Another Remodel

This may be too pompous, even for me. If people really wanted to read my past posts, some of which are fantastic, they could go in the archives of Honea Express and A2Z, respectively, and do so.

I think I'm going to utilize this space in yet another new way. Give me a few days.

The 1st of Many Work Rants

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Dining Out: Don't Be a Jackass

As some of you may know I am a bartender by trade, or choice, or fate. Whatever. I tend bar even though I am qualified for much more important, yet lesser paying, jobs. Go figure. Last night, as you know, was Valentine's Day, which means that our establishment was on an hour and 45 minute wait. Which means that many people came to sit in the bar where we have a full menu and open seating. People came and sat at tables without ordering anything because they were waiting for a table in the restaurant. Big deal? Yes. Those people sat at my tables for over half an hour. That is money out of my pocket. People came and stood behind other guests to wait for their table. I can't think of many things ruder than that. Oh wait, I can. 'Guests' pushed each other, and the servers, so as to arrange themselves accordingly to hover over said tables. Then they got mad because we were so busy and the food took a little longer, so they cursed, they threw food, they yelled at servers (not just their own, as if that would be ok). Then they paid with coupons. Then they didn't tip. I tell you, I am about one jackass away from losing my job in a blaze of glory. The hard part is restraining myself while waiting for that special someone that is going to get my foot in their ass. Really people, it's Valentine's Day, I get it, your getting laid may hinge upon a nice night out. A good meal and some smooth talk may save you from a week of nagging. I get it. The thing is, the company that I work for, which I probably shouldn't name so let's just call it "Pepper's", is not romantic or fancy enough to even be considered for Valentine's Day. The best wine we have is Kendell Jackson! You would be better off smashing grapes with your own feet. Anyplace with TV's showing poker, speakers blaring 38 Special, and that honors coupons (AND YOU USE THEM!!) on Valentine's Day is not romantic enough to meet any criteria. The only reason you should be walking into a place like ours on VD is if you are a) in high school, b) on house arrest and you live within a block, c) you are single, d) you are clueless. We are a great restaurant, don't get me wrong, the food is awesome, the atmosphere is friendly and comfortable, but we are not 'Chez' anything, and if we get you laid you may want to aim a little higher on your companion choices. After the sex of course. In the meantime, I can't wait for Mother's Day, the other busiest day of the year, when the class acts are out on furlough and bring Momma in for some eats and some cursin'.

Even Greatest Hits Have Some Down-time

Well, if I'm going to start a collection of my favorite posts from all of the blogs I own or write for, I may as well start at the beginning. I started blogging on February 2, 2005, and this post is from day two. It's not a gem, but it's a start.


Still Crazy After All These Years

Thank you Paul Simon for such insight. I often find myself doing things that are not in my best interest because at the time they are at least interesting. A few pints after work and suddenly I'm crawling into bed at 2am on a Tuesday. It's fun, it's stupid, it's inappropriate- perhaps, but man, is it needed. Whatever this life throws at you, no matter how far down the "you" falls on your priority list, you still have to make time to relax, be crazy or whatever it is that made you 'you' to begin with.
Hence me typing this on a belly full of coffee and Guinness with the whispering shades of a headache softly reminding me that I really am old, regardless of my untucked shirt and MP3 collection. Perhaps I am a fool*, but I can't imagine it any other way.
Speaking of fools, what is up with the dumbing of America**? My whole life, spent in Tucson, Seattle, San Diego and now an hour outside of LA, I have ordered beer by the pint. Bars have had 2 dollar pint night. Pint, pint, pint. Recently I have gone to two different bars, one a trendy sportsbar, the other a supposed British pub where neither bartender has known what a pint was. Really? It's that freaking 16 ounce glass in your hand!
-Hey, how many miles to the closest gas station?
-What's a mile?
It's that stupid. Therefore I am including the following quotes on fools:

*There are more fools in the world than there are people. -- Heinrich Heine
Wise men talk because they have something to say, fools because they have to say something. -- Plato
The trouble isn't that there are too many fools, but that the lightning isn't distributed right. -- Mark Twain
Anger dwells only in the bosom of fools. -- Albert Einstein
We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools. -- Martin Luther King, Jr
An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools. -- Ernest Hemingway
I have great faith in fools -- self confidence my friends call it. -- Edgar Allan Poe
**Get all the fools on your side and you can be elected to anything. -- Frank Dane (see dumbing of America)

Remember Me?

Greetings Anthony (& anyone else that accidentally wound up here) to "the blog that we don't mention".

I've been bad. I haven't been writing at all of late. I've been watching movies and wishing I was in them and watching SNL ( watch the digital shorts on Natalie Portman and Lazy Sunday) and wishing I was funny. I've been drinking beer and wishing it didn't hurt my head and listening to Jack Johnson and wishing, and sitting and waiting (song reference).

I do have the corrected version of my story coming out soon from India. The previous addition sits in my office still wrapped in the cardboard packaging it arrived in, covered in airmail stamps and "Air Mail" stickers. I can't bring myself to part with the shell even though the gooey goodness is hidden on the inside.

A friend of mine, (I think I can call him a friend despite never having met and only talking through email and blogs for a year or so) Dave King, gave me a lead on a literary agent in New York which I promptly contacted with unprofessional vigor and obvious disregard for protocol. Needless to say I haven't heard back. What I sent him was crap. I was afraid of losing my "Dave King mentioned you to me" window.

So basically I haven't posted here because I haven't been writing. I'll work on that.

Something I've Noticed

I lost control again. For no reason really. I have anger and issues like everyone. I’m full of shit and sweet as cotton candy. I compromise myself to the will of the wind. It pushes me and I lose control.
If ever there was a place for me than perhaps this is it. Los Angeles is an island floating on a sea of hopelessness and breast implants. We are a confused and fucked up bunch, those of us that call the island home. We are the greatest people in the world and every last one of us is an idiot.
I’m drinking a glass of wine that cost more than my shoes and chasing each sip with a handful of Pringles that set me back about a buck for the whole can. I like to even myself out. Tomorrow I’ll go barefoot and drink crappy beer with my prime rib. That’s how we keep it real here in the land of make believe.
It’s all a movie. Sure there are the obvious, the rich and beautiful, but even the ugly and poor are faking it. Gangs shoot babies in Compton because it’s hardcore and everything else they saw on HBO. Girls ride busses from Minnesota just to suck a few dicks before being sent home with their tails between there legs and sores on their lips. It is a melting pot and it boils over.
My issues with control could probably be traced back to my childhood. Perhaps I wasn’t hugged as a kid. Maybe I was hugged too much. Either way it doesn’t matter. My issues could be traced back but I won’t follow them. That whole line of thinking is for the weak and the lost, like all things religion it gives them hope and frees them from taking blame for themselves. They run this damn island.
Unlike most of the other inmates, I moved here against my will. I have never desired to live in L.A., and if not for Disneyland would probably have never visited California at all. Yet, here I am, serving a life term for crimes I’ve yet to commit. There are plenty of others that are here by choice and breaking laws by the second. I play the ying to their yang. I did not vote for them.

The Stop Light Writings II

Silent somber shuffles

of a forgotten box-step

restless as leaves

floating obliviously

over bared souls

and buried secrets-

some birds fly

south for the winter

and some forget

how to come home.

In the next song

I will dip you

if you promise

to think of me.

Good News from India

To update the previous post- I have spoken with the editor of the Taj Mahal Review, and Jazz will appear in its entirety in the June issue. This means that I will grace those pages two issues in a row, much to the chagrin of literary lovers everywhere.

My Book Arrived...

...with half of me in it.
So, remember when I said I was being published in India, but I wasn't real sure what the hell was going on? It came out, although I'm still not sure what happened.
The story Jazz was used in a collection which appears to be a glamour press sort of anthology, except that I didn't have to pay to have it included- so there's that. The weird thing is that they didn't print the whole thing. It's kind of a Reader's Digest version, except that rather than a straight attempt to abridge the story they just started it right in the middle. Does it still work? Not really. I mean the writing is brilliant still, of course, but the plot is now lacking more than ever. Read the full version yourself from the link on the right or below and imagine it starting with 'The Story of Duke's Grandpa' rather than at the actual beginning. Odd me thinks.

The original version is available at:http://www.thebluemoon.com/fiction/whonea.shtml. The reprint is available in hardcover at: http://cyberwit.net/subs.htm

The Stop Light Writings

light 1
Streams to oceans
shallow and deep,
I flow too-
I scream. I weep.
I judge you unfairly
as you float on my waves.

light 2
There are trees out there
that never lose their leaves
despite cold and wind
and possible ridicule
from an exposed birch
that sways naked and free
with nothing to hide
anymore

light 3
Rabbits run across dams
and Updikes
throwing aside browning greens
like an unsolicited literary reference,
and they smile at their own absurdity

light 4
I wrote four poems
in the car today
in little less than twenty minutes
and perhaps this is the worst of them
or perhaps it is the best.
If that is the case
then the others must suck
because this isn't so much a poem
as it is a reminder
that I only wrote three poems
in the car today

The Poems We Used to Tell

Over on The Honea Express I just finished crying about the good old days. At the annual Christmas party that I put on a pedestal I used to recite an original poem to honor the occasion. Usually the poem was so original that I "wrote" it in my head on the way to the party. The following is no exception. The only reason that it exists to this day is that party goers were so upset that the girl with the video camera failed to tape it that they made me repeat it to be written down for the sake of prosperity. Thanks to Jeanine for insisting on that point.
The poem is classic beatnik stereotype bohemian slam, forty drunks in Santa hats and snowflake ties snapping their fingers in unison while the words are shouted over them in quick cuts of infliction and random pause. Imagine Mike Myers in 'So I Married an Axe Murderer', as it was the inspiration for the style and the beat.
(The words and sounds shown in parenthesis were performed by a friend that was out of sight of other guests.)

Christmas Party Poem 1998: The Fun One

SaSanta...
Santa Claus
He’s a hip cat,
Awful damn fat,
Pretty in red makes him jolly,
Like pink did for Molly.
He’s good and he’s wise
Doesn’t tell lies,
His reindeer flie…z
He knows who’s bad,
She was the best
I ever had.
Spank her once…for me.

Jack Frost
Jack Frost
He brings on winter
Quick like a sprinter
He makes it white and cold,
Or so I’ve been told.
At night when he’s trippin’,
Nose he’s a nippin’.
I’ll keep your cold hot
with the lovin'I got
and the whiskey I’m sippin’.

Jesus
Jesus
Took H20, made it Merlot
Got drunk and ate fish,
Was the poor boy’s wish:
Round of free bread and
Thorns on his head--
Didn’t that hurt?

Christmas
Christmas is here
I can tell by the beer.
And broke as I am
Eating green eggs and Spam,
Jimmy Stewart’s got nothing on me
Livin’ life wonder-full-y. (bell)
Every time a bell rings,
An angel gets its wings
("Come and get it!")
Or dinner’s being served.

More of the Artsy Fartsy Stuff

Seems like I've posted this before. Perhaps I did. Oh well, like "must see tv" in the summertime, it's new to me. Or you. Whatever.
I was inspired to write this poem while sitting on the toilet with a pretty severe hangover the day after my birthday and the morning after seeing Filter play in Seattle. I was looking at a book of dream interpretation and it said that dreaming of December meant that you would gain great wealth but lose a loved one in doing so. That intrigued me.
Somewhere between Seattle and Vancouver the poem wrote itself in my mind while my head leaned against the window for cold comfort. Since then it has been used by my old high school teacher in his AP English exams. Pretty cool I think. Nothing like a bunch of smart kids explaining what you meant while you were half-drunk on the can.

DREAMING OF DECEMBER

The long ride leaves me
Dreaming of December.
The shadows of heavy clouds,
The echo of melancholy piano keys
Lead me onward and away.
Hills once caressed by smooth sunlight
Turn inward under their icy coats
With their backs against frost
covered canvas of still warm fields
Left alone for now,
Stoic and forgotten,
depressing the uninspired.
I was told it should be spring,
Yet I am blind to the budding
And blooming lost between
Bouts of mists of rain.
What might I lose but you
If I forget the words to your song
Or the colors of your sky
Even the fruits that fall
Against the ground
Beneath your tree
Taste sour when you leave.
Remember my face
When you look at his,
And know how poor
I will always be.

Some Old Paintings

THE JAZZ CLUB
RED LEAVES ON DARK WATER

Published in India

I have something being published in India. It may or may not be one of my stories. I was contacted for permission to reprint Jazz, which of course I agreed to, seeing as the market for educated readers in India is fantastic. That's a lot of people being offended by my pen.
Then I was contacted again with a letter of thanks and they referred to my story as The Story of Duke's Grandpa, which you may know from Jazz as a tale within a tale.
That being the case I'm not sure what will be hitting the newsstand, but I will know when, and when I do I will share that information with you on the off chance you may wish to purchase it- which will hopefully encourage Bollywood to buy the rights. Cross your stuff.

The Buzz (a work in progress)

There are sounds that move me like a guide through these streets. Sounds that have been called silence, noise and music. To some they are healing, to some they are painful, to me, they are just the sounds that call me.
I’m not sure where I first tasted the sweetness of bourbon whiskey, but I remember how the ice rattled like dice against the empty glass before it was pounded still by the pour against it. There was muttering, a toast I suppose, and then the clanking of my glass meeting someone else’s in agreement to whatever had been said. The buzzing that competed with the whiskey for my attention. The buzzing that trapped others in thankless jobs and marriages, making them sign on dotted lines for things that no man needs but every man wants- bigger cars, bigger houses, bigger tits. I do not want for such things. I ignore the buzz.
What I want is any car, any house and I don’t give a shit about tits, just give me something warm that doesn’t cough or cry when I put my dick in it. That is what I taste in a sip of whiskey. That is why I treat my bottle like my baby, wrapped in blankets of brown bag and held close to my loving bosom, ever ready to kiss and comfort. I do not have a home, with no way to get there and nobody waiting there for me. I have cheap bottles of life attached to the end of each arm and the noises they create push me. Forward, onward, somewhere they push me. I am led without restraint.
Some years ago, I’ve lost count, I would have gladly sat my drink down and shaken your hand. I would have smiled with perfect teeth. I would have had teeth. The buzz was all around me then and I was all about it. We danced in cubicles and boardrooms. We were a regular Fred and Ginger, sashaying through the American dream, the houses, the cars and the tits. And then, just when I bent over to set down my drink and shake your extended hand, it fucked me. The American dream gave it to me good. I coughed and I cried and when the buzz turned away from me I turned away from it.
The sounds now are echoes mostly, of how it was and how I planned it to be. The noises around me, the cars and sirens and shoppers with children. I pay them as much heed as they do me. I walk a straight, albeit wobbly line, and it all dances around me like some cosmic ballet, planets around the sun; but while the planets are full of life, this sun is burnt out, and as far as it being a dance, I refuse to tango and they are reduced to a bunch of fucking idiots. The same fucking idiots that they have kissed babies and asses to become, bending over backward so as not to get the blind siding I got. Smart of ‘em.

A Funny Clip

View this clip on Vimeo

Angering Thought

What the hell do I care if someone’s purple, prays to lampshades or puts cheese in their ass? That’s their problem. I’ve got mine. How did this world ever get to where we are- where people are dying, daily by the thousands, for such things as the color of their skin, the teachings of their religion, the way they drive. It is insane. I sit in bars and converse with people that are real and decent, no matter the skeletons they feel obligated to lock away, yet when I turn on the television I am bombarded with stupidity and idiots running the world and terrorizing my neighborhood mall. It is amazing how readily people will believe what they are told about themselves. Didn’t anyone learn from Public Enemy? Don’t believe the hype. There aint nothing cool about being an idiot, no matter how many albums you sell (sorry Flav). Talk right. Stand up straight. And the next time you see someone face down in the gutter at least call him a cab before you steal his wallet.

Humbling Thought

I thought that I had made it, relatively speaking of course. There in search engines across the internet was my name. There was me being me. There was a paper written on me and one of my stories for someone’s college course. There were various blogs and quotes featuring my work. I thought that I had made it. I got cocky. I stopped looking up just my name (ego search- like you don't do it) and started looking up what I wanted the world to see me as; a prolific writer of all genres. I looked up "Whit Honea" and "poet", and instead of receiving a list of my published poems I was greeted with a screen asking me "did you mean 'what honeypot' ? "Yes. Apparently I did.

Hiatus

You may have noticed it's quiet over here. Believe it or not, that's a good thing. It means I'm actually getting some writing done, rather than rehashing old pieces and putting them on this site. That being the case this site will be on a self-imposed hiatus for a little longer. How much longer I can't say, it's up to the muse (whiskey).

Honeaexpress will continue to be updated for those of you that are jonesin' for your Whit fix- and who can blame you really?

Long Play the Night

It was the third of June, 1887, and unlike most men who called upon me, he did not have a wife and family to run home to. Where others would blush with guilt, he would hesitate and smile. Where others took their leave, he took to conversation. He was not tall for a man, but still he towered over my petite frame. His eyes absorbed the night, appearing grey as they fixed upon me. His words were soft, and they fell slowly from his heavy lips, as if every syllable demanded his complete attention.
So it was that I found myself strangely intrigued by the handsome stranger, feeling comfort in his presence. He moved unclothed to the chair where he had draped his jacket, and reached to the inside pocket, producing his money clip. Without even counting the bills he laid a stack on the small table and sat down. He had been speaking to me the whole time, and I strained to concentrate on his soft-spoken words. I realized he was telling me of a past love, and how hard it had been to leave her. Curiosity got the better of me, and I inquired as to why he had done so.
"I found myself resenting her for what she was, or rather what she wasn't. She wasn't like me, and despite my earlier denial, I knew that what I sought was myself- somewhere beneath the warm, rolling hills of her breasts. Passion that only I could know, piercing me through her eyes, as if finding my reflection in a moonlit pool. A soul, dark and deep, yet able to skip happily as a stone when thrown correctly. This I sought, yet now I cannot help but think it in vain."
Through the rain fell silence, and the man leaned back in his chair, shifting the shadow cast upon his face. I watched the flame sway across the candle, and waited for him to continue. After many minutes I decided him finished, and found myself searching for something to say. Not a sound escaped on my steamed breath, and I pondered him, finding neither lust nor pain. I rose, knowing his eyes followed, and poured us each another bourbon. I couldn't help but wonder if he saw what he longed for in me, and if so, could I love him?
I was feeling on a matter beyond my reach, for I knew myself to be yet a child. A silly girl that no man could want, let alone this stranger who lay his heart on my bed as easily as his wallet. I was beneath him, and felt grateful for the words he had spoken. I heard him stir his glass, and turned to catch his eye. A fool I certainly was, but the fantasy haunted me still.
He asked to use my basin, and I obliged, even though I had never let another. I stood awkwardly against the wall, bathing him with my eyes as if they were the sponge he now held. I felt his hands on my skin, and wished for the water he touched to quench my thirst. I could see but an outline of his torso through the dimness of my room, yet I stared, burning for him to beckon me to his side.
He did not. He bathed and dressed, then walked to the table at my bedside where he had already laid his payment. He did not look at me, although I stood naked not two feet from him. He reached into his wallet, producing another neatly pressed bill, and bestowed it upon the pile. I was about to thank him when he spoke.
"Do not thank me; it is I who offer my gratitude. This money is not spent as was our time, it is merely given. A token from a lonely man to you who have offered him refuge."
A faint smile rode across his lips as he left my room. For once the parting of a man did not make me feel a whore. My presence had served more than desire, but a genuine need as well. I had been pulled from the dirt in which I wallowed, and been given a purpose. I glanced at the smooth stack of green bills that had been the last thing he had touched, and never had I felt so alone.
My situation was not always as it is now. I had once been considered quite promising in my studies, both academic and musical. Yes, I had talent, that was never the issue. It was always a question of passion. Could I apply any amount of lust towards these noble pursuits? Finally, a day came when I had to decide which path to take. Pursue my books, or my music? It was actually a much easier choice than I had previously thought. Granted, I had been forced into both, but the tremble of the violin strings had always offered more excitement than any text I had read, by choice or not.
My father, though not a harsh man, did not approve of my decision. Much against my wishes he decided to enroll me in a New England boarding school. It was then that I decided to leave home.
I waited until the last of the servants had retired for the evening before leaving my room. I entered my father's chamber, knowing he was away on business, and left him a note of my love, and my intent. Stepping quietly down the hall, hesitating only once, I paused outside the door where my governess slept. She had been with us since my mother's passing ten years before, and she was truly my only friend. I longed to kiss her goodbye, to hear her soft voice wish me luck, but I knew she would not. She would demand I stay, and I did not wish to leave her in anger.
I had never ventured far outside Menefee, the small town of my birth. My only knowledge of New Orleans came from the stories that my governess had told me, filling me with wonder and visions of grandeur. The journey was four days by carriage and river- boat, and I quivered with anticipation.
It was quite by accident that I found this trade, selling myself to survive. It wasn't as if I had left home to become a prostitute! My ambitions had been somewhat higher.
I had combed the filthy streets, searching for a place for me and my music. Not once did anyone ask me to play. There were laughs, pity, and vulgar advances, but nobody wanted to hear a fifteen year old runaway play the violin.
My home would be either Lafayette Square or Marguerite Place, whichever seemed the safest on a particular night. Although church had never held my interest before, the guilt of leaving my father weighed heavy, causing me to attend mass at St. Patrick's. Finally, the streets took their toll, and my appearance passed the realm of acceptance. My presence was no longer welcome in God's house.
Often I slept under the eye of my savior, my inspiration, Margaret Haughery, the "Orphan's Friend". Her likeness had been erected in stone by the women of the city, praising her for her life of devotion to charity. Many hours her gaze fell across my troubled brow, my winding back arched into the sky as my neck lay upon her frozen gown. In times of loneliness she was all I had to turn to. I would sleep at her feet, and dream of my father.
It wasn't until months later while sitting in a cafe, sipping coffee that I had purchased with coins dropped in my instrument case, that I got my first real look at a prostitute. My God, she was beautiful! I watched her for hours, talking to the men and women that approached her. Finally she disappeared with a tall blond man. They had walked off arm in arm, as if longtime lovers out for an evening stroll. I wondered if perhaps my assumptions were wrong about the woman. What if she hadn't been a prostitute at all, but a friendly woman waiting on her tardy companion? I decided to come back the next evening and see if I had done her an injustice.
She was there again the following night, and the next, always waiting for her lovers to appear. Every night she seemed more beautiful than the night before, clothed in fine gowns, and hair pulled up into an elegant bun on the top of her head. She was always the lady, always perfect.
After weeks of my spying she began to take notice of me. I started playing my violin on the corner opposite her, knowing my music reached her ears, drowning out the echoes of squeaky carriages and heavy horses that divided us. There was always a hint of sadness in her eyes when she glanced my way. I faced myself in the window to see what she saw. I was gaunt and filthy, having slept the past months in parks and alleys, amidst shadows of forgotten people, and gutters flowing with excrement. There had been beauty once, but cold and hunger were not kind, and my reflection was but a faded image of what I once was. I was too proud to pity myself, and too pathetic to realize it. My entire existence would have just dissipated into the wind eventually if not for the happiness she gave me. Other than dreaming of my father, the desire I had each day to watch this captivating woman became all that I knew, all that I cared about.
One evening when it appeared that she might not meet her lover, I found the courage to approach her. I placed my violin in its case, and stepped from the small circle of light that the street lamp provided. I moved towards her as I saw others move towards her, for truly, I too loved her. She took me by the arm, leading me not to the nearby St. Charles Hotel as I had expected, but to her home.
She allowed me to bathe, and fed me before she even asked my name. "Clarise", I answered, not remembering the last time I had heard it spoken. I then proceeded to give her my narrative, in more detail than was actually necessary. Hearing my words aloud caused tears in my eyes, and soon I had cried myself to sleep in her arms.
Morning found me alone in a large chamber, not unlike the room I had left behind. I searched the entire house for Natasha, finding her at last in the garden. She wore a robe of silk, and carried a radiance about her that seemed to compliment the flowers as much as they did her. There was a scent of lilac in the air, which basked her as if it were her own. She smiled when I stepped outside, and gestured for me to join her at a small table where our breakfast was already waiting.
I stayed as her guest for well over three months. In that time we shared our stories, our dreams, and our love. It was unlike any other experience, and I relished it.
The topic of her profession however, was one that she refused to discuss. I tried constantly to persuade her to take me along, grant me a life such as hers. I wished to have the strength she had, and the independence that came with it. I dreamed of waking every morning to the beauty of my own garden, covering myself in satin sheets when I retired to bed. The control she had over her life, over men, was intoxicating.
She always refused. I came to resent her for that. How could she deny me such opportunity? Perhaps I posed a threat to her with my youth and my charm. Perhaps she was jealous. I decided to pursue the matter alone.
I waited until Natasha left for the evening, then dressed in the finest gown given me, and I too went for a stroll.
I hoped my months of observation would provide me with the poise and grace necessary to attract the proper clientele, but still I stumbled and blushed with nervousness.
At that time I was very intimidated by men, and I trembled when one approached me. Daring not to take him to Natasha's, we proceeded to his home.
He had bid me to undress, and forced me upon the wood of his bedroom floor. His mouth locked unto mine, his tongue throwing wicked lashes against my own. His hands violated every part of my person. There were no moments of subtle whispers, only boisterous commands. The acts we engaged in were both painful and awkward, and I cried aloud to God, not in ecstasy, but in despair.
He finally gave in to exhaustion, and I ran the whole way home, payment in hand.
The next morning, during our garden breakfast routine, Natasha asked me where I had spent the night. I started to ask what she meant, but it was obvious that she wanted an answer.
"I stayed at a man's house." I replied.
"What man?"
"I don't know his name, he was just business."
Before I could blink, her hand, which only moments before was soft and kind, slapped my face.
I fled to my room, not like the woman I wished to be, but like the little girl that I was.
Sometime that night, shortly after darkness fell, she came to me in my chamber. We exchanged apologies and excuses as our tears flowed into one mighty stream, soiling the pillow on its journeys end. I knew then that it would be the last time she ever held me. I took my leave, kissing her lips as sleep took her in.
Again I found myself alone in the cluttered streets of New Orleans. The nights were humid and clung to my skin with the foul stench of open sewage and unbathed bodies filling the air. I buried my hunger in my sleep, only escaping for a few hours at a time, always waking to the pain of emptiness, the pounding of the cold wind upon my face. I clutched my violin case to my chest, harboring it, fearing to open it lest the last shards of my humanity leak out. Lost, I returned to my woman in the park, my silent confessional, praying for her wisdom to guide me.
Her words never found me. She had spent a life helping those abandoned by others, whereas I had abandoned myself. I sat for days with my back to the statue, inviting sleep to take me. I looked over the grounds littered with the desolate, the sick, and the drunk. Across the way two Creole boys, their flesh bleached with opium, exchanged favors with an older man. I could hear the joy in their young voices as they took their prize into the night, running through the trees pulling their trousers from around their ankles. It was then that I realized my only chance of survival came in the path that I had already started, the footprints of Natasha.
I watched the old man wind his way through the masses of waste that separated us. He stood above me, pinning me against the base of the statue, as if between two giant bookends. I gave a glance towards the stone face, and knew she could not save me.
Though the man was a stranger, his presence carried an odd comfort, like that of my father about to scold me. I found myself enjoying the fear he imposed upon me. He flashed me a toothless smile, and offered me his hand.
There in the park I committed myself to my profession. He had his way with me amongst the filth of the city, and he left me where he had found me, clutching his money, drenched in his odor, and thankful that I would finally eat.
A year now stands between the brief happiness that Natasha gave me and the sadness I have brought upon myself. Ironic that on this night, this anniversary of our last embrace, that I find another that strikes the same passion and awe in me that I thought only Natasha capable of.
This man, like countless before, came into my life not because of who I was, but what I was. However, that is where the similarities end. He carried not only his lust and his money, but a story, a sorrow. He gave me humanity, something that I had long forgotten. I prayed that he would seek my comforts again.
Six nights passed before I saw his face, and as before he walked alone, immaculately dressed, and appeared both surprised and relieved when he caught my gaze. I knew then, that indeed, I could love him.
He escorted me to the hotel room that was my practice, and locked the door behind him. I wished to know his name, but feared my words would halt the moment. Then, without taking his eyes from mine, he breathed the name Courtland. I then heard my voice return the introduction, as if my name was pulled from me. The entire exchange seemed odd, almost forced, but gentle. I felt my will was not all my own.
We never touched that night. We sat in the flickering darkness of my small room, and spoke of childhood dreams and the breezes of springtime, of books we had read and music that we loved. Topics I had never before found words to express, or a soul to confide in.
I played for him with all the passion that burned within me. Never had I played so well, and never had I witnessed the response of emotion that fell from Courtland's eye. I continued long after he wept himself to sleep, then lay my tired body around his.
He returned the next night, again declining my favors. Never since leaving home had I felt such peace, such trust as in his presence. As before we talked through the night, and many times, when I believed him deep in thought, he would smile, and ask me to play. He never grew tired of listening to my music, even after fatigue had caused me to error he would say, "Again Clarise, please let me hear it again."
Courtland was gone when morning came, leaving me to wonder if it all had been a dream. I rose from my plush bed, and adjusted the shades on the east window. It was then that I noticed an envelope tucked under the vase on the nightstand. I opened it finding a rather large sum of money. Just as I was feeling both foolish and insulted, I saw that there was a note attached:
My dearest Clarise,
this money is not for
your work. It is so
you do not have to.
love,
Courtland
Was I mad? Did his hand actually write of love? Could it be true?
I twirled my silk robe as I danced in circles throughout my tiny ballroom. I grabbed my violin and played with a joy that only love could create. I danced and played until I could no longer stand, and then I fell into the satin sheets of my welcoming bed, and dreamed of him again.
When at last night returned I dressed in one of my finest velvet gowns, and waited for my love, knowing his arrival was imminent.
Time passed without a trace of Courtland. Could it be I was mistaken?
I begged God to fulfill my visions, asking for him to bring the man that I loved. The air around me grew stale as my hopes, with the night, slipped away. I called upon the company that only misery could bring, sitting in blackness, and drowning myself in bourbon as the sorrow poured from my violin. I doubted God, and I doubted my visions, but worst of all, I doubted my heart.
I played through the night until my fingers grew as numb as my soul, and then I played some more. Come sunlight all that lived were my hands and my bow, still screaming the pain that I knew.
By the next evening I knew the continuous rhythm to be not a scream as I first thought, but just the whining of a girl engulfed in self-pity. I let the instrument fall from my grasp, and looked down at the blood that stained the fingers on my left hand, the welts growing on my right, and I surrendered to sleep.
I was still alone the next morning. I sat on the foot of my bed, knowing the time had come for a change. I thought of Natasha, and how happy she had appeared, content in her life. Why had I not seen her sorrow, her loneliness? I realized that I had become like her, losing my own dreams somewhere along the way.
I wanted to burn my bed, where night upon night I had forgotten who I was, soiling my ambitions. Each man I had brought in had taken me one more step away from pursuing the music that I loved, and pushed me deeper into the lie I now lived.
Could I return home? I missed my father, my governess, and even my studies. It would be so easy to accept my failures, and run to my father begging forgiveness, but I did not wish to fail. It was not yet time to concede that I had lost.
No, I would not go home. I had saved enough money to live comfortably for months, allowing me time to pursue the music that had brought me to the city in the first place.
Over a week had passed since Courtland disappeared, and still I found myself thinking of him. I had managed to leave the streets behind me, but still I lacked the strength to carry my violin from the room. Instead I wrote, I played, and I dreamed, always with Courtland in the back of mind. Had he left me for his old lover, or had he found the soul that he searched for? Everyday that passed without him was one more day I spent in pain.
I warmed myself in the morning sunlight that found its way through my window. I pressed my cheek against the glass, watching the world pass beneath me, and the irony that my view provided me. Not long ago I would have thought myself incapable of looking down on anyone, I had no right. Yet here I sat, casting my glance, along with my judgements, upon the people in the street below. There were men in suits carrying large amounts of food for evening dinners. Women and children stood at store windows, all gay in their strolling, as if on a holiday. How dare they have someone to go home to, leaving me to spend my every moment alone. I envied them just as I despised them.
I noticed the hunger filling my body, and I dressed for market. I reached for the bills that covered my nightstand like fallen leaves, but I stopped. This was the money given to me by Courtland, given as a gift. I pondered what my acceptance of this token would mean. If indeed it was given in love, then accepting it would suggest I felt the same. However, if the money had been left as payment for a perverse fetish, of which my heart was the victim, then taking it would make me as much a fool as a whore. I decided to leave the bills unraked, and went in search of other funds.
It was moments later in the corner store that my greatest fear was realized. I had stood studying a small baguette, when I noticed a man watching me from across the aisle. I let my eyes climb towards his, expecting Courtland's knowing smile to greet me. What I found were the tired eyes of a worried man.
The man was my father. I heard the bread bounce on the wooden floor, and I trembled as he walked slowly towards me. My first instinct was to cry, then to run, but I did neither. I let him embrace me, and I collapsed in his arms.
When I regained my composure I took my father's arm, and let him escort me into the street. We moved together as if lovers on a stroll, so happy with each others presence that words were not necessary.
As we headed into the corridor that guarded my room I realized that it was he who had guided our path. How did he know where I stayed? What else did he know of me? Shame shot through my veins, and I wished for God to strike me down, knowing my prayer would go unanswered.
I was surprised to turn the handle on the door and find it unlocked. I tried to smile at my father, fearing the wrath he would unleash once inside. He returned a forced grin of his own, and gestured me to enter the room.
On my bed sat Courtland, and my heart skipped as our eyes met. At once I was nauseous, and I excused myself into the morning air.
I paced nervously along the railing outside my door. My mind raced with the accusations I would hear, and the excuses I would make. Would the word `whore' escape my father's lips? Would I deny what I had been? Once again my mind turned to running, but I knew I could not. Not a day had gone by that some piece of guilt had not found me, often bringing tears at the pain that I had caused my father. I bit my lip and entered the room.
There across the room sat my father, chatting quietly with a smiling Courtland. I pressed my eyes shut, wishing them away, but when I peeked again they still appeared. They both stood when they saw me enter.
"Come eat, dear," my father invited, pointing to the lavish plate sitting on the table beside him.
I did as I was instructed. I was so fearful of conversation that I ate the entire meal without breaking for breath or water. As I wiped my chin I looked at the men that I loved.
My father. My poor father whom I had deserted. I had been selfish in my leaving him. My decision to come to the city had been made only in thinking of myself. I dreamed of playing the violin in a beautiful orchestra, and not furthering my studies as my father had wished. His presence at my side was both intimidating and comforting.
Courtland, the man who let me see what I had become, and not judged me because of it. His very name sending shivers across my back. Where had he been, and why had my father not been upset to find a strange man in my room?
Surely there was no secret of what was, until just days ago, my occupation. Yet my father remained calm, and Courtland remained smiling.
"My dearest daughter, as upset as I have been, it does my old heart wonder to see you well. This gentleman who brought me to you has indeed earned my blessing." My father placed his hand on the shoulder of Courtland. "I hear you have a brilliant future in the orchestra, and to fall in love with the conductor, it would appear your dream has come true."
I stood uneasily, "Orchestra? Blessing? Of what do you bless me, Father?"
"Why, to be wed of course."
I darted my eyes to Courtland. "Wed?"
"Only if you'll have me, Clarise." Courtland actually looked nervous, as if there was even a doubt of my love for him.
"Father," I said, smiling as I spoke, "would you please excuse us a moment?"
"Certainly." He winked as he nodded, lighting his pipe as he stepped out the door.
Turning to Courtland my mind was a tempest of unanswered questions. Apparently he interpreted my silence as an invitation for his affection, and he leaned forward to kiss me. Suddenly, my hand, which had been prepared for an embrace, flew open against his cheek.
"How dare you lie to my father." I scolded him with my finger as I spoke. "Telling him that I will be in an orchestra, and that you," my face grew flushed as my voice became louder, "and you, who cries when a whore plays the violin, are the conductor! How dare you!". My fist tightened when the words were gone, and the thought of striking him again entered my mind.
"Clarise, please be still, do you want to alarm your father?". He gently took my fisted hand by the wrist, and directed me towards the chair. "I can explain myself."
"It best be good." I whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
"It is true. I cried when you played, for it was at that moment that I realized that I had indeed found my reflection, and what I saw was you.". He stepped away from me, causing me to recall the night that he had told me of his search for the perfect love. I smiled as the memory of my fantasy rushed back to me.
It had come true! My longing to be the love of which he had spoken was finally realized. I fought back my joy and inquired as to the rest of the story he had told my father.
"Again, it is true. I am the conductor, and you do have the brightest of futures in the orchestra." He returned my smile and kneeled at my feet.
"Even if I do not agree to marry you?". I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.
He appeared as if I had indeed struck him again, and looked at my violin case resting on the bed. "Yes, I would like you to play regardless of your decision."
I felt as if some wild fever overcame my body, starting at my toes, and ending on my lips as I replied, "Then I will marry you."
Courtland jumped to his feet, causing me to laugh as he danced with the gown I had placed over a chair. He spun himself around, stopping at me, and extended his hand. We must have danced for an hour before my father entered, bewildered that we could have forgotten him outside, and ecstatic that his daughter's dreams had been fulfilled.
EPILOGUE:
Many nights when my mind starts to wander, I find myself on my old street corner watching the young girls play their instruments. Sometimes I’ll play my violin for the crowds that gather. Always searching for her face, not sure if I crave her praise, or her jealousy, if indeed she has either. If she would have it I would try to help her, as she once tried to help me. But I fear it is all in vain, for I have never seen Natasha again.

Have a Pabst Tiff

It's my sister's birthday today. Here's a little clip from Madness & Bubblegum that was inspired by my sister and the part-time job she had of delivering mail in the twilight zone.

My sister runs a rural mail-route in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona. It's the kind of place where you will find more mobile homes than teeth. A part of back road America where trespassers will be shot, and shoes and shirts are optional. It is the Bible belt, the wild west, the backbone, and the heartland. It's too close for comfort.
She's a pretty girl, my sister, with shoes and a full set of teeth. She likes country music and cowboys, tattoos and trucks, but she is far from relating to the element that surrounds her through her work day.
However, the element lives high on the confidence of Coors and Milwaukee's Best, and they have plans for this pretty girl delivering their court summons and food stamps. They want her on the back of their motorcycles, and sitting tight against their side on the bench seat of their Ford pick-up. They talk to her of Nascar, and look for their reflection against the shine of her smile. Then they both laugh, her because it's funny, and them for not knowing what else to do. I like to think that I’m different from them, but I don’t know really. I mean how many times did I have a bowl of chili and three glasses of whiskey for dinner?