Barbara Froman's Blog, page 6

Fetish

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I spend most of every Sunday with crossword puzzles. Our local paper has three of them, with different levels of difficulty. After solving the Jumble and Sudoku, which I consider a warm-ups for my brain, I tackle the mid-level crossword, because it’s the shortest, then move on to the difficult one. By day’s end, I’ve completed all of them…and by Monday morning I’m looking for more word games.

Scrabble satisfies one craving, Words with Friends another. But I’m always left with the need to di...

Hodgepodge

[image error]Gallery of the Louvre — Samuel Morse

I was looking for a painting, an abstract really, to explain my weeks of absence. None of them were messy enough. Not even Pollock’s. So I started paging through pointillists, and surrealists, and vast scenes of hunts and portraits of serious men at serious undertakings and found my attention straying to the barking dog next door.

Dogs bark for any number of reasons—a pedestrian walks by, a squirrel leaps into a tree, a neighbor’s cat tries to trespass on their turf...

Sinkholes

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The other day someone told me I was living in the past, and reminded me, quite archly, what year it is.

Let me back up….

This someone called because they were under the assumption that matters of emotional delicacy could be handled via text messaging. When they realized, much too late in the “conversation,” that messages had been misinterpreted, they became frantic.

Backing up again….

I do text. It is a quick, efficient way to check in on people, particularly in emergencies, provide updates...

Nightmare

[image error]“The Abyss of Hell” (Botticelli)

You’re at a restaurant for dinner and order salmon, with lemon butter sauce on the side, and lightly steamed vegetables. The waiter brings you a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes, slathered with gravy,. A few limp string beans peek out from under the white and brown mush.

You say, “This isn’t what I ordered.

The waiter says, “You wanted the salmon.”

“That’s right, with lemon butter on the side, vegetables lightly steamed.”

“And that’s what you got.”

“No...

Hunger

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I’ve been thinking about aromas.

When I was in college, the popular scent was patchouli. You could smell it in classrooms, dorms, practice rooms, the library…pretty much everywhere. I could never understand why women liked it. To me, it smelled like dirt. And not that fresh soil smell that rises into the air after a summer rain, promising the emergence of a range floral essences. No, patchouli was more on the order of earth worms to me, amassing on every pathway after a storm, making each s...

Narration

[image error]René Magritte, Le Principe Du Plaisir, 1937

I talk to myself. When I shop, cook, read, practice (sometimes), go for long walks—I imagine and comment often unconsciously, no matter who’s around. And I always write out loud…always.

It’s not enough for me to see characters talk to each other on the page, express themselves through inner monologues, or confess their longings in letters; I have to hear them do it. Nothing about them or their situation feels concrete until my ear can process their...

Anxiety

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Our second dog, like our first, was a rescue. This one, a Jack Russell terrier we named, Yoda, had been tossed into a garbage can.

We expected behavioral issues because of the way Yoda been abused, but also prepared ourselves for the fact that Jack Russells, while amazingly cute and intelligent (which she was), are also notoriously self-possessed, tenacious, stubborn, and feisty bundles of energy.

Within a year, Yoda had our heads spinning. We had no idea that Jack Russells have springs in...

Provenance

[image error]“Picture of Dorian Gray” by Ivan Le Lorraine Albright,

His car belonged to a Nazi.
Not a would be,
Or wannabe,
Or could have been,
Or clone,
But a Nazi high in rank,
A name you’d know,
And I forgot
The minute he smiled and said it.

He keeps it under wraps in his garage
To shield it from harsh winters,
Hungry salt;
But brings it out when sunlight burns
Each Independence Day,
To drive in the parade.
Crowds wave and sweat,
And he waves back,
Honking,
Drowned out by marching bands.

Afterward, he...

When Words Fail

[image error]Photo by Lum3n.com on Pexels.com

WHEN WORDS FAIL

They are slippery, evasive, coy,
dangling on our tongues,
sometimes, yes, at the tip,
and sometimes on an edge,
not big enough to bite,
or near enough to taste,
resting on molars, or canines,
before vanishing
and reappearing in a flicker,
chuckling.

Once in a while, they are gremlins,
gumming up the works,
wreaking havoc.

But it always seems the ones we deeply crave,
those that will plait our thoughts
into a seamless chain,
dodge into remote...

Rowing Home

[image error]“Rowing Home” (Winslow Homer)

That sultry day,
summer’s waning light,
its grasp weary,
anticipated death.

I didn’t know it at the time,
but watched you melting in its haze,
thoughtful, with your oars,
each fading cell a ghost on rolling glass,
hushed waves.

No sorrow in your silence,
you seemed content to sway,
and drift to shore,
a thousand miles away.

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