| Author |
 Topic  |
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
 Posted - 11/07/2004 : 18:41:00
|
When I lived in the other country... Oh... Hundreds of years ago. The sea was at my door. A colder sea for sure. The sky was low. Filled with wailing cries. The men of my village made small vessels from hide. Currachs that flew weightless o'er the water. A rescue fleet to save ships from the vengeful, rocky places. Ah... They had another purpose. Sinners they put into these tiny boats. Set them on the brine. No food, no water, no oars. Sun-blind by day. At night, the spinning stars. Delirious with fear and hunger. Chilled by salt-mist air. Prayers flung into the ocean. And then a light from a far-off land. A shallow shine through epic fog was how she found this shore.
|
 |
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/07/2004 : 18:43:16
|
| "The Ocean is always looking for a way into your boat." ~ The U. S. Coast Guard, on lifesaving ~ |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/08/2004 : 19:23:51
|
| They come late to the shop together. The fireman and the guy who fixes the fire extinguishers. They check the tags tied with wire. Take the tanks outside to the truck. Stare at the darkening sky. And the menu that just lit up across the street in the window of Blue Lucy's Cantina. "Monday Special ~ Carne Asada Burrito." They do something I don't see. My new tags are punched NOVEMBER 2005 - DO NOT REMOVE BY ORDER OF THE STATE FIRE MARSHALL. "Have a great night!" they say, and cross the street to Lucy. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/09/2004 : 18:34:19
|
| Taking my neighbor shopping tomorrow after work. A birthday present for his lady, Catherine. "What do you think of a cashmere shawl?" he asks me. "I think it says love," I say. "Let's go for it, then," he says. Catherine is 71. Eleven years a widow. Mr. Gardener is a little bit older. 76 or 77, I think. He's not saying. Legally blind now. It happened gradually over the past several years. I took him for his "daylight" driving test 5 years ago. My hand at his elbow. Grim smile when he said, "an' if I don't pass, I jus' go to work on these," and he slapped his legs. He didn't pass. And now he's found himself, "...a real fine lady with wheels!" Oh, love in the tinsel Mall tomorrow! |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/09/2004 : 21:55:11
|
| We are sleeping on the desert. Halfway between San Lupe and the Valle de San Ynez. It takes a long time to get here by horseback. The trail is trecherous and does not love the traveler. We make the campfire fast. One minute the horizon is in flames. Then the sun sets. The Guards are restless. The worm dreams in the bottle they pass on hand-to-hand. Moonlight does not please them. Paseo Del Norte is closed, they say. He knows another way. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/10/2004 : 19:26:48
|
Ranch spilling over
Opposite sides of the road
Sun honey-tonguing
His generous childhood sky
Early winter mornings
Common as Monday's full line
She talks in her sleep
He hears cards being shuffled in his
Watches as they work their way
Expertly out of his hands
Sunsets ripen the rim of the horizon
Years of leaning toward this same view
From a room where dormers vault
To the blue
|
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2004 : 19:06:19
|
Long day. Going back on Beach Road tomorrow. To a house we've done before. Don't know what these new folks will want. Last time it was exotic stone for an orthopedic surgeon whose specialty was athletes. His aesthetic was complicated. Fossil-like. The spines of imagined creatures. He was at war with the Coastal Commission. His pilings were too close to the water. Inches. But the pilings were down and the add-on slab already poured. So it became a matter of money. Fines. Everytime the inspectors would show up on the jobsite the doc would want me to change the design. More bizarre. Nightmarish. "I'm letting them get to me, aren't I?" he said, and I said, "Yep." It was the year of El Nino. Big rain many days. One day we were down on the jobsite and the tide came in through the first floor and the cliff slid down behind us and hit the railroad track. It snapped and sprung into the air like so much curling ribbon. The cliff ended up 5 feet from the back door. The train was out for a couple of weeks while they tarped and anchored the cliff with sandbags. The stretch of Coast Highway stayed closed for over a year. The doctor lived in the house 7 months and then sold it to a guy in recycling who completely demoed the interior to pour colored concrete. What I remember was everybody coming into the shop to get Stu to take them down to see the tracks because he had a construction pass. That track spiraled 15 feet into the air...just a snap of God's fingers... "Oh, grain of sand is all..." For sure.
Mr. Gardener has a beautiful tasseled shawl for Catherine. A surprise birthday party here Saturday night. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/11/2004 : 19:14:16
|
"Have you ever noticed how we as little boys would leave behind the very...very expensive toy and return to the tried and true stick horsey...or...Momma's dish towel that all at once would become Superman's cape! Off the roof of the house in a moment of madness...or...faith...only to find yourself face down in the mud with all the breath you would need for next week knocked out of you..."
~Mickey Newbury
October 10, 2000~
Love and blessings to the Wizard...and his beautiful Porch.
|
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3707 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 05:56:36
|
Sitting in the corner of the dark room,
Alone with nothing but my thoughts.
The glow of the cigarette illuminates the room
like a firefly at each draw.
there is no satisfaction,
no smoke can be seen.
So I light another,
and another.
craig |
|
|
|
Lee F.
Firefly
USA
2550 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 10:02:45
|
| The shadows creeping down the wall eating the dappled sunshine that had painted the wall with cloud figures of every shape until all was ruled by the gloom. Turning on the lights swallowed the shadows in a flashing of power except for the stongest shadows that hid behind the sofas,paiently waiting to reclaim their fiefdom. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 19:34:31
|
| She wants him on the street. Gold locket watch snug in his pocket. Pistol in his new boot. Laughing when he falls through that hole in the sky. And there he is. White shirt shining. Stepping over cracks in the sidewalk with clouds around his ankles. Whistling a tune that makes her sway and lean against him. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 19:40:57
|
Tall bolts of lace. So delicately fine I said to the Rep, "Somebody must have gone blind making this." "Probably," he said, "it's a hazard of the textile industry." Makes me think of Monet growing the flowers he painted.
Tonight a hot air baloon crashed in a field of horses. The people scrambled out. The horses moves as one. In panic. From the noise of air escaping and flames roaring to ignite. The gondola slid on its side. Fire gone. Rainbow nylon collapsing. Finally they got it in the truck all tidy and drove off to tomorrows sunset. |
|
|
|
Ron L.
Swinger
USA
675 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 23:29:47
|
James traveled that forest road along
the river as the wind began to rise and
the trees were singly softly, soon to
be heard in full force. He walked all
that afternoon past dead lumber mills
and empty houses smiling with cracked
window teeth. He found the camp ground
close to dark with an open tool shed
and in the fading light, sat down and
contined reading about Stan heading for
Vegas to meet the Devil.
It rained most of the night as he kept
warm with a half empty fertilizer bag.
At dawn, after sleeping better than he
ever would have thought, he continued
his trip to the Sea. The rain was gone
but the wind was strong and as always,
heard the surf long before he reached it.
He stood on a hill beside Wedderburn and
gazed at what looked like black and
white watercolors running together a
little offshore.
The waves were huge and they fought with
the outbound flow of the Rogue. From where
he stood looking up and down the coast at
untamed magnificence rushing to the land,
he had a thought about the Ocean:
You cannot argue with it.
|
|
|
|
Ron L.
Swinger
USA
675 Posts |
Posted - 11/12/2004 : 23:34:31
|
"Ya know, I think God sent "West Wing" to give us hope."
Mickey Newbury, October 31, 2001 |
Edited by - Ron L. on 11/12/2004 23:35:18 |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/13/2004 : 17:47:27
|
| Here's now. A houseful. 62 degrees and falling. Lighting the lanterns and cranking the propane heaters to eat outside. Stu's at the grill whistling IF YOU SEE HER. His favorite song. My dear friend, Mirella is in the kitchen with a blow-torch making creme brule'. All our plates are in the air spinning. Kids straddling the fence waiting on Mr. Gardener to bring Catherine to her birthday surprise. Then we'll go out on the patio and eat paella and drink Spanish wine. That's the warm plan. If it's too cold, well... We'll move inside. Either way, before we sit down at the big table...a prayer for everyone. |
|
|
|
Craig
Firefly
Kyrgyzstan
3707 Posts |
Posted - 11/14/2004 : 04:28:23
|
The timbers of the old house creaked constantly from the blustery wind. The wooden door, loose in its frame, sadly bangs like an old, used drum, keeping step with the gusting wind. No light but an old white gas lantern in the middle of the room. It is a beacon for the few moths left to winter over to dance and bounce around, that night.
Morning arrives. The waves of the Blue Norther pound the southern shoreline, bringing with it a cold penetrating rain. Who would have thought a leaky, old weather beaten cabin would provide three marooned souls with shelter. Wading out into the cold waters, oysters are gathered and opened with numbed hands from the bitter cold. The warmth from the portable stove provides a moment of relief from the cold as the oysters sizzle as they are warmed and cooked.
Darkness covers us like a cloak as we slowly eat and savor each bite.
Hours later a very faint, yet welcome sound is in the far off distance. It is getting louder...a boat making its way through the cold, winter night.
The old place no longer exists, one too many Northers took it away. It is like it was never there, swallowed by the waters. It is nothing more than a few timbers left on the edge of the saltgrass marsh, a constant reminder of the cruelties of nature and the agelessness of East Bay. But one time, it was sanctuary.
craig |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/14/2004 : 17:42:24
|
| All love last night. Flowers from the fields on the tables. Candlelight pooling in platters. Even the salt and pepper shaking and shining up to the knives and forks. Mr. Gardener and Catherine smiling and holding hands. For a moment...they're both 23. Her shawl is the color of her grey-green eyes, and she needed it, 'cause, boy, it was cold here! (We went to Plan B immediately and ate inside.) Mr. Gardener's here permanently. Ralph. He moved to the high desert in 2002 to live with his daughter, Lynn. He stayed six months. Then traveled back and forth over the next couple of years. Sometimes I drove him to Victorville. He'd tell stories about the old swing bands. The music he courted his wife with. He always missed the coast. "...I love to watch the sunsets and the surfers." I don't know how much he can see anymore, but Catherine's been taking him to Swami's. A great surf spot where they park and share a thermos of decaf and a tuna sandwich. Catherine's driving his Jeep Cherokee. The last vehicle he owned because "I don't want no old man's car." |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/14/2004 : 17:45:47
|
"...a Plan is nothing more than another word for Dream. Nothing wrong with dreaming. Once again I fall into my dreams... So close your sleepy eyes...and sail into the sky..."
~ Mickey Newbury ~ |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/14/2004 : 17:54:49
|
| Soon the keepers of the fog arrive. His torn grey beggars cloak trailing. Her swath of tattered veil. What rises up from this sand-blown road is just another word for longing. Dark slips under the teapot lid and nests in the measuring spoons. A kind of kitchen madness. Gouging eyes out of the dimpled potatoes. Drowning the escarole. On the table, her heart in a white cup warming while the clock in the mist-crowned tower pushes its gloom against the sky. Beware of the hoblees and goblins, then. The curse of Standard Time. |
|
|
|
Ailinn
Swinger
1444 Posts |
Posted - 11/15/2004 : 21:41:56
|
...questions he asked and (intermittent static) envelope returned stamped NO SUCH...
...when he showed up the first time in a beat up pickup with rusty tags. Faded jeans and shirt. Shaggy hair. Me and Carmella in the kitchen when he stepped up on the porch and whipped off his wide hat. "Oh, oh," I said, "I'm afraid we're about to meet the Lone Ranger. You wanna a sandwich, Mister?" Well, he smiled. He ate. And he was hungry and he drank a lot of coffee. Him and Carmella talked about Laredo. She had folks there and he knew the border end to end. "How's the catering business?" he asked me. "Seasonal," I said. I wanted him to keep talking. It was a tap your foot kind of deal. Trying to get a line on him quick. For a week he came by at supper. We'd eat in the kitchen and chat him up for the fun of it. He had a different rhythm. More syllables to the word. "Is that English you're talkin'...?" I asked him, "...holy cow." He was easy-going, but he didn't give much of himself away. A chivalrous con. I had the feeling he'd been up the creek and over the mountain. I didn't trust him. Carmella did. She bought the farm somewhere around the third or fourth cup of coffee. When I shrugged my shoulders she put on a freah pot. He took off and we figured he'd gone down country. Then one morning in winter I woke to hear him working on the truck. He sat in my kitchen of an evening for a while. He didn't have much to say. He took everything in through his lightning-struck, summing-up eyes. Then he was gone in the morning. Late winter...early spring.
He came riding up beside me. Without so much as a "hey, how you been...?" he started telling me where the run-offs and the irrigation ditches needed clearing. "Worst things first," he said. Days went by and years passed.
|
|
|
|
Topic |
|
|
The Nightly Vigil