|
Post by phil on May 1, 2005 16:30:12 GMT -5
Indian Dreamer
It’s rare that Winona comes to me in dreams. Two, maybe three times now in seven years. Since they’re rare I tend to remember them as events. And yet they’re fragmented vignettes like most of my dreams. Last night I had the best one yet. Mostly because it did not involve arriving late for a college exam, or showing up without pants.
In the morning I’ve tried to interpret and piece together the fragments. She’s moving into an upstairs apartment and she’s frantic, sullen, and overwhelmed. Just the way we never want to see her. There’s a crowd but no one is helping except me. The only time she smiles is when she looks at me with those quiet passionate brown eyes. And that’s clearly enough. But we are being watched.
Rising at dawn sitting on the edge of the bed I too am sullen. Rather, it’s more of a contentment or calm. I go through the day on an even keel. I can glide by the little routine bothersome moments of the day. All because of Winona, in my favorite supporting role, and also what the Indian told me. Ah, the elusive secretive man, the third character in the second act, holding the key to the locked door, behind which lies some essence of Winona I can not quite grasp.
In my car I sit at a stop sign thinking of her, staring ahead like I’m waiting for the red paint to peel away from the rusted, crooked sign and turn green. The horn from the furious driver in back awakens me. Now I recall the Indian. He was watching us from across the way. Suddenly, we are watching the ending to Beetlejuice as she dances floating to “Jump In The Line.” His dead eyes light up and he’s pointing at Winona and chanting ‘dances on air!…dances on air!’ Now and forever she has an Indian name. Dances On Air.
I try to describe her beauty to a man seemingly of another time and place. My attempts fail as I try to communicate by silent language and pointing to flowers in a vase. A sudden chill comes to me. The Indian is standing close and looking down upon me. Now I can picture him. It’s the silent Indian from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I trust him to heave anything large to clear a path for Winona. ‘Where are your pants,’ he says, pointing. This is where the dream ends.
In the twilight when the sky looks as though a campfire is softening out West, I visualize her lovely face while listening to classical music. I can explain it now. It’s not just the music, but the silent beats and pauses in-between the notes of the stanza. She is the complete concerto dancing on air. A sublime symphony of life that reaches all ears. How lucky I am to be living in such a time when she’s the sweetest gift.
|
|
|
Post by phil on Sept 12, 2005 22:04:51 GMT -5
SIMPLE GIFTS (The Flax Girls)Kate Flax was feeling nauseous. Her mother use to tell her she was always dizzy from falling in love all the time. Vertigo swims by on occasion from nearly drowning as a child. Sitting by the window in The Copper Kettle Restaurant, an ancient place smelling of freshly baked bread ever since it opened in 1921, she waited for Charlotte and reached in her brown leather purse for a cigarette. She crossed her bare legs, adjusting the close-fitting pale blue cotton dress higher up on her voluptuous chest, and dug deep in her purse but found no light. A yawning waiter with oily hair and Salvador Dalí mustache came to the rescue with a ready match. When she looked away he peered at her milky-white bosom for the third time this day. It awakened him. But what was a French waiter doing here? Like a mermaid out of water. Winter was losing it’s relentless grip on New England. Kate took her plate and sketchbook and went on the other side of the streaked windows to the stone terrace under the green canvas overhang. She smiled at the thought of seeing her big sister again. Her lovely round face and big brown provocative eyes roused warmth in anyone who veered close. Dalí was close on her heels with her drink. He remembered last summer the very same short skirt caused an accident just by being out there. Her mother proudly kept the news clipping folded and tucked away in a vinyl sleeve by a credit card. Kate had seen a bluebird flickering nearby and saw the nest high up snuggled in an ancient brass wall lamp on the crusty restaurant facade. Wanting to sketch the nest, she stepped up on a chair for a closer look, and leaning forward she bent over. And then it happened: 4:54 p.m. Injury accident; motorist distracted, swerved and hit light pole; complaint of pain, refused transport; Main and 43rd. She raised her baby well. Charlotte Flax, in a taxi stuck in heavy traffic near the airport, felt tense as she naturally fumbled with the cross on the chain around her neck. She looked back out from high on the sky bridge towards the tarmac and noticed six planes sitting diagonally. It reminded her of a used car lot. She closed her eyes and dreamt of kicking the tires and choosing the best one to take her home again. Taking the black leather note book out of her purse she wrote that down. She could use it in a story later. Her first novel, The Girl in the Attic, was a giant success. It was based on her artist sister. Kate’s studio was up in the loft of an old barn behind her mother’s house. Charlotte had written: ….rising the uneven wide steps lined with cracked frame photos of dead poets and unassuming heroic aviators hanging askew on the walls, the song of a freed white dove flowed from the rafters. A small fine-pointed brush clinched in her teeth, she adjusts a green lamp closer to the easel. Painting yet another little farm girl wearing a summer calm bonnet, flashing an enigmatic smile. Even in winter the windows are opened, the curtains rocking in a cross draft, a singular bunk bed in the corner covered with color slides delivered by messenger. She would push them aside, sleep for two hours, return to the canvas and paint uninterrupted until dawn…. [/tt] Later in the novel she would mention the angry scars on Kate’s wrists. Early on, she had shook hands with Death, but in the end she’d thumbed her nose at him and pushed him out of her life as he teetered on the edge of a cliff. Charlotte wrote it as him down at bus station with a cardboard suitcase waiting in a driving rain. Dalí peered out the window towards the terrace and saw the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She had magnificent polished brown eyes similar to Kate’s. Slicking his greased hair with his fingers, he strode out to take her order of Texas buttered toast and steaming hot cocoa. Moments later he would watch the two girls again from inside. He could see Charlotte accent her talk with an occasional delicate touch reaching across to Kate’s wrist, and Kate would highlight her response by touching her sister’s arm softly, running it down the entire length to her pale hand. As he moved closer through the doorway he heard Kate’s apprehensive voice soften, turning away and coming back with tears streaming, hearing phrases ‘whiskey bottle rolling under the couch,’ and something about ‘hepatitis.’ When he empathized in broken English if everything was ok, Kate looked up at him with an engaging smile, and Charlotte answered with smiling eyes. She laid on the couch wrapped in a quilt. Sitting up now towards the front door as the girls entered, those dark, panther-like still-humorous eyes focused first on one familiar then one lost daughter. She ran her fingers through her coal-black hair. Charlotte thought the place looked smaller. A crack in the ceiling moaned. She motioned to her mother to stay, offering to put on a pot of coffee. Even before getting a chance to enter the kitchen where they once danced together, her mother was up and saying she had to get out of the stuffy house. Insisting on driving herself, their mother drove slow as they headed into town for the Copper Kettle. At a crawl, Kate looked over her mother’s shoulder from the back seat and saw the odometer twitching on 13. Her mother answered Kate’s inquisitive expression with a mischievous smile and reminded her that it was easier for men to see them that way. Slow and easy. Inside the restaurant the three took a table near the window as a waitress slowly pulled the curtains closer together. Dark outside now, a huge orange full moon rose in the East. Kate promised herself to remember the tint and brush it into the background of her next sketch. Within moments the other two, sitting opposite each other, were arguing about nothing in low tones. Kate, feeling nauseous, excused herself to the ladies room with a firm scolding ultimatum that the two better solve it before she returned. Charlotte needed a light for a nervous cigarette and Dalí was nowhere in site. Three times her mother started to retort but no more words came. Reaching into her purse for a lighter she instead pulled out a small silver-framed photo of her two babies hugging and started to weep. Charlotte scooted around to her side of the table, took her hand, and soothingly whispered in her left ear: “I always wanted to be like you, Mrs. Flax.”
|
|
|
Post by peanutnoir on Sept 13, 2005 1:19:39 GMT -5
The Flax girls live again. ;D
|
|
|
Post by Jay on Sept 13, 2005 11:26:05 GMT -5
I too always enjoy Phil's lovely prose. Seeing "Mermaids" again must have provided some wonderful inspiration. For my money, still her finest overall performance. Thanks Phil!!
|
|
|
Post by phil on Sept 14, 2005 19:20:54 GMT -5
Thanks! My pleasure. That one took 9 months to complete.
|
|
|
Post by phil on Oct 29, 2005 20:41:36 GMT -5
for your birthday, Winona.....
a fantasy based on factual events.... An American in Paris [/u][/center] She loved the city. A warm, early-October day found her along the Champs Elysées, long strides with the sweeping breeze constantly messing her soft hair. The swift wind through the trees sounded like a waterfall. Her heart poured with joy and excitement as she paused for a moment at storefronts, peering at jewelry displays, admiring white Venus de Milo-like ladies in snug-fitting red and powder blue dresses, waving at the baker making bread, admiring the Chaplin miniature plaster cast guarding a cigar vendor. Vintage shops nestled in with up-scale stores.
Sitting on a bench close to a row of chestnut trees she noticed her black shoes were dusty. Stooping down to dust them with a white handkerchief she thought of the designer heels she’d be wearing later as she attended a gala. She imagined how they might look along with the white pullover and tight blue jeans she wore now. A man locking his bike in a bike rack on the cross-stoned sidewalk noticed her and whistled softly. She smiled shyly at him, pushing her hair back away and he saw her exposed pale neck. He tipped his hat towards her and a faint blush appeared. She felt warm.
Later, in between two modern day stores she noticed one of those archaic shops snuggled a footstep back just off the Champs Elysées. It was a small barbershop. She’d never been in one(except for the torn comic books). Pushing the ancient wooden door open led her into a whole new world. Smelling of tonics and unfamiliar potions in bottles with dust on sloping shoulders and a hot lather machine hissing, it was empty except for the proprietor, a man about sixty years of age, graying at the temples with sparkling hazel eyes. They sparkled more when he saw her radiant face. He joyfully clasped his hands and shook them.
“I always wanted to do you!” “Excuse, me?” She milled and moved around, noticing up above on a high perimeter shelf old kerosene railroad lamps in different shapes and colors, covered in dust. And down below, untidy bottles and razors with a mirror along the back wall. “I always….,” he came close to her, gesturing with his hands a swooping motion outlining the shape of her head, “snip snip!” “Ohhhhh,” she laughed. “Well, maybe one day….again.” She gently ran two fingers down the razor strap dangling from the barber chair.
She stopped and looked at one more thing as she edged towards the door. He followed her gaze. An uneven row of old picture frames dotted the paneled wall where the door swung open. One was a man playing violin, his head severely planted in the chinrest. She moved closer and rose on her tip-toes squinting to focus on the dreaded familiar tattoo on his left inner forearm. She turned and met Jean’s eyes. “Auschwitz?” she inquired solemnly. “Oui, mademoiselle. Evacuated then to Bergin-Belson,” he said sadly. Outside, the wind died away.
Winona sat in the barber chair, her legs crossed and jeans ready to split any moment, her feet not reaching the base of the wood framed, black upholstered throne on a shiny swivel. Jean sat in one of his naugahyde covered chrome waiting-chairs for the first time ever, thinking no wonder customers are impatient in such a stiff seat.
They talked uninterrupted for two hours as no one crossed the threshold. They spoke of many things, mostly of hope for the hopeless. She shared the story of her violinist relative that never made it out alive and how her heart almost stopped at the mirror image of the photo her grandmother had shown her. Jean spoke of narrow escape, and showed her the priceless pocket watch of his father, letting her cradle it in her left hand, repeatedly snapping open it’s tarnished bronze cover.
He shared with her the tightly wrapped egg salad sandwiches out of a brown sack his wife had prepared, and two hidden bottles of 3 Mont. She kidded and playfully scolded Jean that a barber should never handle scissors after drinking. Before she departed, they shook hands and she promised Jean she would let no other ‘snip snip’ her hair evermore. He grinned from ear to ear, a grin that no one could ever knock off him.
At the gala that evening she was somber but outwards cheerful. She could not get the vision of Anne Frank out of her mind. Back at the hotel after midnight she kicked off the tight designer heels and drifted asleep, tear streaks on her face, slumped on the edge of the bed, her last dreams of the wonderful Jean. In the morning she gulped down room service breakfast and dressing in stylish black pants, white blouse, a pull-over green and blue cardigan, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail exposing simple, elegant, diamond stud earrings, she hurried along the sunny, chilly, streets of Paris, imagining living in the city. She peered breathlessly in the slightly blinded window of the barbershop and seeing silhouetted movements entered.
All the seats were full with one under steady scissors. They fell silent like mischievous schoolboys in the presence of an icy schoolmarm with her hair in a bun. She immediately noticed all the railroad lamps above were shining and dust free, and the cramped shop no longer appeared it‘d just been unearthed. Jean came out from behind the chair in mid-snip and they hugged exchanging warm whispers. He introduced her to his friends one by one. They each stood in turn, Winona grasping their hand with a firm comrade-like handshake. Messrs. Lessard, Michaud, Rousseau, wide-eyed, a bit shocked, gaped-mouthed all. She said au revoir, smiled and went away. Lessard said au revoir quietly after the door had closed. The men turned to Jean in unison with unbelieving frozen gapping mouths and he shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
the end
|
|
|
Post by imayne on Oct 29, 2005 21:37:36 GMT -5
Great story...
|
|
|
Post by Charles on Oct 29, 2005 21:45:43 GMT -5
The imagery of Paris in October is intoxicating . . . thanks . . .
|
|
|
Post by phil on Apr 11, 2006 22:49:07 GMT -5
The Waking Hours (Soft Spoken Blues) We were the first ones in the diner early that morning the last day I saw her in Prague. It had rained all night, and peering out the smoky window above the small white curtains the droplets on the stone sidewalk looked like diamonds lit by the antique street lights. They matched the simple diamond studs in her lobes. I mentioned this to her and she made a funny face and we both laughed.
She was in faded blue jeans, old beat-up hiking boots, a simple white blouse with a navy-blue buttoned cardigan sweater, and her light hair pulled back fully and freely exposed her lovely white neck. She looked beautiful. Her beauty is not the kind that sneaks up on you but hits you full force and staggers your breathing.
We were waited on before the proprietor finished taking the rest of the chairs down from all the round mahogany tables, and two waitresses flapped down the periwinkle-blue and white-checkered oil cloth covers on the table next to ours, somber like covering a coffin with a flag. She’d already smashed three cigarette butts in the clean glass ashtray before her stack of French toast arrived. I ordered cereal that was flooded with milk. She looked across the table at my bowl with her cheeks stuffed and pointed. “You’re not going to eat that are you?” she might have asked. “Sure.” “That milk isn’t fresh.” “How can you tell?” I looked down into the bowl and squinted searching for a fly perhaps. She didn’t answer. She’d already turned to get a waitresses attention. The lady in white silent shoes came over, sleepy eyes wide shut. “He needs fresh milk.” “It’s alright,” I said. I felt warm in the face. “Really,” I apologized. “Bring a clean a spoon for the good man too please,” she demanded steadily as white shoes had started behind the marble counter. She smiled and winked at me. It was the first time I’d looked so close at her eyes. Those brown fearless beads could pierce through you when she spoke with determination, and they could easily be wickedly humorous and flirting.
Over breakfast as the diner slowly filled we conversed over newly discovered bookshops, music in the open air, and stories of lost love. She would reach across the table cloth and touch my wrist when she made a spirited or passionate point. I loved that.
Then something went horribly wrong. As we sipped hot coffee we stumbled off the cliff into politics. Her soft, warm, Midwestern voice rose more and more in pitch as she made her point, and my only response was clearing my throat. The fiery young liberal did all she could to dissolve this old artery-hardened conservative. By the time we were at the threshold of the diner in front of the splintered white door she no longer made eye contact with me. “Are you going to the right?” she asked, her voice quivering as she looked at my shoes. “Yes,” I answered softly. She knew my hotel was in that direction and I had had my hopes of a kiss to build a dream on like Louis sung about. After a moments hesitation she said “then I’m going to the left.”
**
I wandered aimlessly amongst the majestic old town houses fronted by gothic arbors that stood shoulder to shoulder. The bare gray trees bulging up through the stone sidewalks shook sadly in the wind and the quiet rain. I pretty much had the streets to myself, the rain chasing everyone away. Retracing my steps and starting back towards The Blue Hotel I detoured through an alley with high dulled brick walls and frosted windows tilted open. Wax paper spilling from a trash bin scooted along the ground. It reminded me of a fictional alley from childhood where a mild-mannered reporter would change into the Man Of Steel and then spring into the air. Hearing a ferocious dog barking and breaking glass I changed directions and sprinted for seven blocks towards the diner intending to find her. My side began to hurt and I could taste the fresh milk and cereal beginning to back up.
While stopping to rest and to get my thoughts straight I began to wonder if she was real. It would be like if I went into a video store and asked where the Winona Ryder movies were and the clerk would blink three times and say Winona Ryder doesn’t exist you just made her up and I’d say No! I just had breakfast with her and he’d blink stupidly and say no it’s your imagination and furious I’d push the rest of his cheese tacos into his fat blinking face and on the way out he’d say taco-faced we have some nice Keira Knightley movies you and your family will enjoy
Drenched and tired and spiritless I walked a few more stone paths along the store fronts and markets and turned North. And there she was. She was getting into a white taxi and I hoarsely yelled her name. She looked over the top of the taxi and our eyes met. She was laughing. I was hopeful.
Back at The Blue Hotel I took all my wet clothes off and climbed in-between the cold sheets. I could hear the rain pelt the roof. Placing my phone a few inches from the pillow I said aloud, “Forgive me God for not loving that girl enough.” I fell asleep for I don’t know how long but the room was dark when the phone rang. It was the imaginary woman with no movies from the video store. “Hey.” “Hey.”
the end
|
|
|
Post by bigdaddy on Apr 12, 2006 1:24:58 GMT -5
very very nice...the rain, Ryder..and you..
|
|
|
Post by Charles on Apr 12, 2006 16:46:36 GMT -5
Lovely, Phil . . . I'll pop it into the Fiction section shortly . . .
Cheers
|
|
|
Post by phil on Apr 13, 2006 18:41:01 GMT -5
Thanks, BigD! Thanks, Charles.....now if I can just get Morgan Freeman to read for the audio version I'd die happy.
|
|
|
Post by phil on Aug 29, 2006 22:05:23 GMT -5
The Quiet Hours [/center] She rose from bed at 5:45 on a quiet, frigid, August morning more tired than ever. But there was the work to do - more good work than ever before. She was careful not to wake him slipping out of bed wearing nothing but a highjacked large white pajama top. She stood at the opposite side of the bed for a moment and softly stroked her hand down the curvature of his exposed left biceps marveling at the shape. It excited her. She turned and saw his pride and joy, the Gibson Acoustic made of Brazilian rosewood leaning against the side of the dresser. She laid it in the felt case, then went to grab up her clothes from the chair. She found them neatly and presentably folded on top of her black leather overnight lightweight suitcase. The soft kiss on his cheek did not wake him. Leaning forward and squinting into the bathroom mirror she saw the tiniest blemish but did not fret. Soon she would be in the make-up chair for two hours being transformed into a face of beauty from Annie, the affectionate, pregnant beautician. It was really her favorite two hours being fussed over and she would give her best relaxed performance of the day from that high, cushioned seat with jokes and stories of lost love and little tragedies. At least until Scorsese’s frantic assistant popped in and yelled “Let’s go!” But anyone who walked by could tell there wasn’t much to alter to the simplicity of The Face. If anything, Annie could only de-emphasize the spirit and atmosphere of loveliness that was already apparent about Winona. She showered longingly under a lukewarm, weak flow and managed to find a clean towel in the single man’s closet. She used his comb then switched to a brush, standing back and thinking how her near shoulder length hair looked uneven. She shook her head vigorously and did not start over. Pouring and sipping juice from a jelly glass in the warm kitchen she continued to stroke her messed hair. Lifting the curtainless ancient wooden window open she took a deep breath of the cool morning stillness that followed angry thunderstorms of the night, the early quiet only broken by a neighbor across the courtyard playing a scratched recording of Tchaikovsky’s Serenade in C swirling through the green tree tops that she thought sounded charming and fragile and reminded her of Audrey Hepburn. The view from the second story loft was limited but she gazed at a sparrow bullying three shy, hungry, yellow finches from a hanging feeder and she whispered ‘shoo’ chasing all of them away. He was leaning in the doorway barefoot in pajama bottoms watching when she turned. “You’re beautiful. Cereal is all I have.” “I have to go. I had juice,” she showed him the glass. “That’s no way to start.” “There’ll be food.” “What? “Danish and pastries under glass.” She laughed softly. He shook his head. She moved to go. “Wait. No. Listen. I‘ve finished!” He fetched his guitar. She patiently lit a cigarette and sat in an under-stuffed leather chair in the cozy but sparse sitting room. Huge black and white framed photos covered the walls. One was of a misty 1927 Paris skyline, another a breathtaking shot of early century Chicago. The only color photo was an unframed picture of his eleven year old daughter tacked crooked to the wall. The young girl looked contented gazing into the distance. He returned and sat opposite on a hard wooden chair. He messed up, was quiet and thoughtful for a moment and started again a few seconds after looking at her until she looked away self-consciously. He stopped again until she encouraged him along with a sidelonged look and a “go on, darling.” He always promised himself he’d never write or sing about the Moon, and Stars. Or the beauty of the morning Sun. But she mused him into a sweet melody, his gravel-voice holding long playful notes. At one point, she sat bolt upright, uncrossed her legs and leaned forward looking at him imagining sap trickling from his ears. She jumped up and paced back and forth trying to hide her fury, then sat again and looked away. She felt the song was void of true passion and hollow as his guitar. A few seconds later he was done and answered her look of disgust by looking at the floor in the silence. A crack in the ceiling moaned. “It won’t do. You’re better than that,” she said firmly. She paused at the bottom of the creaking stairs, waved quickly without looking back, and was out the door. He could still feel her soft hair under his chin and her meaningless embrace. She released the flood of disappointing tears from her eyes out of sight of him. Though later on reclining on a sound stage in full eighteenth century costume she found herself amused and somewhat touched reflecting on the delicate lyrics of his song. In the shadows of the evening, a shade after six, she would return. Answering the light knock on his door, she appeared smiling, right arm outstretched and dangling from her finger a string holding a thistle feeder that only yellow finches could feed from. And later in the quiet hours with every lamp in the loft burning and fighting the darkness creeping in, they were at the small kitchen table, and the beautiful girl sipped coffee while he would bend a note to perfection and she would smile approvingly. [/font]
|
|
|
Post by Charles on Aug 29, 2006 23:19:23 GMT -5
. . . the bending of a note to perfection . . .
|
|
|
Post by phil on Mar 1, 2007 21:19:04 GMT -5
Sundance He stood across the room on the cross-stitched patterned carpet at Sundance and didn’t know how to approach that most beautiful woman. By the time he had maneuvered stealthily towards her his mouth was so dry that when he attempted to speak his upper lip stuck to his teeth. At the after dinner party following the preview he found himself through sheer luck north by northwest of her at a round table of six. She was so lovely he did not know where to let his eyes rest. He sipped wine to moisten and loosen his lips. The soft flame in the rose-colored center globe candle made him calm, yet it also lit his pilot light of desire. She was the embodiment of love as the candle light met her eyes. And she laughed at every whimsical thing he said, unlike his wife. He scooted his chair back before dinner ended, got up and went out the door to his car and drove away. If he had stayed he would’ve asked her back to his room at the motel. He could not do it. Yet, on the 300 mile drive home he still rehearsed how he would’ve proposed to Winona from every point of view. Speeding by a brown stubbled, harvested field where a scarecrow was dancing with the ferocious wind, he also rehearsed murdering his nagging wife. He found that he didn’t weep so much now in his loneliness. Winona stood looking out the crystalized window like a lost child, unblinking eyes and red lips parted, looking out for the endearing gentleman. Outside, a fragile tree limb collapsed silently under the weight of blue ice and stood bolt upright in the mist like the neck of Buddy Holly’s guitar at a scorched wintry field. “Gone,” she whispered. “Vanished,” she shuddered, shaking her head slowly. [/font]
|
|