Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 80
January 16, 2014
THE INK BLOT GUEST SPOT: "The Time of Spring Lightning" by Steven Lewis
It was the time of spring lightning that I missed you the most.
My jeans were rolled up to the knee and I´d discarded my shirt on the riverbank the first time I noticed you staring at me. Your hair the colour of freshly harvested corn glowed golden in the sunlight. I grinned at you uncertainly, conscious of my slight chest and my dark skin. You half-waved at me before padding your way barefoot along the newly emerged purple and yellow flowers, their resilient petals flattening into the soft springy grass before emerging back triumphant and upright as you headed further down the riverbank. Almost as soon as your back was turned I planted my fishing pole into the sticky sucking mud at the riverside and retrieved my shirt, wiping the soft clay off of my bare feet on the cool dew glazed grass.
Although this wasn´t nigger territory it wasn´t white man´s turf area either. No man´s land my daddy liked to call it. The great depression as folks were calling it nowadays had affected us all, black and white, and it had become a great leveler of all men.
Over the last year or so more and more shacks had been springing up around here as folks began losing their jobs and their homes. Daddy was one of the lucky ones who had managed to hold down a job but greasing the tracks on the railroad didn´t really pay much and the few Dollars he managed to bring home at the end of a working week meant that we weren´t much better off than the poor and destitute that lived around these parts.
I´d left school shortly after my twelfth birthday. I hadn´t learnt much at all and the reality was school didn´t put food on the table. I´d help around the local farms doing odd jobs and assisted with the harvest when they needed cheap labour. The rest of the time I would spend at the riverside with my pole hoping to catch us a bite to eat. Mama didn´t work, what with my three younger sisters and another baby in her swollen belly she had more than enough of her share of work just keeping our home running smoothly.
I scrambled further up the bank and looked over to where you were sat amongst the first of the spring flowers, a small blanket spread out on the grass and a book in your hand. I didn´t really know much white folks besides the old pink faced farmer over at Heartshead Manor and the odd few moonshine tramps that would stumble upon these parts now and again begging for a bite to eat or a belly full of ´shine.
The day you and your family first moved here the other residents were in uproar proclaiming that you´d be nothing but trouble but in the six months that your family had been here the only trouble maker was your older brother Dan.
Dan the Man he liked to call himself when he was full of the ´shine and he would race around in that battered pick- up truck of his destroying what little crops we managed to coax out of the soil and causing general mayhem in his wake.
White trash my daddy called him and the rest of your family. I thought it was unfair. I truly believed you to be the most beautiful girl I´d ever laid eyes on and I felt a great sense of injustice that you were burdened as white trash simply because of your no good brother.
I´d seen you a few times reading alongside the river but today had been the first time that you had acknowledged me and it made me feel happy and nervous at the same time almost as though we had just crossed an invisible barrier and moved into hitherto unknown territory.
The following week as I was setting up my pole I could feel that I was being watched. I spun around and you were stood above me on top of the riverbank looking down at me. I was grateful that this time I had kept me shirt on.
“Do you mind if I set up my blanket right here on the banking?” she asked smiling nervously. “I´m always sat on my own and I get awful lonely with no one to talk to.”
It was the first time I´d seen her up close and to me she was even more beautiful than I´d ever imagined. Her eyes were the palest of blue like a hazy sky and her teeth although crooked and overlapping in places were healthy and white. And her hair; It took me all my strength to hold myself back from reaching out and taking it into my hands if only to run my fingers through it.
“Sure ma´am,” I answered, “Although I ain´t much of a talker.”
“Please don´t call me ma´am, ma´am makes me sound like an old lady and I´m guessing you and me is much the same age. My name´s Valerie but most folks call me Val. What do folks call you?”
“My name´s Earl,” I replied. “Everyone just calls me Earl. Excuse me Valerie; I have to sort out my pole.”
“Sure you go on right ahead Earl. I´m gonna set up my blanket.”
The first few times we spent together we barely spoke at all. I think that we were both conscious that a taboo had been broken and this alone was something for us to reflect upon before we made this anything more than just two young people sharing the same space.
On the fifth day you began reading aloud from the book that you had with you. I was surprised to find that it was a bible.
“It´s the only book I´ve got. I´d like to try reading something else but we have no money for books and besides mama says that all books ´cepting the bible are the works of the devil so even if I had another book she would destroy it first before she let me read it.”
I vowed that one day I would buy Valerie a book; one that we could read together.
Towards the end of the summer Valerie told me she was leaving. Her papa had secured a job over at the mines for the winter time. She promised that they would return next spring in preparation for the harvest.
I cried the night she left.
Time went on in its usual way when before long spring was upon us once again. I´d just set up my pole when I heard this shrieking coming from the bushes up yonder.
“Earl”I could hear my name been hollered out from up above the river bank. I scrambled up the slippery grass slope and was rewarded with the sight of Valerie bounding towards me, her golden hair trailing behind her like a wild banshee. She ran forward, opened her arms and hugged me tightly.
“Did you miss me?” she asked breathlessly.
“Everyday,” I replied honestly. “Your hair´s grown real long.”
“My breasts have gotten bigger too,” said Val mischievously, thrusting her chest out proudly.
I looked down at her protruding breasts and could feel myself blushing fiercely.
We chatted about her life in the big city where the mines were. It all seemed so exotic to me, my life had barely changed besides having a new baby sister. The day flew by in a blur and before I knew it dusk began to fall and it was time for us to return to our respective homes.
“Keep a look out for Dan,” said Valerie. “His drinking has got real bad and he´s getting more and more violent as time goes on. It´s best you keep out of his way.”
“Sure, I´ll keep that in mind,” I said as we reluctantly parted and went our separate ways.
The next day I made my way down to the river with a spring in my step and with a small package wrapped in string and brown paper tucked under my arm.
Valerie cried when she unwrapped her first book. I´d had to rely on the man in the bookstore to provide me with a book that he thought that Valerie would like and it had seemed really strange going to buy a book when I was unable to read myself but boy was it worth it in the end.
We kissed that day and it was the sweetest most magical thing that had ever happened to me. I floated home on a high and I had to keep pinching myself to ensure that I wasn´t dreaming.
I was worried that things would be awkward when I next saw Valerie again but it wasn´t and we spent the day alternating between Valerie reading out loud from her new book and holding each other close sharing those oh so sweet and tender kisses.
It was whilst I was in Valerie´s warm embrace that I felt a dark shadow looming over us. I turned to face Dan, Valerie´s brother.
I saw his large meaty fist as it crashed into my face but I remember nothing else.
I didn´t see Valerie for the rest of the spring or the following spring either. The loneliness of winter was so frustrating. I watched the pine needles as they turned to stalactites, shooting down like silver arrows from the trees. I watched the fog drifting off the surface of the river and dreamed of springtime and Valerie´s return and as springtime inched ever closer I watched the spring lightning alone with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.
When the following spring was upon us and Valerie still hadn´t returned I attempted to leave, to seek her out but my efforts proved futile and before long I was lost and frightened so I returned dejected and cold to my lonely home.
It was on the fourth spring that Valerie returned. She sat next to me and read from a book just like old times. She told me of her unhappiness and her loneliness. I was happy just to listen to her voice.
She came every year after that and she grew more beautiful with each passing year. Our favorite thing was to watch the spring lightning flashing brightly as it warned of the summer rainfall soon to come, its coulorful arcs creating frozen silhouettes before our eyes in the woods on the other side of the river. Valerie never married; she told me that she had only ever loved one man and that fate had never allowed it to happen.
On our fifty second spring together Valerie told me she was dying. I watched as she swallowed the little white pills one by one in between delicate sips from the small bottle of French champagne that she had brought with her.
Soon she grew drowsy and her blue eyes began clouding over, tiny tears clinging tenaciously to the corners of her eyes like twinkling diamonds.
She lay down beside me on top of my unmarked grave.
We watched the springtime lightning together.
Steven Lewis
About the AuthorSteven Lewis doesn´t consider himself as a writer but just somebody who likes to scribble the odd few poems and short stories when it takes his fancy. A showcase of some of his poems can be found in his e-book Slim Pickings and his first attempt at a full length novel, Nice´n Sleazy, is due for publication in both paperback and electronic formats in March this year. Steven Lewis was born in West Yorkshire, England and moved to South Africa as a child where he lived for several years before returning to the UK for a spell. He now resides in Caleta De Fuste on the island of Fuerteventura.
My jeans were rolled up to the knee and I´d discarded my shirt on the riverbank the first time I noticed you staring at me. Your hair the colour of freshly harvested corn glowed golden in the sunlight. I grinned at you uncertainly, conscious of my slight chest and my dark skin. You half-waved at me before padding your way barefoot along the newly emerged purple and yellow flowers, their resilient petals flattening into the soft springy grass before emerging back triumphant and upright as you headed further down the riverbank. Almost as soon as your back was turned I planted my fishing pole into the sticky sucking mud at the riverside and retrieved my shirt, wiping the soft clay off of my bare feet on the cool dew glazed grass.
Although this wasn´t nigger territory it wasn´t white man´s turf area either. No man´s land my daddy liked to call it. The great depression as folks were calling it nowadays had affected us all, black and white, and it had become a great leveler of all men.
Over the last year or so more and more shacks had been springing up around here as folks began losing their jobs and their homes. Daddy was one of the lucky ones who had managed to hold down a job but greasing the tracks on the railroad didn´t really pay much and the few Dollars he managed to bring home at the end of a working week meant that we weren´t much better off than the poor and destitute that lived around these parts.
I´d left school shortly after my twelfth birthday. I hadn´t learnt much at all and the reality was school didn´t put food on the table. I´d help around the local farms doing odd jobs and assisted with the harvest when they needed cheap labour. The rest of the time I would spend at the riverside with my pole hoping to catch us a bite to eat. Mama didn´t work, what with my three younger sisters and another baby in her swollen belly she had more than enough of her share of work just keeping our home running smoothly.
I scrambled further up the bank and looked over to where you were sat amongst the first of the spring flowers, a small blanket spread out on the grass and a book in your hand. I didn´t really know much white folks besides the old pink faced farmer over at Heartshead Manor and the odd few moonshine tramps that would stumble upon these parts now and again begging for a bite to eat or a belly full of ´shine.
The day you and your family first moved here the other residents were in uproar proclaiming that you´d be nothing but trouble but in the six months that your family had been here the only trouble maker was your older brother Dan.
Dan the Man he liked to call himself when he was full of the ´shine and he would race around in that battered pick- up truck of his destroying what little crops we managed to coax out of the soil and causing general mayhem in his wake.
White trash my daddy called him and the rest of your family. I thought it was unfair. I truly believed you to be the most beautiful girl I´d ever laid eyes on and I felt a great sense of injustice that you were burdened as white trash simply because of your no good brother.
I´d seen you a few times reading alongside the river but today had been the first time that you had acknowledged me and it made me feel happy and nervous at the same time almost as though we had just crossed an invisible barrier and moved into hitherto unknown territory.
The following week as I was setting up my pole I could feel that I was being watched. I spun around and you were stood above me on top of the riverbank looking down at me. I was grateful that this time I had kept me shirt on.
“Do you mind if I set up my blanket right here on the banking?” she asked smiling nervously. “I´m always sat on my own and I get awful lonely with no one to talk to.”
It was the first time I´d seen her up close and to me she was even more beautiful than I´d ever imagined. Her eyes were the palest of blue like a hazy sky and her teeth although crooked and overlapping in places were healthy and white. And her hair; It took me all my strength to hold myself back from reaching out and taking it into my hands if only to run my fingers through it.
“Sure ma´am,” I answered, “Although I ain´t much of a talker.”
“Please don´t call me ma´am, ma´am makes me sound like an old lady and I´m guessing you and me is much the same age. My name´s Valerie but most folks call me Val. What do folks call you?”
“My name´s Earl,” I replied. “Everyone just calls me Earl. Excuse me Valerie; I have to sort out my pole.”
“Sure you go on right ahead Earl. I´m gonna set up my blanket.”
The first few times we spent together we barely spoke at all. I think that we were both conscious that a taboo had been broken and this alone was something for us to reflect upon before we made this anything more than just two young people sharing the same space.
On the fifth day you began reading aloud from the book that you had with you. I was surprised to find that it was a bible.
“It´s the only book I´ve got. I´d like to try reading something else but we have no money for books and besides mama says that all books ´cepting the bible are the works of the devil so even if I had another book she would destroy it first before she let me read it.”
I vowed that one day I would buy Valerie a book; one that we could read together.
Towards the end of the summer Valerie told me she was leaving. Her papa had secured a job over at the mines for the winter time. She promised that they would return next spring in preparation for the harvest.
I cried the night she left.
Time went on in its usual way when before long spring was upon us once again. I´d just set up my pole when I heard this shrieking coming from the bushes up yonder.
“Earl”I could hear my name been hollered out from up above the river bank. I scrambled up the slippery grass slope and was rewarded with the sight of Valerie bounding towards me, her golden hair trailing behind her like a wild banshee. She ran forward, opened her arms and hugged me tightly.
“Did you miss me?” she asked breathlessly.
“Everyday,” I replied honestly. “Your hair´s grown real long.”
“My breasts have gotten bigger too,” said Val mischievously, thrusting her chest out proudly.
I looked down at her protruding breasts and could feel myself blushing fiercely.
We chatted about her life in the big city where the mines were. It all seemed so exotic to me, my life had barely changed besides having a new baby sister. The day flew by in a blur and before I knew it dusk began to fall and it was time for us to return to our respective homes.
“Keep a look out for Dan,” said Valerie. “His drinking has got real bad and he´s getting more and more violent as time goes on. It´s best you keep out of his way.”
“Sure, I´ll keep that in mind,” I said as we reluctantly parted and went our separate ways.
The next day I made my way down to the river with a spring in my step and with a small package wrapped in string and brown paper tucked under my arm.
Valerie cried when she unwrapped her first book. I´d had to rely on the man in the bookstore to provide me with a book that he thought that Valerie would like and it had seemed really strange going to buy a book when I was unable to read myself but boy was it worth it in the end.
We kissed that day and it was the sweetest most magical thing that had ever happened to me. I floated home on a high and I had to keep pinching myself to ensure that I wasn´t dreaming.
I was worried that things would be awkward when I next saw Valerie again but it wasn´t and we spent the day alternating between Valerie reading out loud from her new book and holding each other close sharing those oh so sweet and tender kisses.
It was whilst I was in Valerie´s warm embrace that I felt a dark shadow looming over us. I turned to face Dan, Valerie´s brother.
I saw his large meaty fist as it crashed into my face but I remember nothing else.
I didn´t see Valerie for the rest of the spring or the following spring either. The loneliness of winter was so frustrating. I watched the pine needles as they turned to stalactites, shooting down like silver arrows from the trees. I watched the fog drifting off the surface of the river and dreamed of springtime and Valerie´s return and as springtime inched ever closer I watched the spring lightning alone with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes.
When the following spring was upon us and Valerie still hadn´t returned I attempted to leave, to seek her out but my efforts proved futile and before long I was lost and frightened so I returned dejected and cold to my lonely home.
It was on the fourth spring that Valerie returned. She sat next to me and read from a book just like old times. She told me of her unhappiness and her loneliness. I was happy just to listen to her voice.
She came every year after that and she grew more beautiful with each passing year. Our favorite thing was to watch the spring lightning flashing brightly as it warned of the summer rainfall soon to come, its coulorful arcs creating frozen silhouettes before our eyes in the woods on the other side of the river. Valerie never married; she told me that she had only ever loved one man and that fate had never allowed it to happen.
On our fifty second spring together Valerie told me she was dying. I watched as she swallowed the little white pills one by one in between delicate sips from the small bottle of French champagne that she had brought with her.
Soon she grew drowsy and her blue eyes began clouding over, tiny tears clinging tenaciously to the corners of her eyes like twinkling diamonds.
She lay down beside me on top of my unmarked grave.
We watched the springtime lightning together.
Steven Lewis
About the AuthorSteven Lewis doesn´t consider himself as a writer but just somebody who likes to scribble the odd few poems and short stories when it takes his fancy. A showcase of some of his poems can be found in his e-book Slim Pickings and his first attempt at a full length novel, Nice´n Sleazy, is due for publication in both paperback and electronic formats in March this year. Steven Lewis was born in West Yorkshire, England and moved to South Africa as a child where he lived for several years before returning to the UK for a spell. He now resides in Caleta De Fuste on the island of Fuerteventura.
January 15, 2014
PART 9: The Man Who Had Everything and The Woman With No Art
The Woman With No Art reached out a hand and The Man Who Had Everything flinched back. She stared at him, her face half light half shadow; filled with a childlike bewilderment.
"Are you afraid of me, Michael?"
"Yes."
She rose to her knees on the bed "But why? Why? I mean you no harm, there is nothing to dread."
"How did you get in here?" The Man Who Had Everything pulled himself further up the bed, gaining a few more inches of distance from the woman.
"Through the door...It wasn't locked!"
"It was closed. You did not knock!"
"Oh!" she giggled, an oddly young sound, "I'm sorry about that!"
"If a door is closed you knock! You don't walk in uninvited and unannounced."
The woman Mia reached out a conciliatory hand and laid it on his knee through the bed-spread.
"I'm sorry Michael, you are quite right. I am a little rusty on the niceties of protocol...Do you forgive me? Say you do..."
Her lips curved in a seductive flirtatious smile that shrivelled his man-flesh and filled him with terror. "Let's not quarrel...Let's be friends instead, let's kiss and make up!"
And she moved towards him with a swift catlike grace, and stopped, her lips a few inches from his suddenly averted face.
The Man Who Had Everything cried: "Just go, get out...Don't touch me! I don't want you, I don't want you here."
The Woman With No Art frowned. "I don't understand. You don't want me?"
Her eyes darkened somehow, and round shape of her face sharpened into a hardened triangular mask.
"You don't WANT me?" Her voice was softer, sibilant; somehow doubled, like a chorus and an echo all at the same time.
The Man Who Had Everything felt a slow trickle of warm wetness running down between his legs.
"YOU DON'T WANT ME?" The long stray curls tumbled on her shoulders stirred and rose as if caught in cross-currents of playful air.
"You disgusting little man, pissing on the bed, you dare lie there and tell me you don't want me? Would you rather be DEAD?"
Manuela Cardiga
"Are you afraid of me, Michael?"
"Yes."
She rose to her knees on the bed "But why? Why? I mean you no harm, there is nothing to dread."
"How did you get in here?" The Man Who Had Everything pulled himself further up the bed, gaining a few more inches of distance from the woman.
"Through the door...It wasn't locked!"
"It was closed. You did not knock!"
"Oh!" she giggled, an oddly young sound, "I'm sorry about that!"
"If a door is closed you knock! You don't walk in uninvited and unannounced."
The woman Mia reached out a conciliatory hand and laid it on his knee through the bed-spread.
"I'm sorry Michael, you are quite right. I am a little rusty on the niceties of protocol...Do you forgive me? Say you do..."
Her lips curved in a seductive flirtatious smile that shrivelled his man-flesh and filled him with terror. "Let's not quarrel...Let's be friends instead, let's kiss and make up!"
And she moved towards him with a swift catlike grace, and stopped, her lips a few inches from his suddenly averted face.
The Man Who Had Everything cried: "Just go, get out...Don't touch me! I don't want you, I don't want you here."
The Woman With No Art frowned. "I don't understand. You don't want me?"
Her eyes darkened somehow, and round shape of her face sharpened into a hardened triangular mask.
"You don't WANT me?" Her voice was softer, sibilant; somehow doubled, like a chorus and an echo all at the same time.
The Man Who Had Everything felt a slow trickle of warm wetness running down between his legs.
"YOU DON'T WANT ME?" The long stray curls tumbled on her shoulders stirred and rose as if caught in cross-currents of playful air.
"You disgusting little man, pissing on the bed, you dare lie there and tell me you don't want me? Would you rather be DEAD?"
Manuela Cardiga
DENTAL DAN HAD A PLAN
Dental Dan
Was a fan
Of fellatio
And frequently
Cried “Diu gratiu”
And for this his wife
Was responsible;
Cause even though
She was missing a tonsil,
The Lady had great skill
And agility,
Not to mention
Labial ability -
And since she was also
Allergic to the pill
Was determined
To keep her virginity.
While some men
Might have made complaint
Of this as a cruel restraint
Dental Dan not only
Went along with the plan
But considered himself
A very lucky man…
Manuela Cardiga
Was a fan
Of fellatio
And frequently
Cried “Diu gratiu”
And for this his wife
Was responsible;
Cause even though
She was missing a tonsil,
The Lady had great skill
And agility,
Not to mention
Labial ability -
And since she was also
Allergic to the pill
Was determined
To keep her virginity.
While some men
Might have made complaint
Of this as a cruel restraint
Dental Dan not only
Went along with the plan
But considered himself
A very lucky man…
Manuela Cardiga
NOVOCAINE LOVE
Sweet baby dove
You my, you my
Novocaine Love…
It ain’t that
You so cool,
Or so hot
You make me drool,
Baby you just the fool
That magics away
My pain -
The one little prick that
Helps me forget
The sour taste of regret;
So baby I refrain
('Cause I ain't got no rhyme
to go with your name)
Oh again and again and again…
Sweet baby dove
You my, you my
Novocaine Love…
Manuela Cardiga
You my, you my
Novocaine Love…
It ain’t that
You so cool,
Or so hot
You make me drool,
Baby you just the fool
That magics away
My pain -
The one little prick that
Helps me forget
The sour taste of regret;
So baby I refrain
('Cause I ain't got no rhyme
to go with your name)
Oh again and again and again…
Sweet baby dove
You my, you my
Novocaine Love…
Manuela Cardiga
MISS YOU LIKE A MOLAR
You know when you lose a tooth?
And there’s this big huge icky yucky sticky hole
(Black with space, and bloody deep)
That makes you sort of sick
When you look at it
And see there’s a piece of you gone,
And you try to ignore,
But somehow your tongue
Keeps going there
Again and again and again;
Probing and prying
Into that space where
Something that was you
Used to be?
(It leaves a sort of disgusting taste
And a nauseating almost-pain
That you can’t help but crave
Because somehow it seems to belong?)
That’s basically how I feel about you.
Manuela Cardiga
And there’s this big huge icky yucky sticky hole
(Black with space, and bloody deep)
That makes you sort of sick
When you look at it
And see there’s a piece of you gone,
And you try to ignore,
But somehow your tongue
Keeps going there
Again and again and again;
Probing and prying
Into that space where
Something that was you
Used to be?
(It leaves a sort of disgusting taste
And a nauseating almost-pain
That you can’t help but crave
Because somehow it seems to belong?)
That’s basically how I feel about you.
Manuela Cardiga
HORTICULTURE 101
Gypsy roses
Don't grow on land.
They dig their roots
Through aortas
And ventricles
And into arteries,
And cling sharp thorns
To the bare hand
Of whoever
Becomes enamoured
Of their tremulous
beauty, glamoured
And enchanted
By the velvet
Secret scent
Of the unfolding petals.
Gypsy roses
Grow anywhere,At any time And in any clime.
Needing no ground,
They seed on flesh;
Willing or unwilling,
And they do not need
Rainfall or sunlight
For seedlings to sprout,
For they drink sustenance
Straight from the heart.
Manuela Cardiga
Don't grow on land.
They dig their roots
Through aortas
And ventricles
And into arteries,
And cling sharp thorns
To the bare hand
Of whoever
Becomes enamoured
Of their tremulous
beauty, glamoured
And enchanted
By the velvet
Secret scent
Of the unfolding petals.
Gypsy roses
Grow anywhere,At any time And in any clime.
Needing no ground,
They seed on flesh;
Willing or unwilling,
And they do not need
Rainfall or sunlight
For seedlings to sprout,
For they drink sustenance
Straight from the heart.
Manuela Cardiga
January 14, 2014
HOW GYPSYS MEET
I am restless, restless
Sleepless unstill
From my nomad heart
Down to my feet
And that tinker-wind
Knocks at my door,
And shouts
In my ears
COME! COME!
DON'T YOU WAIT
A SECOND MORE
So I run.
I run out,
Out on my bare feet
I run run run,
Run down the street
And turning a corner
I slam into you
And straight away
I see exactly who
What where and when
You are,
And you see me
So we greet each other
And the fickle wind,
And that is how
We two meet.
Manuela Cardiga
Sleepless unstill
From my nomad heart
Down to my feet
And that tinker-wind
Knocks at my door,
And shouts
In my ears
COME! COME!
DON'T YOU WAIT
A SECOND MORE
So I run.
I run out,
Out on my bare feet
I run run run,
Run down the street
And turning a corner
I slam into you
And straight away
I see exactly who
What where and when
You are,
And you see me
So we greet each other
And the fickle wind,
And that is how
We two meet.
Manuela Cardiga
PART 8: The Man Who Had Everything and The Woman With No Art
The hostler left, quietly shutting the door behind him, and The Man Who Had Everything fell into a deep sleep. He woke what seemed to be hours later to an odd creaking sound. The room was silent. The full moon peeped in through the window festooned with lace curtains, and spilled a patch of silvery light onto the bed.
The Man Who Had Everything was shivering with cold, and drew the candlewick bed-spread over his legs up to his shoulders. In the breathless silence the creaking of the floorboards sounded even louder. He drew the bed-spread even higher and buried himself deeper in the bed, like a frightened child; the memories of the previous evening unreeling through his mind.
How silly...He'd had much too much to drink.That and the Fae-tales of the hostler, combined with the know-it all presumption of an unpleasant dinner companion had distilled a potent brew, and the result was obviously delusion, hallucination...
The Man Who Had Everything lay for a long time and thought about his life. Obviously the woman Mia had stuck her finger in a few sore spots. Perhaps some of these he'd consider addressing on his return to New York. Therapy might help; that or a healthy dose of honesty with the people in his life. His wife, for one; and himself. Mostly himself. He would shelve his career for a while. Take some time off, go to the mountains alone to think, and maybe compose, as he's been wanting to do for years.
Yes. It was time to make some changes. He could certainly afford them, and if his wife and his agents didn't agree? Well, screw them! They had all drawn considerable financial dividends from his work, now it was his turn to go his own way; learn some new tricks, be free.
Some old lines from a poem he's read in school flitted through his mind.
"'T' is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die..."
The sound of his own voice startled him, and he laughed out loud at his own fright. Then over his laughter chanted a sweet silvery voice: "It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles..."
He started up, and there, perched at the bottom of the bed - her hair in a wash of moonlight - was The Woman With No Art.
"The Happy Isles, Michael, the very isles that doth lie in the sundering Ocean betwix thy heart and mine, where in the blessed few reside..." and then to his terror, she smiled. "I want thee, beloved, and I shall not be denied."
Manuela Cardiga
The Man Who Had Everything was shivering with cold, and drew the candlewick bed-spread over his legs up to his shoulders. In the breathless silence the creaking of the floorboards sounded even louder. He drew the bed-spread even higher and buried himself deeper in the bed, like a frightened child; the memories of the previous evening unreeling through his mind.
How silly...He'd had much too much to drink.That and the Fae-tales of the hostler, combined with the know-it all presumption of an unpleasant dinner companion had distilled a potent brew, and the result was obviously delusion, hallucination...
The Man Who Had Everything lay for a long time and thought about his life. Obviously the woman Mia had stuck her finger in a few sore spots. Perhaps some of these he'd consider addressing on his return to New York. Therapy might help; that or a healthy dose of honesty with the people in his life. His wife, for one; and himself. Mostly himself. He would shelve his career for a while. Take some time off, go to the mountains alone to think, and maybe compose, as he's been wanting to do for years.
Yes. It was time to make some changes. He could certainly afford them, and if his wife and his agents didn't agree? Well, screw them! They had all drawn considerable financial dividends from his work, now it was his turn to go his own way; learn some new tricks, be free.
Some old lines from a poem he's read in school flitted through his mind.
"'T' is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die..."
The sound of his own voice startled him, and he laughed out loud at his own fright. Then over his laughter chanted a sweet silvery voice: "It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles..."
He started up, and there, perched at the bottom of the bed - her hair in a wash of moonlight - was The Woman With No Art.
"The Happy Isles, Michael, the very isles that doth lie in the sundering Ocean betwix thy heart and mine, where in the blessed few reside..." and then to his terror, she smiled. "I want thee, beloved, and I shall not be denied."
Manuela Cardiga
OLFACTORY MEMORY TRIGGERS SUCK BIG TIME (not to say that I miss you)
Today is ice cold
So I drew forth
From the depths
Of my closet
A coat imbued
With something
I thought long gone.
To my discomfort;
Clinging still
To the folds
Was the crisp scent
Of one chill morning;
A warm touch,
A voice, a laugh,
And one short goodbye.
Manuela Cardiga
So I drew forth
From the depths
Of my closet
A coat imbued
With something
I thought long gone.
To my discomfort;
Clinging still
To the folds
Was the crisp scent
Of one chill morning;
A warm touch,
A voice, a laugh,
And one short goodbye.
Manuela Cardiga
January 7, 2014
STICKS AND STONES
I've forgotten the line
But I KNOW
He said it wrong;
Whatever he said,
Or swore he had?
I just got mad.
I wanted to throw
Something at him
Maybe a brick,
Or a hurdy-gurdy
Something sturdy
That would leave
A bruise?
Oh, and make him bleed!
I wanted something
That would really hurt
Even though
I couldn't remember
The exact word
He said that set me off?
But I'm sure it would be
No more than he deserved!
Then he spoiled it! He did!
He sort of shrugged
And looked really sad
And said: "I'm sorry about that.
I didn't mean it, you know."
And spoiled it even more
By smiling that silly way
He knows I can't resist,
And then he added,
"You can throw
Something at me
If you like,
Like a kiss?
Maybe?"
Shit! Stupid
Arsehole!
So I did.
Manuela Cardiga
But I KNOW
He said it wrong;
Whatever he said,
Or swore he had?
I just got mad.
I wanted to throw
Something at him
Maybe a brick,
Or a hurdy-gurdy
Something sturdy
That would leave
A bruise?
Oh, and make him bleed!
I wanted something
That would really hurt
Even though
I couldn't remember
The exact word
He said that set me off?
But I'm sure it would be
No more than he deserved!
Then he spoiled it! He did!
He sort of shrugged
And looked really sad
And said: "I'm sorry about that.
I didn't mean it, you know."
And spoiled it even more
By smiling that silly way
He knows I can't resist,
And then he added,
"You can throw
Something at me
If you like,
Like a kiss?
Maybe?"
Shit! Stupid
Arsehole!
So I did.
Manuela Cardiga
