So Boy and Girl meet. Everywhere. It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, except there is no choice. Fate, destiny, call it what you will, but every circumstance has led to this:
They meet at the park. Sunday morning and the boy is, of course, on The Bench. The girl walks by with her dog, which strains on its leash and pulls towards him. The boy sets down the crossword and bends down to ruffle the dog’s ears. He looks up into the girl's eyes. She smiles at him. Time freezes for just a second.
"What's his name?" the boy asks.
"Karenin," the girl answers, almost reluctantly.
"Kundera fan then?" the boy asks.
"My favorite," the girl replies.
She is surprised he recognizes the reference. She is surprised at how strong her desire is to sit down next to him, to place her mouth where his mouth had been on the edge of the thermos.
"One of my favorites also," the boy says. How to keep her here, to continue the conversation? He is beginning to panic just a little, ears ringing, trying to think of the perfect thing to say.
Just then, Karenin hops up onto the bench, knocking the thermos over, which the boy had left open, coffee spilling all over the paper.
"No! Bad Karenin!" the girl shouts, tugging at his leash to pull him down from the bench. She quickly wraps the end of his leash around the leg of the bench and knots it, then gets on her knees and proceeds to sop up the mess of newspaper and dark liquid.
"I ruined your paper. I'm so sorry. Let me... I'd pay you for it, but I never bring my wallet with me on Karenin's walk."
"Tell you what," says the boy, all previous panic dissipated, "come with me to the newsstand to pick up another one. There’s a little café a few blocks down. The three of us could sit outside and maybe start the puzzle again? I was having some trouble getting started anyway...
"We'd love to," the girl says.
Both boy and girl are surprised at their own boldness, and at the boldness of the other. Basically strangers, at this point, with a shared love of a certain Czech author, and yet there is much more they recognize in each other: a safe haven, a companion, a lover of words (and animals), a fellow victim of circumstance. Although right now, they are both more than happy to be victimized. Sunday morning, the sun is shining, the coffee is fresh, Karenin is snoring softly on the sidewalk beneath the table, and the crossword is just so much easier with two.
Or maybe they meet at the grocery store, Saturday afternoon. The wine aisle. The girl's on her tiptoes, stretching to grab a bottle of white that’s just out of reach. She can’t quite make it, and curses loudly, "Fuck!" and the boy, a few feet away, has to muffle a laugh. The girl is startled: she thought she was alone in the aisle. She covers her mouth, embarrassed.
"Excuse me, could you..."
He is next to her and effortlessly pulling down the bottle before she can finish asking for his help.
"All that for a Riesling?" the boy says, a teasing look in his eyes.
"What? I like Riesling," the girl says, cradling the bottle close to her, defensively.
The boy raises his eyebrows and shrugs.
The girl glares at him -- but there is a playful twitch around the edges of her lips. He can't stop looking at her lips now.
"Are you a wine snob or something?" the lips ask.
"Not a snob, not at all. I just have a refined palette."
"Uh huh. Well, what does your palette have against Riesling?"
"Nothing personal. Just a bit overwhelming in its sweetness."
"Maybe I like sweet wines."
"They have some great boxed Franzia at the end of the aisle."
She laughs then, a quiet giggle that emanates from deep in the throat, little exhales from the nose.
"Even my palette is too refined for that," the girl says. "But seriously, what do you recommend?"
"There’s this Rosé that still has some sweetness, but gives you a better sense of the fruit. And it's only ten bucks a bottle."
He crouches down to the bottom shelf and hands her a pinkish bottle. Their fingers touch for just a second, with what feels like an actual spark and like a reflex, they both let go. The bottle crashes to the ground, spraying wine and glass all over the floor and the two of them.
There is a moment of silence, where the whole store pauses, like a gasp, and then the two of them, boy and girl, begin to laugh -- eyes tearing up, stomachs aching, laughter that's been stored up for too long, that's bubbled up from beneath the surface. Together, their laughter sounds like a symphony. Other shoppers in the store feel pangs of jealousy and aren't sure why.
He pays for the broken bottle. She gives him her number.
He calls her the next night. She meets him at his place. He is waiting on the front porch when she gets there with two glasses and a bottle of Riesling.
Or maybe they meet at the bar. The lights are dim, but then, that’s the expected ambiance for falling in love. Outside, it is pouring rain. Umbrellas litter the floor and a sense of dampness pervades the room.
"Amber?" Rachelle says, reaching for a glass.
"Actually, do you have coffee? Maybe with a shot of whiskey?" the boy asks.
"You got it."
The door to the bar opens and the girl walks in, hair damp and curling around her face. She makes a beeline for the ladies' room before returning to sit two stools down from the boy, who is sipping his coffee, mug held tightly between both hands.
That's what the girl notices first: his hands. She imagines how warm they must be. They look sturdy, like they do hard work. Skilled, she thinks, and her mind goes somewhere a little naughty for a second. She quickly turns her eyes away before he can notice and looks at the bar's chalkboard list of drafts. Nothing appealing. The waitress approaches.
"What can I get you sweetheart?"
"Do you possibly have coffee... and cream?"
Rachelle nods. "You want some whiskey in that?"
"No thanks." After one fateful St. Patrick's Day, the girl and whiskey had forever become enemies.
She leans down to pick up her bag and pulls it into her lap, takes out a notebook and a pen (already, he is smitten), puts them on the bar, then removes her jacket and hangs it on the back of the stool.
He notices her bare shoulders, the way her hair brushes just at the top of her clavicles, beads of water collecting at the ends. She looks like she could use a towel.
She opens her notebook and puts pen to the page, but does not move. He notices a small tattoo on her inner wrist, the shape of an anchor. After a few seconds of staring at her page, she starts to chew her pen and tap her foot against the underside of the bar to the beat of the jukebox, playing Ryan Adams: Steady my soul and ease my worry/Hold me when I rattle like a hummingbird hummin'...
"He's a writer too," Rachelle says, setting down the cup of coffee and mini pitcher of cream, gesturing to the boy.
The girl turns toward him slightly. He looks over at her, unable to not listen in on the conversation.
"What do you write?" she asks.
"Fiction, mostly." He doesn't like when people ask this question, but with her, he somehow doesn't mind.
"What kind of fiction?"
"Explorations, really... whatever strikes me at the time. No real method to the madness."
"Hmm." She closes her notebook and turns back to him. "Mind if I sit closer? I need some help with something I'm working on."
"My pleasure."
She moves over to the stool next to him. He can vaguely smell her perfume despite all the soggy odors of rain throughout the bar. Vanilla. Sweetness.
He takes another long sip of coffee, eyes closed, swallowing slowly, enjoying the warm feeling as it makes his way down to his stomach.
"How’d you get that scar?" the girl asks when he returns from his warm beverage reverie.
"What scar?" the boy asks, for a second unable to place himself anywhere but his kneecap with its long surgical gash. He was wearing pants, so she wouldn't be able to see that one.
"Your eye."
"Oh," he says, "Funny story."
"I like stories"
"I was about 6, playing on the back porch -- I'm Batman, and my blanket is the Bat Rope, which I'm using to climb up the outside edge of the stairs, on the other side of the railing. Apparently some dastardly villain has tricked me -- the 'rope' comes untied, and I fall, something sticks me and scratches my left eyelid. I remember being in the kitchen holding a white wet washcloth my mom gave me over my eye. I bring it down to take a peek, and it's got blood all over it."
"Great story. I hoped it wasn’t going to be, like, something about golfing. I've never met a real live superhero before." She quickly scribbles something down in her notebook, in a sly way that she thinks he doesn't notice.
"You got a scar story?" the boy asks.
"All internal, I’m afraid." The girl looks away and takes another sip from her mug.
"Looks like the rain may continue on for a while. We've got time. Why don’t you tell me one?"
"They're personal."
"I'm a person."
She rolls her eyes, but smiles a little.
"Fine, so tell me anything. Any story you want."
"If I had a story to tell, I'd be writing it down here! But as you can see," she says, pointing at her notebook, "blank pages."
"I noticed you wrote something there in that corner."
She blushes visibly and closes the notebook again.
"Just... an idea. Nothing really."
"Writing all starts from ideas."
"I disagree -- I think it starts from characters. People."
"Maybe it's a combination."
She nods. "Balance is important."
"Symmetry," the boy says, also nodding.
The girl starts to laugh.
"What's so funny?" the boy asks.
The girl just shakes her head, pauses for a minute, then slides her notebook over to him.
"Go ahead. Read it."
Scar eliminates symmetry from his face, but brings a different intensity. A sense that he knows what you’re thinking.
"I don't believe mindreading was one of Batman's superpowers," the boy says.
"Maybe you were just trying to be the wrong superhero."
"Maybe I was just smitten with the wrong heroine."
"Oh yeah, tell me about the one your thinking of now?"
"Let me think of where to start."
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Communion Interlude: A Pantoum
The night is young and there is nowhere else to go,
So the girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive."
The boy sits in his car, stuck in traffic, with the radio way up loud,
Existing between the words of old love songs.
The girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive,"
Feeling a sense of urgency she can't pinpoint: the last chance?
Existing between the words of old love songs,
She's been losing herself.
She feels a sense of urgency she can’t pinpoint -- her last chance.
She's been losing herself,
And he's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.
If only they could touch, this boy and girl might ignite the whole world.
He's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.
Now he's sitting in his car again, stuck in traffic, radio way up loud.
Soon, with just one touch, boy and girl are going to ignite the whole world.
Because the night is young and there's nowhere else for them to go but
Toward.
So the girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive."
The boy sits in his car, stuck in traffic, with the radio way up loud,
Existing between the words of old love songs.
The girl hops in a cab and says, "Drive,"
Feeling a sense of urgency she can't pinpoint: the last chance?
Existing between the words of old love songs,
She's been losing herself.
She feels a sense of urgency she can’t pinpoint -- her last chance.
She's been losing herself,
And he's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.
If only they could touch, this boy and girl might ignite the whole world.
He's been losing his faith, long days blurring into long nights.
Now he's sitting in his car again, stuck in traffic, radio way up loud.
Soon, with just one touch, boy and girl are going to ignite the whole world.
Because the night is young and there's nowhere else for them to go but
Toward.
Communion, Part I
[Note from Ulysses: At the moment I find myself washed up on another shore, watching the dolphins swim by, letting the sun deepen the tone of my skin, building in the sand, longing for Home. And writing, yes, but nothing you will see this week. This week it is Penelope telling the stories. Don't like them too much better; soon enough you have to put up with mine again. I present for you this week: Communion, three parts that form a single whole]
The boy.
At the bar, the lights are dim, but then, that's the expected ambiance. As soon as he sits down, notebook in hand, shoulders slumped, Rachelle grabs a fresh glass and says, "Amber Ale?" with a wink. She doesn't even wait for his nod before she starts the tap. He’s torn in his thoughts (as he often is): should I feel good to be in a place where I'm familiar enough that they know my order, or should I feel embarrassed to be that guy who's a little too familiar with the bar? He really wasn’t an alcoholic. He just needed to get out of the house, to escape the four too-familiar walls of his room, the suitcase he’d been living out of since he left, the unmade single bed.
He sips his beer and sighs quietly with relief, or perhaps exasperation. He'd started writing a story that morning. Before that, he hadn't written in a month. When he re-reads what he had written just ten hours ago, he thinks: well, maybe there's a reason for that, U. This is crap. More of the same crap. The boy. The girl. The disconnect. He's tired of showing up on his own page. He wants to write himself out of these stories. Because he isn't sure he believes anymore that they are worthwhile. Whatever he is searching for -- no, whoever -- is still distant, unformed, indistinct.
He takes another cold sip and swallows slowly. Removing his pen from his pocket (where its leaky ink had already left an unfortunate stain on his pants), he continues the work:
"Is there any more room on that bench?"
It should work for two. I believe it was made for two.
"I brought the paper, we could do the puzzle."
This is early to be up for you isn’t it?
"Every once in a while for a special occasion."
Welcome aboard -- just let that bike fall. I grab a thermos out of the side bag and push the bike over to get the handlebars off your side of the back of the bench. Would you like some coffee? I hand you the thermos and you start to pour.
"It’s got cream in it."
Yes, yes it does.
"You don’t put cream in it."
No, but you do.
"I was hoping I’d surprised you."
You might not always show up, but that doesn’t keep me from anticipating it.
He jots down a few more notes and finds a good stopping place. He's feeling a little less discouraged. He pulls his credit card out of his wallet and slides it across the bar toward Rachelle. A slip of paper flutters to the ground. He gets up off the stool and bends down to pick it up. It's an old fortune cookie fortune (he likes to keep the meaningful ones in his wallet), which reads: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it.
"In bed," Rachelle says as she hands back his card and receipt.
He looks up for a second, startled. He hadn’t heard her. "What?"
"You never heard that? You add the words 'in bed' to the end of your fortune and it makes it better. So what’s your bedroom fortune?"
He grins a little sheepishly. "Your dreams will come true when you least expect it... in bed."
"Lucky you!" Rachelle says with a laugh.
He signs the receipt and gives it back to her, closing his notebook and packing up to leave. He is avoiding the naturally self-deprecating response, "I haven’t been feeling too lucky these days," avoiding becoming that guy at the bar who not only has his drink in his hand before he even asks, but who also uses the bartenders as therapists. He isn't that desperate for someone to talk to (is he?).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes him long, for a brief moment, to be held, to be cradled like a child. To say silly things and be adored. His ex's favorite comeback had always been, "Oh, grow up!" accompanied by a slamming door in his face. He hated that they argued in clichés. He hated being loved piecemeal: she wanted a gentleman in the bedroom, an overachiever in the workplace, a saint in church, an unwavering asshole when she was wronged. But confuse any of these identities (a saint when she was wronged?) and her love was gone. Was it love at all if it was only doled out in fragments? If it was held out, like a piece of too-sugary candy, as a reward for good behavior and snatched away so easily when mistakes were made?
The girl.
Had she made a huge mistake? He hasn't called in a week. Now it's Friday night again, and here she is, doing the embarrassing single-girl-in-sweats shopping spree. Another more conspicuous walk of shame for the twenty-something woman, her arm strains under the weight of her basket: Ben & Jerry's ice cream, four microwave meals, a bag of lettuce (which she purchased every week, and every week remained unopened and turned brown), a weekly gossip magazine from the checkout aisle, and a six-pack of Amber Ale. Yes, she is spending Friday night alone in her room, overanalyzing her life and filling her body with toxins (almost forgot to mention the pack of Marlboro Reds she asks the cashier for on an impulse).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes her long for someone to sit in the dark and look up at it with her. The smell of fried food from The Golden Dragon wafts through the night air, and she realizes, as her stomach growls angrily at her, that she hasn't eaten dinner. She tosses her grocery bags in the car and runs in to order some General Tso's and crab Rangoon. She knows she will regret both decisions later, like most decisions she's made lately, decisions which she can easily see will be harmful in the long run, but in the moment, feel better than being empty and alone.
She only has to wait five minutes for her food, and then she's back out to the car. She sits down and turns the ignition so the stereo starts (Ray LaMontagne singing something sweet and low). Often, she gets in the car and thinks, before turning the key, Whatever song comes on when it starts up is the song that says how fill-in-the-blank feels about me. Her own little game of fortune telling.
Oh -- fortunes! She almost forgot. She rustles in the brown bag and feels to the bottom for the plastic-wrapped cookie and cracks it open. Tonight's fortune is a tiny bit hopeful, at least, better than others she’d gotten recently ("Friendship is important to you" and "The crow always finds the apple in the grass" -- wtf?). It says: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it. She folds the little slip of paper in half and sticks it in her wallet. Even though she doesn't really like the lemony stale taste, she has a superstition that if you don't eat the cookie, the fortune won't come true. So she partakes of it like a communion wafer, eyes closed, believing.
The boy.
At the bar, the lights are dim, but then, that's the expected ambiance. As soon as he sits down, notebook in hand, shoulders slumped, Rachelle grabs a fresh glass and says, "Amber Ale?" with a wink. She doesn't even wait for his nod before she starts the tap. He’s torn in his thoughts (as he often is): should I feel good to be in a place where I'm familiar enough that they know my order, or should I feel embarrassed to be that guy who's a little too familiar with the bar? He really wasn’t an alcoholic. He just needed to get out of the house, to escape the four too-familiar walls of his room, the suitcase he’d been living out of since he left, the unmade single bed.
He sips his beer and sighs quietly with relief, or perhaps exasperation. He'd started writing a story that morning. Before that, he hadn't written in a month. When he re-reads what he had written just ten hours ago, he thinks: well, maybe there's a reason for that, U. This is crap. More of the same crap. The boy. The girl. The disconnect. He's tired of showing up on his own page. He wants to write himself out of these stories. Because he isn't sure he believes anymore that they are worthwhile. Whatever he is searching for -- no, whoever -- is still distant, unformed, indistinct.
He takes another cold sip and swallows slowly. Removing his pen from his pocket (where its leaky ink had already left an unfortunate stain on his pants), he continues the work:
"Is there any more room on that bench?"
It should work for two. I believe it was made for two.
"I brought the paper, we could do the puzzle."
This is early to be up for you isn’t it?
"Every once in a while for a special occasion."
Welcome aboard -- just let that bike fall. I grab a thermos out of the side bag and push the bike over to get the handlebars off your side of the back of the bench. Would you like some coffee? I hand you the thermos and you start to pour.
"It’s got cream in it."
Yes, yes it does.
"You don’t put cream in it."
No, but you do.
"I was hoping I’d surprised you."
You might not always show up, but that doesn’t keep me from anticipating it.
He jots down a few more notes and finds a good stopping place. He's feeling a little less discouraged. He pulls his credit card out of his wallet and slides it across the bar toward Rachelle. A slip of paper flutters to the ground. He gets up off the stool and bends down to pick it up. It's an old fortune cookie fortune (he likes to keep the meaningful ones in his wallet), which reads: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it.
"In bed," Rachelle says as she hands back his card and receipt.
He looks up for a second, startled. He hadn’t heard her. "What?"
"You never heard that? You add the words 'in bed' to the end of your fortune and it makes it better. So what’s your bedroom fortune?"
He grins a little sheepishly. "Your dreams will come true when you least expect it... in bed."
"Lucky you!" Rachelle says with a laugh.
He signs the receipt and gives it back to her, closing his notebook and packing up to leave. He is avoiding the naturally self-deprecating response, "I haven’t been feeling too lucky these days," avoiding becoming that guy at the bar who not only has his drink in his hand before he even asks, but who also uses the bartenders as therapists. He isn't that desperate for someone to talk to (is he?).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes him long, for a brief moment, to be held, to be cradled like a child. To say silly things and be adored. His ex's favorite comeback had always been, "Oh, grow up!" accompanied by a slamming door in his face. He hated that they argued in clichés. He hated being loved piecemeal: she wanted a gentleman in the bedroom, an overachiever in the workplace, a saint in church, an unwavering asshole when she was wronged. But confuse any of these identities (a saint when she was wronged?) and her love was gone. Was it love at all if it was only doled out in fragments? If it was held out, like a piece of too-sugary candy, as a reward for good behavior and snatched away so easily when mistakes were made?
The girl.
Had she made a huge mistake? He hasn't called in a week. Now it's Friday night again, and here she is, doing the embarrassing single-girl-in-sweats shopping spree. Another more conspicuous walk of shame for the twenty-something woman, her arm strains under the weight of her basket: Ben & Jerry's ice cream, four microwave meals, a bag of lettuce (which she purchased every week, and every week remained unopened and turned brown), a weekly gossip magazine from the checkout aisle, and a six-pack of Amber Ale. Yes, she is spending Friday night alone in her room, overanalyzing her life and filling her body with toxins (almost forgot to mention the pack of Marlboro Reds she asks the cashier for on an impulse).
Outside the stars are just beginning to light the sky. The moon is a crescent and it makes her long for someone to sit in the dark and look up at it with her. The smell of fried food from The Golden Dragon wafts through the night air, and she realizes, as her stomach growls angrily at her, that she hasn't eaten dinner. She tosses her grocery bags in the car and runs in to order some General Tso's and crab Rangoon. She knows she will regret both decisions later, like most decisions she's made lately, decisions which she can easily see will be harmful in the long run, but in the moment, feel better than being empty and alone.
She only has to wait five minutes for her food, and then she's back out to the car. She sits down and turns the ignition so the stereo starts (Ray LaMontagne singing something sweet and low). Often, she gets in the car and thinks, before turning the key, Whatever song comes on when it starts up is the song that says how fill-in-the-blank feels about me. Her own little game of fortune telling.
Oh -- fortunes! She almost forgot. She rustles in the brown bag and feels to the bottom for the plastic-wrapped cookie and cracks it open. Tonight's fortune is a tiny bit hopeful, at least, better than others she’d gotten recently ("Friendship is important to you" and "The crow always finds the apple in the grass" -- wtf?). It says: Your dreams will come true when you least expect it. She folds the little slip of paper in half and sticks it in her wallet. Even though she doesn't really like the lemony stale taste, she has a superstition that if you don't eat the cookie, the fortune won't come true. So she partakes of it like a communion wafer, eyes closed, believing.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Dragon
"Hey, I thought I saw your notebook out by the bed there."
Yeah, that's it.
"I wasn’t sure you were still writing."
I did take some time off. I was having trouble following through with the ideas.
"How so?"
I don’t know exactly, I struggled to find any direction. Maybe that Red Cross piece really took something out of me.
"Haha, very funny. Don’t try to joke your way out of this."
I don't need to joke my way out of it, I happen to be out of it. I’ve got about 6 things working their way onto paper.
"Oh? Inter-esting. Got any teasers for me?"
I'll tell you them right out if you want. Anything in particular of interest?
"Whatever happened to the Princess?"
And the Captain?
"Sure, yeah, what’s happened to them?"
They’re still around, in the margins of the notebooks, on the slim edges of the pages, in the strew that comes off when I tear the pages out of the spiral.
"Do they ever make in onto the lines? In ink?"
Oh sure, all the time. Maybe not on the lines exactly, but between them certainly, living stories parallel to the written ones, or in the minds of the characters.
"So you always know what they're doing?"
Well, that's kind of a tall order -- sometimes I do have my story to play, and I can't say I even always know what I'm doing -- sometimes that's enough for me to work on.
"And sometimes too much, I know, I'm not even going out there today. Keep the curtains drawn."
It's raining anyhow.
"Like a poem, I'm sure."
Shhh, it's early yet, let the sound of the rain send us back dozing...
"Hey, are you sleeping?"
About halfway, were you?
"Just coming up out of a short dream. How about you?"
Coming out of, or dropping in to. On a day like this, there's no need to distinguish.
"So then, how about P and C right now, do you know what they're doing?"
Right now? On a stolen Sunday with you? Yes, I think I know how it is with them right now.
"Would you tell it to me?"
Let me see, I'll try to picture it:
The Dragon, a short play for Sunday afternoon
Dramatis Personae:
The Captain: We've met him before and know him well
The Princess: We've met her before also, and know as much about her -- but she runs deeper than he
The Dragon: Making its first clear appearance to give P and C the opportunity to catch what often eludes them
Scene I
[We find the Captain waiting, leaning heavily on a column beside the throne. He's daydreaming, staring off into space, rehearsing something to say. The Princess hurries in, not quite together, frazzled.] ("Did you say frazzled? What's that supposed to mean? And 'not quite together'? What's the standard going to be?"
You've never had a moment when your portion of the world was too heavy? How does that leave you?
"I can handle it."
I know you can, but that doesn't mean I can't see it.)
P: I can't today, too busy.
C: [not quite listening, he starts with what he's been rehearsing...] I've been meaning to tell you,... What's that? Not today? Have I got the wrong day?
P: It's the correct day, but I’m afraid I can't all the same.
C: But, the report from beyond the walls...
P: We both know perfectly well if there was anything to say about anything beyond the walls you wouldn't wait for an assigned day. If there was anything that needed attention you would be tending to it, and if I needed you for anything you would always come. This is just an excuse for us to chat about our things. And today, I don’t have time for anything except Important Things proper.
C: I see, well no reason I should expect, that is, if you're busy, just, I thought this was important to you.
P: It is important to me that you be understanding. I like to think of you as understanding.
C: I understand
P: And you -- aren't you the one so driven by responsibility?
C: Maybe we're not thinking broadly enough about what we're responsible for. Not just what we need to get done, but the way that we do it.
P: I know that look. What are you up to? You’re planning something.
C: I do have important business to bring before you today. Something has gone awry in the dračí půda
P: [her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea, and she whistles for an attendant] Okay, you're on.
("Whoa, the Princess, she whistles for an attendant? Is that very Princess-y"
'Princess-y'? that’s good, I'll have to put that one in the story at least twice.
"Just answer the question."
You get that she's just a character? a representation of someone else with a similar outlook?
"Do I know this someone else?"
I think you'd find them recognizable... What are you doing?
"Peeking over your shoulder into the mirror to look at you looking at me. Did you know I can't whistle like that?"
Hmm,... how about...
[her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea and she blows a whistle for an attendant]
...but probably not a train whistle.
"You...")
C: [starting in mid-sentence as two attendants rush in] ...consequences could be severe if circumstances cannot be returned to their proper symmetry. We risk chaos and destruction if we don't move quickly. This is something that must be taken care of immediately, for it has the capacity to ruin anything else. It is a devious and pervasive threat to the effect and value of every other endeavor. I recommend we move quickly, but carefully. Direct conflict is not going to be effective, and a large force will only tip our hand...
P: You, Captain, have my every confidence, I place us entirely in your hands. [pointing to the first attendant] Prepare my horse.
C: [feigning surprise, with a wink to the audience] Your horse? Princess, you must stay in a safe place.
P: You have made it clear that no place is safe. You prepare yourself, and I will ride out to examine the threat myself -- I will return in one hour.
C: I would prefer to go with you, but you are right. One hour then.
"So what is it? What’s the danger?"
Well, at some point in every Princess saga there has to be a Dragon.
"Right, I remember from the cast list. So the Dragon is the conflict, rising up and bringing asymmetry and dissonance? Then they have to bring everything back into concordance?"
I'm not sure that's exactly what the Dragon's role is. It's close to that. Maybe it'll become clearer when I try to tell that part of the story.
"I was reminded by an asymmetry here, an inequality I think we should deal with."
I like it when you take the stories personally.
"Why would you think they’re any less personal for me than they are for you? Stop leaning heavily on that column for a while and take a break."
I’m going to make some coffee, do you want any?
"Not right now, and neither do you. Stop finding work to do and relax for a bit. Pretend you're not a morning person."
Well I don't know how that goes. What do the not-morning people do at this time of the day?
"First of all, they don't think of this as a time of the day. Day doesn’t start until much later. And you don't do anything, you just are. Just drift. Relax. Let your eyes close and let your dreams have you."
Hmmm, I'm starting to see what you mean.
"Shhh, there's no talking..."
I'm sitting by the open window quietly sipping coffee and watching the rain come down, letting the mist wash my face, breathing deeply, and listening to the tapping on the leaves.
"You should come and relax before you get into trouble."
Trouble?
"It's against the rules to try and sneak off without permission."
I didn't sneak off, I just went to make some coffee while you were sleeping. It did occur to me that I oughtta try to get some more sleep too, busy work week ahead, but went with coffee instead. When I got back, I didn't want to bother you there.
"How is it that you can be so very wrong about some things?"
Too much thinking, I'm pretty sure. You want some coffee? I also brought you some water.
"Water's good, thanks. Whatcha thinking about now?"
I've been wondering about whether it matters what happened on the Princess' ride, or if we have to go through the Captain's pretending to be surprised and concerned when she doesn’t return after an hour. I was also noticing that you got the Sunday puzzle finished. Did you decide on what your reward would be? Looks like at least 150 letters total.
"I have decided on the reward, but I’m not quite finished, there’s still a few blank sections."
Looks all done to me...
"Huh, so it does. How do you suppose these letters got here in the answers I was having trouble with?"
They must've just come to you.
"Yeah, that’s funny how the rest of the puzzle's done with a regular ballpoint, but the mystery letters all seem to have been filled in with a splotchier pen."
Hmmm, I hadn't noticed that.
"We'll have to submit that to the rules committee for a decision."
I'm willing to grant you the victory right now.
"Uh-huh. How about jumping ahead in the story? I know the next part: of course she does not return in an hour, of course he pretends he didn't know all along that's what would happen, of course he thunders out the gate on his way to "rescue" her, fully aware she doesn't need saving. And then?"
Well, he rides to the meeting place.
"What meeting place?"
There are places that are special to them. Places where they have found each other before.
"I know one."
This one is past the vineyards, upstream, approachable only on foot, at the spill pool of a small waterfall that’s been cutting this little nook out of the mountain forever...
[The Princess sits on a large stone at the edge of the pool, watching her reflection waver in the ripples. The sound of the waterfall overwhelms any other ambient noises. She's resting her head on her fingertips. In the pool, the image of the Captain appears next to hers. She smiles and lifts her head, offering the hand to the Captain. He takes it and they walk together away toward the back of the pool, approaching the waterfall. It is too loud to speak without yelling. They pause at the edge of the falls. The Princess has a question on her face, is about to say something. The Captain puts his finger up to his lips and steps behind the falls, leading her by the hand. She offers no resistance and follows.]
"That’s going to be a whole scene? It can’t be more than 3 minutes. And almost nothing happens."
Hmmm, I guess I was more focused on the story than on the Mise-en-scène. I’ll have to rely on somebody to help me let this scene continue on the same stage. Maybe have the entrance on one side of the stage and let the rest of the scene proceed across it...
"Well, that could help you communicate a transition..."
I'll let you work on that, if it can't work out, I guess I'll just have the two of them shrug their shoulders and go on back to the beginning.
"Okay, okay, stop pretending to be dramatic and tell me what happens next."
[Behind the waterfall is the entrance to a cave. They step into it, emerging cold, wet, shivering.]
"Speaking of which, I think the window's been open too long in here."
I'll get it.
"No, don't bother, just pull the comforter up over. You can tell the rest of this story to me in the dark."
There you go.
[He lets go of her hand at the entrance, and leaves to arrange something. She waits for a moment and follows him into the dark. The sound of the waterfall recedes as they enter the cave. We lose sight of them as they leave the light at the entrance. There's a spark, and we see that they’ve found each other in the dark. The Captain is kneeling over something, and the Princess stands tentatively with a hand on his shoulder. Another spark shows him still at work, and her more at ease, hand between his shoulders. The third spark catches tinder, which lets off a small light. She lifts a torch off the wall and catches it in his flame.]
P: It is warm in here. Comfortable.
C: Feels about body temperature.
P: And there’s a fullness in the air...
C: Like breath.
P: How long have you known about this place?
C: Only as long as I’ve known you.
P: It seems familiar, I knew we'd be here somehow. All the times we’d been at the waterfall, how come we never found our way here before?
C: I don't know, I don't think I ever really saw the waterfall until I saw you looking at it.
P: Well, let's look more. You can take this now.
[She hands him the torch and he leads her into the next chamber. Fierce eyes open onto them as they enter. He hands the torch back and steps forward as the light reveals the Dragon. He looks it right in the eyes -- there's a deadly seriousness in the way they regard each other -- they've met before. The Captain maintains his gaze, removes his hand from the hilt of his sword and slowly turns his arms out.]
C: Not today.
[The Dragon gives an overconfident snort, letting the Captain knows that when that day comes, neither of them will be holding anything back. The Captain then steps aside and gestures an introduction of the Dragon to the Princess. The Dragon's gaze softens, and he drops his head to bow to her. As the Dragon moves aside to welcome her and withdraws to leave the space to them, the cave lights up with the riches of its treasure.]
P: This place is certainly cluttered.
C: Let's see if I can make something of it. [He gets to work throwing some of it aside to clear a space to sit.] I believe this is what we were wanting today.
P: Exactly. Now sit here beside me, and share your treasure. What did you have to tell me this week?
C: Well, let me think a second. I have a few stories...
"So. No big showdown with the Dragon?"
No, it's not ever the Dragon that is the problem, though it is often mistaken for it. The conflict comes from the rest of the world pulling on them. The Dragon is a guardian, and it guards a place where no guardedness is needed.
"Why so many tales of going out to battle Dragons then."
It's always easier to tell yourself that the conflicts are external, and the Dragon is a ready scapegoat, since it always appears to stop you if you come with a misunderstanding of what treasure is. It requires you to approach it with a reverence for how its power and repose are informed by an understanding of when each are to be displayed. It is temperance that is the password.
"The Dragon is here. I was going to tell you."
Here now, under the comforter? I'd think it’d seem more crowded?
"The Dragon is always here between us, waiting to be recognized. It welcomes us into what we have together, where we can get our inspiration, power, and confidence."
I do treasure this time together.
"Tell me another story?"
Of course,... I might nap a little bit first.
"Then, maybe I’ll tell you one..."
Yeah, that's it.
"I wasn’t sure you were still writing."
I did take some time off. I was having trouble following through with the ideas.
"How so?"
I don’t know exactly, I struggled to find any direction. Maybe that Red Cross piece really took something out of me.
"Haha, very funny. Don’t try to joke your way out of this."
I don't need to joke my way out of it, I happen to be out of it. I’ve got about 6 things working their way onto paper.
"Oh? Inter-esting. Got any teasers for me?"
I'll tell you them right out if you want. Anything in particular of interest?
"Whatever happened to the Princess?"
And the Captain?
"Sure, yeah, what’s happened to them?"
They’re still around, in the margins of the notebooks, on the slim edges of the pages, in the strew that comes off when I tear the pages out of the spiral.
"Do they ever make in onto the lines? In ink?"
Oh sure, all the time. Maybe not on the lines exactly, but between them certainly, living stories parallel to the written ones, or in the minds of the characters.
"So you always know what they're doing?"
Well, that's kind of a tall order -- sometimes I do have my story to play, and I can't say I even always know what I'm doing -- sometimes that's enough for me to work on.
"And sometimes too much, I know, I'm not even going out there today. Keep the curtains drawn."
It's raining anyhow.
"Like a poem, I'm sure."
Shhh, it's early yet, let the sound of the rain send us back dozing...
"Hey, are you sleeping?"
About halfway, were you?
"Just coming up out of a short dream. How about you?"
Coming out of, or dropping in to. On a day like this, there's no need to distinguish.
"So then, how about P and C right now, do you know what they're doing?"
Right now? On a stolen Sunday with you? Yes, I think I know how it is with them right now.
"Would you tell it to me?"
Let me see, I'll try to picture it:
The Dragon, a short play for Sunday afternoon
Dramatis Personae:
The Captain: We've met him before and know him well
The Princess: We've met her before also, and know as much about her -- but she runs deeper than he
The Dragon: Making its first clear appearance to give P and C the opportunity to catch what often eludes them
Scene I
[We find the Captain waiting, leaning heavily on a column beside the throne. He's daydreaming, staring off into space, rehearsing something to say. The Princess hurries in, not quite together, frazzled.] ("Did you say frazzled? What's that supposed to mean? And 'not quite together'? What's the standard going to be?"
You've never had a moment when your portion of the world was too heavy? How does that leave you?
"I can handle it."
I know you can, but that doesn't mean I can't see it.)
P: I can't today, too busy.
C: [not quite listening, he starts with what he's been rehearsing...] I've been meaning to tell you,... What's that? Not today? Have I got the wrong day?
P: It's the correct day, but I’m afraid I can't all the same.
C: But, the report from beyond the walls...
P: We both know perfectly well if there was anything to say about anything beyond the walls you wouldn't wait for an assigned day. If there was anything that needed attention you would be tending to it, and if I needed you for anything you would always come. This is just an excuse for us to chat about our things. And today, I don’t have time for anything except Important Things proper.
C: I see, well no reason I should expect, that is, if you're busy, just, I thought this was important to you.
P: It is important to me that you be understanding. I like to think of you as understanding.
C: I understand
P: And you -- aren't you the one so driven by responsibility?
C: Maybe we're not thinking broadly enough about what we're responsible for. Not just what we need to get done, but the way that we do it.
P: I know that look. What are you up to? You’re planning something.
C: I do have important business to bring before you today. Something has gone awry in the dračí půda
P: [her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea, and she whistles for an attendant] Okay, you're on.
("Whoa, the Princess, she whistles for an attendant? Is that very Princess-y"
'Princess-y'? that’s good, I'll have to put that one in the story at least twice.
"Just answer the question."
You get that she's just a character? a representation of someone else with a similar outlook?
"Do I know this someone else?"
I think you'd find them recognizable... What are you doing?
"Peeking over your shoulder into the mirror to look at you looking at me. Did you know I can't whistle like that?"
Hmm,... how about...
[her eyes sparkle as she catches the idea and she blows a whistle for an attendant]
...but probably not a train whistle.
"You...")
C: [starting in mid-sentence as two attendants rush in] ...consequences could be severe if circumstances cannot be returned to their proper symmetry. We risk chaos and destruction if we don't move quickly. This is something that must be taken care of immediately, for it has the capacity to ruin anything else. It is a devious and pervasive threat to the effect and value of every other endeavor. I recommend we move quickly, but carefully. Direct conflict is not going to be effective, and a large force will only tip our hand...
P: You, Captain, have my every confidence, I place us entirely in your hands. [pointing to the first attendant] Prepare my horse.
C: [feigning surprise, with a wink to the audience] Your horse? Princess, you must stay in a safe place.
P: You have made it clear that no place is safe. You prepare yourself, and I will ride out to examine the threat myself -- I will return in one hour.
C: I would prefer to go with you, but you are right. One hour then.
"So what is it? What’s the danger?"
Well, at some point in every Princess saga there has to be a Dragon.
"Right, I remember from the cast list. So the Dragon is the conflict, rising up and bringing asymmetry and dissonance? Then they have to bring everything back into concordance?"
I'm not sure that's exactly what the Dragon's role is. It's close to that. Maybe it'll become clearer when I try to tell that part of the story.
"I was reminded by an asymmetry here, an inequality I think we should deal with."
I like it when you take the stories personally.
"Why would you think they’re any less personal for me than they are for you? Stop leaning heavily on that column for a while and take a break."
I’m going to make some coffee, do you want any?
"Not right now, and neither do you. Stop finding work to do and relax for a bit. Pretend you're not a morning person."
Well I don't know how that goes. What do the not-morning people do at this time of the day?
"First of all, they don't think of this as a time of the day. Day doesn’t start until much later. And you don't do anything, you just are. Just drift. Relax. Let your eyes close and let your dreams have you."
Hmmm, I'm starting to see what you mean.
"Shhh, there's no talking..."
I'm sitting by the open window quietly sipping coffee and watching the rain come down, letting the mist wash my face, breathing deeply, and listening to the tapping on the leaves.
"You should come and relax before you get into trouble."
Trouble?
"It's against the rules to try and sneak off without permission."
I didn't sneak off, I just went to make some coffee while you were sleeping. It did occur to me that I oughtta try to get some more sleep too, busy work week ahead, but went with coffee instead. When I got back, I didn't want to bother you there.
"How is it that you can be so very wrong about some things?"
Too much thinking, I'm pretty sure. You want some coffee? I also brought you some water.
"Water's good, thanks. Whatcha thinking about now?"
I've been wondering about whether it matters what happened on the Princess' ride, or if we have to go through the Captain's pretending to be surprised and concerned when she doesn’t return after an hour. I was also noticing that you got the Sunday puzzle finished. Did you decide on what your reward would be? Looks like at least 150 letters total.
"I have decided on the reward, but I’m not quite finished, there’s still a few blank sections."
Looks all done to me...
"Huh, so it does. How do you suppose these letters got here in the answers I was having trouble with?"
They must've just come to you.
"Yeah, that’s funny how the rest of the puzzle's done with a regular ballpoint, but the mystery letters all seem to have been filled in with a splotchier pen."
Hmmm, I hadn't noticed that.
"We'll have to submit that to the rules committee for a decision."
I'm willing to grant you the victory right now.
"Uh-huh. How about jumping ahead in the story? I know the next part: of course she does not return in an hour, of course he pretends he didn't know all along that's what would happen, of course he thunders out the gate on his way to "rescue" her, fully aware she doesn't need saving. And then?"
Well, he rides to the meeting place.
"What meeting place?"
There are places that are special to them. Places where they have found each other before.
"I know one."
This one is past the vineyards, upstream, approachable only on foot, at the spill pool of a small waterfall that’s been cutting this little nook out of the mountain forever...
[The Princess sits on a large stone at the edge of the pool, watching her reflection waver in the ripples. The sound of the waterfall overwhelms any other ambient noises. She's resting her head on her fingertips. In the pool, the image of the Captain appears next to hers. She smiles and lifts her head, offering the hand to the Captain. He takes it and they walk together away toward the back of the pool, approaching the waterfall. It is too loud to speak without yelling. They pause at the edge of the falls. The Princess has a question on her face, is about to say something. The Captain puts his finger up to his lips and steps behind the falls, leading her by the hand. She offers no resistance and follows.]
"That’s going to be a whole scene? It can’t be more than 3 minutes. And almost nothing happens."
Hmmm, I guess I was more focused on the story than on the Mise-en-scène. I’ll have to rely on somebody to help me let this scene continue on the same stage. Maybe have the entrance on one side of the stage and let the rest of the scene proceed across it...
"Well, that could help you communicate a transition..."
I'll let you work on that, if it can't work out, I guess I'll just have the two of them shrug their shoulders and go on back to the beginning.
"Okay, okay, stop pretending to be dramatic and tell me what happens next."
[Behind the waterfall is the entrance to a cave. They step into it, emerging cold, wet, shivering.]
"Speaking of which, I think the window's been open too long in here."
I'll get it.
"No, don't bother, just pull the comforter up over. You can tell the rest of this story to me in the dark."
There you go.
[He lets go of her hand at the entrance, and leaves to arrange something. She waits for a moment and follows him into the dark. The sound of the waterfall recedes as they enter the cave. We lose sight of them as they leave the light at the entrance. There's a spark, and we see that they’ve found each other in the dark. The Captain is kneeling over something, and the Princess stands tentatively with a hand on his shoulder. Another spark shows him still at work, and her more at ease, hand between his shoulders. The third spark catches tinder, which lets off a small light. She lifts a torch off the wall and catches it in his flame.]
P: It is warm in here. Comfortable.
C: Feels about body temperature.
P: And there’s a fullness in the air...
C: Like breath.
P: How long have you known about this place?
C: Only as long as I’ve known you.
P: It seems familiar, I knew we'd be here somehow. All the times we’d been at the waterfall, how come we never found our way here before?
C: I don't know, I don't think I ever really saw the waterfall until I saw you looking at it.
P: Well, let's look more. You can take this now.
[She hands him the torch and he leads her into the next chamber. Fierce eyes open onto them as they enter. He hands the torch back and steps forward as the light reveals the Dragon. He looks it right in the eyes -- there's a deadly seriousness in the way they regard each other -- they've met before. The Captain maintains his gaze, removes his hand from the hilt of his sword and slowly turns his arms out.]
C: Not today.
[The Dragon gives an overconfident snort, letting the Captain knows that when that day comes, neither of them will be holding anything back. The Captain then steps aside and gestures an introduction of the Dragon to the Princess. The Dragon's gaze softens, and he drops his head to bow to her. As the Dragon moves aside to welcome her and withdraws to leave the space to them, the cave lights up with the riches of its treasure.]
P: This place is certainly cluttered.
C: Let's see if I can make something of it. [He gets to work throwing some of it aside to clear a space to sit.] I believe this is what we were wanting today.
P: Exactly. Now sit here beside me, and share your treasure. What did you have to tell me this week?
C: Well, let me think a second. I have a few stories...
"So. No big showdown with the Dragon?"
No, it's not ever the Dragon that is the problem, though it is often mistaken for it. The conflict comes from the rest of the world pulling on them. The Dragon is a guardian, and it guards a place where no guardedness is needed.
"Why so many tales of going out to battle Dragons then."
It's always easier to tell yourself that the conflicts are external, and the Dragon is a ready scapegoat, since it always appears to stop you if you come with a misunderstanding of what treasure is. It requires you to approach it with a reverence for how its power and repose are informed by an understanding of when each are to be displayed. It is temperance that is the password.
"The Dragon is here. I was going to tell you."
Here now, under the comforter? I'd think it’d seem more crowded?
"The Dragon is always here between us, waiting to be recognized. It welcomes us into what we have together, where we can get our inspiration, power, and confidence."
I do treasure this time together.
"Tell me another story?"
Of course,... I might nap a little bit first.
"Then, maybe I’ll tell you one..."
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