{Novella} Traveling Light {AWM-08}
Seymour Grass
with boots being held one in either hand for my only luggage, I was
traveling light. Traffic at such an early hour was next to nil, yet no
matter this kiss of fortune so sweet as the borderland breeze at my cheek,
nonetheless I worried lest some official of the *Migracion* on the way to
work should chance to see me going there, a barefoot Gringo sticking out
pink as you please from the prickly pear like some lost and wandering Texas
billionaire who had been out too long under the cool neon light of the Las
Vegas Desert Inn.
Since Howard Hughes I was not, this was all the more reason to pour
everything I had--by way of nothing but bare will--into this marathon fast
walk to the sun, and so I leant my soul to be all but unwittingly mentored
under its mystic rays in the ways of the Tarahumara "foot runners", the
Rarámuri in the Uti-Aztecan lingo, who from ancient times had made this very
run hundreds of miles barefoot across this Chihuahuan desert, and my boots
had stood between me and that knowledge of a soft-spoken native American
yoga about what a naked foot can do by a moving meditation of touch with the
earth.
The kilometers sped by under foot as I leaned my naked chest forward toward
the ribbon, my skin luxuriating under kiss of the sun with shirt and sweater
tied about the waist, and so long as my mind stayed centered in the ancient
science of five toes and the high-technology of those muscles that were made
to make each little piggy the piston of an engine one never knew to be his
possession, then nothing, no icicle-fanged maw full of my own moans pursuing
could close in to snap its jaws at those fleeting heels to take me down.
But it might have so done, never being far behind, just over a left shoulder
where some sages say it ever looms ready to entice by a soft song, a slow
blues of little transparent notes composed of crystal drops fallen to the
table of a Laredo cantina where he, or I--who was it really--had been
thinking back to those early days . . .
But it might have so done, never being far behind, just over a left shoulder
where some sages say it ever looms ready to entice by a soft song, a slow
blues composed of transparent notes, little crystal drops fallen to the
table of a Laredo cantina where he, or I--who was it really--had been
thinking back to those early days . . .
Had it been anywhere near so sweet as now by its loss, it so achingly
seemed? How many soft, warm things blithely disregarded while they are one's
own, only come to be treasured after they are flown? He, or I, let us say
'he', well--he hardly knew. He just thought back to those first giddy days
of a very first marriage, the sharing of that cozy first apartment, that
very fine young feeling of being so grown up a person as is known by
landlord, the butcher and little bald grocer to be the husband in none but
good standing of that wee pretty woman at his side?
Those early days of searching the art shops together for a Blue Period print
of Picasso or riding side by side on the bus, going out on a Friday for a
movie at the film society, the fun of finding hidden passages behind scarred
old downtown doors leading to the inner sanctums of those so very chic avant
garde galleries where the people were progressive of ideal and free of
thought, and the Sundays spent in bed, even till three in the afternoon
watching Alistair Cooke on *Omnibus* making it all seem so elegantly
artistic to be alive and kicking sun-up to sun-down on Sundays under the
funny papers in bed.
There was much to miss in all they'd had under the funny papers together,
and much to despise in all that had come in between during those many long
hours gone to school and work. And there were all those exciting walks over
polished stone floors arm in arm beneath high vaulted ceilings echoing with
a litany of little town names, and the trains waiting with coaches they'd so
often be boarding with freshly bought copies of the Saturday Review, and the
New Yorker under arm to read as they rode, going north for a weekend's visit
with her folks.
There was all that to miss and more, to see her standing like a champ at
that ironing board when he'd come home through the opening door, to find her
there with her secret dimples showing, and how her eyes always shone with
that dark hazel gleam looking up--like when she'd be sitting in the tub
splashing away, hair tucked behind her ears just like a little girl; that's
when he loved her for the first time and forever all over again and so much
that a million arms inside him were all reaching out to squeeze her--but
that he had only one pair of lips to kiss that steamy brow, to caress that
little face, was ever so endlessly excruciating because he adored her,
treasured her, loved her like he lived for a Saturday night dinner with her
where they could see one another together reflected in mirrors of Art
Nouveau elegance at the Forum with their orders on trays of Virginia ham
smothered in steaming sweet sauce of cherries; she had been the whole food
of his soul--and now he was an orphan famished and starving in the cold.
--
JP David http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"Absolutely. Liberty and responsibility are . . . two sides of the same
coin." Thomas Szasz
Wind River
blue. I used to have a poster of it.
-Sue
Seymour Grass
"Wind River" <wind...@voyager.net> wrote in message
news:3F596250...@voyager.net...
| Beautiful writing.
Thank you, for being so forgiving because I know how many clumsy sore thumbs
of poorly constructed usages are still sticking out all over in this thing.
So, if by this you are sort of saying "Yes, but its heart is in the right
place", then our poor protagonist here, were he any sort of man, would
surely beg to kiss your hand in respect of such a warm and pleasing
generosity.
| I love Picasso's painting of the old guitarist in
| blue. I used to have a poster of it.
And so did I. Odd, as I think, how it was specifically that work which I
desired to have in my own first apartment above them all, even beyond the
paintings of every other artist. Finally had to special order it as a litho
on canvas for more money back then than I could sensibly afford. The other
painting that I miss having, and must regain now that I think of it, is the
Moulin Rouge of Toulouse Lautrec. On my walls now are *La Guitare* from
Picasso's cubist period, two Van Gogh still life vases, camellias in the
one, sunflowers in the other, and finally two Monet landscapes of Argenteuil
that I often like to pretend are windows and not paintings on that wall at
all.
--
John http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"Seeking to know is only too often learning to doubt." -- Antoinette du
Ligier de la Garde Deshoulieres (1638-1694), French poet
nativelaw
"Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
news:bjb2vs$h6248$1...@ID-167346.news.uni-berlin.de...
> Under the sun, the pavement felt good falling behind beneath bare feet,
and
> with boots being held one in either hand for my only luggage, I was
> traveling light. Traffic at such an early hour was next to nil, yet no
> matter this kiss of fortune so sweet as the borderland breeze at my cheek,
> nonetheless I worried lest some official of the *Migracion* on the way to
> work should chance to see me going there, a barefoot Gringo sticking out
> pink as you please from the prickly pear like some lost and wandering
Texas
> billionaire who had been out too long under the cool neon light of the Las
> Vegas Desert Inn.
Love the imagery of this, but the "no matter. . ., nonetheless" constrution
sticks out as strained. You could drop one of them and still keep the feel
you seek, I think, or change "no matter" to "with" or something
>
> Since Howard Hughes I was not, this was all the more reason to pour
> everything I had--by way of nothing but bare will--into this marathon fast
> walk to the sun,
it feels like there's a dash missing somewhere... marathon-fast or
fast-walk... I love the line though and "walk to the sun"
your repeated paragraph is not on purpose here, is it? Can't see a reason
for it.
You've got a gift for writing of lost love, John. I liked the last
paragraph, wasn't sure about the Virginia ham in sweet cherry sauce metaphor
because food tastes are so personal and if someone doesn't like something
like that, has a bad association when it comes to ham it won't work and will
pull the reader out. Though I don't mentally associate lovers as food too
often I think the emphasis on the sweetness and steam probably saves it from
not working, for me.
He's awful hard on himself and awful romanticizing of her, but it's
enjoyable nonetheless and would enjoy seeing where it goes.
Andrea
Wind River
>
> | I love Picasso's painting of the old guitarist in
> | blue. I used to have a poster of it.
>
> And so did I. Odd, as I think, how it was specifically that work which I
> desired to have in my own first apartment above them all, even beyond the
> paintings of every other artist. Finally had to special order it as a litho
> on canvas for more money back then than I could sensibly afford. The other
> painting that I miss having, and must regain now that I think of it, is the
> Moulin Rouge of Toulouse Lautrec. On my walls now are *La Guitare* from
> Picasso's cubist period, two Van Gogh still life vases, camellias in the
> one, sunflowers in the other, and finally two Monet landscapes of Argenteuil
> that I often like to pretend are windows and not paintings on that wall at
> all.
I remember when Monet wasn't as popular as he is now, and I'd search
bookstores looking for books with plates of his work. I seldom found any
that featured him exclusively. Now they're everywhere. I do enjoy his landscapes.
I had posters of the guitarist, an outside scene of a brick building by
Vermeer, a Van Gogh self-portrait, and a few others I'd replace these
with for variety.
Sue
Seymour Grass
"nativelaw" <nati...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:bjcdqj$huh6b$1...@ID-198738.news.uni-berlin.de...
|
|
| "Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
| news:bjb2vs$h6248$1...@ID-167346.news.uni-berlin.de...
| > Under the sun, the pavement felt good falling behind beneath bare feet,
| and
| > with boots being held one in either hand for my only luggage, I was
|
| Love the imagery of this, but the "no matter. . ., nonetheless"
constrution
| sticks out as strained.
Redundant as hell, ain't it?
| You could drop one of them and still keep the feel
| you seek, I think, or change "no matter" to "with" or something
Right.
|
| >
| > Since Howard Hughes I was not, this was all the more reason to pour
| > everything I had--by way of nothing but bare will--into this marathon
fast
| > walk to the sun,
|
| it feels like there's a dash missing somewhere... marathon-fast or
| fast-walk... I love the line though and "walk to the sun"
The latter.
| > But it might have so done, never being far behind, just over a left
| shoulder
| > where some sages say it ever looms ready to entice by a soft song, a
slow
| > blues composed of transparent notes, little crystal drops fallen to the
| > table of a Laredo cantina where he, or I--who was it really--had been
| > thinking back to those early days . . .
|
| your repeated paragraph is not on purpose here, is it?
Nope. Another hazard of editing with the old brain-motor running one tick
above empty.
| > There was all that to miss and more, to see her standing like a champ at
| > that ironing board when he'd come home through the opening door, to find
| her
| > there with her secret dimples showing,
| You've got a gift for writing of lost love, John.
Nice of you to say it, but it may be nothing fancier than a case of "writing
what you know" as the old saw goes. ;-)
| I liked the last
| paragraph, wasn't sure about the Virginia ham in sweet cherry sauce
metaphor
| because food tastes are so personal and if someone doesn't like something
| like that, has a bad association when it comes to ham it won't work and
will
| pull the reader out.
But just think of the prurient, sort of forbidden fruit allure to all those
super kosher scriptural literalists out there? For them, ham under cherry
sauce should be just nothing short of pornographically delicious!
| Though I don't mentally associate lovers as food too
| often I think the emphasis on the sweetness and steam probably saves it
from
| not working, for me.
The following paragraph, not included with this segment--as I see now it
ought to have been--goes on with an intent to justify, if not establish this
association, showing that we can hardly know or readily recognize the fact
of this sometime savage, sometime tender mutual devouring of human love
until we see how disastrously one can waste away by its deprivation. To
show how one may be more than merely "starved for affection" metaphorically
speaking, but to literally become emaciated *in psyche*, sick at heart and
dead of soul for lack of that 'food' is the theme underlying all this.
So, yeah, I don't doubt but that it would be off-putting, such an
association of psychic cannibalism without the textual underpinning to
support it. This is no warranty, however, that as more fully given to
exposition it will not all the more disgust the sensibilities of many or
most people. But that in itself is often as not the author's job as well.
:-)
|
| He's awful hard on himself and awful romanticizing of her, but it's
| enjoyable nonetheless and would enjoy seeing where it goes.
Swell, And thanks!
Alaric
news:bjb2vs$h6248$1...@ID-167346.news.uni-berlin.de...
cheek,
Can’t fit that in logically, no matter how I try. Must be stupid. Yep. That’
s it.
> sticking out pink as you please from the prickly pear like some lost and
wandering Texas billionaire who had been out too long under the cool neon
light of the Las Vegas Desert Inn.
Nice image.
> The kilometers sped by under foot as I leaned my naked chest forward
toward he ribbon
Too many leanings. Chest and soul.
> But it might have so done
What might? The moans? Bit unclear.
> Had it been anywhere near so sweet as now by its loss, it so achingly
seemed?
No comma, I suggest. Note a paragraph is repeated.
> He, or I, let us say 'he',
Why? Strikes as a little affected – be interested to know the reason.
> Sundays spent in bed, even till three in the afternoon watching Alistair
Cooke on *Omnibus* making it all seem so elegantly bartistic to be alive and
kicking sun-up to sun-down on Sundays under the funny papers in bed.
I just loved Cooke. “Letter From America” was the best radio show EVER. For
us Brits, Cooke brought America to life – through Cuba, Kennedy, King,
Watergate, Reagan.
> There was all that to miss and more, to see her standing like a champ at
that ironing board when he'd come home through the opening door, to find her
there with her secret dimples showing, and how her eyes always shone with
that dark hazel gleam looking up--like when she'd be sitting in the tub
splashing away, hair tucked behind her ears just like a little girl; that's
when he loved her for the first time and forever all over again and so much
that a million arms inside him were all reaching out to squeeze her-
Lovely. You’ve a gift for this, as Andrea says.
--
“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired,
signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed,
those who are cold and are not clothed.” —President Dwight D. Eisenhower.
Seymour Grass
"Alaric" <alar...@btinternet.com> wrote in message
news:bjleb7$s83$1...@hercules.btinternet.com...
| "Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
| news:bjb2vs$h6248$1...@ID-167346.news.uni-berlin.de...
| > yet no matter this kiss of fortune so sweet as the borderland breeze at
my
| cheek,
|
| Can't fit that in logically, no matter how I try. Must be stupid. Yep.
That'
| s it.
Too many "kisses".
|
| > sticking out pink as you please from the prickly pear like some lost and
| wandering Texas billionaire who had been out too long under the cool neon
| light of the Las Vegas Desert Inn.
|
| Nice image.
<g>
|
| > The kilometers sped by under foot as I leaned my naked chest forward
| toward he ribbon
|
| Too many leanings. Chest and soul.
The first is a loan, the second is a lean. Now let's see about the mortgage
. . .
|
| > But it might have so done
|
| What might? The moans? Bit unclear.
It might have got him. I'll have another look. Thanks.
|
| > Had it been anywhere near so sweet as now by its loss, it so achingly
| seemed?
|
| No comma, I suggest. Note a paragraph is repeated.
The whole sentence needs work.
|
| > He, or I, let us say 'he',
|
| Why? Strikes as a little affected - be interested to know the reason.
As to affectation, I certainly don't want that! How does that result from a
simple change of person?
As to my reason, it struck me that all this could easily sound awfully
self-indulgent if this material were to be given in first person. This is
not a device I have tried before, but I would think it justified as one sees
how the writer of the story is viewing himself as sort of another person, by
so many years of hindsight.
|
| > Sundays spent in bed, even till three in the afternoon watching Alistair
| Cooke on *Omnibus* making it all seem so elegantly artistic to be alive
and
| kicking sun-up to sun-down on Sundays under the funny papers in bed.
|
|
| I just loved Cooke. "Letter From America" was the best radio show EVER.
For
| us Brits, Cooke brought America to life - through Cuba, Kennedy, King,
| Watergate, Reagan.
They don't make television like that anymore. What a pleasant surprise to
learn you've got enough miles on you to remember him--or hmmm . . . was he
doing BBC's *Masterpiece Theatre* during the 80's?
|
| > There was all that to miss and more, to see her standing like a champ
at
| that ironing board when he'd come home through the opening door, to find
her
| there with her secret dimples showing, and how her eyes always shone with
| that dark hazel gleam looking up--like when she'd be sitting in the tub
| splashing away, hair tucked behind her ears just like a little girl;
that's
| when he loved her for the first time and forever all over again and so
much
| that a million arms inside him were all reaching out to squeeze her-
|
| Lovely.
Thank you.
| You've a gift for this, as Andrea says.
Nah! No "gifts", else it wouldn't be so much work. People have no
praise coming to them for anything that's been merely handed to them whether
as heirs, by Mother Nature or the Muses, and not a damn thing's been handed
to
me, what with such an abysmally average I.Q. as I have been "given". In
grammar school I was always in the second reading group from the bottom.
There was the red book, the blue (mine) the green and the yellow. I had to
break my ass to graduate to the green, and then suffer for the effort by
scoring way low in comprehension, till I finally asked to be demoted back to
the friendly old blue. I read slow, think slow and work slow. So, if some
of what I write rates a word like "gift", then it only goes to show that no
man is limited by his "gifts" or the lack thereof. If someone's work
commands praise, then its his hard work that is to be praised, but to chalk
it off to a gift is really to condemn by faint praise, taking no notion of
the work, which is the thing it was. The thought however is appreciated.
;-)
"In my father's vocabulary, _sentimental_ was a very damning word
indeed." --Margaret Salinger
Alaric
"Seymour Grass" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
>
> As to affectation, I certainly don't want that! How does that result from
a
> simple change of person?
Probably just me. Seems like the royal "we."
>
> Nah! No "gifts", else it wouldn't be so much work. People have no
> praise coming to them for anything that's been merely handed to them
whether
> as heirs, by Mother Nature or the Muses, and not a damn thing's been
handed
> to
> me, what with such an abysmally average I.Q. as I have been "given". In
> grammar school I was always in the second reading group from the bottom.
> There was the red book, the blue (mine) the green and the yellow. I had to
> break my ass to graduate to the green, and then suffer for the effort by
> scoring way low in comprehension, till I finally asked to be demoted back
to
> the friendly old blue. I read slow, think slow and work slow. So, if
some
> of what I write rates a word like "gift", then it only goes to show that
no
> man is limited by his "gifts" or the lack thereof. If someone's work
> commands praise, then its his hard work that is to be praised, but to
chalk
> it off to a gift is really to condemn by faint praise, taking no notion of
> the work, which is the thing it was. The thought however is appreciated.
> ;-)
Heh. Fair 'nuff.