy me some new basketball shoes. Thirty years later, I still remember sitting on that shag carpet, in his bedroom. He was drunk. In bed. Doing most of the talking. Beer tended to soften him and in that softened state he asked if I needed anything. Basketball shoes I said. No problem he said. Whatever you want. I never got my shoes. Never said a word. Neither did he.
economics
first draft:
He would take another sip of beer, (the edges of his day (smoothing) the edges of his day). His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet (loyal as the dog he refused to own). The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. It was unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
__________
second draft:
He would take another sip of beer, smoothing the edges of his day. His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. His wallet looked liked an overstuffed hamburger. Always. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet. The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. Unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked. It was this way not just for a night or even a few sporadic nights. Decades. The man was, if nothing else, consistent. Untiringly committed to his view. Position entrenched. And I thought of a sentry, guarding some sacred ideal night and day, rain or shine.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
He would take another sip of beer, (the edges of his day (smoothing) the edges of his day). His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet (loyal as the dog he refused to own). The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. It was unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
__________
second draft:
He would take another sip of beer, smoothing the edges of his day. His tongue would loosen to questions never asked and the answer, always, the same: economics. My father justified everything by bill paying, the holding of steady work, of having money in reserve. His wallet looked liked an overstuffed hamburger. Always. He lived in these narrows, sitting in his onion garden, an ice chest dog loyal by his feet. The message was clear. Work and you are of value. But not just value. Unquestioned value. Value beyond reproach. Or so it seemed as I listened to answers from questions I never asked. It was this way not just for a night or even a few sporadic nights. Decades. The man was, if nothing else, consistent. Untiringly committed to his view. Position entrenched. And I thought of a sentry, guarding some sacred ideal night and day, rain or shine.
He has been dead now half a dozen years. His words, however, have lived a bit longer. I needed help to see them as they were, as I was, (as it could be). (That there could be) A life beyond economics, beyond the (those) narrow straights to a larger body, one that could (large enough to) dissolve the salt of pain and (still) give life. She gave me this. A sense of value, of worth counted not in coin but of a different ledger. She gave me eyes. And, forgiveness. One could say, I suppose, she softened the edges of my day(s). I’d like to tell him of these things, if I could. But I can’t. He does not now, as he did not then, have the ears for such a conversation.
Monday, October 25, 2010
1944 (thoughts and notes)
thinking of Mary:
options--
. there is no pregnancy
. pregnant but miscarried (stress of war)
. pregnant but aborted (by her hand or Kate)
. baby carried to term (in Germany)
. under the Germany option--baby is adopted by Kathrin
. baby carried to term (in US)
. under US option, Mary’s father puts baby up for adoption
notes to the above:
Mary meets Virgil (nurse/soldier/France/1944) for one night before he dies. She is convinced it was love as she has never known and, over the next fifty years, claims never to be known again. She either becomes pregnant or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, the story focuses on love, love loss, the management of grief and the edges of sanity. If she does become pregnant, she either goes AWOL and carries to term in Germany under Kathrin’s care with Kathrin adopting the baby as her own (for reasons not yet known) and all of the above with regard to love and loss takes on these new dimensions. In the US option, the army finds out Mary is pregnant and sends her home. Her father, who never wanted her to become a nurse (below the dignity of a woman, of his daughter) is horrified at the turn of events and arranges adoption. Mary sees her baby for less time than she had with Virgil and as soon as she is able, leaves home to never see her parents again. She relocates to the same town as Virgil’s parents and tries to make sense of her tragedy and so again the story becomes a study in the exploration of loss and sanity in the face of overwhelming despair. In this last option, there is the possibility that Mary and Virgil’s child finds her toward the end of of her life and the story ends with a coming full circle, a final healing and releasing.
options--
. there is no pregnancy
. pregnant but miscarried (stress of war)
. pregnant but aborted (by her hand or Kate)
. baby carried to term (in Germany)
. under the Germany option--baby is adopted by Kathrin
. baby carried to term (in US)
. under US option, Mary’s father puts baby up for adoption
notes to the above:
Mary meets Virgil (nurse/soldier/France/1944) for one night before he dies. She is convinced it was love as she has never known and, over the next fifty years, claims never to be known again. She either becomes pregnant or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, the story focuses on love, love loss, the management of grief and the edges of sanity. If she does become pregnant, she either goes AWOL and carries to term in Germany under Kathrin’s care with Kathrin adopting the baby as her own (for reasons not yet known) and all of the above with regard to love and loss takes on these new dimensions. In the US option, the army finds out Mary is pregnant and sends her home. Her father, who never wanted her to become a nurse (below the dignity of a woman, of his daughter) is horrified at the turn of events and arranges adoption. Mary sees her baby for less time than she had with Virgil and as soon as she is able, leaves home to never see her parents again. She relocates to the same town as Virgil’s parents and tries to make sense of her tragedy and so again the story becomes a study in the exploration of loss and sanity in the face of overwhelming despair. In this last option, there is the possibility that Mary and Virgil’s child finds her toward the end of of her life and the story ends with a coming full circle, a final healing and releasing.
Monday, October 18, 2010
1944 (pieces of Mary)
There is nothing untrue about sunshine. He is this way. A life without shadows. Everything known, held. And loved. There is life in this kind of love. It is of light, warmth, home and hearth, of bread baking, a place of open windows and whispering candles. All as it is. Nothing as it is not. Just pure sunshine where clouds are clouds and rain is rain.
__________
He was coming home. Arriving by train. To see again what once walked, now carried, what should be walking, walking never more, of hands within wood and not upon it, of fences never mended, of grace not held, or spoken, or shared, to see the flag not flying, of patent leather shoes under granite faces, of woman in black not speaking, of men who had left their bibles at home under a coat of dust, and of children with wide eyes at rail and train and station. To see blue skies and hear nothing but my own thoughts and see nothing but dreams forever dreaming, forever stuck as death upon life, forever playing what was and what would never be. This is how Virgil arrived, or perhaps, of how I remembered it.
__________
As I age and I think of life, of what matters, of what we remember as important, I can’t help but think of holding and being held, in sunshine of course, but mostly against the darkness, when nothing pass your hand can be seen and all that can be heard is the beating of two hearts. As my days fade, too the memory, ever so faint, of his heart against mine and I wonder if what I remember now is simply the memory of a memory as I reach for coffee long grown cold in my absence. I harbor no bitterness and in this I marvel and wonder and in this way I see a shard of my difference, of a life I’ve lived alone and would gladly do again to have what we had, however brief, however fleeting.
__________
He was coming home. Arriving by train. To see again what once walked, now carried, what should be walking, walking never more, of hands within wood and not upon it, of fences never mended, of grace not held, or spoken, or shared, to see the flag not flying, of patent leather shoes under granite faces, of woman in black not speaking, of men who had left their bibles at home under a coat of dust, and of children with wide eyes at rail and train and station. To see blue skies and hear nothing but my own thoughts and see nothing but dreams forever dreaming, forever stuck as death upon life, forever playing what was and what would never be. This is how Virgil arrived, or perhaps, of how I remembered it.
__________
As I age and I think of life, of what matters, of what we remember as important, I can’t help but think of holding and being held, in sunshine of course, but mostly against the darkness, when nothing pass your hand can be seen and all that can be heard is the beating of two hearts. As my days fade, too the memory, ever so faint, of his heart against mine and I wonder if what I remember now is simply the memory of a memory as I reach for coffee long grown cold in my absence. I harbor no bitterness and in this I marvel and wonder and in this way I see a shard of my difference, of a life I’ve lived alone and would gladly do again to have what we had, however brief, however fleeting.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
1944 (the sound of rain)
I woke to the sound of rain, to grey sky. The house was quiet of all but steady drizzle. I made coffee, pulled my robe tight and sat before the small table in the kitchen. His notes and my cup my company.
His journal was then, as it is now, yellowed of page, his blood, the darkness of it, even then, fading. I turned the pages. Traced my finger over his graceful lines. Raised the notebook and breathed in all of France, all of war, all of what had taken my soul to heights and depths that made the rising sun nothing but an annoyance.
But I could not not turn the pages. My coffee grew cold. I drank it anyway. The rain continued to fall and I thought of mud, of slush, of the color of young blood mixing in foreign muck, of his blood upon my hands, of my thumb making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his cistern eyes growing still, the tension in his neck released.
I thought now of what I knew, of what his mother didn’t, of her grief and my obligation. I thought too of the burden of my own weakness and I heard the voices of doubt as I had heard the chorus a few days before, those voices rising into the dark of wooden beams above wooden pews. And still it rained. Not hard. Not in anger, but softly. Relentlessly. And what rained was within as without and as my sight from table to field was not clear, so too, nothing else.
Those days have not grown as so many others. Some root remains barren and bitter, producing no flower, nothing green, nothing of life. Nor do I know the way of releasing, of pruning as so many others have learned. So this burden, so heavy, I decided, I would carry alone. I could not then, nor can I now, envision the benefit of sharing, of sharing what I knew was, without embellishment, a needless death, of a boy alone, dying not in the hands that bore him, hands I would see but never hold.
His journal was then, as it is now, yellowed of page, his blood, the darkness of it, even then, fading. I turned the pages. Traced my finger over his graceful lines. Raised the notebook and breathed in all of France, all of war, all of what had taken my soul to heights and depths that made the rising sun nothing but an annoyance.
But I could not not turn the pages. My coffee grew cold. I drank it anyway. The rain continued to fall and I thought of mud, of slush, of the color of young blood mixing in foreign muck, of his blood upon my hands, of my thumb making the sign of the cross on his forehead, his cistern eyes growing still, the tension in his neck released.
I thought now of what I knew, of what his mother didn’t, of her grief and my obligation. I thought too of the burden of my own weakness and I heard the voices of doubt as I had heard the chorus a few days before, those voices rising into the dark of wooden beams above wooden pews. And still it rained. Not hard. Not in anger, but softly. Relentlessly. And what rained was within as without and as my sight from table to field was not clear, so too, nothing else.
Those days have not grown as so many others. Some root remains barren and bitter, producing no flower, nothing green, nothing of life. Nor do I know the way of releasing, of pruning as so many others have learned. So this burden, so heavy, I decided, I would carry alone. I could not then, nor can I now, envision the benefit of sharing, of sharing what I knew was, without embellishment, a needless death, of a boy alone, dying not in the hands that bore him, hands I would see but never hold.
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