tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41561562131624170992024-03-08T08:52:09.891-08:00Rachel RandRachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-58258720361244839592011-10-31T11:15:00.000-07:002011-10-31T11:15:30.165-07:00Emaline Lee - Draft 1<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. <br />
<br />
When everything broken is broken, <br />
and everything dead is dead, <br />
and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, <br />
and the heroine has studied her face and its defects <br />
remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, <br />
as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves <br />
has lost its novelty and not released them, <br />
and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, <br />
watching the others go about their days— <br />
likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— <br />
that self-love is the one weedy stalk <br />
of every human blossoming, and understood, <br />
therefore, why they had been, all their lives, <br />
in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— <br />
except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool <br />
of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic <br />
life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, <br />
faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. <br />
<br />
As in the story a friend told once about the time <br />
he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. <br />
Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. <br />
He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, <br />
the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. <br />
And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” <br />
that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. <br />
No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch <br />
he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, <br />
scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp <br />
along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word <br />
was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise <br />
the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, <br />
and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up <br />
on the girder like a child—the sun was going down <br />
and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket <br />
he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing <br />
carefully, and drove home to an empty house. <br />
<br />
There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties <br />
hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. <br />
A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick <br />
with rage and grief. He knew more or less <br />
where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. <br />
They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears <br />
in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” <br />
she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, <br />
a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. <br />
“You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” <br />
“Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, <br />
“I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— <br />
Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— <br />
and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, <br />
and go to sleep. <br />
<br />
And he, he would play that scene <br />
once only, once and a half, and tell himself <br />
that he was going to carry it for a very long time <br />
and that there was nothing he could do <br />
but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened <br />
to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark <br />
cracking and curling as the cold came up. <br />
<br />
It’s not the story though, not the friend <br />
leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” <br />
which is the part of stories one never quite believes. <br />
I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain <br />
it must sometimes make a kind of singing. <br />
And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— <br />
First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.<br />
<br />
- Robert Hass, “Faint Music”</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">***</div>The sidewalk was still hot after the rain. Emma slipped off her shoe, letting her foot absorb the dank. Cheers erupted around her, a steady roar of students and businessmen slamming their fists on the bar for another round. Emma drained her wine and looked inside for the waitress. The woman was behind the bar with a sweaty brow, wet with beer from a spraying tap. Emma sighed as she watched a CCTV car roll down the street. Her head was foggy. She vaguely wondered how many times she’d been caught on camera. The average Londoner was captured between three and five hundred times a day. That’s what the police claimed anyhow. Emma did not trust anyone who quoted statistics. The waitress set another wine down on the table. Emma pushed the empty glass towards her, keeping her fingers on the stem. Emma paused. “We need to talk.” The waitress took the glass.<br />
<br />
“You knew I was working.”<br />
“I did. I wanted to see you in action, pouring drinks like a dutiful barmaid. That spraying tap looks like a real bitch.”<br />
“I’m working until a quarter past nine.”<br />
“I’ll wait.” The waitress went inside. Emma felt the air. Rain never cooled things off the way that she thought it would. <br />
<br />
Anna Hadley Smith narrowed her eyes behind the bar. She poured herself a shot of whiskey, grateful that Chelsea was playing Manchester. The job was easier when the men stared at a screen instead of her tits. She never thought that she’d see Emaline again. They had kissed once on a dare at boarding school, but that was before. They had been good friends before. They would read in the courtyard together discussing Joyce, Albee, and Barrett Miner. Emaline had been infatuated with him since primary school. He had been at the party where she and Emma had kissed. Anna wondered if Emma had done it for him. When it was still before they had taken a theater class together. They always wanted to play opposite one another in scenes.<br />
<br />
Anna hadn’t seen Emma in seven years. She watched the adult her friend had become. She’d grown her hair and cut bangs but still had the wide eyes of a child. Anna had chopped her hair and dyed it black like Freulein Sally Bowles. Emma had crept into her daydreams from time to time. Where was she? How’d she end up? A Google search said that she worked for Oxfam, raising money from wealthy donors. Facebook yielded nothing. Oxfam had offices all over the country. In Ireland, too. Yet here she was, drinking in Kensington and Chelsea. An uninvited phantom whose existence proved that life had continued when before became after.<br />
<br />
By a quarter past nine Emaline was drunk and content. Anna went to the bathroom and changed into her street clothes. She fixed her eyeliner, swallowed an Adderall with sink water, and inspected her fingernails as she made her way to the front. “Emaline Lee,” she said as he reached the table, “your parents should have had the sense to name you Annabel.”<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>Emma’s mother finished with the dishes and began wiping down the table. The house was quiet. She sprayed more lemon scrub. Her husband was away on business but she couldn’t remember where. Brussels? Stockholm? She laughed to hear a voice. It didn’t matter where he was, she would still sleep alone. Her attention shifted to the counter. She thought about repainting the kitchen. She would like a sea foam green, even though real sea foam wasn’t green at all. She’d grown up on the coast and enjoyed ocean folklore. Blue water, white beaches with soft sand, fishing with her brother at dusk. Living in a flat in central London had not been what she pictured as a child. No matter. She could still paint the kitchen sea foam green. Tomorrow, she vowed to herself.<br />
<br />
Emma’s mother looked at her mobile, silent on the table. She had spoken to Emaline earlier in the day. Emma had told her mother that she was going to go to the pub where Anna Hadley Smith worked because she wanted to talk to her. Emma’s mother remembered her daughter before she’d gone away to boarding school and met Anna. As a child, Emma had loved to read because she could imagine the characters and places the way that she wanted too. When she was about eight she realized that Roald Dahl was dead and wouldn’t be able to write any more books. Emma cried in her room as her mother tried to soothe her. “Look at all he left behind, though. He left the world his books.” It was the first time that Emma had contended with death and the first time Emma’s mother knew that she could not stop the world from being sad for her daughter.<br />
<br />
Emma’s mother asked her why on Earth she wanted to dig that old mess up again. “Just let it go,” she had urged. “What good will it do now?”<br />
“It won’t do any good now.” Emma had answered without hesitating. <br />
“You’ll never move on if you keep doing this. Let it go.”<br />
“I don’t want to let it go.”<br />
“You’ve been torturing yourself about that time for years. You got out, that’s what is important. You keep making this your life.”<br />
“It is my life.”<br />
“It was better when you just told everyone she was dead. It was over then.”<br />
“But she’s not dead. She’s a fucking bartender.”<br />
<br />
Her mother looked at Emma. At twenty-four she looked like a woman with the helpless eyes of a child. Her daughter wasn’t going to change her mind. She relented.<br />
<br />
“Bring your ID. You’re the only girl in the entire United Kingdom who is refused a pint because she looks too young.”<br />
<br />
Emma picked up her purse, jingling her keys. “I read this psychology study from Cambridge. It said that when an adolescent experiences trauma, he or she mentally remains in an adolescent state, even as they mature into adulthood. They’re often perceived as younger than they are because they embody the version of themselves that they were when the trauma occurred.” Emma’s mother let out a sigh.<br />
<br />
“Emaline, I don’t give a toss what some Cambridge psychologist says. You’re not some passive creature in a study. Your self-punishment is a choice. Do what you want,” she paused, “but I don’t want to hear it anymore.” Emma looked at her mother wistfully.<br />
<br />
“I’ll be home later.” She kissed her mother on the cheek, closed the door behind her, and headed towards the train.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>Emma looked up from her drink. “If my parents had named me Annabel then we would be the same.” Anna clucked her tongue against her teeth.<br />
<br />
“I was referring to the poem.”<br />
<br />
Anna wasn’t sure how she had expected these opening lines to go, but she hadn’t expected Emma to be so composed. An icy, stoic rage in Emma’s eyes made Anna shift her weight from one foot to the other. “What do you want?”<br />
<br />
Emma remained poised, but faltered underneath her veneer. She hadn’t thought about what she wanted. She realized that up until this point she had thought that showing up would be enough. Enough for what? Enough for who? She had thought about this moment. She had practiced her speech in the bathroom mirror for years. Her mother would knock gently and ask her whom she was talking too. Embarrassed, she’d mumble something unintelligible until she could hear her mother slink back down the hallway. <br />
<br />
Emaline froze with fear. She picked at the base of the wine glass, feeling her heart pulse as she reverted to her fifteen-year-old demeanor. She felt chilled but had begun to sweat. She was having trouble breathing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, she thought to herself. Nothing was happening the way it was suppose to. She lifted her eyes to meet Anna Hadley Smith’s. <br />
“Emma, what are you doing here?”<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>The autumn leaves murmur with the breeze in western Massachusetts. Summer greens burst into tangy oranges, crimsons with purple stains, and yellows gasping for August. The colors spread like creeping fingers across the Pioneer Valley. September and October are ablaze in golden flames. November hushes their fury with fields of browning grass before December snow makes tree branches black and wet against the sun. Emaline arrived at Payson Academy on a brisk September morning after taking the red eye from Heathrow. She had said goodbye to her teary mother in England. She had come to America determined to grow as an actress. Her mother argued with her in the parking lot. <br />
<br />
“You can be properly trained here. Ibsen, Shaw, Shakespeare for Christ sakes!”<br />
“Those are playwrights.”<br />
“Laurence Olivier!”<br />
“The Americans are doing something new. I don’t want to spend my time singing like a loon and drowning myself in a river.” <br />
<br />
Her mother looked at her with overwhelming sadness. Her eyes looked lost as she contemplated the wilderness before her. For the first time Emma felt selfish. When they had argued about her leaving over the past few months she had only felt angry. Her mother just wanted her around to take care of her, so she wouldn’t be alone and have to take responsibility for herself. Emma had carefully dispensed her mother’s medications since she could count. Her father left them when she was eleven. Her mother still said that he was away on business. Emma didn’t know if that’s what her mother really thought or if she had grown so accustomed to explaining his absence this way that the truth was irrelevant. Emma wrestled with the idea of fleeing the car without her suitcase. She wanted her life to be without the marring of hopelessness.“Aunt Sally is coming later today. She’ll stay through Christmas. I’ll be back mid-December after revision. If this was a mistake then I’ll come back to St. Paul’s.”<br />
<br />
“Your father will be back from his trip soon. You haven’t even discussed this with him.” Emma couldn’t bring herself to look her mother in the eye as she lugged her suitcase out of the backseat and entered the international terminal.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>Emma stood outside her dorm room. There was a magnet on the door. Someone had written “Emaline” with a white paint pen on a piece of beach wood. There was a sun on it, too. Emma unlocked the door. Inside was a twin-sized bed in one corner and a wooden desk with a chair against the opposite wall. A large square window showed Payson’s bright colonial chapel across the street. Emma set her two leather suitcases down. This was her space. There was a white phone on the desk with a red light for when she had messages. A handwritten note on flowery stationary lay next to the phone. <br />
<br />
‘Dear Emaline, Welcome to Payson Academy and Claire House! My name is Myra. I’m the proctor for international students. It’s my job to make you feel at home here. After you get settled come visit me downstairs in 4D so I can give you a tour. Excited to meet you, and welcome to America! XOXO, Myra’<br />
<br />
Emma put the note back on the desk and lay down on the bed. She slept soundly for the next five hours. She awoke at dusk. The sky behind the chapel was orange and pink with wispy clouds stretching above the spire. She felt a ping of sadness. Dusk had meant dinner back at home. Her mother always set three places before pouring two glasses of red wine and a cup of milk for herself. “You’ve had a long day,” she would say. “You deserve a drink.”<br />
<br />
“Mum, Dad isn’t coming to dinner tonight.”<br />
“I know dear, but I don’t want him to think we’ve forgotten him if he comes home earlier.”<br />
<br />
Emma watched the pink sky turn violet. She wondered how Sally was holding up. The doctor told her not to call home for about a week. It would be less disorienting for her mother that way. Emaline hated that doctor. She hated him for treating her like her mother’s nursemaid. She hated the horse-sized pills she had to dole out every morning. She hated him for charging twice the rent and leaving her mother broken. Emma glanced at her unpacked bags and turned on the light. The room was instantly bathed in a sterilized, lifeless white. She put her clothes in the bureau, hanging a few dresses and sweaters in the closet. She lined the few books and plays she’d packed across her desk. There was a knock at the door. <br />
Emma opened to door to find a thin Filipino girl with thick shoulder-length hair, wide almond eyes, and a smile like the sun. She shook Emma’s hand warmly with both of hers. “Emaline, I’m Myra. It’s so great to meet you.” Emma was grateful for such a welcome.<br />
<br />
“Please, come in.”<br />
“I’m so sorry to barge in, I just wanted to make sure that you got my note.”<br />
“I did, yes. Thank you. I’m afraid I fell asleep. Travelling always knackers me.” Emma’s manners caught up with her. She offered her desk chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” Myra smiled and took a seat. She was holding a thick stack of brightly colored papers.<br />
<br />
“Knackers?”<br />
“Completely. I’ve never liked flying.” Myra smiled again, a bit dazed. Emma recognized Myra’s confusion as she sat on the bed. “Oh, right. Tired. Travelling always wears me out.” Myra laughed, opened her pen and pretended to write on one of her handouts.<br />
<br />
“Knackered equals tired.” They both laughed. Emma indicated the papers. “What’s all this?”<br />
<br />
“Your welcome packet.” Myra handed them to her. “It’s a lot of information, I figured it would help to walk you through. This first yellow one has Payson’s academic policies, all of which I’m sure you’ve seen before. Plagiarizing or cheating of any kind, possession of drugs or paraphernalia, etcetera, etcetera, are expulsionary charges.” Emma reviewed the sheet.<br />
<br />
“Right.”<br />
<br />
“Here are the boarding rules across campus, including Claire House.” Myra indicated to a section under the heading “Disciplinary and Boarding Policies”. “These are a bit more involved.” Emma read them slowly. “Breakfast is from eight to nine-thirty AM in the dining hall. You’ll check in with me here every morning.” Emma nodded. “Depending on your schedule, classes are from ten AM to one PM, and lunch is from one to two. You don’t have to go to the dining hall for lunch. Most people just eat wherever and hang with their friends. Afternoon classes are from two to four. From your theater scholarship I’m assuming you’ll be in the plays. Rehearsals are from six to eight, so between four and six is your time to eat dinner, relax, start your homework, whatever. That’s your time.” Myra paused. “Still with me?”<br />
<br />
“Yes.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Sundays through Thursdays there is a mandatory study hall from eight to ten PM. During this time you must be in your room with the door open, doing homework. Room phones are shut off during this time. You can go to the library if you have special permission from your advisor and house parent. Mr. Simpson is our house parent, he’s a Spanish teacher.”<br />
<br />
“Does he live here?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. He has an apartment at the end of the hall with his wife and two kids. He and I switch off patrolling the halls during study hall. If you’re caught not doing work you will receive a unit. You can get two units without anything happening. Units are for skipping classes or rehearsal. Everyday at two the Dean’s office prints a list of all students. Next to everyone’s name is the number of units that they have acquired.” Emma stretched her back. This seemed like something that could wait until the morning.<br />
<br />
“What happens when you get three units?”<br />
<br />
“Three is detention. Four is a meeting with your parents or legal guardian. Five lands you in front of a disciplinary committee that determines your probation or if there are any mitigating circumstances to your situation. A sixth unit is expulsion.” Emma took a breath. Myra looked her in the eye.<br />
<br />
“So… don’t get a unit.” Myra nodded.<br />
<br />
“Don’t get a unit. I mean,” she conceded, “the unit scale is wiped every three months but still just don’t do it. This is a circular campus with a lot of windows. Trust me when I say that whatever it is you think you’ve gotten away with, you haven’t and it will be on the unit board at two PM the next day. If you somehow do get away with whatever it is, acknowledge the break and recognize that you were lucky. If a teacher is particularly fond of you, you might get a break. The most important thing to remember is that if you get a break it’s because someone was feeling generous, not because your actions went unnoticed. Everything is noticed and generosity doesn’t strike twice.” <br />
Emma scoffed.<br />
<br />
“What, you’re saying this is some kind of total institution? I didn’t see a panopticon in the middle of the courtyard.” Myra looked surprised.<br />
<br />
“You’ve studied Foucault?” Emma nodded again.<br />
<br />
“Yes. Last year in sociology.” Myra paused her diatribe. Emma felt uneasy.<br />
<br />
“They don’t teach that stuff here until second semester senior year, and that’s only if you take the senior sociology elective. There may not be a physical structure in the center of the courtyard, but it’s certainly an apropos description. It would behove you to remember it.”<br />
<br />
“How do you know about that stuff?”<br />
“I like psychology.”<br />
“Ah.”<br />
“Seriously, though. Don’t get units.”<br />
“I got it.”<br />
“Excellent. Next is the pink sheet. There is a sign in and sign out book in the living room of each dorm. Any time you leave campus you need to write the time you left, and ETA on when you’ll be back, who you’re with, and a contact number. During the week you can leave campus between four and six. On the weekends your curfew is eleven-thirty. If you’re spending the night somewhere you have to have a permission sheet signed by the parent hosting you and, in your case because you’re international, your academic advisor twenty-four hours in advance. So plan ahead.” Emma rubbed her eyes.<br />
<br />
“Jesus.”<br />
<br />
“Almost done. If you come home drunk or high, or if there is any indication that that kind of thing occurred during your overnight stay, or if you didn’t stay where you indicated on the permission slip you’ll face automatic disciplinary action regardless of your number of units. I also see that your mother said that you are not allowed to be in a car with a student driver. That’s a unit too, and the teachers that don’t actually live on campus all live in the vicinity, so. Panopticon.”<br />
<br />
“Panopticon.” Emma echoed her wryly.<br />
“What else?” Myra shuffled through the handouts. “No boys in your room, ever. That’s instant probation.” Myra paused. “I see that you take Prozac.”<br />
“Excuse me?” <br />
“It says here that you’re on twenty milligrams of Prozac daily, to be taken in the morning.”<br />
“I don’t mean to be rude but I really don’t think that my medication is anyone’s business but my own.”<br />
<br />
Myra put the paper down and looked at Emma apologetically. “I’ve always thought that that piece was invasive too. It’s just that the more we’re on the same page with you, the more fulfilling your time here will be. Plus, you’re not allowed to have psych meds in your room so if you give them to me I’ll bring them to health services in the morning. You’ll pick up your daily dose from them after breakfast from now on.”<br />
<br />
“Ok.” Emma realized she had crossed her arms in response to all of this information. She didn’t want to be petulant. She placed her hands in her lap. Myra flipped through the papers. “I believe that that’s it for now. Oh, we have class every other Saturday so there is study hall on those Friday nights. You get used to it though, I promise. Now I just need you to initial and date all of these and we’ll be all set.” Emma took the stack from her, taking the pen she offered. She hesitated. She has assumed that the school would be strict in all matters discussed, but she hadn’t expected to feel like she was signing her right to privacy or a personal life away.“Emaline?” Myra nodded towards the papers. Emma put the pen to the signing line.<br />
<br />
“Emma. I prefer Emma.” She signed and dated the sheets.<br />
<br />
“Perfect. I’ll make a copy of these for you and give them to you at breakfast tomorrow before we go to health services.” Emma felt numb all of a sudden as she watched Myra take the papers. “Goodnight, Emma. We’re so glad that you’re here. See you in the AM.” Myra shut the door. Emma remained standing, staring at the door. The hall was quiet as she switched off the light. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***</div>Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-9418277880926542922011-04-17T11:37:00.000-07:002011-04-17T11:40:27.718-07:00Interview #1 - Monologue ExerciseWould I say that I was treated unfairly?<br />
<br />
Unfairly. I'm sorry I just... I just don't see this as an issue of... but if you need a word for your notebook, then I'd say what happened was dirty. But that's hard too, isn't it? You just want an answer, but this is important. For example, am I being literal or figurative? Mr. Hodge made me feel dirty even though he never touched me. I felt dirty because I knew that what he was doing was wrong, but also because he didn't want me. <br />
<br />
When Michelle told me about the first time I could tell she was proud. I felt shame because I thought that it meant that he thought that she had the most talent out of all of us. I was jealous because he had humiliated me during rehearsal when he said that I looked like a girl that could get raped and that's why he had cast me. <br />
<br />
Anyway, a few weeks after Michelle told me what was happening he was talking about Lolita with us during a break. He said that he saw it as a love story, just a different kind of love story. He singled me out again in front of the group. What do I think? I totally tensed up. You see, at this point I didn't know if he knew that I knew what was going on, and I didn't know if anyone else knew - but I understood that it was a test. <br />
<br />
So I lied. I said I hadn't read the book. About six weeks later I drove Michelle to Planned Parenthood to get an abortion. All I could think about was that I better not get caught because I hadn't taken my driver's test, and then how weird it was that that was what I was worried about. <br />
<br />
It was over pretty quick. <br />
<br />
But to answer you, unfairness doesn't matter. I did what was asked of me and what I thought was right. I didn't say anything to save myself and then I got out. I mean... thank god it wasn't me.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-52906122339956558512010-02-25T11:33:00.000-08:002010-02-25T11:39:40.656-08:00The Prince of Notting Hill - Draft #3The Prince of Notting Hill<br /><br />Olivia Rousseau knew what it was to be alone. She could taste it in her morning’s breakfast and hear it in the door chime. Abandon prickled in her stomach and ruptured her vertebra piece and piece as she dressed in her school uniform. Her argyle knee socks and auburn curls were incendiary, igniting the fountains at Trafalgar during twilight. Mme. Rousseau presented Olivia at parties as though she were wrapped in silver ribbon. Olivia would stand very still and pose as her mother had disciplined her too.<br /><br />Tonight she stood on the street, scraping her patent leather heel into the asphalt. Edouard’s townhouse looked as it had two years ago, when she saw it for the first time. White and five stories it stood alone behind molded rod iron gates. The houses around it seemed to shrink in submission to its grandiose presentation. Olivia stuck her hand through the gate and lifted the latch, tentatively pushing it open and slipping through. She closed it quietly. Stones, stacked upon one another, made a walkway to the heavy blue door. Lush vines had spread from the ground to his bedroom window. Eaves leafed over the windows on the second floor, rustling with the breeze. The door was unlocked. Olivia laughed humorlessly. Edouard had always been careless. <br /><br />To reach the roof there were four staircases, one hundred steps, six wide landings, and one glass skylight to surpass. The journey to the sky passed through a mausoleum of antiques and artifacts that chronicled the life of a family that had hardly met. Black and white portraits of paunchy women and pock mocked men were framed in textured gold that matched the clean eggshell paint on the wall. The frozen family ties were relatable through vacant eyes. Edouard himself did not know who these photographs were of, but one man was pictured with a black bowler that had a striking similarity to a bowler he remembered his father wearing when he left for a function several years ago. Olivia had seen a black bowler for sale in a shop on King’s Road over the past weekend. She had thought of this photograph.<br /><br />Each time Edouard climbed the stairs carefully, always taking note of the silver tea set that sat on the cherry-stained wooden table on the third landing. It was strange, he knew, but he wanted nothing more than to touch it. He wanted to smudge the shine, leaving his mark. He wanted to feel if the silver was cool or room temperature, but it was as if his mother’s gaze emanated from the set and if he touched it the pieces would shatter and fall. Instead he taught his friends how to unhinge the springs that held the skylight and pull the glass back so that it wouldn’t be scratched so that his mother would never know the difference. As Olivia ascended she remembered how special she felt when he had told her all of this. They had jumped the iron fence at Kew and as he undressed her against a sculpture he whispered that he had never believed in anything.<br /><br />On the roof the garden was full with white and purple petals that exploded from manicured bushes, like a fire raging in snow. On holiday from university, glasses clinked as old friends, lovers, and ripe hangers-on celebrated one another’s homecoming. Pouring pints and dressed as an emcee Edouard moved swiftly amongst his guests. The university boys had engaged themselves in lurid conversations with the young girls that they wished to bed, gesticulating about Milton, the Pre-Raphaelites, and what was on at The National. The girls giggled and spilt a bit of champagne when they added their bits to the tête-à-tête. Ed smiled and hovered over his silver lighter before smiling at his tableaux and glancing towards the street. Olivia emerged, watching him suck in and hold the smoke. She stared silently at his cigarette smoldering orange. His eyes were dry and the twinkling lights from the roof illuminated his bloodshot pupils. <br /><br />“Edouard, where’s the rest of your beer, mate?” It was Simon, a round boy who had heard of the party through a friend of a friend. Ed refocused his straying thoughts.<br />“In the chest next to the skylight.” He pointed to the open ice chest. He saw her standing by the chest helping herself to a Magner’s. She twisted the cap. She could see that he saw her and was watching her back in the dark. He leaned against the terrace with his elbows up on the stone rail, the cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of wine in his right hand. She waited but he continued to drink from the bottle, cavalier and dismissive. An old school friend rushed to her and began chattering away. Olivia turned her back to him.<br /><br />Edouard was a conundrum, to be sure. He was a vexation, a trustafarian, a child. At his core he was a charmer, a skill that he had learned from his father. His boyish fervor encased him in a sea of dewy eyes and tangerine perfume, pink lace and kitty heels. He had a house attendent and the key to his father’s liquor cabinent. He had a sister too, but after an Oxbridge rejection she had opted to spend the year at the flat in Paris. No one paid her any mind and the children were undoubtedly separated from one another in the way only blood relations can stray. <br /><br />In the night Ed glittered in the hyacinths, smoking whilst the neighborhood boys mixed white grapes and bubbles on the roof. He had given them that champagne. Those grapes and those bubbles. The boys were his waxen moldings, his prodigies. They were his schoolmates who dined with him on the eager harem of girls behind flower stalls on Portobello Road, at Swiss Alps chalets, and on beaches in the south of France. But it was over now. Carnival was done and the streets were clean. The boys had gone to be freshers at university, or on a gap year. Edouard himself had had every intention of moving with the pack but had failed to do enough revision on his A-levels and could not commit to a route for his own Grand Tour. Ed had begun to sleep in the garden. <br /><br />He stubbed his cig and inhaled the air, beginning to drift. The smell of roses and dogwood. Olivia. She was there, he knew – but he couldn’t look at her. He closed his eyes. He lived in the castle on the crescent with his father, who may or may not have been married to his mother, the bejeweled woman whose inheritance everyone knew. She bought tuna in oil and watched television under the stairs. He felt Olivia stare at him with her bright green eyes, quiet and ferocious, asking how he could have left her against the sculpture, naked and sweating. He drank and justified that she should have known and if she truly hadn’t known than if it hadn’t of been him it would have been someone else. Olivia smiled and danced with a group of girls, averting the pain and searing pull she felt towards him. His tie was loose and the present company blurred into movements and shadows. Perhaps her bright green eyes were simply that and his alcoholic stupor had merely born another nightmare.<br /><br />He sparked the lighter. His raw thumb stung when he pressed it against the tinny metal rivets. It didn’t take. He did it again. His thumb blistered under pressure. Rubbing and flicking – there’s the flame. He heaved in, his lungs filled with smoke and toxins that detonated inside of him until his eyes rolled back and the whites were exposed. Eyes were everywhere – gaping and dilated as he fell into space and galaxies where there were no ticking clocks or locked iron gates. There was only slipping and sinking and the muffled sound of voices that rustled like the displaced cadence of Olivia’s voice saying his name. There were ghosts floating between waking worlds and the land of the dead as smoke curled further down the webs inside of him. Lights were violent, white, and crimson but the sky was black and these colors were only the remnants of synapses firing in his mind. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow but he could see the air everywhere. Touching, not tasting – alone in the birth of self-awareness and the awakening of his body. <br /><br />He drank the red wine in his grasp and tried to piece together the fractures of a beautiful face that loomed above him. Nothing burned at his fingers – the drugs were gone. He heard the sad singing of a man in pain and bells ringing like symbols crashed in the distance. His body shook with the rapture but he knew that God was dead. He’d simply had too much to drink. Olivia disappeared as he reached for the outline of her body against the fuzzy yellow roof lamps. Where was the singing? It was louder now, he was trying to listen. The noise was important; it was saying something that he needed to understand. He could nearly make it out in the chaos but he floundered because the syllables didn’t make sense and there was no one to translate. He burnt the flowers with the fag and went back to the party.<br /><br />The city sparkled underneath him and the cabbies knew his address. The Prince of Notting Hill. The Prince trounced the town with his smile and his cigarettes. The town knew his address, but no one knew him. He told her that he wanted it that way. He led a band of boys that loved his image but hated his being and he was so aloof that one couldn’t help but feel that every time you saw him could be the last. He was hazy and everyday was one day closer to the hour when he would disappear from their lives forever. Olivia could sense the imminent seclusion, as a dog can smell the rain. Edouard was fading. She had come here tonight. She had drunk his liquor and wandered into his garden. His cigarette burned to its filter but he let it nick his fingers. She was savoring seconds and manipulating moments, reliving the one when they kissed in the grass as she twirled to a song she didn’t recognize. She could feel the breeze blow in from the west like it had that night and suddenly nothing felt as if it had ever been long ago.<br /><br />He could have loved her. Olivia. He could have loved any of them, but his father couldn’t love so he couldn’t love, and the world turned in the way it always did. The women would come and the arrangements would be made but there were no plans to speak of. She had wanted plans. If there were plans they changed and alcohol-infused dreams were broken by the brisk snap of the morning after – there was Olivia. There she was on the molded stone, staring at the sky. It was so easy but there had been so many of them and the Prince couldn’t justify why she would be any different. The boys fed him booze and women but he was alone in the drugs, and to this end nobody cared. <br /><br />Olivia lay back on the stone balcony, her shoe dangling against the side of the house. How far would she fall if she rolled herself off roof and into the night? Only to the street? Or would it be beneath the ground? She could continue to fall, tunneling her way deep beneath the yellow street lamps and into the ground, finding some solace at last. He could chase her there. She wanted to know what it was that was buzzing inside of him. The connection in the disconnection, the money in the safe. Where were those answers and why hadn’t he stopped when she said “no”? She had said no but she wanted to feel his hands and mouth on her on the wet summer grass because she had never felt anything. When he pushed on it made her feel alive. She gave him her necklace. <br /><br />He was protected under a name but that excuse had been worn by his seventeenth birthday. She was protected under nothing and as her mother drove her to the clinic she wondered if the moment and euphoria could have really of been worth it. He was wanted and people looked for him to tell his thrills, sell them his pills, cocaine, and tranquilizers. Once on holiday in France his cousins had tried to chase him down for a hit of their own. He had hidden between booths on the Promenade, wishing to be free of his captors. <br /><br />Olivia. How long ago had it been Olivia, with the public school boys in the sunshine, her hair in the wind. She had expected the best but he had showed her the worst and he still had her necklace under his pillow. Another girl had found it one night and the charm’s silhouetted shape swayed in the moonlight next to the window where she stood. There were boys that he had molded in his image but it they had moved on. The Prince was at their peril, the power dynamic had shifted and now he was in the back with the empty pints and the kitchen orders on weeknights. Bar back was the worst but his father might be in when he came back, and the day was coming when he wouldn’t be afraid of himself anymore.<br /><br />Olivia-the necklace-the drugs in the castle-it was happening. Edouard watched but he would not speak. Olivia was here and if she was here than she was telling him that she was in love and he was forgiven in the only way that she could. He needed to give her the pony charmed necklace back. It was the only token that she had to offer after she had given herself and tonight he wouldn’t even feign a conversation. He could have come down in the garden but the high had twisted his routes until he was infinitely lost and her emerald eyes against the blue night were too much. If he could have that touch from anyone again – not hers, it didn’t have to be hers – but a touch from a hand he knew, a graze he recognized, an afternoon in the grass. Where was everything and when did it go? He was seventeen but it was over. His father was off with the women he had never met, his mother kept calling her daughter though the phone went straight to voicemail. <br /><br />He popped the next bottle and cheered with the boys. The chosen girls had been selected for the evening like a batch of cherries. They toasted their men before the streets that knew their stories. The St. Paul’s and Morehouse girls all divvied up and equally matched. The Prince was the host, he had the first pick, but he only wanted her, so sweet on the ledge, with the arms that would hold him until this episode was over. His heart had stopped, his eyes glazed. His fingers loosened their grip, his whole body consumed in the disarray of the moment and splayed on the ground. How do you bridge the time that’s past when the next moment could make all the difference? When you stretch but you can’t breathe, the air thick in your head and your bones are old though your skin is smooth. <br /><br />“Ed!”<br />“Eddie!”<br />“Edouard!”<br />“Ed!”<br />“Call 999!”<br /><br />Flashing lights and chaos, feet scuffling through the sky window, scratching the glass and scurrying down the stairs. Bottles rolled and clinked against one another like broken wind chimes barely audible in the wind. Pulse. Check. Breathing. Check. Just a bit much, the cops chuckled. They left brown, dirty footsteps on the white carpet. Then nothing. The night was silent. The house was silent. The roof was empty. The boys had fled. Olivia held out a glass of water, to which he sipped and let his head loll in her lap.<br /><br />“You’re all right Eddie. You’re still here. I’m still here.”<br /><br />A flicker in his mind. It was morning and he awoke in his lofted bed, alone. She had left before the sun rose. Isolated and frozen she was falling, sinking, dying in her black taffeta dress – alone in the way that she had arrived.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-56585786197336576532010-02-03T17:21:00.000-08:002010-02-03T18:11:40.311-08:00The Prince of Notting Hill - Stories and Reflections<div style="text-align: left;"> <meta name="Title" content=""><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"> <meta name="Keywords" content=""><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Prince of Notting Hill
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<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><link style="font-family: georgia;" rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelmuney/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>1132</o:Words> <o:characters>6455</o:Characters> <o:company>Ithaca College</o:Company> <o:lines>53</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>12</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>7927</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><span style=";font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Edouard was a conundrum, to be sure. He was a vexation, a trustafarian, a child. At his core he was a charmer, a skill that he had learned from his father. His boyish fervor encased him in a sea of dewy eyes and tangerine perfume, pink lace and kitty heels. He had a maid and the tightest security system in the neighborhood. He had a sister too, but after an Oxbridge rejection she had opted to spend the year at the flat in Paris. No one paid her any mind and the children were undoubtedly separated from one another in the way only blood relations can stray. The clock ticked above the stove. There was still milk in the crate, a nutri-grain bar left on the countertop. It was one thirty in the afternoon, and he didn’t have work tonight. The boys were out at seven. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In the night Ed glittered in the hyacinths, smoking whilst the boys mixed white grapes and bubbles on the roof. He had given them that champagne. Those grapes and those bubbles. The boys were his waxen moldings, his prodigies. They were his schoolmates who dined with him on the eager harem of girls behind flower stalls on Portobello Road, at Swiss Alps chalets, and on beaches in the south of France. But it was over now. Carnival was done and the streets were clean. Jean was at uni, Nick was on his gap year. Ed was in the garden.
<br /></span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>The smell of roses and dogwood. Olivia. She was there, he knew – but he couldn’t look at her. He closed his eyes. He lived in the castle on the crescent with his Father, who may or may not have been married to his mother, the bejeweled woman whose inheritance everyone knew. She bought tuna in oil and watched television under the stairs – Olivia. He burnt the flowers with the fag and went back to the party.</span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>The city sparkled underneath him and the cabbies knew his address. The Prince of Notting Hill. The Prince trounced the town with his smile and his cigarettes. They knew his address, but no one knew him. He told me that he wanted it that way. He led a band of boys that loved him but hated him too and he was so aloof that one couldn’t help but feel that every time you saw him could be the last. He was hazy and everyday was one day closer to the hour when he would disappear from their lives forever. The boys could sense the imminent seclusion, as a dog can smell the rain. Edouard was fading.</span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>He could have loved her. Olivia. He could have loved any of them, but his father couldn’t love so he couldn’t love, and the world turned in the way it always did. The women would come and the arrangements would be made but there were no plans to speak of. If there were plans they changed and alcohol-fused dreams were shattered by the brisk snap of the morning after – there was Olivia. There she was on the stone, staring at the roof. It was so easy but there had been so man and the Prince couldn’t justify why she would be any different.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">His mind was a consistent run-around. The boys fed him booze and women but he was alone in the drugs, and to this nobody cared. I would just watch him from the distance, wondering what it was that was buzzing inside of him. The connection in the disconnection, the money in the safe. He was protected under a name but that excuse had been worn by his nineteenth birthday. People looked for him, for they had heard of him and once on holiday in France he had hidden between booths on the Promenade, wishing to be free of his captors.
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Olivia. How long ago had it been Olivia, with the public school boys in the sunshine, her black hair in the wind. She had expected the best but he had showed her the worst and he still had her necklace under his pillow. Another girl had found it one night and the charm’s silhouetted shape swayed in the moonlight next to the window where she stood.
<br /></span></p><div face="georgia" style="text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>There were boys that he had molded in his image but it was a job unfinished and the royal court had staged a mutiny. The Prince was at their peril, the power dynamic had shifted and he was in the back with the empty pints and the kitchen orders. Bar back was the worst but his father might be in when he came back, and the day was coming when he wouldn’t be afraid of himself anymore.</span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>Edouard sparked the lighter. His raw thumb stung when he pressed it against the tinny metal rivets. It didn’t take. He did it again. His thumb blistered under pressure. Rubbing and flicking – there’s the flame. He heaved in, his lungs filled with smoke and toxins that detonating inside of him until his eyes rolled back and the whites were exposed. Eyes were everywhere – gaping and dilated as he fell into space and galaxies where there were no ticking clocks or self inflicted destruction. There was only slipping and sinking and the muffled sound of voices that rustled like the displaced cadence of Olivia’s voice saying his name. There were ghosts floating between waking worlds and the land of the dead as smoke curled further down the webs inside of him. Lights were violent, white, and crimson but the sky was black and these colors were only the remnants of synapses firing in his mind. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow but he could see the air everywhere. Touching, not tasting – alone in the birth of self-awareness and the awakening of his body.
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">He drank the red wine that had snaked into his grasp and tried to piece together the fractures of a beautiful face that loomed above him. Nothing burned at his fingers – the drugs were gone. He heard the sad singing of a man in pain and bells crashed like symbols in the distance. His body shook with the rapture but he knew that God was dead. He’d simply had too much to drink. Olivia disappeared as he reached for the outline of her body against the fuzzy yellow roof lamps. Where was the singing? It was louder now, he was trying to listen. The noise was important, it was saying something that he needed. He could nearly make it out in the chaos but he floundered because the syllables didn’t make sense and there was no one to translate.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Olivia-the necklace-the drugs in the castle-it was happening. And he could have gone back to the garden but it was a long way down and her raven eyes in the black hair with the blue night was too much. If he could have that touch from anyone again – not hers, it didn’t have to be hers – but a touch from a hand he knew, a graze he recognized, an afternoon in the grass. Where was everything and when did it go? He was nineteen but it was over. His father was off with the women he had never met, his mother kept calling her daughter though the phone went straight to voicemail.
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">He popped the next bottle and cheered with the boys. The chosen girls had been selected for the evening like a batch of cherries. They toasted their men before the streets that knew their stories. The St. Paul’s and Morehouse girls, all divvied up and equally matched. Those were the girls who were already to fucked up to know the difference. The Prince was the host, he had the first pick. He wanted her, so sweet on the ledge with the arms that would hold him until this episode was over.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">His heart had stopped, his eyes glazed. His fingers loosened their grip, his whole body consumed in the disarray of the moment. How do you bridge the time that’s past when the next moment could make all the difference? When you stretch but you can’t breathe, the air thick in your head and your bones are old though your skin is smooth. Even though the proceedings are no different than they were last Friday, and the one before that… for five years.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelmuney/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>51</o:Words> <o:characters>296</o:Characters> <o:company>Ithaca College</o:Company> <o:lines>2</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>363</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; 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font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Ed!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Eddie!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Edouard!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Ed!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Edouard Renee!”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Silence.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The night was silent. The house was silent. The roof was empty. The boys had gone. The raven held out a glass of water, to which he sipped – quiet like a child.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You’re all right Eddie. You’re still here. I’m still here.”</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A flicker in his mind. It was morning and he awake in his lofted bed, alone.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Olivia</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" face="georgia" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelmuney/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>285</o:Words> <o:characters>1628</o:Characters> <o:company>Ithaca College</o:Company> <o:lines>13</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1999</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Olivia knew what it was to be alone. She could taste it in her morning’s breakfast and hear it in the door chime. Abandon prickled in her stomach and ruptured her vertebra piece and piece as she dressed in her school uniform. Her argyle knee socks and red waves formulated her mother’s only fantasy. She presented Olivia at parties as though she were wrapped in silver ribbon with sparkles. Oli would stand very still and pose in the way that she had been shown. Oli was a belle, and every Friday Edouard held a ball. Tonight his garden looked the same as it had two years ago when she saw it for the first time. She stared silently at the orange smoldering of his cigarette. The garden was full with white and purple petals that exploded from manicured bushes, like a fire raging in snow. She watched him suck in and hold the smoke. His eyes were dry and the twinkling lights from the roof illuminated his bloodshot pupils. He saw her. She could see that he saw her and was watching her back in the dark. </span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She had come here tonight. She had drunk his liquor and wandered into his garden. His cigarette burned to its filter but he let it dissipate. She was savoring seconds and manipulating moments, reliving the one when they kissed in the grass. She could feel the breeze blow in from the west like it had that night and suddenly nothing felt as if it had ever been long ago. There was a party on the roof with the boys from school. Laura and Tash were up there and she knew that she should find her way back up the ladder. Edouard watched but he would not speak. She was here and if she was here than she was telling him that she was in love in the only way that she could. He still had her necklace with the gold pony charm. It was the only token that she had to offer after she had given herself and tonight he wouldn’t even feign a conversation. Isolated and frozen she was falling, sinking, dying in her black taffeta dress – alone in the way that she had arrived. </span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <!--EndFragment--> </div><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: center;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Edouard [sensory]</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelmuney/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>263</o:Words> <o:characters>1501</o:Characters> <o:company>Ithaca College</o:Company> <o:lines>12</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>3</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1843</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Edouard sparked the lighter. His raw thumb stung when he pressed it against the tinny metal rivets. It didn’t take. He did it again. His thumb blistered under pressure. Rubbing and flicking – there’s the flame. He heaved in, his lungs filled with smoke and toxins that detonating inside of him until his eyes rolled back and the whites were exposed. Eyes were everywhere – gaping and dilated as he fell into space and galaxies where there were no ticking clocks or self inflicted destruction. There was only slipping and sinking and the muffled sound of voices that rustled like the displaced cadence of Olivia’s voice saying his name. There were ghosts floating between waking worlds and the land of the dead as smoke curled further down the webs inside of him. Lights were violent, white, and crimson but the sky was black and these colors were only the remnants of synapses firing in his mind. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow but he could see the air everywhere. Touching, not tasting – alone in the birth of self-awareness and the awakening of his body.
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">He drank the red wine that had snaked into his grasp and tried to piece together the fractures of a beautiful face that loomed above him. Nothing burned at his fingers – the drugs were gone. He heard the sad singing of a man in pain and bells ringing like symbols crashed in the distance. His body shook with the rapture but he knew that God was dead. He’d simply had too much to drink. Olivia disappeared as he reached for the outline of her body against the fuzzy yellow roof lamps. Where was the singing? It was louder now, he was trying to listen. The noise was important, it was saying something that he needed. He could nearly make it out in the chaos but he floundered because the syllables didn’t make sense and there was no one to translate.
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Hallway</span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"> <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/rachelmuney/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>205</o:Words> <o:characters>1173</o:Characters> <o:company>Ithaca College</o:Company> <o:lines>9</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1440</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> </p><p style="text-align: left;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">To reach the roof there were four staircases, one hundred steps, six wide landings, and one glass skylight to surpass. Edouard’s journey to the sky passed through a mausoleum of antiques and artifacts that chronicled the life of a family that had hardly met. Black and white portraits of paunchy women and tired men were framed in textured gold that matched the clean eggshell paint on the wall. The frozen bloodlines were relatable through the identical vacant eyes that did not have enough life in them to die. Edouard did not know who these photographs were of, but one man was pictured with a black bowler that had a striking similarity to a bowler he remembered his father wearing when he left for a function several years ago.
<br /></span></p><p face="georgia" style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p face="georgia" style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Edouard climbed the stairs carefully, always taking note of the silver tea set that sat on the dark wooden table on the third landing. It was strange, he knew, but he wanted nothing more than to touch it. He wanted to smudge the shine, leaving his mark. He wanted to feel if the silver was cool or room temperature, but it was as if his mother’s gaze emanated from the set and if he touched it the pieces would shatter and fall into the pool of disappointment that he had come to embody for her. Instead he taught his friends how to unhinge the springs that held the skylight and pull the glass back so that it wouldn’t be scratched and that his mother would never know the difference. </span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <!--EndFragment--> </div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <!--EndFragment--><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> </div><p style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia;"> <!--EndFragment--><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><!--EndFragment--> </div>Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-43448949864935654632010-02-03T16:58:00.000-08:002010-02-03T18:13:33.338-08:00The Holy Trinity Vignettes<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Father</span><br /></div><br /></div>Father sucked vodka soaked ice through his teeth in the newly tiled kitchen. He had bought an upright, chiseled property in the backwoods of Massachusetts amongst colonial spirits and white-tailed deer. The ice stung his sensitive teeth, his silver watch ticked. At mid-afternoon there was nobody home and the titans in his mind began to peak around the intricate moldings carved in the doorway. It was seven years ago today. Father spun the cap off of the liquor bottle and poured another glass. From the kitchen he could see the Great Room, an affair with bright yellow walls, four identical portraits of the children, and a brown leather couch that formed a crescent in front of the fireplace. Father picked up his glass and slid along the wood paneled floor between the two rooms in his socks, like Tom Cruise. He held his arms and spread his legs the way that they had been in the movie, and as he stood still reminiscing it occurred to him that as the light changed the yellow paint became darker.<br /><br />Father tipped his toes towards the portraits. The girls were coiffed and blushed, holding black and white bouquets that had been retouched with sepia tones at the photographer’s request. The boy sat in his suit and yarmulke, wincing into the lens, smiling through his teeth in the way that he had been taught when he was little. The father recognized the dirty spots near the corner of the son’s eyes and realized that he had been crying. The children were not his. Father tilt his glass back, running liquid into his insides to digest with water and Ego Waffles. The four children carried his name but they were not his. The son would always belong to his mother, his daughter also destined to remain a shadow of a woman seven years gone. The other two girls came from his new wife, and were as equally disconnected to him as his own creations were. Father sat on the floor with his legs crossed, facing the portraits and murmuring to himself all the ways that life can change.<br /><br />Seven years ago there would have only been two pictures, framed and displayed in a different house, hung on a wall in his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">children's</span>' home. The father remembered how he sat stiffly in the simple living room, trying to understand that the fight was over. The children’s dead mother looked like she was sleeping in her bedroom tucked in and warm. The fan in the corner was unplugged because she was cold. Her son asked her how she was, and she said, “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">freezin</span>’”. The boy had been with her as she passed and in the forlorn emptiness the foundation of a family so well cared for crumbled six feet underground. Father jolted himself off of the ground. His stepdaughters would be home soon and he needed to get back to the office. He had not put any pictures of his first wife in the house, not wanting his new family having to combat with the ghost that encompassed his kin. He rinsed his glass and put the bottle back in the cabinet. Tomorrow he could return to his equilibrium and fountain pens that inked his rehearsed signature. Today he could only feel the sticky residue of his loved wife dead, only haunted by the perpetual moans in her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">children's</span>' silent eyes.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Son<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br />As a student of logic, the son counted. It was 61,320 hours since she had died. 17, 520 hours later there were two new rings, two new children, and a new family certified by the proper legal authorities. The son sat at his desk clicking through banal emails, categorizing envelopes, filing requests. He had 1,208 unread messages that had piled up over the term but no new voicemails and he accepted that another year had surpassed without anyone remembering. It was hot and people swam around him as if they were aquatic dancers in a dream but the son was lost when he tried to recognize beauty. His dry eyes skirted beneath the lids as he tried to maintain order and control over the synchronized sea of the office. Time lagged and hazy clouds peeled like carrots underneath the sun. It was the hour of her departure. Shadows from the window blinds crept across the desk like a warning sign of the minutes to come. It was 3:10. At 3:46 it would be over, and another year would grow before he felt the death again. Seven years ago she still had 36 minutes left.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The son always thought she knew, like she could feel the end twisting up from the root of the disease deep within her. What is there left to say in thirty-six minutes? Not even an hour, but long enough to watch one more episode of her favorite sitcom, or listen to her son read her favorite passage of The Great Gatsby five more times. The shadows climbed onto his hands, severing them into five even splits. The son’s computer screen refreshed, he had a new message. The day persevered despite him. In a room of buzzing phones, dinging alerts, and frenzied student government officials his world died as the clock ticked. The second hand mocked him when it paused, as if this year it might take mercy on him – as if it might stop and remember his mother for a few more moments before the minute arrived that she evaporated.<span style=""> </span>He wanted to wraith on the floor, to twitch and feel his pores expand to release the nectar of sadness that echoed off of his insides and clung to his veins.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But he remained concentrated, ever perceptive to the movement and talk around him. There was a choice to shout and scream and cry, to be wildly unabashed so that his insides covered the room, the walls dripping with loss and remorse. There was a choice to remain gravely still, stoic, and focused as more labels were printed to categorize papers that would be rendered insufficient in six to ten months. The continuous motions of his fingers allowed an icing numb to expand within him, to freeze his blood and suppress his beating heart from ever being surprised or enthralled. There are ways to fill hours that the son had never fathomed before 3:46 seven years ago but today a moment in wait caused him to hold his breath without realizing it and question if he had ever made a difference. The son had to serve her. He had to prove to her that he had learned what she had tried to teach him, that he would spread her message as deeply as the poison had seeped within her. To wraith was not a choice but a defeat. To scream would be an abomination. At 3:45 he bit the inside of his cheek and answered an email saying that he would be in a meeting at four in the afternoon. With a tock it was 3:46 but the world kept spinning and the son was left to bare the weight alone. </p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Holy Ghost<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>The Holy Ghost sat in the corner, silently mulling in the antique cerulean rocking chair. The day was bright and beams of light dripped a paler shade of yellow on the walls. The sky was blue. It was peaceful here. The fireplace had six-inch tapers on the white mantle, a crushed rose lying between them like a sacrifice on an altar. The Holy Ghost rocked steadily, pacing her movements as to keep time steady, to ease the father’s ticking watch, and the sun from setting too soon. The Holy Ghost eased and rocked as if her heart beat within the father, pulsating wildly against his lungs.<br /><br />The father sank to the floor in front of the portraits of the children. He held his empty glass tightly and bit his lip. The Holy Ghost rocked slower, trying to steady the pain. When the tip of the rocker touched the floor a pang shot through the father like a spark on ice. He twitched with the jolt but did not look away from his wife’s children. He put the glass down and got to his feet. He stood close enough to the portrait of his son for his breath to fog the glass. The father lifted his hand to touch the son’s face in the most intimate way he could fathom, through a pane. He pressed his fingertips onto the boy’s frozen cheek. The Holy Ghost watched the man desperately trying to connect with an image on paper.<br /><br />She arose from the chair as the wind in the room died and the clouds overhead ceased to blow. She walked slowly, aware that time and space, life and death are merely states of consciousness in which we choose to take part. The father put his forehead to the glass, keeping his hand on the son’s face. Oil from his forehead sullied the frame and his tears dropped like burdens to the ground. The Holy Ghost lifted her frail peach arm and placed the stems of her fingers on his back. She felt him breathe, she could feel the oxygen expand in her dilapidated organs, her extremities tingling with the kiss of air.<br /><br />The father steadied. Two hundred miles away the son shivered with a chill and touched his hand to his face. He looked over his shoulder. There was no one. He continued to hold himself, cradling his cheek like a child in a hammock as his desk lamp burned in the dark. The Holy Ghost held the Father, and the Father held the Son somewhere between waking and sleeping, between the light and the dark, feeling pieces of flesh that they all recognized from very long ago.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div></div></div>Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-82396050930623503122009-09-24T09:10:00.000-07:002009-09-24T09:29:25.482-07:00The PrologueThere is blood everywhere – swirling and dripping, gushing, painting. My skin is pink, white, and pale, stained. The flesh is everywhere – its cut – help – help me! I’m spinning I think I’m dying. There’s yellow sick pulsing and exploding and coughing. I’m coughing because I can’t breathe but if they find the blood its over – Rachel! – I can’t breathe but if you wash with water it’s all gone. I flush the razors down. Someone’s skin is in the blades. I know her – she died. No, that’s not right but the towels were wet. I just want to throw up, projectile vomit everywhere, cover those walls with the bile that I pick at under my nails and sweat in the sheets. STOP. Just stop. Don’t touch me – NO. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn'</span>t do it but let me be sick. Just let me be so sick that I puke everything. Cough it all up and feel my heart pinch as I deplete and cry. Let me feel the powders from the pills where I swallowed them, hiding them beneath my tongue until they held my throat up to the ceiling. You smiled and checked my wrists that never bled until you taught me how to bleed on the inside. The blood on the walls is everywhere. It smells like salty syrup and the sea. Your <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hand prints</span> are everywhere – Why were you there Rachel? – A cup of water won’t do anything. Stop. I’m screaming – look at me! No one looked at me. Why can’t I cough this out, shake it out. I’m cold and shaking. Please don’t hurt me. Get rid of the razors. The blades are small, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">flushable</span>. Cup your hands and go upstairs. I’ll stay with her – clean clean clean. Sanitize. You are my worst fear – I pick at my skin to feel you. Your pulse will be in mine. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">didn'</span>t let you into my body – tried to save you and I don’t even know you – get out of me – bleed it out, bleed it out – you bled out. I’m bleeding but I’m clean. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">couldn'</span>t clean you. I’m exhausted. I’m so tired of telling you all this. You won’t listen. We tell ourselves stories in order to live. Joan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Didion</span> said that we tell ourselves stories in order to live.<br /><br />-- Rachel. Rachel. You’re here now.<br /><br />He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the face. He blocked the light so he talked in the dark. Rachel. I looked at him and tried to focus my eyes. The hot light glowed and blurred his edges. His facial hair prickled against the spot, fracturing it all to pieces. I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">couldn'</span>t see anything clearly since it happened. It was Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Nields</span>. I know this man, I thought. He kept saying, “You’re here now.” I could hear the sounds and understand the words. But that was it. This moment is happening. Right now. This moment is happening. The actors sat amongst black blocks and platforms. They were a tableau draped like curtains with scripts for tassels and braided ropes. Rachel –<br /><br />Just listen to me. Just shut up and listen to me. We are actors and kids but we are real characters – poised and posed in between someone else’s words. We are locked in that narrative's meaning. No – just listen to me. I will tell this story until you listen to me.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-3340698397103603322008-11-19T17:34:00.001-08:002008-11-19T17:34:57.788-08:00A Boy at a WeddingHe did his best to keep his distance from her dress<br />Blue, with lace on the hem<br />Her shoulders tan and soft<br />Warm from the candlelight<br />Flickering from the votives<br /><br />He followed her past the guests<br />Moonshine over the field<br />Where she began to dance because no one could see<br />Her bare feet in the grass<br />He took his shoes off so he could understand<br /><br />The beauty in the distance<br />Her hair unpinned at last<br />Running wild in Central ParkRachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-64162593584372040572008-11-19T15:55:00.001-08:002008-11-19T15:55:27.110-08:00Hushed AffectionLove is after midnight<br />Inconvenient and covered in rain<br />Moments that fall beside quiet clocks<br />On patch-work quilts that were sewn before you were born<br /><br />Delirious, drunk with opportunity and fear<br />A new chance<br />A new touch<br />Joni Mitchell on the radio<br /><br />This is how your father felt about your mother<br />Very long ago<br />Fingers chasing silhouettes<br />Pillows that smell like skin<br /><br />A lover in a friend<br />Holding you in the darkRachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-83689333111447228152008-11-19T15:17:00.000-08:002008-11-19T15:18:13.039-08:00Portobello<span style="font-size:100%;">Pushing pulling prodding praying<br />Bruising, biting<br />I can never be alone<br />A light in the window, a street lamp smeared by rain<br />Portobello Road has old world wares and witching houses<br /><br />I sat on his knee on the couch in the living room<br />I complimented his mother’s mosaic mirror<br />And the brilliant colors that it reflected in the light<br /><br />Alcohol poisoned with licorice and peppermint<br />The sweets of a child<br />I was a child<br />I almost caught myself<br /><br />Clouds over the moon, shadows on the storefronts<br />The empty silence, punctured by his needles in my thighs<br />Pressing against a wall<br /><br />He leaned close and licked his fingers<br />Pressing them tight against the yarn in the candle<br />Extinguishing the flame<br />I thought that he hissed<br />But it was the wick, reacting to fire and spit<br /><br />I imagined piano keys plunking Clair de Lune<br />And I tried to discover<br />I tried to find something to discover<br />I could only recall Jacob’s daughter Dinah<br />And how God let man be<br /><br />We were in the dark<br />He decimated cotton that clung to skin<br />And bit beneath the surface<br />Playing inside where he trespassed<br />Quiet, he soothed, quiet now<br />This will all be over soon<br /><br />The colors from the mosaics<br />Bleed into the wall<br />Where the oils of my skin seeped<br /><br />YOU<br />MAKE<br />ME<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-44212169681766761652008-11-19T15:16:00.000-08:002008-11-19T15:17:09.291-08:00A Morning SceneThe morning brought clouds over the moon<br />Grey mist on the water<br />Dawn songs from birds dipped in morning dew<br />Shadows on the storefronts, waiting for release<br />A few quiet walkers<br />Early morning explorers<br />Watching in awe<br />At street lamps smeared by rain<br />At green awnings flapping in the windRachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-5722556671743943402008-11-07T14:00:00.000-08:002008-11-07T14:01:32.775-08:00The AdventureWe’re cruising on the burnt black road in John Steinbeck’s California. The road is sloping, bending, turning, squealing against the wind at five, six, seven in the afternoon. The sun is slipping, dropping into the sea – crashing into the rocks a thousand feet below. Our windows are down, we’ve been driving forever, and air is spicy with salty foam that rises up from the depths of the sand. My hair is knotted, these tiny, perfect knots that bring forth curls and splendor. And I think “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” I melt into the leather, it’s supple and warm. There are mix tapes on the ground, hundreds of compilations of moods and songbirds with acoustic guitars. The cassettes swim with notebooks and photographs, all that we have ever needed.<br /><br />Tonight there is no story, and no one will know. I hum “America” and he sings the words but I don’t know his name. We walked off to look for America. There are thousands, literally thousands, of Polaroid pictures organized in clear plastic sandwich bags, sliding along the back seat as we glide. At our diner stops I’ve photographed the miss-matched diner lamps. I’ve found that diner lamps have nearly always been miss-matched with one another, bright plastic reds with gold trimmed greens that have engraved leaves, a cornucopia of textiles and American Colonial china. I can retrace our entrances and exits, our revolutionary road from the Post Road Diner in Connecticut to Skippy’s in Wisconsin, all the way back home to The Griddle. It’s my intent to publish them, to redefine this country with wonder and a new way to trail blaze West. I have to share this love.<br /><br /> It’s been a long time, so we pull over and watch the sun. We don’t want to come home yet so we turn back towards San Francisco – another night in the city. We work our way back up the state, claiming the afternoon, seizing the night. No one will ever believe what we have become. We link together, and run with the 101. A white Honda is our carriage, ushering our dreams into the night. Near Redwoods there’s this pulse – we felt it the first time too – boom, boom, whoosh – there’s a life in the trees. We suck it up, I pulse faster and breath like its all going to disappear forever by the next time I swallow. The road means that there’s this unbelievable new way to touch and speak. In the woods, like the wheat in Oklahoma, the air is sweet but dry in a dying nation. We’re crying to be resuscitated; I understand why the dew in the grass tastes like the tears of a child. I understand the intensity of adolescent ignorance. There are no lights but we’re flying in space. And then we’re slipping through, breaking in – our eyes are open, our eyes are open, our eyes are open.<br /><br />The economy hasn’t gone bust; our mother’s haven’t left us to find our own bread. We have been forgiven. Time is this foreign construct of structure and reality and ticking. Tick, tick, ticking – we’re tripping. This is all far away now. Our hearts are beating. We’re on this impossible trip where we can go anywhere, anywhere in any direction. Yesterday we picked up a hitchhiker because we could. He had long grey hair and six punk rock pins on his leather jacket. He gave us two apples and an ear for a rainy stretch. We’re starving but it’s life, we’ve got life. We’re singing; we’re doubled over in the brilliance of our outstretched fingers and the light that drops from the trees, the mountains, the reflection of the sea. I threw my mobile over the cliffs in a rush to escape – and I’ve never – we’ve never…<br /><br />Look at the moon. The beams form a cross in the sky but I don’t believe in Jesus. I still find comfort in the beams. Look at the moon. I’m on the moon, looking back on the sea. I’ve never seen it this way. Tonight is the end of the world, but we’re all going to be fine. We’ll stick together as we fade and we won’t miss the morning. Not any of us. We’re speeding on the jagged edges of a road that’s been cracked out of a mountain before we’re off, sailing, shooting into the black as we explode with all of the rest in this saturation of peace and beauty that I’d always hoped would befall our last moment. And I think to myself, “I’ve wanted to do this for years”.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-36581210689220312632008-11-07T13:59:00.001-08:002008-11-07T13:59:37.035-08:00EffervescenceThe fuzz in his eyes is the same bleary look in the horse’s eye<br />The horse that lives on the carousel, in a black and white moment<br />Pinned to the wall<br /><br />There are twinkling lights in the dark, pale skin in the light<br />A small tiptoe walk, a gliding, and haughty strut – he changes<br />He kisses fingertips, sometimes I watch<br />Sometimes I wish it were me<br /><br />How does it feel, he asks, how does it feel<br />How does the sky feel when its orange on your skin?<br /> When the leaves fall but they’re soggy and dank?<br />I could fall in love with anything at all<br /><br />Burning pictures in a dark room<br />Chemical smell and red light<br />Quiet, focus –<br />Quiet, he’s focused<br /><br />Tell me about your Mom, I say<br />What’s she like?<br />I don’t understand where he comes from –<br />I can’t imagine him a child tying a shoe –<br />A boy kissing in the dark –<br /><br />He has a spark and he loves the Titanic<br />Did I know that now they think it was the rivets that made it sink?<br />No, I didn’t<br />He’s excited, I haven’t seen this for a while and to witness it feels like a gift<br />My mother must have felt this when I finally came home<br /><br />Breathing up and down<br />Sighing tempos, cadences, codas<br />I never could write a song so I settled<br />He curls up tight, in blue plaid sheets<br /><br />Tell me about your Dad, I say<br />What’s he like?<br />I understand where he comes from –<br />I see him small and hiding, watching Daddy and his cigar<br /><br />He twinkles<br />He twinkles<br />He twinklesRachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-69480150543418410962008-06-26T11:02:00.000-07:002008-07-08T09:28:58.181-07:00On KindnessDearest James - the Irish in the English - the logic in the ether - the ghost in the pack ---<br /><br />I named you what you asked me too.<br /><br />Let me forget your hesitations long enough to forget myself - you are so much better than you believe. When the sun is hot but low, and barbecue smells run rampant through the park I think of you. I don't know why. You've been a magnifying glass, a pillow, patient. I waited for the time - "the time" - but it came and I couldn't. I would sit and be with you for as long as I can imagine. It isn't cliched and it makes less sense but I've tried to write you down two hundred times. I have nothing. It seemed easier to sing it out, feel the fall, drink the drink and write a letter that I would never deliver but longed for you to see. I disappeared in the wind before you gave me solace in a late night pause. We went to KFC and shared a sandwich. It was so simple and we only went because I was nearly too drunk to stand. You ordered and we talked because I was lost and you knew the others would leave before I found my way. In an hour you held my floundering, cradled my soul but you had no idea. I breathed and swallowed. Months later you brought that night up when we were alone watching a movie.<br /><br />- Remember that night when I walked you home, with the sandwich and my bike?<br /><br />It is a common idea that boys do not remember poignant moments. The time when there is a colossal shift known only to those in the storm. The world is the same but there's been a jolt, a change in the light. We had grown together and with your recollection I fell further into myself. I'm not in love but to be honest I don't really know what that means anyway. Instead I know what it is to come alive under another. How it feels to be resuscitated into the throngs. This is all to you even though you would never believe it. I need you too. The boys were assholes but you stayed around. How do I say what I have to say? How do I write down in real words on real paper that you saved my life? You saved my life. And forevermore without doubt, adding years and the Atlantic Ocean I will never forget how you would answer the phone or how you saw through whatever it was that I was trying to pull over. I took your loftiness to be ambivalence but it turned out to be depression. Like a refrain in your favorite song, it fit. I didn't know and I felt so selfish. How could I not have known? What I wanted was your trust but you wouldn't trust anybody. So a country and a city away I'm writing you down in the only way I ever could. I feel you pulsing far away, I'll dial an international code forever before I'll give you up.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-65867766904676934612008-04-23T15:07:00.001-07:002008-11-23T12:09:17.663-08:00Maltball and Rand are Dead! or, Thank You, Mr. Stoppard<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A Meeting, On Paper.</span><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br /></div><div>Plays<br /></div><div><ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Rock n' Roll</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Spring Awakening</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Hamlet * </span></li></ul>* You could have had any other play. You could have pulled out Oedipus Rex. I'd written 5,000 words on the idea that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Yorick</span> was Hamlet's true father. You agreed.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;">Books</span></div><div><ul><li>You've read nearly everything I've ever loved</li><li>You love the poets I can't understand</li><li>It was lovely</li></ul>Ambitions</div><div><ul><li>Cultural invigoration! (Music, Literature - John Donne! Joan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Didion</span>! - Theatre, our own writings...) *</li><li>You said that you've never seen anyone speak like I did when I told you my big plans. I was swimming.</li></ul>* You could have been a banker. Your father is a banker. I could never be with a banker.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A Lifetime, In My Mind.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>We could have done this. I was there. You blamed Tom Stoppard. The washing hummed and you were so careful where you put your hands. We <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn't</span> eat because we weren't hungry. Your trousers fit you perfectly. You liked my sundress. There was a book in your pocket. I was in love, down the rabbit hole with you. It was perfect but it was late and your father's friend, the MP, was arriving at five the next morning. We slept together anyway.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Two days later, at a table across from the bar at Starbucks you said goodbye. You'd thought of nothing else for the past two days and you didn't see how it would ever work. This was harder for you then I could imagine, you said. You looked so sad. No doubt you were. Your eyes kept blinking to keep the wet only a glaze. I wouldn't cry in front of you. We hugged outside, it was all very dignified but you wouldn't let go. Your fingers tangled my hair and you whispered "Shit," in my ear. Somebody had to say the truth. Our hearts made us dizzy, but I didn't pull at you. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Maltball</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Rand</span> are dead.<br /></span></span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br /></div>Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4156156213162417099.post-49813695400553764352008-04-04T10:12:00.000-07:002008-11-07T15:58:09.679-08:00The Gummy HouseThe Gummy House is sticky. The Gummy House is sweet. The Gummy House is everything that I would like to eat.<br /><br />He ate me. Off the wall. You were so sweet sleeping, I couldn’t wake you. I was hanging onto deliriousness - all the days, the dark, the fucking Circle Line and crowds outside the Natural History Museum. The fucking Natural History Museum where Nolan was.<br /><br />- In two weeks time I’ll be rubbish, but I’ll call.<br /><br />Nolan was just one of them. There are many that I keep hanging on to but its not the same here and I should know by now. I tell everyone who goes to Cromwell Road that they’re a traitor. But he isn’t there anymore. He has nothing to do with anything now - nothing, blank, fin. But he lives on my walks through the park to school. Every fucking day. It was different when I first arrived but I’ve overstayed. I’ve got to go, but I’m in the Gummy House. This whole city is the fucking Gummy House and the sick part of me that wants to be prodded and bitten. "Bite it. You have to bite it." That’s from Atonement. I couldn’t read that line allowed in class. Bite it. You have to bite it.<br /><br />All the day’s clothes were on my body. Too much a hassle to take them off when he wanted to go beneath my black bra that my mother had bought for me. I was the auto-body in his teal kitchen, all parts, no kisses. I had a boyfriend, stop I have a boyfriend.<br /><br />- Where’s he now sugar?<br /><br />My pants were undone. My skinny jeans use to be a struggle to get on and off. They were harder with Nolan but I’ve stopped eating again. I don’t want anything from you. Please.<br /><br />- No.<br /><br />My back hit the light switch. There was light in the kitchen before he pushed me against the wall again. Light was on, off, on, off. I would have laughed but it was awkward and he was focused. His hand was jammed in and I couldn’t make a sound. You were asleep. I’m sorry, I should have called. But you would have killed him and left me panting. What flavor was teal? Was there ever a teal gummy bear? A tropical mix? His hand was in, his head was down - there was no shelf to grip on the wall. The house was clean, his mother was asleep upstairs. I’d met her. The American amongst the slanted vernacular.<br /><br />He was a singer. I wanted that art back but what was mixing vocal chords going to do? I cried, he didn’t notice. Which was fine. I wasn’t allowed to make a noise anyway. Girls in brown braids run through fields in gingham dresses but I was in the Gummy House.Rachel Randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00211062605951270967noreply@blogger.com0