Meg Sefton's Blog, page 50

Up Jumped Spring, Eric Reed

I love jazz. This seems to be a beautiful riff on one of my favorite Gospel favorites “Oh How He Loves You and Me.” There is much to enjoy in riffs on old music, even if one would not normally consciously endorse a faith tradition. For me, Reed’s take reminds me of my girlhood and is reassuring in times like this.

When I was in seminary, we studied a perfectly reasonable and exciting concept: That children are fully capable of apprehending spiritual truth. That is, they don’t need to be spoonfed spiritual truths but the way can simply be open to them with open ended rather than didactic approaches. They should be free to make their own response. One such approach I studied with this in mind was a method involving an “art response.” Children were encouraged to draw pictures in response to the stories they heard, or in this method, saw their teachers re-enact using small figures in a box of sand.

The way to deeper spirituality has been all to often blocked and thwarted by narrowly prescribed behaviors by folk who are uncertain of the goodness and efficacy of God’s Spirit. Jesus taught the Spirit was like the Wind, no one could predict its path or stop its course. It is my belief that God is essentially loving and creative and has made us in his image. He has made us to love and create too.

May be spirit move deeply and may you be inspired. Peace.

Meg

Billy’s boots

[image error]The Rebirth of Cool, Mod and Skinhead Clothing, Dublin

This is a revision material I posted a couple of years ago. When I first saw a skinhead documentary filmed here in the United States I began to think: Can I challenge myself to try and imagine what a young person would feel who is in the grip of this? I owe some of the images and ideas in the story to details I observed in the documentary as well as an actual story that occurred in Florida a couple of years ago.

I am posting this again having watched a film yesterday called “This is England.” In that film, as in my story, the young protagonist is forced into a wrenching situation. I recalled all over again the Billy of my story. Before our present time, I may have written the rhetoric of the group portrayed in the film as only applying to fringe groups abroad or in the United States. Now the rhetoric has invaded our own national scene. It feels fresh and current though of course, movements like this take time to seep into and invade culture so while it is current, it has also been a long time in existence.

My grandfather was a minister in the deep south. He used the pulpit to speak out about segregated busing. A cross was burned in his yard by a group whose method is intimidation and terror against those who do not support their agenda. Today, when public people speak against the agenda of division and hatred, they are bombarded with an avalanche of death threats and intimidation.

Perhaps it is worth imagining how we arrived at this place. And perhaps this imagination is now more critical than ever as we seek to navigate our present realities. Our future depends on this imagination and sensitive interaction. Barricading ourselves off and dividing ourselves off over every slight difference among us will not solve much bigger issues, especially as it concerns approaching those living the normalization of hatred.

Billy’s boots

At night, Billy sits with Brother John and the guys at their WAR house in the Panhandle as they watch the videos of the National Socialist Party. Billy always sits on the scratchy green tweed sofa that reminds him of his Granny’s but Brother John’s smells like earth and rain and the chocolate smell of mildew.

It is Hitler’s birthday. Mother Beulah has made a Nazi cake in the colors of the flag. She sets it on the oilcloth. Her arms are exposed and giggling like Granny’s. He imagines them soft to the touch. In the center of the sheet cake she had written in a thin chocolate scrawl: Happy Birthday, Hitler! Mama Beulah has arthritis and her hands aren’t steady but Brother John doesn’t fault her.

Billy gets a corner piece of the cake, where the piped chocolate icing has bunched up and there is a tiny SS bolt.  Everybody is grabbing for the plates and tiny plastic forks. He pulls himself through sweat drenched boyhood, some bigger bodies too, shoving, the guys cackling and laughing. Mama never made a big cake like this. His birthday was on Halloween. She put a candle in a jacko-lantern. He blew it out. There was no one around.

Every night after dinner, they watch the videos of the Hitler youth in the Old Country, before The Second World War. They talk of the racial consciousness of the boy in the video who plays the drum so hard in the Hitler youth band, who looks like a live Little Drummer Boy from Billy’s nighttime book in the guest room at Granny’s. One of the guys, usually Grady, whose sideburns are so wide and long they’re almost a beard, always says that drummer kid’s got his shit together.

Grady wears black boots with red laces. Red laces mean something. Billy’s boots are red with black laces. If he grows up good in the movement and succeeds, he’ll get his blood laces and black boots.

Billy sneaks downstairs after the salute. The salute is when they stand and put an arm out to the Nazi flag on the wall and Brother John sings the anthem he plays on a cassette, a song about a pure white America. Brother John can’t sing and doesn’t always know the words but everyone has to put on a German helmet from the bin. No one smiles. You have to make your eyebrows bunch up and your eyes shaded. You have to sing very loudly and be serious and strong, like a soldier. When it’s over you have to say, very loudly, White Power!

One time they’d burned an American flag in the woods when the Klan came for speeches and a cross burning. They had a punk Nazi band play, definitely the kind of thing his stepfather hated, the sounds clashing like a car accident, screeching guitars, the band leader’s deep growls sounding like an animal. A force would take  hold of Billy’s body and he would thrash about with the brothers in the heat and inky darkness, their bodies slamming into each other,  girls watching from the fringes, silent and slouching.

He deserved to go to jail a few months ago, it was true. It had been while he was living with his Mama and Stepdaddy. He had held up a store with some friends and fired shots though no one got hurt. When he got out, only Brother John was there to make bail, along with Grady and a couple of guys his age, punk ass kids like him who were no longer wanted by their parents. His stepfather handed him over. He didn’t see his Mama again. He didn’t see his Granny. He didn’t hear the songs his Granny sang to him in her wavery voice, songs she sang to him at night about going to sleep, not worrying his head.

There is a mission that night of Hitler’s birthday, a ride along, an initiation of the new guys. He didn’t know about it beforehand. He is wrenched up from his bed by Brother John, his arm clamped by the same grip that held him sometimes against his will when secret things were happening, secret things even the other boys didn’t know about.

There is a group of the brotherhood in the pickup truck, the crickets and night frogs screeching all around, witnesses, and an owl its loud “hoo” insistent. They bump along in bed of the truck, Grady and another older guy, and another kid his age. Brother John is driving. The grand wizard has joined them, the wizard who always insisted from podiums in speeches that their brotherhood was about nonviolence. Billy asked the wizard once after a ceremony about the noose patch on his robe. The wizard merely glared at him, his face severe under a pointed hat decorated with stars.

When they get to a house in the woods, there are some other skinheads there already with sawn off shotguns. They bust in and haul out a black man and lay him out behind the truck. The man’s wife runs outside, screaming. A skinhead with a the big fat gun they called The Judge cocks the piece against her skull. The skinhead bending over the black man has a chain over his shoulder.

“You two boys, you young’uns!” he says pointing to Billy and the other young kid in the back. “Time to step up and be men.”

“You heard him now,” says Brother John. “Time to get out now and earn your laces! Time to do something important, be someone.”

The man with the chain tells the other boy to run the chain around the hauling hitch. Then he gives Billy the rest.

“It’s in your hands, son. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Billy thinks only of Brother John. Billy has no one. Nowhere he belongs. He would get his red laces and even the older guys would think he was a bad ass Nazi and no one would treat him like a baby.

Brother John and Grady hold the black man’s ankles. The man is kicking and screaming. Billy puts the chain around his ankles. Brother John hands Billy a lock to hold the chains in place. “It’s on you, son.” he says. “Let’s clean everything out now. Be a man.”

While the man kicks and screams, and Brother John yells at him, deep inside, Billy hears his Granny’s gentle wavering voice singing Mary Poppins’ lullaby: “While the moon drifts in the skies, stay awake, don’t close your eyes.”

Billy clamps his hand over the lock and sprints into the woods, the undergrowth slapping his jeans, the thick night air flowing over him like warm water, the throats of the tree frogs cheering him.

“Billy!” he hears Brother John call, but he is racing through the night and is soon at the highway and can’t hear them at all.

He chucks the lock deep into the undergrowth. He walks down the shoulder of the highway, hitching for a ride.

create with sand

[image error]sand drawing, bunky’s pickle, flickr

One quick note about a concern for keeping sole possession of one’s creative work or ideas, especially where it concerns publishing online. While it would be upsetting to me if I found someone had whole cloth lifted something of mine and claimed it, it is not the worst thing in the world either.

I took myself off of an online fiction sharing site where my book cover and title were almost completely lifted and copied with someone else’s byline. But since having had time to think about it, I realize that the best part of writing or doing anything creative is the simple fact of having written the first of your particular piece, cover, title or even simply the act of putting someone else’s work with your work which I do here with others’ photography.

Creating is chased by many for the pleasure of feeling at least for a moment you have created something new. Later you may realize how much of it was inspired by something read, something watched or heard. There is a time to realize all creating is a communal effort, whether we are conscious of it or not. We have been influenced by others in our lives, by things we have experienced, read, witnessed. But for a time what we have made feels newly minted and this is a terrific feeling.

Someone copying your stuff does not rob you of that initial pleasure of having created something new to you, or brought something into existence that didn’t seem to be in existence before. To me, it is the whole reason for creating. I have known writers to be completely caught up in the sense of being robbed. I understand. It is theft of property. But why give someone else the satisfaction of taking from your happiness as a writer, taking what you yourself have shown is worth someone’s trouble to take?

Creating is giving, to yourself, to others. It is letting go. There is no controlling whether someone will take your work, whether anyone will even read it, whether it will be treated fairly. But you give anyway.

I have had more than one person say creative writing and storytelling is merely navel gazing, self-centered escapism. Ok. All I know is people have always needed stories. It is a communal act of giving and receiving. I am not sure a civilization has ever imploded from a plethora of compelling stories.

To keep on creating no matter what is to grab for that brass ring again, to reach for that thing no one can steal. It is to be vulnerable, constantly. It is to create your design with sand. And in these current dark days it is to practice a form of mental health hygiene, to communicate across chasms, to join invisible communities.

If all I have is a notebook and pen, I know I can still create stories which may some day find an audience. Or I might be my only audience. It is a humanizing practice to write on paper, to paint on cave walls. It fulfills a primal need. It connects us to our past and to our future.

Never let anyone convince you you are doing something irrelevant when you write or when you encourage others to write. And never let acquisitive folk steal the joy of having felt the joy of that first creation, having created something new. Sure an editor may tell you it is like a lot of things he or she reads, but you still have that feeling of having created. That feeling contributes to the motivation to be on a constant hunt for that new story to share around the fire, with your own embellishments, your own angle. It is special to you and you have helped create it by participating in your art.

ennui

[image error]“Books and Bookmen” by Andrew Lang, 1899, flickr (Internet Archive Book Images)

There was something about the way the ghost crossed her legs that railed Shirley. “I hate ghosts,” she thought, glaring at the one sitting across from her in her living room, t-strap clad feet, legs shedding skin, cloche hat. They were so casual these days. They had taken on this air of matter-of-fact-told-you-so, of superiority. This one had served a cocktail in one of her nicer pieces of crystal.

“Don’t drop that,” Shirley said.

The ghost merely roller her eyes in her white face radiating an ethereal nimbus of hazy smoke like dry ice vapor. She wore spit curls and a choker of flaking pearls. She tapped on her highball, signaling “more.”

Shirley huffed her way up from the sofa to retrieve the whiskey. The ghost rotten-tooth-smiled her as Shirley tipped a modest amount of amber liquid. Maybe she would have her fill and leave, or realize she wasn’t getting much from Shirley and find someone else to visit, someone she could scare simply because.

Last year, Shirley had made the mistake of allowing a fat man ghost to stay for Christmas. That was the first year of the plague. The city was still dark with isolating. Ghosts had begun to enjoy themselves. Shirley was horrified. He had simply walked through her wall and slumped down on her wingback chair by the electric fire. Shaking, she made him eggnog and bourbon, refilling his mug until he fell asleep. He revisited every day that Christmas.

But the contagion was getting old. The living and the dead had become familiar. And the contagion had robbed the ghosts of power. With death on the rise, ghosts were only the grace notes of the darkest, most horrific mystery, no longer the melody.

As if sensing her hostess’ nonchalance, the ghost rose from her chair, placing an icy hand on Shirley’s head before dissipating. That afternoon, Shirley had a sore throat and soon after a struggle for breath. In a hospital she died a few days later, suffocating, alone.

Her brother and sister were let into her apartment. Her sister found expired prescriptions for anti-psychotics.

Shirley visited her ex husband’s house as a ghost. She had things to ask his wife. She wanted a drink. She had learned ghosts nowadays crave alcohol. Maybe it was solace for the fact that no one feared them anymore. She would steal something from them. Maybe not a life. But it would be something. Maybe their peace.

lust for flesh

[image error]Wilderness Heart, Raul Lieberwirth, flickr

The pandemic confirmed for her what she had expected all along: She was selfish, gluttonous, greedy. Though she was middle aged, she recalled what her mother said to her, recalled it while she sheltered in her silent apartment, waiting for the groceries to arrive: That she only thought of herself.

For her liberal friends, in gentler more predictable times, it had been easier to fool them, and herself, that she was not this way. It had been easier to act loving, civil, and irate at injustice in the world, rather simply an acquisitive, self-centered wench.

But she had to be real with herself now, there was nothing to shield herself from devastating self knowledge. All she looked forward to – as a virus lingered in the air and people expired on respirators – was a large steak cooked rare and bleeding on a plate.

There was a part of her that was relieved, to finally just acknowledge it though it was deeply troubling as well. In monomaniacal fashion, her thoughts and actions oriented themselves along these lines: Meat prices were on the rise. Soon slaughter houses would grind to a halt. Her main concern was how to shift money from savings and eschew bills so she achieved for herself the feel and taste of flesh in her mouth.

She wasn’t a bad cook. She had taught herself a lot since marrying at 23, divorcing at 43, surviving cancer, managing blood sugars with diabetes. Though animal fat was discouraged in managing her midlife health issues, she nonetheless had learned how to season her cast iron in preparation for the most flavorful, fatty meat dishes. She had bought the best knives. They cut through flesh as if it was butter.

One night, there was an angry knock while she was cooking. She had forgotten to turn on the stove vent and neighbors were made hungry with the scent of a freshly cooked steak in their apartments. They barged past her to the kitchen and stole her dinner. Then they raided her kitchen freezer.

With this new set of circumstances, she began to stand watch at her door when grocery deliveries were expected. She would retrieve her handgun from the safe and carry it in her belt on her back so she could receive her meat unmolested. Thank goodness the residents hadn’t seen or known about the deep freeze she kept in the extra bedroom, disguised as a daybed or she would have been completely wiped free from her entire supply backlog.

She drew her checks from the ex by order of the state. She kept thinking she had to find work somehow but had been kept home for twenty years by the ex then several years after that by cancer. Now a pandemic. She was qualified for practically zero.

As much as she hated to admit it, meat was the only thing that gave her any agency, sense of power. And now she knew what she was, she played on it and made it a mission. Physically the food made her feel better as if she herself were lacking the strength the flesh gave her.

She knew how many in her former life would be disgusted if they knew, if they knew the state of her existence, her food supplies, her cooking and eating habits, her priorities. She even let blood drop off her chin despite them and their disappointments and disgusts, despite her father who would have called her an agent of darkness.

She picked the gristle out of the teeth while at the table. She tore at flesh with her nails when she tired of using utensils. She had been a Daughter of the American Revolution, a Debutante, an Arkansas dairy queen. Bloody china stacked up in the sink. The Waterford gathered dust in the china cabinet. The silver had been pawned.

Her mother had known many years ago, just as mothers are wont to do: You’re a little pig, aren’t you?

But little pigs only ate things like corncobs, she thought now in the silence and emptiness of her home. Blood is the food of the refined.

It remained to be seen whether poaching would be in her near future. Scarcity and shuttered factories would mean she would probably be taking matters into her own hands.

She began a google search for rifles. She would have to train herself to use one somehow. Maybe there was a youtube. And no she didn’t have a truck. But a cow carcass could probably fit in the hatchback. She would have to line it with something. A plastic tarp cost eleven dollars.

blinkers

[image error]1950s Vintage Sunglasses by Photo Cindy, flickr

It was getting more difficult to see beyond the waves of the dead. They haunted the Lincoln bedroom, the oval office, the garden of roses where the crab apple trees had succumbed to the vicissitudes of fashion.

Some say the leader of the free world had to wear a special kind of goggles like reverse night vision goggles in order to make speeches that did not acknowledge them. The dead were as real and animate as the living.

They stood with him when he spoke, they whispered in his ear, they lingered among the living, his audiences, some distanced from each other, some sitting close. Even if the living sat close, the dead still managed to squeeze between them.

The leader of the free world had glasses made of gold, the lenses were rose. It was all the fashion. Some say it was necessary. The leader simply said they were cool, his new look. Others sported masks, he could sport his shades, but they were simply for coolnees.

With his glasses on he only saw the living when he looked out into his audiences, when he sat with others on a panel or in group discussions.

The appearance of the national flag changed with the glasses, however. He had to trust his advisors that what he was seeing was the national flag so he could put his hand over his heart when the national song was being played from a tape recorder.

The national flag cannot be viewed accurately with the glasses.

Coping in the Pandemic

[image error]The Unemployed Philosophers Guide by Narisa Spaulding, flickr

This morning I am going to participate with a local philosophical group to discuss this Sunday’s topic “Coping in the Pandemic.” We will hear multiple presentations based on the reading and then respond to the presentations. I’ll briefly present the topic “Writing during the Pandemic” based on the reading of a New York Times article “12 Ideas for Writing Through the Pandemic With the New York Times.” Though the target audience for the article is younger adults, people of any age can use these thoughtful and creative ways to either get started on a writing practice or refresh and recharge with some new ideas. The idea is, we need this for posterity, this keeping of a record, but also for therapy, for coping, for connecting with others.

I want to share notes I have taken in amending the article, to bring it within the age range of the group but also provide some of my own ideas. Though this is not comprehensive, it is a start. It is a kind of cheat sheet but only fully understood in conjunction with the reading.

It has been a while since I have “presented” and this is the first for me to do this on Zoom. Luckily, this time around it will be fairly brief. Like a lot of people, I have struggled to get adjusted to new realities though I consider myself a bit of an introvert. I have learned to appreciate the energy we feel when in the presence of others and how that contributes to well being. That being said, I am thankful for such alternatives. It is amazing that we even have them and I have been impressed by entertainers and political campaigns who have so creatively stepped up to offer connection through this medium. I am happy for groups like my group meeting this morning as well as a writing and book discussion group who are offering an online presence and connection as well as stimulating conversation.

The only thing is, I miss writing in coffee shops! I love feeling the energy around me, hearing the barista foam up a beverage, the sensation of being anonymous while I am alone but not alone with my notebook. Perhaps I should play a “coffee shop” sound track while I write? But would the artifice make it worse? There is the old song “People who Need People.” But what I am learning is we are all people who need people.

I hope you enjoy my notes. They are not perfect or comprehensive but offer some ideas regarding writing during a global crisis. The article is amazing and the links in the article are wonderful, impressive. Enjoy your Sunday.

Writing during the Pandemic – notes from 12 Ideas for Writing, NYT

Why write? To make a record of a historical moment in time. To engage in a therapeutic activity that can bring relief and perspective. To stay in touch with friends and family. To engage others in joint writing projects or in forming a community by building an audience.

What are some writing approaches? 1) A journal or diary of thoughts, feelings, events. See the article for prompts. Substitute concepts such as “school” and “extracurricular activities” for applicable concepts such as “work” and “community activities.” 2) A personal narrative. See the article for pointers and writing prompts. (Substitute for “school” words/concepts appropriate to your context, ie “work.”) 3) Poetry. If you are new to writing poetry, please refer to the link to “found poetry.” For picture prompts, I prefer using nuanced pictures and art I can find on the following sites: flickr, tumblr, or deviantArt, Saatchi Art, or copies of old news magazines such as Time. I often keep an artist’s notebook of pictures I have clipped, and also words/headlines. (Refer to the link to “found poetry” on how to use word clippings.) 4) Letters to the Editor. Refer to the link to Thomas Freyer’s tips. Once you have navigated to this link, scroll down to the section “Tips on How to Write a Compelling Letter.” 5) Editorial. For ideas, refer especially to the paragraph that discusses essential questions to ask regarding the pandemic and what they tell us about our world today. And perhaps you would prefer to make and create a video op-ed. See the link. 6) A  Review 7) A How to guide, such as how to make a face mask. Other thoughts I have: recipes to give to friends and family members, a how to guide regarding a talent or hobby. 8) 36 Hour Guide on how to spend a weekend in a global pandemic. 9) Photo Essay. Check out the link to The International Center of Photography. Or simply, use social media as a platform for original photos and commentary, such as Instagram or a blog or website. 10) Comic Strip. Refer to the article for links, pointers, examples, and inspiration. 11) Podcast. Refer to links in the article. Also, consider a new and accessible platform such as Anchor if you are a newbie. You can create your own podcast from your smart phone! https://resonaterecordings.com/2020/02/review-of-anchor-podcast-hosting/  12) Revising and Editing. Refer to the article for tips and inspiration.

My additional notes:

Publishing. Check out the excellent database of both fiction and nonfiction journals publishing writing: Duotrope’s Digest. It is kept fairly current and you can research using quite a few variables. It includes a variety of genres.

Blogging is self-publishing. If you are new to blogging check out this review of various venues: https://www.wpbeginner.com/beginners-guide/how-to-choose-the-best-blogging-platform/

Fiction writing: Some of the article’s tips on poetry writing could easily apply especially with shorter forms under 1,000 words for example, or with word limits of 100 and 50. To write fiction, I will often use what is happening currently as a springboard or context for the story. I enjoy using visual and word prompts. The discipline of cutting down one’s writing that was explored in “found poetry” is a great way to create a powerful, compelling story. Constraints often bring out creativity. I have found it therapeutic to continue fiction writing during the current crisis, “telling it slant” as Emily Dickinson once said.

Form an online writing group: This is a great opportunity to meet with others to share work and read the work of others, to give and receive feedback. It is a great way to receive support, to build community.

Helping Hands

[image error]Atterbury “Bird in Hand” c. 1889, Joshua Adair

Ms. Myska had chanced upon a new way to find connection and fellow feeling during the worldwide pandemic. She discovered this by means of an ad in Clock World.

She had inherited an old grandmother clock which was a comfort to her during the partial lockdown, the kindly and gentle chimes reminding her of the quarter hour. It was a grandmother clock which meant its stature more diminutive than a grandfather and therefore less intrusive in her garden apartment. It merely watched her from beside its place near the fireplace. It did not tower, it did not dominate.

She liked to learn of how to care about her clocks in the magazine. She liked to read about the art and history of clockmaking.

The ad had read:

Stay in touch with a set of hands. Do not go it alone. We are all humans here trying to survive this. But sometimes we need help with tools that act as extensions of ourselves. You will feel newly connected without exposing yourself to danger.

In the ad there were pictures of sets of long skinny artificial arms as well as a long bag for toting the arms on one’s back like a quiver of arrows. Some arms stretched longer than any average human arm would go. They were articulated and seemed to function with mechanical levers. Some were shorter – an average full length arm, a half an arm from the elbow down, and simply a hand from the wrist down.

If you were an expressive person and liked to show your style you could have yours especially painted or tattooed. Or you could have it monogrammed. Or you could purchase a set of temporary tattoos or henna designs.

Apparently the novelty clockmaker who had placed the ad had run on hard times with the lack of demand for his special and heretofore expensive creations. There was a picture of him in his workshop at his bench, his workshop teaming with clock faces, empty wheels of various sizes like spokes on a wagon, tools of all descriptions. He was kindly and smiling through a beard and mustache, a pair of tiny glasses.

“How charming,” said Ms. Myska out loud to the grandmother clock. At that moment, both the grandmother and cuckoo sounded the quarter hour. The cuckoo had been a fairly recent acquisition from a man who had proposed marriage yet to no avail. The presence of the cuckoo reminded her of a silly child. The grandmother minded the cuckoo all day and this made her feel less alone.

“I will try this,” said Ms. Myska and counted out just enough money to place in an envelope. She ordered an entire set though she eschewed the personalization option. Her dog woke from her sleep on the couch and stared as Ms. Myska was talking. “I may try the temporary decoration later,” she said, jauntily, as if she were naturally a person who would wear tattoos or henna in her pre-pandemic life. The animal put her head back on the couch, comforted in sensing her owner’s outer range of change and disruption. Also, it wasn’t time yet for her food.

When the arms arrived only days later, she unwrapped them with care. They were wooden and carved whimsically like arms ending in Victorian hands. It would be obvious to others they were not prosthetics.

“This is amazing,” laughed Ms. Myska, patting her dog with the wooden hand. The dog gazed at her, holding her station on the couch, abstaining from the temptation to jump down and find a spot where she could continue napping unmolested. Yet she emitted little miffed sighs as she often did when indulging her owner.

Ms. Myska placed the hand back in the quiver. On the outside pocket of the quiver was a small satchel to help the owner convey and receive objects. One loaded the satchel and cinched the draw string around wrist, holding it in place with a tiny gap between the thumb and forefinger.

She then heard the ice cream truck. “It’s a Small World” drifted through the apartment complex as children yelled and scrambled onto sidewalks.

Buoyed, she pulled on walking shoes and face mask, pocketed her money, and leashed her dog who was all too happy for a change of scenery.

She had never bought from the ice cream truck and especially not now when she would not allow herself to come close to others or risk touching another hand in the exchange of a cold confection for money. She would use her longest arm. She would test it out. Normally, she would have been too self conscious, but somehow the need for being in public overrode her fear of social risk.

At the truck, she retrieved her longest arm from the quiver, placed her money inside the satchel, and stuck it out over the heads of the children. On a note inside she had written “Orange Creamsicle please,” her favorite. The unmasked children began laughing at her but somehow she didn’t care. It would be nice to sit at the picnic table with her new quiver and dog and pre-empt the daily summer showers with a cool confection. From the picnic table you could see the pond and the fountain and beyond that, the pool, also full of unmasked children and their parents.

When the ice cream man saw the hand, he took the satchel, as if the situation explained itself. Once he took the money and filled the satchel with the ice cream treat, he shook the hand. Once more the children burst out with glee.

When she was sitting on the bench, she noticed he had included a small note to her: “If you would like to speak from a distance tomorrow, meet me here at the same time.”

The next day, Ms. Myska felt brave enough to include her own note: “My name is Katarina Myska.”

Their note exchange continued all summer and into the fall. Once cooler weather set in and the world was coming closer to a vaccine, Ms. Myska retired her arm set. The desire to shorten the distance to ice cream man Tony Lasko overtook her natural reticence and fear of life threatening illness.

He was sweet, and quiet, like Ms. Myska. And he seemed not to mind her.

Daikannon: Ice Light

“Yes abso-bloody-lutely”   Says sax woman when I ask her if she could take me to the hospital. She rings a small, golden bell she’s holding and I realise that we’re on a boat going down the river where I can see trout wiggling through ice water, salty black water from all the chip fat. […]

Daikannon: Ice Light

Ingmar Bergman Movies to Watch in Quarantine

https://www.vulture.com/2020/07/ingmar-bergman-movies-to-watch-in-quarantine.html

Today I am watching Andrei Tarkovksky’s The Sacrifice, a beautiful film. Bergman and Tarkovsky equally admired one another.

Here is an interesting article comparing the two of them: https://www.tiff.net/the-review/a-mans-world-bergman-tarkovsky-and-the-sacrifice