Thursday, July 19, 2007
Selma
The gift was a good choice, her eyes lit up with pleasure when she opened the soft cream colored wrapping. She thought this while she was laying on the sidewalk. It was such a pleasant lunch. Up to the question. Then it was unpleasant but she didn’t want to dwell on that part of the afternoon. So what if the storm outside raged in violence – the pop of lightening underscoring their conversation she had been happy – all her daughters surrounding her again, all in one place. She wanted to freeze the moment imprint it on her brain an instamatic was too crude a device…she felt for the first time what it meant to be a matriarch. Not as heavy as she thought – she was no battleaxe bearing down on her children. She loved them simply and unconditionally. That was what she thought, of course until this afternoon. Her youngest Lisa girl, that’s what they called her, she was a headstrong kid and she took advantage of her youngest child status. She deviated from all the paths that were laid out for her – ones that her older siblings were quite happy (and even a bit grateful) to follow. Her Lisa-girl was pregnant and she wasn’t married. She drops the bomb at the lunch, just like that. Ma, I’m making you a grandma. What do you think? Her sisters were aghast. They had deferred childbirth like student loans or military service. Now one of older ones was undergoing fertility therapy. Easy to draw a straight line from one cause to one effect, but there was no evidence really. She believed in a world for her daughters in which they do not have to be punished for making selfish choices. She wanted her daughters to move in the world as easily and guilt-free as men. Lisa-girl really embodied her mother’s fully realized wish. She lived completely for herself – this latest idea no real compromise of that life’s goal. She will have the child in blatant disregard of her family’s feelings, their status in the community, their respectability. But that wasn’t event he worst of it – and she is sorry for her reaction when she first heard it. She is sorry that when her daughter announced she was pregnant by Artificial Insemination and she was Going to Live With Her Lesbian Lover in a loft in Williamsburg, Selma almost keeled over. She couldn’t keep the words from escaping her lips, the instant when emotions over come reason and she found herself shouting “Over My Dead Body!” This, punctuated by a clash of thunder. It made them all pause for a few seconds. The exclamation hung in the air. Cause and effect, Selma thought. It was her fault – she raised her daughters too independent. Now this, her Lisa-girl is crossing over into a social milieu that Selma hadn’t even heard of, let alone knew. She knew if she let her little girl go she would never see her again - r at least for a long time. Lisa-girl was going to a country Selma could never visit even with a passport.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Anvers Metro
This just came in over the transom. We aren't sure if its a novel chapter or a fragment of an unfinished piece. But it caught our fancy because some of us like Paris.
Respectfully yours,
- TMD Review Editors
The two women stepped out of the photo booth at the Anvers Metro Station. They stared at the photo, giggling. The older of the couple, for they were a couple and not mother and daughter as some people mistook them, the older of the two thought about women – golden hued, long limbed naked women with long honey blonde hair and musky scents emanating from their pores. These were the women of her youth – the ones she lusted after but watched walk to and fro with boys with disheveled manes and beards, spectacle eyeglasses. She thought of one scene in one of her favorite movies in which a university professor beds an undergraduate while shooting their images on a new generation instamatic camera – it spewed photos like the ones coming out of the photo booth. What was remarkable about the scene was the cries and grunts and violence with which they mated. She had never seen or heard anything like it. They sounded like they were killing each other, despite their laughter. They ended their coupling with sounds of awe as they pulled the roll of photos out of the new instant camera and scrutinized their images of fucking.
The older woman, Stark, found it quite amusing to have that “flash” of images right at that point. It wasn’t a desire to cheat, fantasizing about those other women. It was in some way an evocation of the similar feelings she had toward her girlfriend, Emma. She thought her girlfriend represented that prize she was denied so long ago. She was after all a straight girl – someone she met in a harm reduction group. Emma was trying to kick a pernicious crystal meth habit and Stark had been attending the group for years as part of a methadone program. Stark struck up a conversation with her because she had been hearing about this exotic drug for some time, one she had neglected to try in her crazy old using days. She wanted to know everything about the experience – good and bad. She was curious with that old stone addict’s interest in any new method for getting high. She needed to know how high the highs were. But Emma was quite reticent in her details and Stark never got the vicarious thrill she sought. She might as well have been shopping for t-towels on the Rue de Prince. Instead, she emerged from her intense inquiry dissatisfied and looked across the small café table at the young blonde sucking hard on an American brand cigarette (how can she smoke those?). She noticed Emma had the face of a Modigliani angel. Long straight and narrow. Her fine wispy hair providing the halo. Stark was never a fan of Modigliani and found his elongated faces a bit disturbing. Being presented with the real thing, she saw the beauty. This was the first of their intense conversations in which they, especially when joined by another person from the group, would talk about anything under the sun. Because Emma was an intelligent young woman, the conversation would invariably migrate to the subject of men. Stark would listen sympathetically then interject her experience with women, perhaps as a reminder that not everyone idolizes the male at their table. This could elicit a wave of talk about how there was very little, this would be good liberal talk, mind you – about how there was very little difference between a man and a woman. The problems are still the same. Stark would sit back and listen to their self-rationalization for putting up with the most boorish behavior and feel grateful that she never took men seriously enough to even contemplate a relationship. She felt in her bones she was too much like them – knew them too well – there was no mystery for her with men. But with women! She found them harboring such darks secrets, a mix of pain and pleasure for anyone with the patience and sensitivity to discover them. One of her first encounters when she was 24 was with a golden hued woman of 30, a professional journalist who happened to flop into her lap at the local lesbian watering hole. Late one night. Her name was Elizabeth. Stark had no idea she was so drunk until the woman fell out of the taxi they took home to her apartment. The woman’s spill out of the cab was breathtaking. And Stark just stood by stunned until she heard the cabbie cry in disgust and come around to the passenger side and help her up. He was used to this, clearly. Stark was not. They went up to the woman’s 5th floor walk-up and made drunken love on her bed that looked like a child’s day bed with white enameled steel head- and footboard. The woman was extremely generous despite her drunkenness and Stark returned the favor by paying serious attention to her cunt. It took very little time for the woman to come. Stark felt a sense of power since she was a neophyte. She was also, however, a quick study and all the encounters she had up to this point informed her mission to please this woman. They collapsed, sweaty on the white metal coils and then slept off the drunk. Stark awoke with sun streaming in the window. The woman was already up and handed Stark the coffee cup. Stark looked out the window and saw the trucks of 11th avenue lumbering by like mastodons sending up voluminous clouds of black smoke. Said she could spend the morning there if she wanted but Elizabeth had to get to the office. She was in the middle of a story about mid-east peace talks and how “fucking Begin” was trying to fuck it up and had to get back to it. Stark had a vague idea of who “fucking Begin” was and really didn’t care. Elizabeth got on the phone sprawled naked on the bed to talk to the anchor who would broadcast the story. Stark found her casual attitude interesting and she wondered if the woman had slept with the anchor. But then her manner became whiny like a dog after a juicy bone. Stark thought it was unfortunate that the woman had to be like this with the man in power in her job. Elizabeth got off the phone and laid back on the bed, exposing her golden bush and Stark lunged for her.
Stark allowed the flood of memories to abate. She turned to Emma sitting across from her chattering away. She saw her beauty. She noticed her cleavage peeking out from a low cut sweater. Stark’s thoughts raced and she gave herself a mental slap – “stop! Too young” and filed the experience. Then later in the year, Emma began to call and ask her for advice – and then for help on her resume. Emma came over to Stark’s apartment on a weeknight for “resume advice” and Stark, in her “serious” mode, looked her resume over. She was very affected by another low-cut blouse that Emma was wearing, revealing even deeper cleavage. Stark tried to focus on the task at hand but her eyes kept drifting. She soon found a way to channel the sexual urge – she began to talk to Emma in a scolding, almost hostile manner about the things on her resume. She felt like a teacher admonishing a resistant student. Emma finally left and Stark was stricken with remorse for her behavior. She apologized later. After talking it over with her current romantic partner – a woman living 1700 miles away in Colorado. She kept telling Delilah her long distance date that Emma was “only 24 years old and straight” and no threat to Delilah. Delilah made more of it than was necessary as far as Stark was concerned.
Anyway, it never occurred to Stark that she would be sitting in a photo booth in Paris with Emma. She marveled at the turn of events. The Paris jaunt was a whim – she took a chance on a cheap fare through Lisbon and then queried Emma by e-mail. Emma snapped up the offer even though they were in the middle of a huge fight. Emma wouldn’t relax for a few days after they arrived – they almost broke up the first night they were there. Stark felt cornered and then panicked thinking about the stories she heard and read of people who brought new lovers to their favorite place in the world and the relationship fell apart promptly. Now they were getting along just fine. They were on their way to Emma’s friend’s apartment and from there to a Thanksgiving dinner thrown by local Americans.
Respectfully yours,
- TMD Review Editors
The two women stepped out of the photo booth at the Anvers Metro Station. They stared at the photo, giggling. The older of the couple, for they were a couple and not mother and daughter as some people mistook them, the older of the two thought about women – golden hued, long limbed naked women with long honey blonde hair and musky scents emanating from their pores. These were the women of her youth – the ones she lusted after but watched walk to and fro with boys with disheveled manes and beards, spectacle eyeglasses. She thought of one scene in one of her favorite movies in which a university professor beds an undergraduate while shooting their images on a new generation instamatic camera – it spewed photos like the ones coming out of the photo booth. What was remarkable about the scene was the cries and grunts and violence with which they mated. She had never seen or heard anything like it. They sounded like they were killing each other, despite their laughter. They ended their coupling with sounds of awe as they pulled the roll of photos out of the new instant camera and scrutinized their images of fucking.
The older woman, Stark, found it quite amusing to have that “flash” of images right at that point. It wasn’t a desire to cheat, fantasizing about those other women. It was in some way an evocation of the similar feelings she had toward her girlfriend, Emma. She thought her girlfriend represented that prize she was denied so long ago. She was after all a straight girl – someone she met in a harm reduction group. Emma was trying to kick a pernicious crystal meth habit and Stark had been attending the group for years as part of a methadone program. Stark struck up a conversation with her because she had been hearing about this exotic drug for some time, one she had neglected to try in her crazy old using days. She wanted to know everything about the experience – good and bad. She was curious with that old stone addict’s interest in any new method for getting high. She needed to know how high the highs were. But Emma was quite reticent in her details and Stark never got the vicarious thrill she sought. She might as well have been shopping for t-towels on the Rue de Prince. Instead, she emerged from her intense inquiry dissatisfied and looked across the small café table at the young blonde sucking hard on an American brand cigarette (how can she smoke those?). She noticed Emma had the face of a Modigliani angel. Long straight and narrow. Her fine wispy hair providing the halo. Stark was never a fan of Modigliani and found his elongated faces a bit disturbing. Being presented with the real thing, she saw the beauty. This was the first of their intense conversations in which they, especially when joined by another person from the group, would talk about anything under the sun. Because Emma was an intelligent young woman, the conversation would invariably migrate to the subject of men. Stark would listen sympathetically then interject her experience with women, perhaps as a reminder that not everyone idolizes the male at their table. This could elicit a wave of talk about how there was very little, this would be good liberal talk, mind you – about how there was very little difference between a man and a woman. The problems are still the same. Stark would sit back and listen to their self-rationalization for putting up with the most boorish behavior and feel grateful that she never took men seriously enough to even contemplate a relationship. She felt in her bones she was too much like them – knew them too well – there was no mystery for her with men. But with women! She found them harboring such darks secrets, a mix of pain and pleasure for anyone with the patience and sensitivity to discover them. One of her first encounters when she was 24 was with a golden hued woman of 30, a professional journalist who happened to flop into her lap at the local lesbian watering hole. Late one night. Her name was Elizabeth. Stark had no idea she was so drunk until the woman fell out of the taxi they took home to her apartment. The woman’s spill out of the cab was breathtaking. And Stark just stood by stunned until she heard the cabbie cry in disgust and come around to the passenger side and help her up. He was used to this, clearly. Stark was not. They went up to the woman’s 5th floor walk-up and made drunken love on her bed that looked like a child’s day bed with white enameled steel head- and footboard. The woman was extremely generous despite her drunkenness and Stark returned the favor by paying serious attention to her cunt. It took very little time for the woman to come. Stark felt a sense of power since she was a neophyte. She was also, however, a quick study and all the encounters she had up to this point informed her mission to please this woman. They collapsed, sweaty on the white metal coils and then slept off the drunk. Stark awoke with sun streaming in the window. The woman was already up and handed Stark the coffee cup. Stark looked out the window and saw the trucks of 11th avenue lumbering by like mastodons sending up voluminous clouds of black smoke. Said she could spend the morning there if she wanted but Elizabeth had to get to the office. She was in the middle of a story about mid-east peace talks and how “fucking Begin” was trying to fuck it up and had to get back to it. Stark had a vague idea of who “fucking Begin” was and really didn’t care. Elizabeth got on the phone sprawled naked on the bed to talk to the anchor who would broadcast the story. Stark found her casual attitude interesting and she wondered if the woman had slept with the anchor. But then her manner became whiny like a dog after a juicy bone. Stark thought it was unfortunate that the woman had to be like this with the man in power in her job. Elizabeth got off the phone and laid back on the bed, exposing her golden bush and Stark lunged for her.
Stark allowed the flood of memories to abate. She turned to Emma sitting across from her chattering away. She saw her beauty. She noticed her cleavage peeking out from a low cut sweater. Stark’s thoughts raced and she gave herself a mental slap – “stop! Too young” and filed the experience. Then later in the year, Emma began to call and ask her for advice – and then for help on her resume. Emma came over to Stark’s apartment on a weeknight for “resume advice” and Stark, in her “serious” mode, looked her resume over. She was very affected by another low-cut blouse that Emma was wearing, revealing even deeper cleavage. Stark tried to focus on the task at hand but her eyes kept drifting. She soon found a way to channel the sexual urge – she began to talk to Emma in a scolding, almost hostile manner about the things on her resume. She felt like a teacher admonishing a resistant student. Emma finally left and Stark was stricken with remorse for her behavior. She apologized later. After talking it over with her current romantic partner – a woman living 1700 miles away in Colorado. She kept telling Delilah her long distance date that Emma was “only 24 years old and straight” and no threat to Delilah. Delilah made more of it than was necessary as far as Stark was concerned.
Anyway, it never occurred to Stark that she would be sitting in a photo booth in Paris with Emma. She marveled at the turn of events. The Paris jaunt was a whim – she took a chance on a cheap fare through Lisbon and then queried Emma by e-mail. Emma snapped up the offer even though they were in the middle of a huge fight. Emma wouldn’t relax for a few days after they arrived – they almost broke up the first night they were there. Stark felt cornered and then panicked thinking about the stories she heard and read of people who brought new lovers to their favorite place in the world and the relationship fell apart promptly. Now they were getting along just fine. They were on their way to Emma’s friend’s apartment and from there to a Thanksgiving dinner thrown by local Americans.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Bit About a Player
The following monologue was submitted from an inmate at the Federal pentientiary at LaFollette, IL who participated in the prison's Voices from the Void theatre program. We thought it had a touch of literary merit and as our mission is to support all the dramatic arts, we include it.
- TMD Review Editors
Setting: The interrogation room of a police station.
At Rise: C, a tall gangly youth, sits awkwardly at a scuffed metal table, his legs folded up carefully. His physicality is that of a creature too big for his chair and maybe even the room. There's a single spot over his head.
C: I didn't want to hurt Patrick. They got me all wrong. I wanted us to live together. Get a crib together. He wus my best friend, what happened wus an accident. We wus playin with his gun and it went off - I got scared and ran. Then I came back and he was lying with his blood pumping out of him. He was jerkin and breathing really hard. I took his hand and said Patrick! He looked over at me, but his eyes were all like glassy and shit - and he hadn't been doin much weed lately.
(pause.)
A'ight maybe we did a little weed that day but we wus never like some guys getting up in each other's stuff and frontin and talking trash. We wus quiet and shit, sittin around talking about books. Patrick really loved to read and he kept it quiet cause that would get you jumped comin from where he lived. So he read in secret and never could talk to anyone about it. He had planned to be an English teacher so he could read books all the time and then talk to his students. But until us guys met on the team it was his secret. I liked it when we got high and he did that - he tole adventure stories like one book it was about some guy going back in time - and then another about a guy who was stuck in a prison for ten years and then come out and become a prince or something and then went and killed all the dudes who put him in prison. Yeah. That one I liked a lot and I read it over and over now that I know what its like. And there was one about a guy who gets shipwrecked on a tropical island and all us he has to talk to is his dog. They were great stories and he had even more of them. After talking about books we'd talk about playing for the NBA and then getting a house - always he said, he would buy a house as soon as he signs a contract. And I'm like yeah, dude - like a big house with a hot tub and a big old playboy mansion set up and lots of shorties coming over all the time. He's like no man, not like that - I ain't into that Magic Johnson shit - and I'm like I feel that man - so what is it - he said he was going to have a house with a nice driveway that goes up to the entrance of the house in a circle and there will be a stone entryway that will cover the car when you get out and go in the door - so you drive up and let out everyone in the car and your bags or groceries and then you drive around back and park in a real driveway next to a garage. That was the way to go he said - no parking cars on the front lawn. And inside this little stone archway - archway is what he called it - there was a blue and white lantern. It would be on at night and light up the whole area. The other thing he said he wanted was that the house would have a big green lawn in the front and back. And be very flat - really flat and big so you can toss around a football with your homes. Patrick said that was his American Dream - he knew when he got that house he be a success and folks would have to look up to him. So it was one of the those real talkie times after doin a little fine Jamaican that he wus all up in the clouds talking this shit and then he asks me - I didn't even think about it - I was just chillin and like livin in his picture of things, same way I did when he tells the story - and I was up there in the clouds with him and he says, so C, what up with you. I say, what? He says, what up with you, bro. What are you gonna do with your first contract? I'm like - I dunno, dawg. I thought I was gonna live with you in that house. He like looks at me like I just slapped him - he's like. WHAT? I'm like, yeah, man…I thought you was talking about us chillin in your crib, your dream house. The he got this look on his face like I was like crazee man. C, he says, you ain't livin in my house, man. Get your own damn house. I'm like, damn. That's cold. What are you a faggot, man? He asks. I hope you ain't no faggot mother fucker. No, man. I says. No, I just thought we wus so tight and all, that we'd get that house and chill together, nome sayin? He's shakin his head now and laughin and he says, no, man…nah-ugh I ain't livin with you. I ain't that way, man. And he's still laughin but it's not a fun laugh and I know he's laughin at me and he's like looking at me like I'm something he's never seen before. Like a freak. So I pick up the gun and shoot him, shoot his ass for laughing at me. He made me so mad. I ain't a freak. I just loved him. He didn't want me to and he made me feel like a freak. No one should do that - no one should turn love into a freak thing. But I miss him and I'm sorry I got mad with the gun. I shouldn't have. I love Patrick.
- TMD Review Editors
Setting: The interrogation room of a police station.
At Rise: C, a tall gangly youth, sits awkwardly at a scuffed metal table, his legs folded up carefully. His physicality is that of a creature too big for his chair and maybe even the room. There's a single spot over his head.
C: I didn't want to hurt Patrick. They got me all wrong. I wanted us to live together. Get a crib together. He wus my best friend, what happened wus an accident. We wus playin with his gun and it went off - I got scared and ran. Then I came back and he was lying with his blood pumping out of him. He was jerkin and breathing really hard. I took his hand and said Patrick! He looked over at me, but his eyes were all like glassy and shit - and he hadn't been doin much weed lately.
(pause.)
A'ight maybe we did a little weed that day but we wus never like some guys getting up in each other's stuff and frontin and talking trash. We wus quiet and shit, sittin around talking about books. Patrick really loved to read and he kept it quiet cause that would get you jumped comin from where he lived. So he read in secret and never could talk to anyone about it. He had planned to be an English teacher so he could read books all the time and then talk to his students. But until us guys met on the team it was his secret. I liked it when we got high and he did that - he tole adventure stories like one book it was about some guy going back in time - and then another about a guy who was stuck in a prison for ten years and then come out and become a prince or something and then went and killed all the dudes who put him in prison. Yeah. That one I liked a lot and I read it over and over now that I know what its like. And there was one about a guy who gets shipwrecked on a tropical island and all us he has to talk to is his dog. They were great stories and he had even more of them. After talking about books we'd talk about playing for the NBA and then getting a house - always he said, he would buy a house as soon as he signs a contract. And I'm like yeah, dude - like a big house with a hot tub and a big old playboy mansion set up and lots of shorties coming over all the time. He's like no man, not like that - I ain't into that Magic Johnson shit - and I'm like I feel that man - so what is it - he said he was going to have a house with a nice driveway that goes up to the entrance of the house in a circle and there will be a stone entryway that will cover the car when you get out and go in the door - so you drive up and let out everyone in the car and your bags or groceries and then you drive around back and park in a real driveway next to a garage. That was the way to go he said - no parking cars on the front lawn. And inside this little stone archway - archway is what he called it - there was a blue and white lantern. It would be on at night and light up the whole area. The other thing he said he wanted was that the house would have a big green lawn in the front and back. And be very flat - really flat and big so you can toss around a football with your homes. Patrick said that was his American Dream - he knew when he got that house he be a success and folks would have to look up to him. So it was one of the those real talkie times after doin a little fine Jamaican that he wus all up in the clouds talking this shit and then he asks me - I didn't even think about it - I was just chillin and like livin in his picture of things, same way I did when he tells the story - and I was up there in the clouds with him and he says, so C, what up with you. I say, what? He says, what up with you, bro. What are you gonna do with your first contract? I'm like - I dunno, dawg. I thought I was gonna live with you in that house. He like looks at me like I just slapped him - he's like. WHAT? I'm like, yeah, man…I thought you was talking about us chillin in your crib, your dream house. The he got this look on his face like I was like crazee man. C, he says, you ain't livin in my house, man. Get your own damn house. I'm like, damn. That's cold. What are you a faggot, man? He asks. I hope you ain't no faggot mother fucker. No, man. I says. No, I just thought we wus so tight and all, that we'd get that house and chill together, nome sayin? He's shakin his head now and laughin and he says, no, man…nah-ugh I ain't livin with you. I ain't that way, man. And he's still laughin but it's not a fun laugh and I know he's laughin at me and he's like looking at me like I'm something he's never seen before. Like a freak. So I pick up the gun and shoot him, shoot his ass for laughing at me. He made me so mad. I ain't a freak. I just loved him. He didn't want me to and he made me feel like a freak. No one should do that - no one should turn love into a freak thing. But I miss him and I'm sorry I got mad with the gun. I shouldn't have. I love Patrick.
A Sorority of Red
a sorority of red
smiling, shining faces,
loving attached
bright upturned
the youngest one
wanting to belong
dyes her hair
born brown in a surfeit of redheads
on the steps of sacre coeur
while the carousel organ plays
painted horses prance by
in their orbit
the dome as backdrop
a heart blessed
three sisters
crimson-headed two and the other brown
catholics tumble by
like prairie grass
resting
there
for immediate
gratification
the children tugged along
never to be broken
and dancing later
hard wooden floors
the flat
95’s hit song
flame-haired all
smiling, shining faces,
loving attached
bright upturned
the youngest one
wanting to belong
dyes her hair
born brown in a surfeit of redheads
on the steps of sacre coeur
while the carousel organ plays
painted horses prance by
in their orbit
the dome as backdrop
a heart blessed
three sisters
crimson-headed two and the other brown
catholics tumble by
like prairie grass
resting
there
for immediate
gratification
the children tugged along
never to be broken
and dancing later
hard wooden floors
the flat
95’s hit song
flame-haired all
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