|
|
|
Archives By SubjectAfghanistanArts & LettersBlogging The LouvreBlogommageChess, Jazz & EthicsChinaDear LeaderDefense & National SecurityDomestic PolicyEuropean UnionFeatured LinkForeign PolicyGlobal War On TerrorGood News Of The DayHoops, Hardball & FisticuffsHuman RightsIndiaInternational RelationsIranIraqLa France PolitiqueLa PresidentielleLas AmericasMarkets & FinanceMedia CoverageMorning News RoundupOdds & EndsOpen ThreadPakistanPoliticsQuote Of The DayRace In AmericaRussiaSay What?The Middle EastThe Natural WorldTurkeyVerse & ProseArchives By DateNovember, 2008October, 2008September, 2008August, 2008July, 2008June, 2008May, 2008April, 2008March, 2008February, 2008January, 2008December, 2007November, 2007October, 2007September, 2007August, 2007July, 2007June, 2007May, 2007April, 2007March, 2007February, 2007January, 2007Search Headline Junky |
Verse & ProseSaturday, September 8, 2007 Youth Shows But HalfFrom where I’d sit on the porch nights, I could see everything. They’d move from room to room like cats. One would retreat, the other would follow, then they’d switch – arms waving, faces turning red. Pretty soon I’d hear their voices, loud enough to carry through the windows and clear across the street. Then, if it was a real bad one, things would start flying: lamps and glasses and the like. Somehow with all the broken windows they replaced, they never did manage to put up curtains. I used to call them the Richters. Nan said it wasn’t right to make light of other people’s troubles. But it just happened to come out one night, what must have been three or four months after they moved in. By then we’d seen it happen enough times not to be surprised anymore, but still not so many that we’d lost interest. Nan had brought some iced tea out to the porch and sat down next to me on the loveseat. It was a balmy summer night, with a breeze to make the trees out front whisper. We sat sipping the iced tea, not saying much as is our habit. We no longer needed to say much, Nan and me, to get by. Then they started up. This time it was her chasing after him. From the living room to the kitchen, upstairs to where we couldn’t follow them, and then back down. I felt Nan tense up next to me, waiting. She would wait for the worst, that was Nan. Forty years of sitting beside someone at movies, theatre plays and the like, it’ll teach you a lot about a person’s tendencies. Nan would tense up and wait for the worst. That night, though, it seemed to pass quickly. Shortly they went upstairs and the lights went out. “That looked to be about a four on the Richter scale,” I said then, relieved to feel Nan’s body relax into mine. And we both let out a little chuckle. So from then on they were the Richters, even though I said it without a bit of malice. It wasn’t long before we grew accustomed to them, and they became a feature of the landscape, like any other. Volatile perhaps, but familiar, like a volcano that smokes and spews from time to time but that we otherwise took for granted... Continue reading Youth Shows But Half>> Tuesday, August 21, 2007 The Thing About SlimThe thing about Slim was, he had no shot. Not that it mattered, really. Slim was such a good ballplayer, he almost didn’t need one. He could dribble through rush hour traffic with his eyes closed, and thread the needle with a pass while he was counting change. And talk. Slim could talk. Slim could’ve shown up at courtside in a wheelchair and talked his way into a game, I’m sure of it. He had this way of putting you at ease, a patter that snuck up on you and drew you in. When Slim was talking to you, you felt special. Like you were part of a private conspiracy that only you and him knew about. The two of you against the world. How else could you explain him hanging around at all? Varmont was an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side, all limestone and green ivy. Which just about says it all about the place: white and rich. And even though the playground we used was a public facility, Varmont had exclusive access to it during school hours by special arrangement with the City. So if anyone had complained about Slim, he would’ve been gone. If it seems farfetched that someone might have complained, consider this: until Slim started coming by, I was the closest thing to a streetkid they had there. I was a scholarship baby from Brooklyn, easily the toughest kid in the school. This meant primarily that I’d been listening to rap music since before 1980, and that I’d given Dexter Tillman Chase the IVth a black eye in the ninth grade for calling me a Jew-boy. Nobody being particularly fond of Dexter Tillman Chase the IVth, I was quickly welcomed the way fresh air usually is. Having made a place for myself, I soon came to feel comfortable in it. I did well enough to renew my scholarship each year (though I was no Einstein), and was captaining the basketball team as a junior. But Slim, he might’ve been from another planet for all the cloistered world of Varmont knew. I still remember the first time he came by to play... Continue reading The Thing About Slim>> Wednesday, July 25, 2007 l.a. winter blues (sonnet)dear dad, i'm in los angeles. it's not Thursday, July 19, 2007 the passion of st. john the baptist (sonnet)soon after salome had finished dancing Sunday, July 1, 2007 one-fifty-two (pacheco pass)these are only words like rippling waves no different from the road no different from all that the radio lets go its grasp there is a good chance funny the car clings Friday, June 22, 2007 leaving l.a.i finally left l.a. |
RSS Feeds