Tom Cruise is visiting his parents who have recently embarked on a stay at an exclusive Upper East Side town house type nursing home. They are showing him its features and vast layout. It’s almost time for dinner.
They introduce him to some of their kooky new friends, moneyed people who dress oddly and behave a bit bizarre.
He starts to wonder if he could feel secure with himself leaving his parents here. Although the place appears sumptuous, Tom doesn’t think his parents are near as ‘gone’ as he sees the other ‘inmates’.
Taking a cigarette break outside, he meets Jennifer Jason Leigh, who has come to visit her parents. They are attracted to each other but she makes a snide remark about his jacket, says her father has one just like it. She enters the house and he soon follows, only to be waylaid by the snooty director, who says she hopes he is not planning to wear his jeans into the dining room. Tom flashes back on an ancient gentleman he saw wearing jeans and a woman who was wearing a denim skirt, but the director explains that that was Mr and Mrs Dennehy and says they have a special dispensation. She hints that dressing that way has improved their sex life. Sex life, Tom thinks, why they were likely in their eighties!
Afterward, Tom is in a pair of brown pants and is being shown a medallion by one of the inmates, who drops it and it rolls under a buffet table. The old man immediately drops to his knees and crawls under the table to look for it. As Tom gets down to help him, fearing the old codger might hurt himself, he notices the man is wearing green socks, one lighter than the other. Someone has dropped a dollop of mousse, which the old guy somehow avoids, but Tom, forging ahead, gets it all over his pants. However, he does retrieve the medallion.
Seeing his clothes soiled, Tom is upset and sees it as the fault of the establishment. After all, in such a ritzy place, why didn’t someone clean up the mousse?
The tailor/valet, Charlton Heston, steps forward and offers to take care of Tom’s pants. He says he has a pair that will look better. They just need a nip and a tuck. He also suggests lending a jacket which is not quite so out of fashion.
In fitting Tom for the pants, it becomes obvious by the tailor’s movements and touches that he is an old queen, albeit a nice person with wisdom, who explains obliquely why the place works – how it fulfills the needs of its inmates, who have arrived at a place in their lives, where, to stay in an average standard nursing home would seem like defeat. This place is voluntary and basically designed by the inmates themselves. “They’re happy here,” he says in a sad sort of way.
Later, Tom and Charlton are taking a cigarette break together and Jennifer passes again. This time she is all sweetness, having visited her parents and seen that they were comfortable and happy.
“I like your jacket,” she says.
“My father lent me the other,” he says, “And he told me he bought it from a friend. You know, I think it might have been your father’s originally.”
“They try so hard,” they both say at the same time.
A woman about to come up the steps of the brownstone, and seeing old Charlton with the two younger people, asks if there are any vacancies in the place. She seems like the wrong type of client, the type that would abandon an ailing parent.
“You’ll have to check later. They’re all sun-bathing at the moment,” Charlton says.
The woman glances up at the setting sun, steals a look at her watch, and in a huff, walks away.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Relax and revisit a favorite book
Sometimes you don't have the time to revisit favorite books in which you found refuge from the workaday world, and a nicely worded summary/review helps take you back there for a few moments.
Found a wonderful blog called Book Addicts that does just that. This blogger has read many of my favorites including Barbara Pym, Elizabeth Taylor, David Lodge, and Muriel Spark, and the blog provides brief insight into many of their novels and the works of others, British, American, and from elsewhere.
I love this blog and recommend it highly.
Found a wonderful blog called Book Addicts that does just that. This blogger has read many of my favorites including Barbara Pym, Elizabeth Taylor, David Lodge, and Muriel Spark, and the blog provides brief insight into many of their novels and the works of others, British, American, and from elsewhere.
I love this blog and recommend it highly.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Love Misplaced
Auburn hair, casually tossed, playing with fire
She doesn't know how dangerous she is
Or perhaps she does.
Long, but not too long, red fingernails
Tattoo her intentions on the side of her glass
The amber colored liquid might be all that's left
Of her previous victims
Or it might just be sweet courage.
Wasn't I in love when I walked in here?
Was I not just out to get some cooling air?
Did I not intend to set things right this evening?
Could I not defend myself 'gainst curly auburn hair?
She says her name is Tess
I think of Thomas Hardy
Who gave up writing prose when things got rough
I also think of someone waiting for me
To return although she said she'd had enough
Is what I'm feeling now misplaced desire?
Enchantment, lust, or could I be in love?
For her, it seems inconsequential as she tosses back
Those tresses once more and catches
A glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar.
Yes, she knows she has the power
Yes, she'd like to claim another conquest
Yes, I'd like to...
No, I can't. There's someone waiting for me,
But I copy down her number just in case.
I walk home alone with firm resolve
And find her sleeping on the couch
This is not the first time this has happened
We always have been able to move on
But not tonight.
There was something in the air this evening
That blew away the options of repairing
Something that was always here
Is gone.
She doesn't know how dangerous she is
Or perhaps she does.
Long, but not too long, red fingernails
Tattoo her intentions on the side of her glass
The amber colored liquid might be all that's left
Of her previous victims
Or it might just be sweet courage.
Wasn't I in love when I walked in here?
Was I not just out to get some cooling air?
Did I not intend to set things right this evening?
Could I not defend myself 'gainst curly auburn hair?
She says her name is Tess
I think of Thomas Hardy
Who gave up writing prose when things got rough
I also think of someone waiting for me
To return although she said she'd had enough
Is what I'm feeling now misplaced desire?
Enchantment, lust, or could I be in love?
For her, it seems inconsequential as she tosses back
Those tresses once more and catches
A glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar.
Yes, she knows she has the power
Yes, she'd like to claim another conquest
Yes, I'd like to...
No, I can't. There's someone waiting for me,
But I copy down her number just in case.
I walk home alone with firm resolve
And find her sleeping on the couch
This is not the first time this has happened
We always have been able to move on
But not tonight.
There was something in the air this evening
That blew away the options of repairing
Something that was always here
Is gone.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
In a Broken Mirror
In shards I see other days,
And then a time of trenchant smiles.
You backed away with graceful gestures
Leaving only these milestones,
Like puzzle pieces.
I will not replace, cannot replace
The shattered mirror
Containing reflections of the past
I cannot, will not otherwise
See, nor touch, nor hear or
Hold.
All lines leading to the point of impact
Just as the currents derive from a single source
Pressing on
Belying the undertow.
Yet, I enter the water.
I cannot deny, will not deny myself
The pleasure of wading
Through our history together.
The glass is broken.
The frame is solid
A very good wood,
It's a matter of containment.
This is unfinished business.
I stand very close to be able to see
Between the lines
The texture of my cheek while shaving and
Behind me it seems something shadowy moves
I turn to catch sight of it before it is gone
But it was never there.
In the broken mirror my many eyes reprimand me
I would apologize
Admit you were right and I not
If I thought it would unbreak the glass.
And then a time of trenchant smiles.
You backed away with graceful gestures
Leaving only these milestones,
Like puzzle pieces.
I will not replace, cannot replace
The shattered mirror
Containing reflections of the past
I cannot, will not otherwise
See, nor touch, nor hear or
Hold.
All lines leading to the point of impact
Just as the currents derive from a single source
Pressing on
Belying the undertow.
Yet, I enter the water.
I cannot deny, will not deny myself
The pleasure of wading
Through our history together.
The glass is broken.
The frame is solid
A very good wood,
It's a matter of containment.
This is unfinished business.
I stand very close to be able to see
Between the lines
The texture of my cheek while shaving and
Behind me it seems something shadowy moves
I turn to catch sight of it before it is gone
But it was never there.
In the broken mirror my many eyes reprimand me
I would apologize
Admit you were right and I not
If I thought it would unbreak the glass.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Wife and Spouse Read NY Times
"When I ask you why you don't try to be more sociable, you ask me, 'Why bother? Everyone out there is the same. It's like a city of clones. Nobody is more interesting than anyone else.' But then you say you really would like to make new friends and no one ever seems responsive. Well, don't you think if everyone is equal there must be others out there who feel as you do? Someone may be hoping you would respond to an overture, but they also may be reluctant to make it."
"That's the real crux, I guess, fear of rejection, more than anything else. If I could do it over again..."
"For the want of a predetermined answer a friendship may be lost?"
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"How do you go about making friends?"
"I don't know. They seem to come to me."
"Hey, where does this fit in? 'The difference between Van Gogh and you and me is, that while we may look at the sky and think it is beautiful, we don't go so far as to show someone else how it looks. One reason may be that we do not care enough about the sky or for other people. But most often I think it is because we have been discouraged into thinking what we think about the sky is not important.' "
"What was that?"
"It comes a little later in the article."
"I thought he was speaking about how children in the third world haven't enough to eat."
"Shall I tell you about my childhood? Did I ever tell you the story of the broken macaroni for twelve cents a pound?"
"Shall I tell you again about cooking spaghetti in an electric coffeepot when I lived in my little room on the upper-Westside?"
"If I could do it over again..."
"Please, don't start with that old alternative reasoning."
"You wouldn't like to take a second shot? Maybe not have to survive lean days?"
"I would then have even less understanding for those without than I do at this point and believe me when I tell you I am not big-hearted. I laughed as loudly as you did when that comedian shouted, 'Move to where the food is!' "
"It was a stock response. All his other material was funny."
"I think experiences like cooking spaghetti in a an electric coffeepot are bizarre enough to put one metaphorically into another man's moccasins."
"Still, if I could do it over again..."
"You'd just fuck up something else further down the line."
"How can you say that?"
"There's always irony involved in those time travel stories."
"Oh, I was thinking of it more in terms of a done deal."
"What's the point? If you could do it all over, you would have to live through it again wouldn’t you? You can't do it over without doing it."
"Oh, I see what you mean. In that case, I guess I'll just take what fate has dealt me."
"Now about those children in the third world who haven't had the beauty of the sky pointed out to them. You know, if you were to offer your services, you could make a lot of friends."
"But you know what they say about friends in need."
"Right. Let me see that TV guide. Are there any good movies on?"
"There’s a good World War Two flick on at two-thirty. How about some Eggs Benedict for a late breakfast?"
"You prepare the hollandaise? I had in mind a romance or a comedy. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon."
"That's the real crux, I guess, fear of rejection, more than anything else. If I could do it over again..."
"For the want of a predetermined answer a friendship may be lost?"
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"How do you go about making friends?"
"I don't know. They seem to come to me."
"Hey, where does this fit in? 'The difference between Van Gogh and you and me is, that while we may look at the sky and think it is beautiful, we don't go so far as to show someone else how it looks. One reason may be that we do not care enough about the sky or for other people. But most often I think it is because we have been discouraged into thinking what we think about the sky is not important.' "
"What was that?"
"It comes a little later in the article."
"I thought he was speaking about how children in the third world haven't enough to eat."
"Shall I tell you about my childhood? Did I ever tell you the story of the broken macaroni for twelve cents a pound?"
"Shall I tell you again about cooking spaghetti in an electric coffeepot when I lived in my little room on the upper-Westside?"
"If I could do it over again..."
"Please, don't start with that old alternative reasoning."
"You wouldn't like to take a second shot? Maybe not have to survive lean days?"
"I would then have even less understanding for those without than I do at this point and believe me when I tell you I am not big-hearted. I laughed as loudly as you did when that comedian shouted, 'Move to where the food is!' "
"It was a stock response. All his other material was funny."
"I think experiences like cooking spaghetti in a an electric coffeepot are bizarre enough to put one metaphorically into another man's moccasins."
"Still, if I could do it over again..."
"You'd just fuck up something else further down the line."
"How can you say that?"
"There's always irony involved in those time travel stories."
"Oh, I was thinking of it more in terms of a done deal."
"What's the point? If you could do it all over, you would have to live through it again wouldn’t you? You can't do it over without doing it."
"Oh, I see what you mean. In that case, I guess I'll just take what fate has dealt me."
"Now about those children in the third world who haven't had the beauty of the sky pointed out to them. You know, if you were to offer your services, you could make a lot of friends."
"But you know what they say about friends in need."
"Right. Let me see that TV guide. Are there any good movies on?"
"There’s a good World War Two flick on at two-thirty. How about some Eggs Benedict for a late breakfast?"
"You prepare the hollandaise? I had in mind a romance or a comedy. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon."
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Views
Two people carry one thing and an argument ensues,
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Vibration
“Teacher, did you feel the earthquake,” one of them asks as they enter the room.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
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