Johnny and Doris - Part V - The End

He looked so small. Was he really that thin? With all the bruises on his face he looked entirely different. For Doris, that hit home with her unique and uncanny ability with faces. Even though John had only visited her twice, he had left an indelible impression.

A police officer entered John’s room and Doris stood to greet him.

"So you say he was mugged?" she asked.

"Yes Ma'am," the investigating officer said.

"I see."

"So you're his next of kin?"

"No!" Doris said, a little more forcefully than intended.

"So who are you then?"

Doris just shook her head.

***

She sat with him every day, every night. Every spare moment she had, she spent it by his bedside. He was now breathing on his own but he still hadn't regained consciousness. She had told Dr. Matheson about Stevie or what she knew of him, at least. He told her that they would deal with that later. "Let's just see if he can open his eyes first," he had said. "But it does explain the fact that there weren't any defensive wounds found on him. That's very strange for a case like this. He was either completely taken by surprise with no time to react or he didn't even attempt to defend himself at all. My guess would be the latter based on the extent and type of his injuries." Doris wept quietly when Dr. Matheson left the room.

Oh what to do with Johnny, she fretted. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t tell her his story. Surely he had family somewhere, people who might be missing him? Strangely enough no one had filed a missing person report. She took to reading to him, anything to pass the time, any way to stimulate him into consciousness.

Fourteen days later, John woke up. Doris was at the hospital but had just left his room to get herself a fresh coffee and some air. When she returned, she was shocked to see him, wide awake and staring out the window. He tried to get up to greet her but was temporarily snared by his IV. Then he was gripped by his own weakness and flopped heavily back onto the hospitals pristine pillows.

“Hey Doris,” John spoke rather casually, “what are you doing here?” It seemed odd, she thought, that his first question would be regarding her presence in the hospital and not his own.

“Well kid, you gave us all a pretty good scare. Do you remember anything that happened to you right after you left the diner? You know, that time after you told me about Stevie?”

“You know about Stevie?” John asked incredulously? Obviously his memory was a little bit murky at best.

“I just said that you told me about him!”

“Oh, sorry…” John seemed to shrink backwards within himself.

“Hey, hey. Don’t do that. I’m not mad at ya. Just worried is all. Hang on, let me go get everybody; they’ll be so excited!” Perhaps almost as excited as Doris was.

Over the next few days, contact was made with John’s only living relative, Keith, who flew in from London as soon as he heard. He thanked Doris profusely for all she had done and the vigil she had kept at his bedside.

John ended up being let go from his job. Not for his failure to show up during his days in the hospital but for his entire career of tardiness in general. The mugging and John’s subsequent rehabilitation just gave the company a perfect opportunity to bid him adieu. Doris and John’s relationship was now cemented, however. She still visited him whenever she could, first in the clinic where he sent after release from the hospital and then in assisted housing where he was placed to live, as he could no longer fully support himself. Doris continued to read to him, only this time John actively participated and sometimes did some of the reading himself. With Doris’ help John managed to attain a suitable level of literacy and even picked up a part time volunteer job at a local community centre.

Doris continued working for the rest of her days at the diner. No one ever came in like that one customer, on another otherwise nondescript rainy fall day and that was just fine. In her eyes, no one could have ever replace her Johnny anyway.

And as for Stevie, he disappeared. John had several new doctors now and one of them had given him some medication to, as he said, “let Stevie be free.” It wasn’t that Stevie was bad and being punished, John was told, it was just time for him to go on his own. After all, John was now a man and Stevie was still a boy. It was just better that way. John was relieved but on some days he still missed Stevie. On those days, he would get out his watercolours and paint for hours…to remember all the things they liked to do and all they places they had visited during their time together.

Johnny and Doris - Part IV

Whoosh...shuk...whoosh...shuk...

"I think we can take him off the ventilator now."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. He's breathing on his own...or at least he wants to."

"Wants to?"

"Are you kidding me? This guy's a fighter!"

“Well, he certainly came in looking like one.”

“Yeah, I know. How on earth he thought he could take on six guys, I have no idea! His tox screen was clear so I have no clue what was going through his mind.”

“The police questioned the other parties and they just kept saying something about him yelling for someone named Stevie?”

“Well, he’s got no ID. I don’t know but maybe ‘Stevie’s’ a relative?”

"Alright. Call that number, that place...it should be open by now."

***

"Hello? Yeah, this is Doris... Who? I think you've got the wrong number...or at least the wrong Doris. Yeah? Uh-huh... Okay, okay let me see what I can do. I'll be over as soon as I can." Doris had no idea what was going on or why the hospital had called her. And a mugging? All they told her was that some John Doe had been found, barely alive, with her name and the name of the diner scrawled across a piece of paper in his pocket. She had no idea who it could have been but the nurse had been so insistent she felt she had to go. During all her years of service she rarely took time off so Lou was sure to oblige her on such short notice.

"Call Anne. I think she's at home today," Doris yelled as she flew out the diner's front door, the cheerful clatter of its tiny bells lost in the sound of the city.

When she arrived at the ICU desk she asked for the nurse that had called her.

"I'm sorry Miss...Miss...I'm sorry, what is your last name?"

"Beckstein."

"Yes, Miss Beckstein. We really had no other recourse. His wallet and ID were missing. If nothing more we thought you could at least provide us with identification." Doris inhaled deeply, "Okay, if you say so."

They walked down the hall and peered into the window of a private room that looked more like a laboratory than a hospital room. So much equipment! Doris had never seen anything like it?

"Well, here he is, Mr. John Doe." Doris stiffened at the task proposed to her. Okay, I'm ready, she thought, half consumed with fear, half battling an intensely morbid curiosity. She entered the door and approached the man on the bed.

"Oh my god...Johnny.."

"So you know him."

"Well, yeah but..."

"Alright, come with me." They returned to the desk.

"I'll need you to just fill out these forms..."

"What? Whoa, wait a minute...You said I just had to ID the guy."

"Well, yes...and now we need you to fill out these forms."

"Hey, I don't know this guy. He just showed up at the diner a couple of times."

"Oh. Okay, just a second. Let me speak with my supervisor." As the nurse turned away,

Doris called, "Hey, does this guy have a doctor?" This was the real beginning of

Doris and John's relationship.

Johnny and Doris - Part III

Stevie wasn't always so unwelcome. In fact, John kind of got used to him being around. John often had problems making friends. He had problems in school; he was different. Often found staring out the window or into a distant void--it seemed he was not often stimulated by his immediate environment. On the way home from school he would often become distracted. He loved climbing trees and would often be found in a nearby park well after dinner or bedtime in need of rescue. No, John wasn't particularly good with keeping track of time. He was often late for everything.

Stevie kept him company when no one else was around, which was most of the time. John's mother was a bit of an absent figure for him, working three jobs to keep her two sons clothed and fed. A myriad of babysitters were often present in the home. A frequent rotation of several different girls was often employed due to John's demanding care requirements. Maybe that's one reason why John rarely made it home on time. He never really cared for them. He only liked Keith, his older brother.

Keith was great and John idolized him. He wasn't always around though, being seven years older and he always seemed busy. He was involved in so many clubs at school and when he wasn't spending time with his friends there, he was playing lots of sports. Yes, Keith had lots of friends. John wasn't jealous though. He had Stevie.

Stevie often came up with lots of games to play. Some of which resulted in John getting into trouble. Like the time when they painted pictures on his bedroom wall of all the things they liked to do together and all the places they wanted to visit. Or when they decided to play "buried treasure" with nearly all of John's toys, digging up holes in the backyard, dropping the toys in and then creating a type of pirate's map to recover them all. Yes, Stevie was a lot of fun.

Sometimes he had to disappear though. John would be fine for a while but would inevitably miss him. When it got really bad, Stevie would always return. Usually with another fun game in which they could indulge.

Now things were different. All throughout high school (or rather until John's final year) they stayed almost completely intact. Right up until one game became a little too serious. Stevie had convinced John to steal a car. It was one of the new driver education cars parked at the school. John had seen all his peers learn how to drive and it was all they ever seemed to talk about. However, John’s challenges with school and learning automatically disqualified from the experience regardless of his ability.

These things disregarded, Stevie swore to John he could do it. And John wanted to do it. Badly.

The attempt did not go well. John managed to get the car started but in his excitement and confusion, he mistook the "R" for a "D" and sped directly into a rather large oak tree just in front of the parking lot. In a panic, he managed to shift the car into reverse but then, spun around and in further panic, shift back into forward gear and become airborne over a small embankment. When he came to, the police were there. No charges were laid but John was told, rather forcefully, that he would never be able to drive a car--ever.

Stevie got a little angry. In fact, it was the first time John and Stevie had ever had a fight. John tried to reason with him, tell him that it wasn't such a big deal after all. Eventually Stevie acquiesced. After that, things didn't seem quite the same between the two of them. The older John got, the more childish Stevie behaved. And for longer periods would he disappear. But when he returned, things weren’t always so pleasant for John.

Johnny and Doris - Part II

The days ran into weeks and soon it was November. The city's landscape was now a permanent grey. John's world had not changed much. As he passed the neighbourhood park he saw some children playing with a kite. I wish I was a kite, he thought, only no string!

He'd been back to the diner several times but Doris never seemed to be there. He hoped she hadn't quit. He liked her. She seemed smart but not mean like the other smart people he had met in his life. He rounded the same corner that he traveled almost every day to work only this time, he passed his workplace to go to the diner, in search of Doris, yet again.

It was a Saturday and the place was jam packed. However would he find a seat! John waited patiently for his favourite spot, the seat closest to the ordering station, the one closest to Doris.

Doris heard the faint tinkling of the diner's doorbells over the din of the breakfast crowd. Immediately she recognized him. She never forgot a face. Years in the diner industry taught her to be good with faces. Not only did it mean better tips but it was also important in case any funny business happened. Several seats became available but John remained standing, nodding politely, albeit awkwardly, to anyone else who wished to skip ahead of him for their meal. Eventually, the mother and young daughter who were in John's desired spot got up to leave.

"Well, look who's back!" Doris beamed, "the fastest eater in the west. How are you?" John gave a stilted smile back. "Fine, thanks."

"So, what would you like today? Even though it's still breakfast time we still serve our lunch menu. Whatever you want, we got."

"Do you have any eggs?"

"Do we have any eggs?" Doris' throaty laugh filled the room. "Well, yeah. I think we could find some. What kind?"

"Scrambled," John said decisively. He felt happy. Stevie had been good lately.

"So what's your name, kid?" Doris had been feeling good lately too. Not for any particular reason, if only for the fact that work had been steady and tips had been good. And maybe for the fact that later tonight she was indulging herself in a bottle of wine, a warm blanket on the couch and all the Harrison Ford she could handle.

"John."

"Well then Johnny, can I call you Johnny?"

"Sure, " John shrugged. It reminded him of his brother. He used to call him that. He missed his brother. Why'd he have to move all the way up to Canada and then all the way to London? He said it was because of his job but John still worked in Brooklyn. Right around the corner from where they both grew up.

"Great. Pleased to meet you, Johnny." Doris extended her hand. John took it slowly.

"Pleased to meet you...Doris," he said, staring at the lily adorned plastic nametag she wore.

"So Johnny, tell me about yourself." The breakfast rush was beginning to slow down.

"I work."

"Oh yeah? Good for you! What do you do?"

"Shipping."

"Oh yeah? Where do you that?"

"Just up the street." John fell silent. Doris stared at him for a few seconds, laughed to herself and


shook her head. Turning to pick up her next order she refilled John's coffee cup before heading to


the kitchen.

As soon as she returned, John's face had shadowed. Just like that, she thought.

"Doris, has anyone ever talked to you and you didn't want to listen?

Doris raised one eyebrow, "Kid, are you serious? That's a good one. Yeah, sure. What are you gettin' at?"

"Nothing," John dismissed her.

"Hey, Johnny, are you okay? Someone giving you a hard time?

"Oh no!" Johnny said. "Stevie would never do that. He gets a little annoying sometimes, that's all."

"Who's Stevie? Your little brother?"

John started laughing so hard he almost fell off his stool but then, magically straightened. "I never thought of it that way..." He was now staring off into the distance, a slight melancholy present in his eyes.

Doris was mesmerized by John. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe it was his childlike manner despite his lanky, almost gawky frame. He couldn't be much older than 25.

"So who's Stevie?" It was almost like talking to a child!

"He's the voice in my head."

"Oooooh..."Doris nodded. Of course! This guy was a nutcase. But he seemed harmless enough. "So what's he tell you?"

"All sorts of stuff. But he's so young! He doesn't know anything!" John retorted back in a surprisingly abrupt and loud tone.

Edit: Apologies for the formatting; Blogger's being cranky.

Johnny and Doris - Part I

I wrote this very short story several years ago. Cleaned it up a bit for posting here. It's a bit long for one installment so will be done in several. Thank you.

Leaving the building, he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. "Damn It! It sure looks like it's going to pour."

A diner was a block and a half away. As John entered trying to shake himself dry, his stomach growled. He glanced at the menus hoisted high above the long grills, deep-fryers and stainless steel counter space. Perhaps they had an all day breakfast or maybe just a coffee and a slice of pie. Sure, that was easy.

John waited patiently in line. When he arrived at the front, his eyes locked with those of a thin and weary woman, maybe 20 years his senior. Her name tag read: "Doris" and had white lilies patterned above the plastic pin that indicated her identity.

"What'll it be?" she sighed.

"What kind of pie you got? Fresh."

She threw him a long stare just to see if he was being sarcastic. Instead, she saw John's rather focused expression, like he was awaiting news about the current rainstorm on the radio, hanging onto the forecast as if he had plans later that afternoon to go sailing of play baseball in the park.

"Apple and blueberry, if you want cherry, you come tomorrow."

"Apple'll be fine," John nodded as he took a seat at the counter nearest to the ordering station, gingerly removing his soaking jacket to avoid dampening a nearby customer. Doris brought him his order and he ravenously dug in to the pie like he hadn't eaten in days. Then he slurped back his coffee and wiped his mouth along his shirtsleeve.

"That was impressive," Doris smirked. John returned her cheerful advance with only a blank stare. Doris straightened in demeanor. This guy was kind of strange. She had never seen him in the place before. They kept a pretty regular clientele. In this part of Brooklyn there were lots of places to choose from so Doris liked to think of all her regulars as family. Not that she wouldn't treat any newcomer like this guy any differently, it was just harder to joke around and gauge their reactions and this one was a prime example. "Can I get you anything else?" she inquired politely. John shook his head.

"How much?"

"Two eighty-five."

With that, John threw a crumpled two dollar bill and a handful of change on the counter and left. It had stopped raining and he could now walk safely home without his forgotten umbrella.

Finding A Muse For Blogging

Do you ever dream of your blogging life? That is to say, while you are asleep. I have said here that I don't remember my dreams very often but lately I have been dreaming of blogging. I have also said that I wanted to try and use this blog to help me write more creatively. The following piece is based on a recurring dream that I had over and over as a teenager.

Speaking of other "dreams," in my 20s I fantasized of becoming a "great writer" and eventually being published. I entered a Publishing Program in a university and the first thing I was told was that if you wanted to become a writer, do not enter the publishing world. I see.

I fear that I have suffered a bit of Hypomanic Hope-Extension over the years. It is similar to a physical condition that I sometimes experience as the result of taking my medication: Orthostatic Hypotension. With, OH, if you rise too quickly, your blood pressure drops and if you're not careful, you may fall and hurt yourself. With HH-E, if you are in a somewhat altered state of mind and believe that you are greater than you really are, your hopes may be somewhat dashed and again, you may be at risk of falling.

Nonetheless, I am still trying to be "inspired."

Here is the what would would greet me regularly upon awakening. And for those curious about dream detail it was always in black and white.

He called to me from high above the cliff top. I stared into the sunlight attempting to discern his shaded form. He beckoned me closer to him with the wave of an arm. I slowly walked in the heavy, thick sand toward the mountainside and began climbing. It was treacherous as I reached for any piece of abutment I could grasp. A slab of rock that jutted out or what remained of a long lost root of a tree.

Wasted of breath and damp with sweat I was greeted with the warmest of smiles. He was older than I had expected. Perhaps as old as my grandfather? And certainly much larger than the tiny speck I had seen from down by the shore! Not overly tall but slightly rotund. We did not speak but only stared into each other’s eyes. Nothing changed except his smile, which seemed to only feel more enveloping as it slowly crept further across his face

Finally, he broke away from my gaze and looked up toward the sky. He raised his hands toward his mouth and uttered something inaudible to me. I followed his eyes to the clear, cloudless sky and within seconds a gull came soaring over our heads. The man turned back to me and smiled his same smile. The gull disappeared.

I stared at him, slightly confused. The man began to laugh and shook his head. He repeated his act, raised his head skyward, called again, silently to the air and again, the gull returned. This time, I stared a bit longer at the gull in amazement. What was this power, this magic? Who was this man? I turned back to him to now show him my pleasure and satisfaction and to in fact, say thank you but when I did, the man was gone. I spun around and looked everywhere but could not find him.

I was being called, yet again but this time from back down on the beach. The man was now standing where I originally was when he first summoned me to him. I carefully climbed down to meet him, as I desperately wanted to see more! When I reached his side, he again lifted his head back and called to the gull. I waited and with certainty the gull returned.

I watched it float effortlessly above us but after a few minutes, its flight changed course and it plunged directly into the ocean. I stood stiff with horror. I waited. Endlessly. Finally, I saw something shimmer in the water, not merely the bright sunlight’s reflection but movement. It was something round. First one, then several figures. And then they all grew larger. They became the bodies of SCUBA-clad divers and in their arms they carried a young woman.

Writing: Bipolar

So as I've been in a bit of a blogging "funk" lately, I dug out my ancient Mac PowerBook last night to look at some of my old writing.

For those of you Macheads out there, you'll get a laugh out of this. It's a 5300cs. Basically a glorified typewriter/paperweight these days. With the emphasis on the "weight" part. It's not even fit for an internet connection. It still cranks away, though. It only froze on me once and gave me one disk error when I transferred this to a floppy disk to move it to a PC to place it here.

Yes, a floppy disk. Who uses those anymore?! I had to scavenge my desk at work to even try to find one!

I should try to rescue what's on it before it dies altogether although I think I have most of what's there in hardcopy form somewhere in the house?

Anyway, I wrote this a a few years ago. I can't quite remember when. I'm not sure if I like it or not. But it was written at a time in a place to capture a moment so here it is. And I have a thing for water. I just realized that as it also came up in my "writing assignment" from Cathy's "I Shall Not Waste My Days In Trying To Prolong Them" here.

I found something else, a fairly short story that I had started but it needs some further work so I think I may post that in the future as well.

Bipolar

Battling the ocean is what it’s like. Inside your body. The waves crash up against you inside. That almighty, amorphous sea that has lived for ages and shaped the earth now fills such a tiny space that is you and it is now up to you to try and tame it. That is what bipolar feels like. That same force that has moved icebergs, created continents, slain dinosaurs and destroyed battleships is now your own Demon.

It “feels” like the waves of the ocean inside you. As your moods shift, you have a “high tide,” and a “low tide.” At times there is a palpable, physical, internal force as you try to resist the internal change. And sometimes you can even get nauseous. A seasickness perhaps? For you feel it coming.

I can it feel it coming. I know the struggle. Sometimes I resist and sometimes I welcome the waves crashing in like old friends. This is bipolar. This is my bipolar. An endless ebb and flow. An endless cycle, older than all its sufferers.

Ever more it will take in its wake.

Wolfden Bar And Grill: Epiosode 7

Well everyone, here is my "contribution." I apologize in advance. I sincerely hope that no one is offended as well; I'm still not sure as to my level of "offensiveness" in some situations with people. All is meant in humour and as I am a little "offbeat,"well, I guess I'll just let you all decide.

Since I don't really know most of you--in fact, the majority of you I know absolutely nothing about, my main goal was to ensure that everyone got at least a mention in the story and that something was relevant to you? Sort of? Maybe? Some of you were just named.

Also, I don't think I really advanced the plot. If anything, I think I regressed it. Again, apologies...especially to Pamela who is next in line.

Here are the preceding episodes:

Part One by Wolfbaby
Part Two by Cathy
Part Three by Smalltown RN
Part Four by Willow Tree
Part Five by Dr. Rob
Part Six by JIP

So without further adieu...

Talk about spinning rooms. Who’s idea was it to start pouring all that Jagermeister and Tequila? And did someone put a copy of Crocodile Dundee into the DVD player? That is the most ridiculous portrayal of Australian “culture” ever! Or maybe that was just a dream. After force feeding us that much alcohol (was it just alcohol?…quickly surveys room to do clothing check—eyes Willow Tree furtively…) was this JIP’s vain attempt to try and stop the coup by the “BloggERs, Booze and Brazillians” cartel? By some weird form of hypnosis via B-Movie followed by Fire and Brimstone oratory to try and think that we’d actually been spirited away in some space-time warp to Oz? Did they really thing that the cartel was that obtuse?

Well, maybe they were but that remains to be seen.

Patient Anonymous was the first to wake up. She’s an early riser—sleep issues. Everyone else was in various states of disrepair, strewn across the bar.

Mysti and Pamela’s paints, brushes and tarps were still askew against the wall. They had decided to “fix up” the Wolfden a bit but it seems there was some debate about exactly what sort of paintings should appear upon the walls. Wolfbaby didn’t care. As long as everyone was “happy.” Happy? HA! There had been near warfare breaking out over that too! Some religious inspired frescoes? Dreaming Again was happy to offer her opinion on some suitable ideas but others leaned more toward landscapes or impressionistic works. And others, even still to something completely modern and/or abstract. It seems no one could settle on one theme so thankfully there was lots of wall space in the Wolfden. It might be the most bizarrely decorated place in the history of bars. Period.

“The Writer’s Corner” inhabited by Pearls and Dreams, Karmyn and Susan lay in tatters as well. Not sure what was happening over there. Ipanema spent a lot of time with that crew. She was the Chief Proofreader. She was smart and insightful. Fallen Angels and Jungle Tart would also frequent the tables conveniently joined together for maximum area for lots of spirited discussion and debate. Unfortunately that meant that not a lot of writing got done.

Patient Anonymous set about making some coffee for everyone. No doubt they needed it. Heather was the first to wake up. Patient Anonymous asked her how she was feeling.

“A little oysgeshpilt,” Heather said.

“Got in himmel, I know what you mean!” Patient Anonymous responded in kind.

Cathy raised her head and stared at them strangely.

“It’s Yiddish,” they both said in unison.

Patient Anonymous was concerned, however. Only she knew why The Laundress wasn’t speaking. She felt truly terrible about it and was trying to figure out how to rectify the situation but was very embarrassed to tell the cartel.

You see, she thought she had perfected the technique of “The Painless Brazillian” and The Laundress had agreed to be a “test subject.” But it seems that Patient Anonymous needed to go back to the lab and “touch things up a bit.” Things hadn’t worked out quite as planned with The Laundress. As a, sort of, gift of apology, Patient Anonymous mail ordered some anime and had it sent to the Laundress as she too is a fan but the distributor messed up and sent some really bad hentai and now The Laundress seems to be rather afraid of Patient Anonymous. Somehow, Patient Anonymous was still determined to make things up to The Laundress, however. It was all just a big mistake!

As people slowly began to rouse from their various states of consciousness, Patient Anonymous hurried back over to her area of the bar with Dr. A, Dr. Rob, A Difficult Patient and Smalltown RN. She pushed aside all of their bar glasses, laptops, gadgets and gizmos and laid her arms across the table in a business-like manner.

“Guys, I know you’re all really hungover and we’ve got to get back on track with the whole takeover thing and all of that—that is if you’re still into it…I mean, I’m kind of tired but…”

She paused.

“…can we talk about some of your ethics training here? It may not apply since Willow Tree isn’t a medical professional but I’m actually quite concerned about what he’s done. I mean, do we even know if any of these women wanted to get pregnant?! It’s like some kind of “cyber assault!” And I’m rather worried about Beth. What if she’s next. I know we’ve got some other very pressing things on our mind but I just can’t stop thinking of all of these pregnancies! I’m a little upset. And by the way, do any of you guys have a prescription pad handy…?"

EDIT: MOOFIE! *SLAPS FOREHEAD* I just went back and looked at the list and I forgot to insert you into my piece. Please forgive me. I stink.

Good Fucking God...

So staring mournfully at my bookshelves last night, I decided that I would attempt to read something in preparation for King Lear. Perhaps some poetry. It's short.

I don't have a lot of literature. Most of it was sold when I needed the money at a certain point in my life. However, I do have loads of books that I've bought over the years that I just haven't gotten around to reading. I plucked a volume of selected T.S. Eliot poems off the shelf. A gift from some friends during my first psych hospitalization. I never even bothered to look at it.

I'm not a real literary genius. And I don't think I'm a huge Eliot fan. But this is what I read first.

Now this poem has been analyzed to death. But when I read it, it hit my like a bullet. That's the "fun" of interpretation! I think I need to remove myself from all stimuli now and place myself in a sensory deprivation tank for an indeterminate period of time.

And yes, some translation. The beginning is from Dante's inferno (how appropriate that?) and reads:

"If I thought my answer were given

to anyone who would ever return to the world,

this flame would stand still without moving any further.

But since never from this abyss

has anyone ever returned alive, if what I hear is true,

without fear of infamy I answer you."

And now without further adieu, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot:

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
‘That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all.’

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Cathy's Story Challenge!

Well, I read some of the other entries from the last one and wow, there are some great writers out there. Maybe I shouldn't have done that *gulp* but I guess this isn't a competition, right haha. I'm my own worst critic... Ugh. Okay, here's probably the worst of the lot! As I mentioned out there...my fiction needs work.

Oh, and I'll try to get to every else's as soon as possible. Don't feel slighted if I haven't gotten around to posting on your blog about your story yet. Reading can be a bit of a challenge for me (i.e. long posts: *crosses eyes*...mind drifts off...) but I'll do my best to get through every one! I've got vacation time coming up!

Okay, here you are:

He had forgotten how salty it tasted. When he was just a boy, it stung his eyes and made him cry and that too tasted salty but not like this. The water of the sea. It was why he hated the boat, the fish and much of the small East Coast town. It was always in the air, just hanging there it seemed. You couldn’t get it out of your hair, off your clothes, out of your nose. And the dampness! Oh, how it made his bones ache. But he needed to come back at least just this once to see Dad. So one more time, he readied to jump aboard the rusty trawler.

Despite his age, and his doctor’s recommendations, Seamus McGhee refused to stop boarding his ship and casting his nets. Not many people joined him on his vessel these days for trips around the inlet. He still offered tours and would give lessons on how to catch fish but commercial fishing no longer existed in these parts. Still, once a seaman, always a seaman.

“Ahoy, ‘me boy!” Seamus exclaimed. Michael ruefully, gingerly climbed up the starboard ladder.

“Hi, Da,” Michael spoke in his customarily soft voice

“So what do you say we take her out for a good run, ah? Don’t you remember now?”

“Sure, Da.

“There’s a good lad!” Seamus grinned ear to ear. It had probably been a long time since anyone had been on the boat with his father, Michael thought. Was that the reason he was so happy or was it because it was that he, his son, was here to see him. Michael started up the loud motor and began slowly moving the craft out of the dock.

* * *

As they sat, their conversation was simple. How could it be anything but? Seamus drifted aimlessly, often rockily, like a dinghy caught in a storm. He spoke mostly about life in the village and his “vexatious” experiences with the neighbour woman’s multitude of cats. “She’d always had so many cats! Why the need for so many cats!” Seamus ranted on...(Michael had always liked the cats. They were so warm and cuddly. They were always there to play with when, so often, no friends would come to call.)

Conversely, Michael was staid, solid like a great battleship dutily at war and spoke about his work as a lawyer in the city. Or he sat simply mute, like he had resolutely dropped anchor.

The two men could not be more different. Never mind that one was sick and the other well. But in character, demeanor and appearance, you would never know that these two men were father and son.

Michael’s stomach began to rumble and he looked at his watch. They had been sitting for nearly four hours with nets cast and had lifted them over 17 times. Not one single fish. Seamus was scratching his head. The sun was starting to set.

He thought about what they should do for a meal but suspected that his father’s home would be empty of food, except perhaps for some tea and biscuits. Where had he been eating? The neighbour woman’s (despite the cats?) The pub? Had he been eating?

The cold sea air whipped past Michael’s face and got into his eyes once again like so many years before. Those eyes welled up with tears but this time, not one drop was allowed to fall.

‘Damn this place! Damn everything!’ he screamed under a silent tongue.

“Well, what do you say, Da? Do you think we should head back?” Michael asked after quietly composing himself. He added with nervous laughter, “I just don’t think they’re biting today.”

Seamus looked to the west and another grin began to creep across his weathered, wrinkled face. He started to laugh. Slowly at first and then in huge waves, almost in rhythm with the crests and falls that rocked the trawler.

“Red sky at night: sailor’s delight! Ah, ha ha ha!” he erupted. “You know son, you’re probably right. If I’m to come out here tomorrow and get these fish, I need to get an early night in! I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.”

Here are the other contributors to the challenge:


Wolfbaby

Ipanema

Laundress

Dr. Schwab

At Your Cervix

Kim (Emergiblog)

The Wandering Author (?)

KT-RN

Frequency of Silence (JCR)

Truth is Freedom (Brian)

Pearls and Dreams (PK)

Mimi Writes (Mimi)

Potpourri Of Writing (Mary Emma)

Charlie

Ladybug

Musings of a Distractable Mind (Dr. Rob)

Bankerchic

Cathy

Thanks very much to Cathy who put this whole thing together. I (think I?) look forward to the next one haha.