Soultakeaway...Graffiti for the Soul and other Markings...

Beyond the first line of Breakers - episode 3

2011-10-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

very single one of the men in her past had wanted to possess her, she thought for the millionth time that day. The observation had been careening round her mind like a cueball gone crazy. Throughout the evening and even while she packed for the journey. Like it was set to auto-rewind, bringing her back to the exact same spot everytime. It seemed the more she rejected their overtures for marriage, the more they became insanely obsessed with having her permanently. Rejection only fueled their passion...their committment further. Damned if I do...damned if I dont!, she whispered to herself, as she shifted into a more comfortable position in her seat. A Pretty Blonde Hostess demonstrating the emergency Oxygen mask routine. Elastic from the mask snagging her Cap. Struggling to disentangle it and appear calm and poised as well. Doing a pretty good job of it too. She smiled, beatific, at Dominique when their eyes met. Stuffed the breathing apparatus into it’s little cubbyhole. Swayed past, oiled hips gliding seductively under a tight Blue uniform skirt. The aircraft pitching gently, climbing. Swirl of Calvin Klein and the hint of eternal youth, down the aisle. Her private pathway to Shangri-La. Sliding an errant flight tray into it’s slot in the pantry as she passed it, disappearing into the cockpit. Never breaking stride once.

...Except James!

Dominique’s eyes following the pretty, Blonde Hostess all the way. Watching her disappear through a door where the Pilots sat. A fleeting glimpse of instrument panel...lights...nightsky. Like a black hole! Wondering what she did in there? Did she flop onto the pilot’s lap ...just a little lapdance on the side? Give him a hard-on? She seemed capable of anything. Was there any correlation between aircraft accidents and the nubileness of the hostess’s on board? The door slamming behind the Blonde. Dominique floating down reluctantly from the daydream.

...James Divine-Jones! Whispering his name softly. Wondering why he filled her mind so much lately. But he was different. So incredibly aloof and in control. Made her want to scream sometimes. His indifference was precisely what had attracted her to him in the first place. And his clean, good looks as well. The lean, ascetic face, framed in brown tousled hair falling all over a broad forehead. Mark of greatness, he used to say lightly. He had the sharpest, most perfect nose she had seen, and startlingly blue eyes to match. Like the faces chiselled out of stone in some Grecian ruin, his lips could be at once cruel or benevolent, depending on the mood. He was tall, seemed to tower over her meager five foot something height, and incredibly athletic. She preferred only the vaguest knowledge of her own vertical shortcomings. There was not an ounce of extra flesh on his gaunt, wiry frame, and she loved to snuggle her own softness against his hard, angular body. Made her feel so warm and complete. Actually, hot was a better word. The shadow of a frown crossed her brow...does he know...does he suspect anything? Her head aching suddenly. She felt utterly confused...the thoughts coiling and un-coiling in her mind like snakes in a pit. Nothing seemed to connect anymore.

Guess he could write a book about Steve, she thought. She had told him almost every single incident and detail about her long, crazy relationship with Steve. It was funny, but both Steve and James, shared similar passions – both were avid musicians, James played the bass guitar too, and uncannily, their reading habits were so very similar, from the dark, Irish humour of J P Donileavy, to the slapstick Americana of Woody Allen. They were both crazy about modern jazz, and shared similar taste in musicians as well. It was really quite weird. She found herself struggling more and more to find some point of differentiation between the two, and knew this was one of the reasons, probably at a subliminal level, why she felt so absolutely comfortable with James; he was an apt pupil, and knew just about every chink in her defense. To the point where he was literally under her skin ...like now.

He did know that she had been seeing Norman...had been seeing him, on and off, for a few years now.

Norman Banon, Director and CEO for Medusa Exports. She’d told him about their relationship. James was one of the three full-time Computer Programmers Norman employed in their London offices. And he was a favourite, with his boyish humour and unflinching confidence that he could lick any software or system glitch. A reputation he had polished over time, with his skill and commitment. Dominique couldn’t help reflecting over the irony of it all. The same environment, Medusa Exports, had presented her with both the most improbable as well as the most excitingly romantic relationships she had ever had. The one painfully deep and emotional and the other pure, reckless, high octane fun. And the sex had been terrific.

For some reason, she couldn’t equate her friendship with Steven on the same plain. She had come to regard him as a solid, dependable rock. Something she could put her arms around whenever the storms became too turbulent. And he had come through always. She had tried, more than once, to gently let him know her feelings, but he refused to understand. Each attempt ended with him getting so utterly depressed, she would just give up. In a way she was thankful for the current situation she found herself in. There wasn’t any choice - she had to leave Calcutta. Immediately!

Norman’s last conversation with her had made that clear.

She had never understood why women seemed to be attracted to men in power, until she met Norman. He was married, and had a daughter who was already three when she joined Medusa. His wife, Suzanne, was an aggressive, much sought after member of Calcutta cocktail circuit, and pursued this obsession with a singular commitment. It was no surprise for Dominique to find herself spending innumerable late evenings at the office, alone with him. They executed orders, inspected finished garments and even entertained buyers together. Sometimes, at the end of a particularly rough day, they’d find themselves alone, enjoying a quiet drink and dinner together. Laughing at the day’s incidents ... sometimes crying with each other:

“ Norm, I wish there was something I could do to get Nicholas off my back. He’s still refusing the divorce, keeps threatening me on the phone. He really scares me! I don’t trust him and God knows he can be quite crazy if he wants to.”

The coffee shop at the Oberoi Grand, Calcutta, was one of their more popular haunts, and she loved the capucino ... thick creamy, almost like a meal. She pressed her lips against the rim of the large cup gingerly. It was scalding!

Norm sipped his lime juice. The drink rimmed the salt and pepper hair of his neatly trimmed beard and whiskers. Tiny droplets winking at her weirdly in the diffused light. His gold rimmed glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. The lens reflecting the flames from the table candles, like tiny yellow dancers. She moved the candle stand to the side, so she could see him better. He stretched lazily, and shifted in the chair, looking at the waiter with the huge tray and the sizzler, hissing and sputtering like someone had poured water on a flame:

“You want me to take care of him?” The question came out more like a bored statement...a commitment:

“I’ll ask him to stop harassing you, and if that doesn’t work, there are other options.”

Dominique couldn’t help feel a chill. Something in the way he said this sounded intensely threatening and dark:

“I think I’d like that very much,” she’d whispered.

Felt like she was smoking gas... and lighting up a match.

What happened seemed so natural...like a logical progression. They made love that night. She couldn’t quite remember how, but they ended up in one of the Executive Suites of the Hotel. Probably his regular room. Original Hussain’s adorned the subtle, taupe walls. Wild Horses, a ghostly oil on canvas of Mother Teresa. On the bedside table, a silver bucket filled with crushed ice and champaigne, light through the green flagon, shading the wall behind the bed in the same colour. The handmade Kashmir rug, a scene from Omar Khayyam intricately woven into the wool, casually tossed at the foot of the bed. A turbaned Persian, serpentine coils from a Hookah in his fisted hand. Beautiful odalisques, from his Seraglio? Dancing…gossamer gowns swirling. She could almost see their sinuous, seductive movements. Soft, ethereal music filling the room; sounded like Bach’s suite for cello? The soulful arpeggios made her feel so ...easy and relaxed. Everything a dreamlike haze. All she remembered was that he made it appear so effortless and right...

Like it was the most obvious thing to happen...

that she would let him seduce her...

that she would enjoy it.

She understood now what real power meant. The raw, pervasive control it gave men, especially over women...and she hated herself for what it was forcing her to do. But she enjoyed the sense of perverse achievement, even power she was filled with. Wild, recklessness...the entire room seemed to be permeated by it. Made her feel so different?

He was gentle. Took his time. Teasing her aching flesh till she was screaming out for him to enter her moist, trembling love. He tongued her until she quivered like a jelly, before suddenly thrusting into her violently, nibbling her engorged nipples and whispering her name. She came like a newborn stream, wild and frothy, and he, moments later, crushing her with his body, breathing short, sharp breaths, staying deep inside her...hard and comforting.

She lit up a cigarette. Waited for the explosion!

...She never saw Nicholas after that night. Nor did he ever call her again!

orman had contacted him in February, that year. He had responded to his call, and they had agreed to meet at the Medusa offices. Nicholas was curious about the reason for this rather elaborate meeting. He was even more surprised at Norman’s overt show of politeness and tact.

He was obviously aware of the fact that Dominique and himself had all but legally separated, and studiously avoided any mention of her name throughout the call. However, when they were face to face, this façade had changed to a more harder, businesslike one. Norman had been quite explicit in his conversation:

“Nicholas, you must stop harassing Dominique. She has told me all about your threats of violence, and this must stop. Immediately.” He spoke softly, and the only emphasis to the last word was the gentle movement of his arm, moving across the desk, collecting the crystal paperweight, placing it over the pile of documents he had worked through. But the measured action was filled with an arrogant undercurrent of total control…authority. The situation was too insignificant for him to display even the mildest of emotions. He had continued working on the stack of documents in front of him, scribbling notes on some of them, pausing to re-read some sections, and simply tearing those that were obviously irrelevant, or unimportant, with a neat tear down the middle, almost perfectly dividing the A4 sheets in two. The rasping sound making Nicholas’s teeth go on edge. Like someone scraping long, hard, fingernails on a blackboard:

“I don’t see how it has anything to do with you, Norman? Why don’t you stay the fuck away from what doesn’t concern you?”

He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke across the desk. The metal lighter making a clicking sound on the desk top, as he tapped it against the thick glass that covered the top of the table. He shifted in the chair, swiveling around, at the sound of the door opening:

“Sir, I have the Legal file you asked me to bring from Madam’s lawyer,” Murthy, the accountant announced, hesitantly. He was a slight, balding individual, with a large nose, that sat astride a pock-marked face. The thick-lens spectacles he wore, made his eyes seem inordinately large for the small, bony face.

“Bring it in, Murthy, thank you. Can you ask for some fresh lemon juice to be brought in please – would you like a glass, Nicholas?”

Nicholas puffed several smoke rings in Norman’s direction:

“No thanks. Hate the shit.” He found Norman’s attitude unbelievable.

And quite unsettling.

He couldn’t seem to faze him in any way. It felt like he was talking to someone who listened but didn’t really hear a word he was saying:

“You fucking her…is that why you are threatening me? Is that what this whole meeting is about?”

He stubbed out the cigarette in a large crystal plate that held clips, and pins and other assorted desk stuff. Norman didn’t seem to mind his uncouth improvisation for an ashtray:

“The two of you sure as hell spend a whole lot of time together?”

“No, Nicholas. I am simply saying you have two choices. Leave her alone, or be prepared for the consequences. And by alone, I mean I don’t want you to ever be in the same city where Dominique is.” Norman signed another paper and moved it to the completed stack. He looked up at Nicholas, smiling:

“It’s really quite simple. I’ll help you to shift away from Calcutta, you know, the expenses, etcetera. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while as well.” He sipped his lime juice, leaving a fresh, tangy aroma in the air, as he swirled the glass around to mix the sugar which had settled at the bottom. A single, dark green leaf stuck to the rim of the glass, suddenly releasing a faint, minty scent into the air.

For all his bravado, Nicholas had felt utterly cowed by Norman’s quiet, yet menacing tone. He had never really made any specific threat to him, but the soft delivery of the ultimatum was far more sinister than any loud, abusive tirade could have ever been.

He felt he had to make a show of defiance, if for no other reason, but to prop up his own rapidly flagging sense of self-esteem:

“Fuck you, Norman, and while you’re at it, fuck her as well. You don’t scare me…and she is still my wife.”

He stood up, leaning forward, across the neat pile of documents, both palms flattened against the desk-top:

”and you can tell her I’ll be seeing her.”

“I suggest you read the contents of this folder, before you do anything you may regret later,” Norman extended the package the accountant had brought in a few minutes earlier:

“You will find details around what I expect you to do, as well as what’s in it for you. I think you will find the whole arrangement rather convenient.”

The same soft delivery. The same subtle menace in the statement. Nicholas accepted the package and managed a weak, swagger to the door:

“This isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of me, and that’s a fucking promise.” He slammed the door behind him.

Norman reached for the phone.

ub-Inspector Shauquat Khan looked at the ringing phone with disgust. He hated interruptions to his work. He was in an airless, unsavoury looking room at the Lalbazar Police station. The interrogation room. The cowering figure on the floor before him groaned, from the bloody, swollen pulp of flesh and broken teeth that once used to be his mouth. The nose had ballooned out to a grotesque proportion, bent towards the left side of his face. The left eye was completely shut, like a boxer who had taken a series of particularly punishing blows there. He struggled to get into an upright position against the dull, gray wall of the room. He couldn’t seem to find his legs, or for some strange reason they refused to respond to his urgent movements.

The phone persisted, it’s ring shrill and strident in the silent, brick-walled room. The sub-inspector grunted, and aimed a vicious kick at the prostrate figure’s exposed ribs, before turning towards the phone and snatching it off the huge, filthy desk.

The kick landed with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. A rib, or a few of them, had broken. The impact snapped the figure into a foetal curl, like a newspaper folded in half down the middle. The single open eye turned slowly, upwards, only the white showing, before shutting, as he lapsed, thankfully, into unconsciousness. The sub-inspector grunted with satisfaction, before snarling into the phone:

“Who is it?” The large scar, on one side of his face, seemed to glow with a life of it’s own. Like a huge, live scorpion had been stitched on there. It was an angry red now, and jerked on his face, as he took deep breaths, to compensate for the violent activity he had been engaged in.

Before this call had rudely interrupted his work:

“Shauquat?”

“Is it Banon sahib, what can I do for you sir?” The last word sounding like saar. The snarling tone rapidly assuaged now, smoothly mutating into an oily, artificially sweetened one.

“He was here a few moments ago. I have given him the documents. Could you please make sure he signs them and gives them back to you…or to me?”

“No problem sir. I may have to use some…persuasion…, not too much, you know. Just enough to convince him that we are serious?”

“As long as he stays away from the lady, and you convince him that it is in his best interest to remain silent on the subject.”

“But Banon sahib, that it my job. You please leave this to me and I will take care of it. He will never disturb the memsahib again. I can assure you.”

“Very well, I’ll leave it to you then.”

“I will call you when it has been done, sir,” the sub-inspector replied, before hanging up.

He looked away for a moment at the crumpled figure on the floor. The inert form shifted desperately, legs folding in tight, so the knees were almost touching his stomach. The room was filled with the stench of urine, which had puddle around the unconscious figure. The buzzing of flys suddenly filled the room, as they descended on the figure, settling on the face, where the blood had clotted around the mouth and nose, like thick, chocolate sauce. Sub-inspector Shauquat pounded the old-fashioned brass bell on his desk. It was the kind you wound up by twisting the brass top. It shrieked to life with a shrill, piercing ring. A khaki clad orderly entered the room, bare-feet, except for the cloth tape wrapped around his calves to the ankles. Khaki shorts enveloping skinny, hairy legs, like a skirt. Starched and firmly pressed, so the creases looked like the twin prow of a racing catamaran The thick, gleaming cane, tucked under a sweaty, khaki, armpit. He saluted smartly, stealing a glance at the unconscious figure on the floor:

“Jee Hazoor”, he said, using the Urdu expression in deference to the sub-inspector’s rank.

“Is kuttey ko lock-up me dhallo. Khana, pina, kuch dena muth. Abh tak gana shuru nahi kiya,” the sub-inspector replied, also in Urdu. He wound the bell, with manic concentration, the instrument almost completely hidden within the huge, fleshy hands that enfolded it.

The orderly stepped across the room to the struggling figure, his cane raised across his chest, like a tennis player about to make a backhand stroke. It swung viciously, suddenly, smashing into the defenceless back of the huddled figure, who screamed out, the body jerking almost completely straight, writhing in agony. He half-crawled, slithered across the floor, in the direction of the door the orderly had entered from. The cane prodding him in the back and ribs, along the way. The urine trail he left in his wake, buzzing with a cloud of flys, unhappy at being dragged away from the gore they had been feasting on. A pungent, acrid stench filled the room.

What songs can this dog sing for the sub-inspector; In this condition, and without any food or drink as well, he wondered? But if that is the sub-inspectors order, then I must follow it, he decided, jerking the cell door open, and booting the crawling, sobbing figure into the gloomy, stinking, darkness within. The door clanged shut, as the figure crawled into the farthest corner of the cell.

To lick his wounds.

teven climbed the spiral for the second time that evening, struggling to keep the creaking and grumbling of the old Iron as low as possible. Thankfully, the hall-room lights were still on, which meant they were back. More importantly, still awake. It was already after twelve in the night, but he knew they would be expecting him:

“Hi Steve,” her father Stanley greeted him, dropping the crossword he’d been working on, walking across to the door. They bear-hugged each other. Her mother, Maureen smiled a silent welcome, looking up from the giant Funk & Wagnall dictionary they used, to work the more difficult clues in the crosswords. They were both very good, though Maureen was less vocal, quietly solving the cryptic anagrams without any fuss. Stan, on the other hand, punctuated each solution with a huge exclamation or expletive. They made a wonderful couple, and to Steve, they were like a second mother and father. They adored him too:

“Maureen, Stan, Hi! Sorry about hassling you good folk so late in the night... just thought I’d check up about Dominique’s trip...” his voice trailing off. He saw the pained look cross Maureen’s face...Stan suddenly polishing his reading glasses as though he had dropped them into a pool of cement:

”Is there a problem?” Steven knew his question was rhetorical. He could sense already that something was not quite right:

“Did she leave a note for me?”

Stan extending the spectacles on outstretched hands. Like an archeologist examining an extraordinary find. Not quite satisfied, he formed an ‘O’ with his mouth, and gasped some air onto the already clean lens, rubbed them some more with a tail of his shirt before looking up at Steven:

“Have a drink, Steve.” He was already moving towards the Dining area where the liquor cabinet nestled in a corner:

“She didn’t tell us much...said you’d know why. She’s off to London and only she knows when she’s coming back... If ever.” Stan handed him a glass of rum on a clump of ice, the cubes sticking together untidily. He seemed glad that he’d said all that without having to look Steve in the eyes. From the safety of the Dining room:

“Did she leave a note, say anything at all?” Steve repeated his question to Maureen. Shaking her head even before he had finished:

“Steve, all I can say is that both of you should know what this is all about. I’m really sorry, but she hasn’t told us anything, or left a note either. She seems really upset about something; but she wasn’t going to tell us about it.” Maureen got up from the her chair and walked over to Steve. She looked at him close and hard. Reaching out and sqeezing his arm:

“Oh Steve! I’m so sorry! You are you going to be O.K, aren’t you?” She must have sensed him breaking inside. Like a house of cards coming apart. The icy passage of Dominique’s leaving. Blowing him down. Ace’s and Kings groveling in the dust. Steve felt staggered...speechless. Had to get away. He looked wistfully towards her room, knowing that he wasn’t going to ask if he could go in there...for the last time. Before they cleaned it up. Destroyed the precious memories that were preserved in every inch of the room. Her fragrance, the untidy clutter of clothes, garment samples, sketches. The book she’d been reading, propped against her pillow... Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Remembering a quote she loved from the book...”If you love something set it free...if it comes back it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” Wasn’t sure if he’d got the quote right, but it all seemed to fall into place now. Filling him with a painful serendipity. Like she had been telling him something all along. He hadn’t been listening. And now she was gone. The jigsaw puzzle complete...except for one last piece...she’d left him out again!

He hugged Maureen fiercely. As if this would help him feel closer to Dominique... absorb all the residual emotions and feelings she’d left behind on her mother through osmosis. Stan was back in his chair, Funk and Wagnall anchoring him down...safely. Looking for another word for topiary art:

“Thanks Maureen, Stan, I’m sure she’ll come around. Let’s see what she has to say when she writes. I’ll let you know.” Steve knew this came out sounding hollow... feeble. It was the best he could do. He felt like bawling into something. A warm breast... someone’s shoulder. Nothing to hold on to. Except the uncomfortable silence that suddenly engulfed the room. Shutting him out; may as well not have been there. He shut the door gently behind him. Crumpling down, on the step. . .like the many nights they’d sat out here together. Counting dreams. Smoking endless cigarettes. Sharing promises and lies.

It was going to be a long, lonely road to nowhere....!

The steps were suddenly cold and clammy.

hey were at the office, in his strangely Baroque room. Heavy maroon’s and earth colours. The drapes closing out any light, sound. Swaying gently from soft drafts the airconditioner murmered into the room. Dull, ochre walls, ornamented with the most exquisite carvings of the Hindu deity Ganapathy - God of wealth. The part human, part elephant form elegantly shaped in different mediums..sandalwood, marble, a particularly beautiful image rendered in silver with gold ornamentation etched around the trunk. Joss sticks tucked into the carvings trailing smoke shadows on the wall. Like tiny snakes slithering ceiling-wards.

The carpets thick and soft, like walking on snow; the off-white shade throwing everything else in the room into sharp relief. A burgundy leather swivel chair, Norman folded into it; wheeling himself backwards now. The leather contacting the wall with a gentle rustle. A faint, aromatic leather scent permeating the room suddenly. Propping his legs up on the billiard table desk. Brown Gucci loafers looking like they’d never touched a sidewalk or road.

She thought about all the time they’d spent in this room together. If walls could talk! The passionate, unhurried lovemaking. Searching, finding, the scars they’d gotten for being themselves. Wishing she’d drawn the line somewhere. She wouldn’t have to leave then. Like a hunted criminal. Feeling so very jaded:

“Dominique, you must leave immediately. While there’s still time... until we can sort this out. You know how difficult things would get for us.”

“...for us.”

she heard the last part of the sentence. Almost had to guess what the first few words had been. Norman, hand in hair, curling the gray-black strands delicately between thumb and forefinger. Norman, not making eye contact with her as he spoke:

“I’m so sorry about this Dominique. Wish I could change things so you didn’t have to leave this way...but you know it’s the only way.” Both hands outstretched on the desk. Palms together in supplication? Fingers seeming to point at her? She felt oceans away from him already.

“I’ve made the arrangements in London. They’ll take care of everything. You can start your life all over again after this little break.” Smiling his warm, almost paternal smile now. The one he reserved for moments in conversations when the humour had died. And no one had noticed.

A frozen smile.

“...break!”

Dominique fussed with her spectacles, dew-like sweat furrowing down her nose. Poking at the glasses which had slipped down the delicate slope with a forefinger. His last word ringing in her head like a gong. Is that all ...just a ‘break’. And then I live happily ever after.

The world according to Norman Banon?

The aroma from the Joss sticks and the leather had combined to fill the room with a sickly, cloying smell. Like a stale cigar, salvaged from an ashtray and re-lit.

She rose abrubtly:

“Thanks Norman. Guess you’re right. No need to hang around any longer than necessary. And I’m sure everything will be fine.”

She was at his side now, bending to kiss him. They hugged briefly...too briefly she would muse later:

“I’ll call you from London,” she said, as she walked out of his office...

...And his life.

he voice came to him like an echo in the wind...

“Hi there!”

Far away and to his left. Distant white sails suddenly swimming into focus. The boats drifting further and further away from the first line of breakers. His shorts feeling damp and cold. Almost as though the steps he’d been sitting on were wet? Steven looked up and to where the voice came from. The reverie breaking... back to the damp sandbank he’d been sitting on:

“Hi!,” he said.

It was the German girl, Helga Tahl. She had the room next to his at The Seafoam. Her Hair gleaming like a golden halo in the early morning sun. Her face, burned a dark copper, the skin around the nose, peeling like delicate wisps of onion skin. Cerulean eyes, against the tanned skin, making her face look look like a poster for the good life. Her soft mouth suggesting a smile, now pursing. Even, white teeth gently biting down on a corner of her lower lip. In concentration. She was pretty. And fresh. Vaguely reminded him of a famous German Tennis star. Couldn’t remember her name. Said she was Nineteen:

“D’you mind if I join you...share a smoke?” Steven smiled in welcome. The Light blue two-piece top barely concealing her full, firm breasts. Straps shifting, showing thin strips of milk-white flesh beneath. A white skirt bisecting strong, tanned legs down to slightly thickset ankles. Opening in the front like a tent-flap, as she squatted down besides him. He couldn’t help noticing the delicate mound concealed in the brief, blue swimsuit. Feeling a sudden tug in the crotch. Remembering her fragrance from last night. Tearing his eyes away, back to the sea. The sails and boats, disappearing into the horizon.

Helga was rolling a joint. Cupping the greenish brown grass in her left hand, the empty cigarette in the other, gently funnelling in the stuff.

She’d come to his room the night before with her guitar. One string missing. Asking him to tune it for her. He had. The lodge manager had told her room number two was A mujeeshan, she’d said, pronouncing the last word with the singsong tone of the manager. Sang a few songs for him. He liked her version of Bobby Magee. Soulful! Struggling to shape the chords without the fourth string. They’d both gotten stoned. Immaculate! Lying on his bed. Giggling like kids. Trying to fill the tiny room with smoke:

”No dinner till we get to cloud Nine,” she’d vowed, mock seriously, between tokes. Watching the puffs, like clouds, rising to the ceiling, flattening out and disappearing through the thatched roof. Both spread-eagled on the bed. Her hands fumbling inside his shorts now. Warming him, a glow spreading through his loins. Her fingers delicately circling the moist head of his stiffening member. Sliding the skin back and forth with a soft, fluid motion. The front of his shorts tenting up. Like there was a serpant coiled within. They could both crawl in. His hands kneading her breasts through the white seersucker blouse. Nipples poking against the fabric. like dark grapes. His head burrowing under the blouse, licking round each nipple in turn, drawing them into his mouth, nibbling at them. Her thighs gripping his hand like a vise. He could hardly move. Loosening now. His hands sliding under a crushed cotton skirt...along a muscular thigh. Searching for a tight band of underwear to slip under. Finding a soft, silky patch of trimmed hair instead. She placing his flattened palm over her throbbing, velvet opening. Rocking herself, squirming, against his palm. Slick wet sounds filling the room. So stoned, their love-sounds seemed amplified:

”D’you have a rubber?”

The question sounding incongruous, mumbled, through lips still teasing his nipple. Wishing she would really bite. Not just lick them. Steven shaking his head, back against the wall. Fistful of damp golden hair; shaking her with his movement. Eyes closed in bliss:

“Too bad!” Shifting as she said this, her hard thighs, flat stomach, so close to his face now, he could feel the heat from her sex. Smell the dark, coppery essence of her. Opening her legs wide and engulfing him. Felt like he was crawling back to the womb. This beautiful woman could save him. Her strong legs urging him on. He dipped his tongue into her wet, quivering, paradise.

Her hands splaying him. Licking a finger like a popsicle and gently and working it into his rectum, while her mouth swallowed him like a cauldron of boiling oil. Steven screaming…she was sucking and releasing his bouncing rod like it was a cone. He felt himself exploding, even as she bucked and shivered, grinding her crotch on his mouth, jerking spasmodically as his tongue probed and caressed her swollen lips, her lovebud, opening her up like a flower to the rain. She orgasmed violently, flexing and releasing her thighs convulsively. The room filling with the sweet-sour smell of their sweaty sex; the grass they’d smoked. Tasting each other as they kissed like familiar lovers. They’d slept like babies after.

He never knew when she left his room...

...And here she was again. Reefer ready, leaning into him for a light, back to a strong wind, screaming in from the sea. Dragging deep, eyes closed, holding the smoke in her mouth, tasting it, her cheeks puffed, rolling it around. Savouring it flowing down, her face slightly tilted upwards, as if the action of straightning her neck provided a better passage. Steven accepted the reefer from her. Her eyes still shut. Flicked it away into the damp, wet sand. Getting up, walking away, as she opened her eyes, hands stretched out for the joint, now lying in the sand in front of her, trailing a wisp of smoke. A curling, lazy line of surf from a dying breaker, rolling in like an amoeba, engulfing the reefer, the smouldering tip winking out. Frothy bubbles dotting the sand, glinting faintly in the sunlight. A tracer of smoke curling heavenwards. He was thinking of Viking funerals:

“Why did you do that for?” Helga screaming into the wind, at Steven’s receding figure.

“Because it isn’t good for you,” Steven pausing, looking back at her.

“And who the fuck are you to tell me that?”

“The same guy you almost fucked last night.”

“You pissed off because I didn’t put out for you?”

“ No, I’m just pissed off! - I came hear to get my self together, get cleaned up. Not get more fucked up than I already am.” Steven turning and walking back towards the Lodge.

“Just stay the fuck away from me you fucking waco.”

Helga screaming, the wind tearing the sentence to shreds, before it reached him.

He felt good. Really good. For the first time. In a long, long while. I’ll get there yet, he thought.

Beyond the first line of Breakers: Eposide 2

2011-10-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

July 1982...the Monsoon had just announced it’s presence with some spectacular rains and Calcutta had never looked more beautiful...or cleaner! The huge expanse of protected greenbelt area that formed a bulls-eye in the city center were lush and green with the moist wetness of the morning dew. The grass seemed manicured and perfect. Even the wildflower and moss-covered areas were wonderfully patterned. Contrasting tones of the snapdragons, shrub and moss covered rocks looking like a giant patchwork quilt. Everything about the landscape appeared to be part of a premeditated design.

The sun peered cautiously around a bank of cotton wool cloud in the distant horizon. The entire scene looked like a child’s pastel artwork - innocently creative yet profound. The first dazzling, Orange rays now lit up the Victoria Memorial in a spectacular display of colour. The marble towers and columns glowed with the whiteness of polished Ivory. In many ways, the ‘VeeEm’, as it was fondly referred to by Calcuttans, had become a source of pride as well as embarrassment to them. The British had long since left these shores when they granted India independence in ‘47, but their indelible stamp of heritage lived on in this, and many other architectural icons that immortalized the city’s historic past. The vast expanse of tree and green, almost a thousand acres, that surrounded this magnificent edifice, formed an ideal jogging track for the more physically inclined. It straddled The Royal Calcutta Turf Club, and even one complete circuit of this Horse Racing course covered more than a couple of Kilometers of ground - a challenging run for most.

The lone runner loped around the outer perimeter of the VeeEm grounds, and slowed down at the point where the track intersected the traffic lights of the Presidency General Hospital, stealing a glance at his watch as he did. It was just a couple of minutes after Six. He set off once again with graceful, easy strides. The Nike shorts and Tee clung to the fine patina of sweat that glinted off his legs and torso. Lean, but not too muscular, he had the natural, balanced physique of a swimmer. He was probably a couple of inches under six feet, but his leanness offset this shortcoming, and the end result made him look taller than he really was.

Yes indeed, Steven Hines was one happy camper this morning, smiling and waving at the other joggers who were gradually joining the course.

The past few months had been a roller-coaster of emotion. First the sheer bliss of having Dominique back, after a particularly long, extended business sojourn in the U.K, and then her sudden change of heart and attitude as to the direction she felt their relationship should go.

Over the years they had been together, she consistently rejected any discussions on the subject of marriage. She always had a reasonable explanation for her reluctance to formalize the relationship. He initially felt convinced at her arguments, dropping the discussions immediately. But in the more recent past, he had become increasingly frustrated at her intractability, and would dig in obstinately, insisting on the real reason she wouldn’t settle down with him. These discussions invariably ended in tears, with her imploring him not to push her. She always insisted that she loved him dearly, and that she valued their relationship above everything else. She was afraid that things would change, if they ever made their commitments to each other too formal:

“Why can’t you just take me as I am. You already have me. You couldn’t have me any more, and marriage isn’t going to make things any different”, she would say tearfully:

“ I love you Steve, but I’m afraid your love is too strong for me; you want to possess me, and I can’t go through that ever again. Please don’t get too heavy with me - I can’t take it, I won’t take it!”

And then there were the accusations and the recriminations that followed. He knew that her work involved entertaining clients from the fashion industry she worked in, many of whom were very eligible, attractive men. Whenever his probing about the real reason failed to elicit the desired response, he would resort to accusing her of having affairs with someone or the other of her business contacts. He hated himself for doing this, but couldn’t seem to stop. It was like a knee-jerk reaction triggered by her first sign of reluctance with the subject of marriage. But the making up, after these frequent, traumatic bouts of anger and denial were always the most beautiful and poignant moments in their relationship. She was so completely forgiving and unselfish. When she welcomed him back to her love and friendship. She never held anything against him. If she knew about his own indiscretions, when they were apart, she never ever brought them up for discussion. But he couldn’t help noticing that her eyes recently, had a sad, hunted look. Almost as if she were afraid that some demons...some monsters only she could see, were catching up with her. That she should take flight with desperate, reckless urgency.

He had begun seeing other women whenever Dominique was away. There was no shortage of women who were willing and ready for a good time, and his reasonably high profile status as a Musician in the country’s Rock music circuit, only helped further his cause. These affairs were not always initiated by him, though once started, he would take control completely, dictating how long they could last, what degree of commitment could be expected and what the rules of the game were. He was sensitive that some of the women he moved around with, cherished the hope they could win him away from Dominique’s mystique. He also knew that his sudden, abrupt closure of those relationships hurt them in far deeper ways than they cared to show. But these affairs all served one purpose alone - to get back on Dominique, for every imagined or real affair he suspected her of having. It didn’t matter that people could get hurt.

She had changed. For the better... he couldn’t help feeling. She seemed more inclined to consider progressing the relationship now. The other change was her possessiveness about him now; so much more demanding of his time ...his attention. She had started going with him to the studio the band rehearsed at. Something she’d never found time to do in the past. This was completely at counterpoint with her normal, cool, quite detached self. Where he was usually the one to refer to their relationship as a permanent one, and occasionally hint at the possibility of the M word, she had started talking openly about marriage to their close friends, and never failed to hug him or just look at him that special way, whenever she said it around him. It should have made him feel so good. Instead he often found himself more confused, even suspicious. She’d even announced their marriage plans to their dear friends Navneet and Shaila Singh, who were so thrilled that they promptly set up a dinner at their place.

Tonight.

To celebrate.

Reason enough to feel top of the world, he figured, as he picked up the pace, almost sprinting the last few hundred meters to his place on Dentmission Road. He would pick her up in the evening and they’d go over to Navneet and Shaila’s place together. They could pick up a bottle of wine on the way.

Steven felt particularly at peace with himself this morning. He figured this was in no small measure because of the sense of fulness and completion he felt their relationship was heading towards... finally!

Where in Hell had Nicholas diasppeared to, he wondered as he let himself in to the house.

e must never know, she thought. Never, never, never! Dear Steve! Dominique felt an involuntary twinge as she thought about him. Sweet, sensitive Steve! No, he must never know the truth about her leaving.

I’m not taking anyone for a ride...don’t blame me if you enjoyed the ride and don’t want it to stop. I can’t stop something you started, she remembered screaming hysterically at him during their last confrontation...seemed like they hadn’t argued for months now? And she was leaving. And the terrible secret she had lived with recently would be laid to rest once and for all. How she wished she’d stayed cool and reserved, like she’d always been with him before this last sojourn in the U.K. Too much had changed...for her. Steve would never understand. He saw everything as Black and white. Even their relationship. Her life had unfolded in a far more varied series of shades and tones. She threw herself into relationships, like an artist trying out new colours. Always looking for the ideal set of contrasts and compliments.

She found herself doing a mental inventory of the last few months or was it years?

The many new, sometimes exotic destinations she had visited. She had traversed much of Europe, but found herself particularly wistful about the friends and relationships she had developed in London and Denmark. She’d done some wild, crazy things in these cities; so many wonderful relationships packed tight against each other. Some blissful... others full of heartache and regret. Each one memorable. Now, in hindsight, they seemed to blur into each other, like the colors in the fabric swatch she now stuffed into her case.

The men were all different, interesting in their own unremarkable ways. Tough and in control to start with. Their early cool steadily deteriorating into plaintive, cloying and sometimes downright childish demands. And the inevitable possessiveness as the relationship progressed. They just had to possess... her...every single one of them.

She put the last few things into the case she had packed to near bursting point.

She was ready. The cab had arrived. Her parents flitted in and out of her room quite purposelessly. Her mother was visibly unsettled: “Have you checked your departure time. What about all your travel documents...you know how these Immigration guys are?” She fidgeted with the suitcase zipper and the locks, as if the mere act of doing this could delay Dominique’s departure in some way. She cleared her throat and asked:

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave him a note. I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s a big boy now, and there’s no need for the two of you to end things this way. After all, you have been seeing each other for all these years...?”

Dominique fought back the deluge of tears that threatened to waterfall in a moment. She said softly:

“There’s nothing to say, Mom. I just want to get away...be by myself for a while. These last few months have been Hell, and I am not sure anymore if I know what I want from the relationship. Besides, he’ll be just fine - there’s plenty of women out there just waiting to catch his fall. Believe me, I know ...I really should leave now.” She hugged her mother. The suitcase was swimming in front of her like she was seeing it through a rainswept windshield, the wipers fallen off. She looked around her room and absent-mindedly straightened the corner of her bedcover which had folded over crookedly:

“I’ll be all right. You don’t have to explain anything to him Mom. I’m sure he’s seen the signs. Too bad about the dinner this evening. I’ll call Shaila and talk to her - she’ll understand,” she said, as she grabbed the handle of the suitcase and sighing, walked out of the room. She hesitated for the briefest of moments at the door, looking at her room fondly and...for the last time? The comfortable, untidy clutter of cushions on the floor, the record jackets on the desk where she kept her stereo. The leather folder, open on the desktop, assorted mail, the letters he’d written, and all the other scribblings he’d kept sending her over the years, spilling out from the sides. She walked over to the desk impulsively, grabbed the folder, and fled, without looking back.

The long drive to the airport was comfortably silent. Her parents seemed almost too embarrassed to make conversation. She was relieved. The familiar sights and sounds of Calcutta’s Eastern By-pass highway were comforting and in a way, calming. It was a relatively traffic-free, this time of evening, save for the occasional country bullock cart, forcing the driver to slow down. They were making good time. The tree lined avenues they drove through belied the fact that they were driving through one of the world’s most populous and polluted cities...Calcutta. The recent rains had showered the trees. Clean! And Green! They arched over the highway, almost unbroken, for mile on end. She found herself trying to predict the exact point a gap would appear in the foliage above, looking up only then. Sometimes when she got it right, an irregular patch of night sky would appear through the gap. Star-filled and so very personal. Like a private view of the her own little galaxy. Twinkling and full of promise...

...at the Birla Planetarium with Steven one afternoon. It seemed so long ago now. They had both left their offices early, and for no particular reason, found themselves in the dark, cosy confines of the planetarium. Stumbling into some empty seats, in the thick gloom. They looked for a while at surreal galaxies projected on the domed ceiling. The bored voice of the canned commentary a sullen drone in the background. Mostly they looked at the stars in their own eyes, kissing and touching each other until they were both completely wet and so very horny. She felt like she could cum from every pore in her body...felt like making wild, reckless love right their on the Planetarium floor. Under the nightsky. A private canopy of stars covering them. But too soon the morning came. Without warning. Harsh white lights signalling the end of the show, rudely interrupting them....

...like the strong odour suddenly permeating the car broke her reverie now. She could tell that they were nearing the end of the journey. The unpleasent smell came from the untreated effluents and chemicals sewering into the little ponds and streams that dotted the suburbs of Salt lake City. A dubious legacy of the myriad leather finishing factories that punctuated the last stretch of the highway’s curving route to the airport. She almost overlooked this. It was just a minor inconvenience. She sensed it would be the last time she would have to put up with. For a while, at least.

After the check-in formalities were completed, she walked back to the point in the security enclosure where they were waiting for her; her Mother, looking worn and sad. Her father, always the emotional one, moistening round the eyes, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. Telltale cigarette ash scattered around him, like some mysterious, protective pentagram. They had played this routine out so many times in the past. The brief, touching good-bys at the airport. But she knew this time was different ...there was no certainty when she would see them again. She hugged them ferociously, spending just a moment longer with her Mother, whispering:

“ I really love him Mom, but I feel this is best for both of us. Please don’t tell him I said anything, especially this.” She walked away from them. Looking back only when she reached the departure gate. Waving at them, she thought sadly how old and fragile they looked. She felt overwhelmed suddenly, and the tears she had held back for so long, gushed forth like a flood.

They waved to her furiously, long after she had disappeared down the long, lonely tunnel to the BA aircraft.

e shook his head, the long, dark curls spraying tiny droplets all over the floor and and on the mirror he now gazed into. He palmed a patch of moisture off the glass and studied his face critically. The whiskers could do with a trim; and the thick, bushy eyebrows as well. Smiling as he fumbled for the scissors on the tiny shelf, where he kept his shaving gear. Weird! Black hair and a mouse brown moustache! His mother claimed the jet black curls came from her West Indian antecedents. He could believe that. Some of her brothers’ looked real Afro. And with a maiden name like Hendricks! He punched the faucet to clear the tiny hairs from the edges of the sink. He hated it looking messy almost obsessively.

The Levi’s would do. He tugged them on and pulled a white Tee over his head, almost at the same time. The brown belt threaded easily into the loops of comfortably broken-in jeans and he finessed his ensemble by stepping into his faded, well-worn Dingo’s. He just loved the boots; wore them for almost every concert during the past year. Yeah, the chicks liked them too! Splashing on some Keuros, he grabbed the bike keys from the dresser and left the room.

Thankfully the Jawa started at the first kick, and he he roared off the stand, the engine whining and snarling as he rapidly changed gears. The wind felt cool and fresh as it vaporized the after shave on his face. He was at her place in minutes, hauling the bike onto it’s stand and patting the smooth, polished-chrome fuel tank affectionately. His watch showed ten minutes past seven as he sprinted up the spiral staircase to her front door. He couldn’t help thinking wryly about the perfect oxymoron this presented. The front door was at the back of the house? The iron spiral creaked and groaned, straining at every footfall. Surprisingly, there was no familiar face peering out from the window overlooking the stairs. The house was unusually quiet for this time of evening:

“Where’s everybody?” Steven directed the question to the two boys completely engrossed with a Lego masterpiece they had assembled on the floor of the hall-room. Dominique’s little brothers.

The bigger boy, Larry, about eight, looked up:

“Airport.” Monosyllabic, terse, he went back to the tiny spade he was fixing onto the back of the tiny red garden shed, on a green lego lawn. The smaller of the two boys, Mark, chirped up in a singsong:

”Dominique gone to London, na na na na na na...”

“Larry, do you know where they’ve gone, I mean Dominique, mom...dad?” His voice came out angry, and Steven regretted it almost as soon as the question left him. Startled, Larry fumbled, dropping the lego spade:

“She had to go to London. Mom and Dad have gone to the airport to drop her...said they would be back by ten.” He groped on the ground for the spade, pinching it between his stubby thumb and first finger, sliding it along the floor, against the sofa leg where he finally trapped it. Raising it triumphantly, like a captured flag to show off to Steven, who missed this little victory celebration completely. Doubtful, he walked past the boys, and into her bedroom. It looked unchanged, her familiar fragrance coming to him like a fond, treasured memory. He took a deep breath and held it. As if the action would seal this precious part of her deep within his soul. He felt like he was falling into a deep, murky pool whose depth was unknown. Walking in Terra incognita. He looked desperately at the space to the right of the wardrobe, for her samsonite suitcases. They were gone. And, he suspected now, so was she:

“Thanks guys,” Steven said, gently ruffling both their heads: “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be back later in the evening, o.k?” Both boys nodded their heads comically, in unison, and Steven smiled ruefully, as he left the house, his heart sinking rapidly, almost with every slow step he took down the winding, Iron staircase.

The dinner at Navneet’s place turned out better than Steven had expected. He told them about Dominique’s sudden need to travel to London that evening, apologizing on her behalf. He didn’t tell them that she hadn’t even bothered to call him during the day. That he was devastated, and for some reason, felt this incident had more significance than he could interpret for the moment. That he was filled with emptiness and foreboding....feeling chilled, utterly broken. That he secretly sobbed huge, dry, silent tears.

“Just like Dominique,” Shaila chuckled. “She’s made a science of keeping people hanging on to her every last word...every last action! That’s what makes her such an incredibly fascinating person. You’re one lucky guy Steve,” she said, raising her glass.

“Let’s drink to that, and to you guys tying the knot, finally,” Navneet said. They all raised their glasses to the toast.

The dinner Shaila turned out that night was absolutely fabulous. The most amazing South Indian vegeterian delicacies, rounded off with crisp wafer thin Dosas and delightfully puffy Iddlies. The Chutny, made from cocoanut, pungent yet so morish. Everything was delicious, and he ended up eating more than he thought he could. Navneet and Shaila kept up a light chatter throughout the evening, and Steven felt immensely grateful for that. He just wasn’t upto any conversation around Dominique...or marriage. At least not for the moment. They seemed to sense his emotions and tactfully changed subjects, without being too obvious. They finished their coffee in the huge hallroom, an omnium gatherum of heirlooms and antiques from Navneet’s ancestry in the Punjab. The set of curved ceremonial Sabres in lacquered sheeths. Three intricately hand beaten Shields, the bosses inlaid with Rubies and ever so finely etched, smaller bejewelled daggers or Kirpans, crossed below each. The elaborately carved Teakwood furniture, each piece with it’s own unique story to tell. Navneet’s brother, Sukhdeep, was the expert on their historical pedigree. Everything was perfectly preserved and presented in this comfortable room, pregnant with memories of a rich, cultured past. The Grandfather clock, gleaming brass pendulum and chains, swinging in perpetual motion. Now, abrubtly, whirring into life, announcing the Eleventh hour. The room redolent with beautiful, bell tones, drawing Steve to the source. Counting Eleven distinct chimes even as his eyes fastened on a solitary picture frame. On the ornate Rosewood bookcase, comfortably positioned between the two large single seaters Navneet and Shaila now sat on. A wedding photograph. Navneet and Shaila with friends, after the formal Sikh wedding ceremony was over. He and Dominique were there too. She wore a creme cotton sari with a dark green temple print border. Her simplicity, compared to the overdone elegance of the other ladies in the photo, made her stand out even more. She looked so beautiful, and her eyes, gazing at him now from the frame, seemed to be telling him something. Shaila saw his look of concentration. She glanced back at the photograph, and smiled:

“She looks beautiful in a Sari, doesn’t she,” biting her lip almost before the remark was complete.

Suddenly he had to leave. He had to speak to her parents. Find out everything about this trip of hers; when she was coming back? Most importantly, pick up the note she must have left for him.

Shaila hugged him close and long. Kissed him on both cheeks: “Hang in there, Steve. She’ll be back soon. You know she’s crazy about you”, she said with a quick, gentle squeeze to his shoulder.

Why did he get the feeling she knew something he didn’t about Dominique’s mysterious trip...?

Navneet high-fived him, punching him playfully in the chest when they’d finished the whole complicated slap-and-fist routine:

“At least this gives you some more time to get laid old man, get all that phlegm off the chest.”

Steven laughed in response, and jogged down the Bungalow’s broad, wooden staircase to his bike parked below.

They heard the bike start. They looked out the window at Lansdowne Road. The winking red taillight of the Jawa had already become a speck in the intersection of Lansdowne Road and Lower Circular Road. The Red brake light flashed briefly, like a cigarette glow, and he was gone. Navneet hugged his wife close:

“I wonder what happened to Dominique. Steve looks a real mess, poor guy.”

“I know,” she replied. “Doesn’t look good. Hope it’s nothing serious.”

Beyond The First Line of breakers...(Episode 1)

2011-10-17T13:28:00.000-07:00

he warm surf lapped at his feet and the cotton-balls of foam stuck to his calves just momentarily, before detaching themselves and rolling-floating away in the brisk morning breeze that crisscrossed this desolate beach in Puri, Orissa. He glanced at his watch, punching the light. The green glow showed just three minutes after four a.m.The dawn was still a dense blanket of black against the starless sky. He felt strangely at peace and one with the rich solitude of the place. He needed the time to think this one through, and the shock waves of the recent events were not fully dissipated yet from his system. For the first time in his life he actually found himself considering the word suicide as a possibility. A potential solution from the depression and doubt that had gripped him like a vise these past few days.

Steven Hines shook his head and kicked at the sand in frustration as he straightened up and began to run smoothly against the wind, along the light waves that lapped at the beach forming a dark, wet crescent along the shoreline

She was gone. And there was no way she was ever coming back! He could either deal with this reality and get on with his life, or deny it and allow himself to spiral into the bottomless trough of self-pity and despair he had been wallowing in these past few weeks.

Oh Dominique, if only you had given me a warning, some hint of what was going through your mind, maybe I could have made it better...changed things so you didn’t have to leave?

The same thought had forced it’s way into his mind more than once recently, and always left him with a frustrating sense that the question was never going to be answered. He jogged on with an easy stride that belied the effort of running into a cross wind on wet sand, and the sweat began to form like a fine pattern of mist on his forehead and legs as he picked up the pace, seeming to rage against the sand and the wind that conspired to slow down his progress. He looked back over his shoulder at the section of beach he had covered, and the action seemed to make him remember, almost like looking back at the past, how it had all begun...Dominique Steele...falling in love.

It was the summer’s end in ’76 when he had first started seeing her. She was married, and the thing was falling apart. Their friendship had blossomed from being just good friends to a steadily more intimate and deeper one. They had met almost by accident at a party, where she had been with her husband. She knew him just as another one of her brother’s High School friends. He could tell that she looked at him as more than just an awkward boy this August evening. He had grown over the years since her brother Patrick and himself had frequented each others’ homes; much more mature and self assured now. He asked her for a dance and she smilingly agreed. She looked beautiful in a blue, sheer dress that clung to her like a glove. The shoes were dark blue patent leather and she had the most silky, white scarf he had ever seen, casually knotted against her throat. The single opal on the pendant she wore, winked like a beacon from behind the scarf, every time she turned her face. She was in a playful mood, and teased him with her eyes - they seemed to flash the unspoken question every time they met his... just how much of a man are you really? They danced and she drew him close, her arms draped around his neck. Snuggling and shifting till their bodies were locked together. They couldn’t have gotten any closer if they tried. She didn’t appear in the least uncomfortable with the affect she was having on him as they danced, and seemed to enjoy teasing him more by consciously moving herself against his hardness. God, how he ached for her! Every time her hair brushed his face, he could sense her perfume coming to him like a whispered promise:

“You smell so good... it’s like... it’s driving me crazy,” he said.

“Just a make-up trick I use when I’m on a manhunt,” she laughed. The last word was so deliciously personal...like she was letting him in on a secret! He learned later that she lined her hair with Opium, her favorite perfume whenever she wanted to feel special.

They had danced on and on that night. Long after her husband had left the party, with some pretty young thing he had taken a fancy to during the course of this, another drunken evening. Their first kiss had been interrupted by her, as she giggled and slipped her glasses off. She had the tiniest gap in her front teeth, and when she smiled, it gave her the cutest, pixiest look he had ever seen in a woman. She looked so achingly beautiful then, with her bright, almond eyes framed against the sharp lines of her face. Her high cheekbones seemed to glow at the edges, like peaches offsetting her dark eyes perfectly. Her hair was almost blue-black, dark and curling inwards at the shoulder. It had that untidy, yet constructed look about it, and a wavy strip of fringe kept curling over her right eye. She moved it away now, as she looked up at him invitingly. Before long, they were kissing and touching each other as if afraid the moment would end too soon...that the magic would fade. They were both acutely aware of the passions that were smoldering between them. Passions that demanded a far more satisfying release than just dancing.

Soon they were wandering around the house, looking for a place to be alone. They ended up in this room with a large sofa and not much else. She threw herself on it with a delighted squeal, while he shut the door. She had already made place for him, and he vaguely remembered thinking, as he crawled in besides her ...this is your first real woman, so don’t mess up. Her scent was so much stronger now, in the room, filling it with a mysterious...incense; fragrance of... cinnamon ... wildflowers... he couldn’t tell which. All he knew was that he felt completely high, like he was stoned on some psychedelic drug. Totally out of control, but in an uncanny way, unnaturally aware all the same. Everything seemed blurred and a little out of focus! This couldn’t be happening to him.

She was soon gently taking his shirt off, and slipping out off her own dress, with a whispery, silken rustle. Her shoes went last, giggling as she bycycle-pedalled them off from where she lay on the sofa. She seemed to know intuitively that it was his first time, and everything she did seemed so naturally innocent and easy. He couldn’t help feeling that he was already falling completely, helplessly in love with her. At this magic she was doing to him.

And they made long, unhurried love that night. She would allow him to lead, crying out softly in her pleasure, and when he had tired, she would aggressively start all over again, covering him with her moist warmth, like a blanket of unquenching passion. And all the while, her own womanscent mingled with the faint, teasing fragrance of Opium, was like an entrancing drug that held him captive to her every desire. He had never quite imagined making love to a woman would ever feel this way, and his heart soared with a sense of fulfillment he had never felt before...he was a man...he was capable of pleasuring a woman, but more importantly, the fantastic realization that he had actually made love to her! Dominique!

They shared a cigarette after, still comfortable coiled together, and she teased him about losing it:

“Wow, that was so good! Did I do anything for you,” she asked with a mischievous purr in her voice.

“Thank you,” was all that he could muster for the moment. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get dressed. Or to leave. Just lay in his arms, making soft sounds, tracing patterns on his chest, face, with her fingers. As if this let her see him better in the dark. They were comfortably silent now, in this cocoon of love they had created. The cigarette glowing fitfully in a red scribble, whenever it was raised to either of their lips, like ghostly writing on a blackboard. She reached for his face, and felt the wetness there:

“Steve you’re crying? Oh baby, what’s wrong? Is it something I said...something I did?” He held her hand gently to his cheek and kissing it whispered: “I don’t know why Dominique. But I just feel so wonderful...never felt this way before. And you are just so incredibly beautiful, I guess I’m kinda’ star-struck.” She leaned over him and kissed the wetness away from his eyes and cheeks: “Umm...anything else need a lick,” she whispered seductively, raking her breasts across his chest, making him groan with pleasure. They made love again, but this time he paced himself better. She cried out softly and arched her back, calling out his name before sinking her teeth into his chest and dragging him down over her, like a heavy, protective rug:

“What are you going to do about Nicholas?” he had asked.

“Oh the hell with him. He just doesn’t give a damn anyway, and we are finished,” she replied with no real concern in her voice. He wanted so desperately to believe her, but something in the way she said this seemed too flip...too casual, especially since he knew Nicholas well enough to know he would never give her up that easily, and would do anything to stop her leaving him - especially now, since their marriage was still indecently fresh. What would their friends say? The family? No, he was going to fight. Things would get messy.

“Won’t he wonder where you’ve been all night, whom you’ve been with...?”

“Guess I’ll just have to tell him I was with you wont I? Anyway, he’s always raving about what a great guy you are, so there shouldn’t be any problem with that! Let’s just cross that bridge when we get to it, shall we,” she said, before pulling his face down for another breathy kiss. They had fallen asleep after that, and didn’t wake till the first rays of the sun caressed their naked bodies through the partially open blinds.

Like the delicate, wispy breath of angels happy at what they saw

hey had become inseparable after that night...August 17, 1976. The date was etched in his mind. Her marriage ended soon after, and her husband Nicholas moved away, not before causing endless trauma mostly to her, but in no small measure for him as well. He had initially implored, then threatened Steven:

“I’ve spoken to Dominique and she doesn’t ever want to see you again. She won’t speak to you again, so don’t bother calling her,” he had stated matter-of-factly. It was embarrassing and painful to see him make his pathetic defense. Everyone knew the marriage was dead even before their own little escapade! The two years or so that it took before Nicholas finally moved out seemed interminable to Dominique and she spent more and more time abroad, wherever her job as a fashion designer for Medusa Exports took her. When she came home it was always to Steven first, invariably spending her first night back with him, interspersing desperate, hungry lovemaking with the stories and experiences they’d both encountered during the last separation. Steven always felt that their relationship seemed stronger with each hiatus. But he secretly wished she would ease up on these endless peregrinations. Each trip seemed longer than the last. There were times when she would phone him at work literally moments before her flight to tell him about an urgent trip to some European destination or the other. This is probably going to be a long one, maybe Three months or so. I’ll call you as soon as I get there. Promise you’ll be a good boy...you’ll write.

The pain he felt at each separation always surprised him - he had expected to grow used to the situation over time, but this was not the case, and each departure seemed as unsettling as the first. And as heart-wrenchingly poignant.

...Steven broke stride momentarily. The quiet, dawn was coming reluctantly alive, like someone had dialed up the light. There seemed to be a bit of activity in the early morning sea, near the first line of breakers. The white foam head curling diagonally shoreward, like a giant streamer snapping and tossing in the dark waters. A group of local fishermen, struggling to get their catamarans through the breakers, to the calm waters beyond where they could spread their nets more easily. There were at least three boats making the attempt, and each one had capsized at least once already, upturning their hapless occupants into the water, where their dark skinned bodies seemed to gleam like smoldering coals in the Sun’s first hesitant light. Bare moments later, they would be back again, challenging the waves, with renewed vigor and enthusiasm, chanting as they swam, shoulder to the boat, like a rhythmic battle cry. The strains of their chants came to him like lost souls keening in the wind. The cadence and the sound shifting as the wind changed direction. He couldn’t understand the Oriah dialect, but the spirit and the sheer rhythm of the singing were almost hypnotic. Something about the scene struck him with a sense of deja vu but he couldn’t quite fathom what at the moment. He gave one last grimacing look as the lead boat capsized again, losing out to a particularly aggressive white head, that rolled into the beach with blurring speed. It frothed and foamed, spending itself out literally at his feet. The only traces left behind were the little puddles that formed in his footprints as he ran on, remembering as he did, another fateful morning, when his world first started falling apart...

In a silent way…

2011-09-20T09:50:00.001-07:00

You come to me

In a silent way

Un-premeditated…

you sit by my side

we talk…our souls touch

naked, unashamed,

devoid of all hubris

you show me the scars

you got for being yourself

…I show you mine

we shrug

at life’s bittersweet irony

even as we see

the sadness start

in each other’s eyes…

You wander away…

I think I have lost you

But you return

Etta’s ballad insinuates the ambiance

“O yeah, yeah you smile, you smile

…and then the spell was cast…”

you lean in to me,

whisper in my ear

your breath so sweet

…I am intoxicated… enthrall’d!

I want to tell you

Anything, everything

Instead I say nothing at all

so utterly, irrevocably, undone

at the wonder of you

We hug, say goodbye... like old friends do

knowing that the moment has passed

…and we will never pass

this way …again

The Spoken Word & other Ramblings...

2007-04-23T09:48:00.000-07:00

monoxide monologues...

What would I have said
this brilliant morning in January?
sitting on a bench, outside a mall
in Scarborough
the bench, cold... chilling me
like someone’d shovel’d snow
down the back of my shirt
shivering and wet
A fine sheen of rainmist...
spraying me with a reluctant shower
...water almost run out
like a writer facing a blank page
...out of ideas...great words
just too numb’d and cold
to think warm thoughts
...or remember better times
This huge sign glaring at me
“Eatons”...like they have an identity problem
don’t they know...they’re all sold out, finished
old and jaded...the owners
once vibrant, passionate men
blood’ied and decorated... with the spoils of business
now faded...hunched, and...
like their mannequins...discarded!
I drop my gaze an octave or two of Gray sky
at the place where the monsters sleep
...heavy machinery...cranes...’dozers...tractors!
powerful...earthshaking...even at rest
pre-historic...fugitive metal dinosaurs
from a distant, doom’d future...
jealously guarding these portals they built
...pleasure domes for ferocious finance

Shifting in my seat...fleshburning
at every contact with cold metal
breathing deep ... the stale, cigarette choke’d air
...the poisonous, monoxide belchings
from cars...trucks... left running
the owners safe and warm within
too lost in dreams of blissful peace
jelly-lip’d... snoring...they destroy the world!
And the stop sign...Red and White
catches my eye...there is deja vu here
something I must decipher...I falter instead
looking away... in desperation
...do I stop at the white line?
...move no further...or merely pause...?
...and drive on ever forward...no looking back?
there is mystery in the meaning I do not see
...But then again, what could I have said
this brilliant morning in January?

Canada, Saturday, January 8th. 2000.

Bombay

Losing my senses over you
dreamlike and sensual
slipping away into troubled sleep
drowning in waters too deep
fathomless and mysterious
fading away like a silent prayer
an unfinished symphony no one will hear
the echos of my heart distant...faint
a canvas utterly devoid of paint
patient... awaiting the first brush stroke

Losing my faith in fickle fantasy
the sepia and teknicolor in Joseph’s coat
was it love, truth I saw in your eyes
they say the camera never lies
looking but never seeing.
touch’d by your magic
undone by your grace
you made the embers glow in flame
I feel the lust...I feel no shame
to hunger for your moistening love

Losing my religion over you
I sin as I touch you, hold your hand
draw you close and feel your breast
your soft hair silky on my chest
and know all demigods have died
I felt you speak...I did not hear
the words flow’d silent from your eyes
of love and loss...like wasted tears
wishing I could kiss away your fears
like a gentle summer breeze

Losing my senses over you
dreamlike and sensual
slipping away into troubled sleep
drowning in waters too deep
fathomless and mysterious
fading away like a silent prayer
an unfinished symphony no one will hear
the echos of my heart distant...faint
a canvas utterly devoid of paint
patient... awaiting the first brush stroke

Canoes and Cottage country...a short collection of verse

Just pickin’ up a couple of things...

I think I’ll take some margarine,
and a couple of pounds of cheese
...no thank you, not the synthetic
stuff, I’m talking real cheese here, you
know the kind that leaves an exquisite taste
on the palate,...Oh, Oh! I’m salivating already,
Just thinking about it.
And plenty of bread, and dinner rolls, to go
with the cheese. Hmm...let me think, a couple
of cases of coke, and throw in a case of sprite
as well. ..goes well with vodka, just in case, you know,
we run out of MHL. Yes, I said two large packs, no,
not the European style, give me the Caesar
with the dressing. Hmm, just six cans on the shelf,
chicken and mushroom, may as well take the lot.
Are they microwave ready- I mean just nukeem
and eatem? Great, pack a couple of them in as
well, yes the fifteen inch one’s, they just love pizza!
The quiche looks good too, I’ll take a pack, thank you.
Toilet stuff...yup, the johnsons no tears soap
and shampoo. Oh that’s just so cute, that little duck!
Is it soap, really? I’ll take the yellow one and the...
do you have any other colour... no?...Ok I’ll take
two of them. Toothpaste, shampoo, toilet rolls,
I mustn’t forget the sunblock...now what was
the percentage I was looking for...?
There it is, thank God. Do they really work, I mean
those eucalyptus candles? Give me a couple
please, and that insect repellent too.
The cookies! The cookies! Knew I was forgetting
something - let me write that down. Oh,
and the first aid kit too...
...Jesusmurphy!!!
And I thought the only
time I had to worry about bits & bytes,
was in the office!
Now if only I could find myself
something decent to read. There’s the
book-section...Hmm...The God of
Small Things.
Charming!
Wonder what she means by that, and how
on earth does she pronounce that name,
...Aranditty???
Now there’s a real tongue-twister for you.
But I’m outa’ here...gotta’ pick up the kid’s
stuff from the cleaners, and those video’s,
they wanted to see,Oh, and the lawn,
...mustn’t forget the lawn,
someone’s gotta’ do it when we’re gone
to the cottage, I’d better hurry now.
Ha!
And I thought I was just pickin’ up
a couple of things...
...yeah right!!!

Even the angels cry...

Just look at you...in those white shorts,
with the blue, striped, sailor shirt,
knotted at the waist. And boat shoes,
and a white scarf, around your neck.
And those lovely knees...tanned and rounded
...perfection and grace.
And that smile on your face,
as you leaf thru a random page
of an Oprah selection,
and wonder...sigh, at some, fleeting,
moment of art, imitating life.
Pure epiphany...
the deck, swaying beneath your feet,
the lulling sound of waves...
slapping against distant shores.
Caressing you...you sleep.
Golden slumbers...the gold in your hair,
shining, like the enchanted treasure,
Jason sought...only, infinitely, more precious.
The single tear meandering down your face
like a dewdrop, sliding reluctantly,
off a leaf...when morning has broken,
and the first bird has spoken...the clouds
all scattered...and a rainbow fills the sky.
I gaze at you spellbound, and know,
sometimes...even the Angels cry.

Ripples and whorls...

Sitting at the edge of a marina,
wooden planks, cool and pleasant,
...moss-cover’d-comfort
on a mid-summer afternoon.
You drape your feet in the clear water,
watching them bend a little,
refracting in the sunlight. It feels so good.
Swirling them now, in the quiet noon,
watching the ripples and whorls,
whirplool themselves around your feet.
Reaching down, scooping up a handful,
liquid crystal you splash-on, your face,
your golden hair. You look so tan
behind your neck, where the sunburn
hurts the most. Never taking your eyes
away from this magic pool,
greenblue...gray, so enchanted,
...your heart is fill’d.
You look up now, an octave or two of clear,
blue sky, at the geese, in formation,
they fly-by, and you wonder
...where do they go, in winter
...where do all the pretty birds
find shelter...from the storm?
But suddenly, the reverie is broken.
And you smile, with innocent delight,
at the crystal drops that stream like dew,
from round your eyes...each drop
a bird enfolds, in flight. And your eyes...
...O Esmeralda, how they sparkle,
...now blue...now green and,
no, those are not tears that you shed,
but the ripples and whorls you gently held
...in the precious, stillness of your dream.

Hemingway...

Hemingway fallen asleep... by your side.
Too bad. You finished the last tale,
before you arrived here...cottage country.
The lounge chair holds you, snug and cozy.
Your eyes feel heavy-lid’d, torpid,
hearing the sounds, the buzzing bees,
the crickets on the ground,
a slowly, receding, wave, and gentle
birdsong all around...coming to you
like a smorzando passage...
... Soporific and silky.
And your lips are cool, sipping an MHL
on crushed ice. You touch the dimpl’d drink
to your soft, dimpl’d cheeks...feel the
perspiration from the glass cool against
your skin. Now a gentle gust of wind,
rustles the brush, the trees that surround you.
Kissing your face like a fairy breath...
...why does reading that line, fill you with deja vu?
There’s someone out there keeps telling you...
‘...your voice is like a fairy breath.’
Can’t seem to place whom, at the moment.
Could it be... that everyone...
...says the same thing...In different ways?
Now a gray cloud, stumbles across the azure sky,
pregnant, burden’d...rich with rain,
filling your horizon. A shadow stealing over the lawn,
like a dark coverlet, pulled across your bed,
when sleep is done...and morning has come.
But wait... someone just dial’d down the light
...the sun wink’d out...and it’s dark as night.
And you never knew when your eyelashes kissed
...or when you dream’d, and sighed, and made a wish,
to fly like an eagle and kiss the snow
in the mist cover’d mountains of Kilaminjaro.

The laughter in your eyes...

Insouciantly you sit, out on the patio...quiet.
Cottage country...intellectually incommunicado.
With only two words, filling your brain
incessant...demanding,
like a tape recorded in perpetual loop,
playing back a relentless refrain
...alone...lonely...alone...lonely, again and again.
So similar, yet so diverse, the words.
One could be lonely, but not necessarily alone,
and then again...one could be alone,
but not necessarily lonely?
You look around... realize,
this is no place for dialectic diatribe and,
in any event, you are not lonely...just alone.
And waiting for the morning to come.
You watch’d the dawn...O how she danc’d,
and weav’d her way, and slipp’d into another day,
like changing clothes...the dark robes of night,
for a Josephcoat, manycolour’d...bright,
... and you were entranc’d.
And then you gaze’d across the still, blue, lake,
where the water ripple’d,
where the flatstone skate’d,
...the one you toss’d, with a graceful flick,
counting...each...dancing...skip,
the numbers unspoken, from your ruby lips
...one, two, three, four,...five, six, seven,
...all good children go to heaven.
You smile’d at the rhyme
...and you never did see, the sun rise
with the smile on your lips, and
...the laughter in your eyes.

Oz never was...

Just wandering about, chilling out, you were.
Kicking stones and stuff underfoot,
stepping over the freckl’d earth,
where a heavy tire had left it’s heavy tread,
and a tiny lagoon was born.
Rainfill’d, it sparkled in the morning sun,
and you thrill’d at the colours, each single one,
in this gasoline rainbow you had found,
...just out and about and kicking around.
Funny how these things work, but suddenly,
your mind had wander’d...
...someplace between the yellowbrick road, and
over the rainbow...lateral thinking...pots of gold.
You could spend all your life dreaming,
about the elusive search...or,
you could search, all of your life,
...for the elusive dream, and still miss the point.
But Oz never was, and neither was Alice.
Nor did she, or Dorothy, for that matter,
ever have to gaze into a looking glass darkly,
and see the seasons change...her beauty fade,
like the autumn leaves before winter has pass’d.
But you, Esmeralda, your beauty is eternal,
for you have kiss’d the sky. You have slept
on the earth, and watch’d the birds fly.
You have sail’d on the waters, and wish’d upon stars
and dance’d in the magic of heavenly showers.
So you smile, softly...softly, you walk away,
from the gasoline rainbow...the yellowbrick way,
with a dream in your heart, where it always was,
unlike Alice in Wonderland,...or Dorothy in Oz.

Half-sick of shadows....

Well, you can’t call that narcissism, I mean,
not really. I was just doing my hair, you know,
the usual stuff, the brushing and the back-combing,
and the critical scrutiny, of each curl and lock.
Being methodical, I feel, is the key.
I could hear them giggling and shouting,
having fun. The little, scampering, scrambling, feet,
the delightful squeals, only the most precious,
little angels, can make.
A tap turned on, somewhere, in the kitchen.
Sounds of a plate being rinsed, put away.
The tap turned off,somewhere in the kitchen.
Can’t be...this can’t be happening to me!
I must get some proper light on the subject.
There it was, gleaming, in stark contrast,
the silver sheen, refusing to merge
into the (quite) glorious gold. Uncanny, how my
subconscious chose the word silver,
over the less complimentary gray.
I turn my head, towards the single
sliver of light, leaking in, through
the washroom window, and find,
to my utter delight, that I see only gold,
and no trace of white... so I look again.
Life is all about changing perspectives.
I’ve gotta’ hand it to me!
I must confess, in certain angles,
with the light just so, my profile
suddenly seems, like...like all aglow!
Quite beautiful, really, in a mysterious
sort of way...you know what I mean?
Not that I’m being narcissistic here,
but It was a little weird...
...like I was looking at myself,
for the first time...seeing the real me
...and not the stranger,
I’ve been used to seeing, all of my life.
And suddenly, I was free.
No single, silver, hair, would worry me
...ever again.
In my mind, at that very point in time,
I smashed the (social) mirror I’d been using,
into a thousand pieces, or more,
and thought about some lines
that I’d read, a long, long time ago.
I don’t know, it was probably Tennyson,
...or Sir Walter Scott...???
“I’m half-sick of shadows cried,
The Lady of Shallot.”

Between you, and the dawn...

Nothing between you and the dawn...
...nothing except the long, dark night,
and ersatz sleep...trickling on, and on,
...with slow, shuffling, feet.

Looking for the black and white
in words, that are only half complete,
kicking at the dark, till it bleeds with light,
...the Sun’s first gentle spark.

But then, you know as well as I,
life is live’d in shifting shades
of gray, we live between the lies,
...the half-truths we say.

Yet secretly you count the stars,
celestial lily’s of the night,
in Lethe’s stream they dance, with Mars,
...do you wake, or dream?

And sullen Sun does rise again,
this rainswept summer,damp and cold,
and life goes on, with sad refrain,
...between you, and the dawn.

Your palimpsest...

In the morning, I am the Sun,
the Golden light, that freckles
your cheek, and kisses your neck.
I bless the summer’s breath with love.
I make your shadow to walk...to run.

I am the singing brook,
the one where little angels play,
I am the tear, in your eye,
as you watch them paddle, and splash,
and cry. I am that secret, poignant page,
you read over and over, in your book.

I am the bubbling stream,
you walk in, my touch cool,
against your skin, as I
flow over you, seductively
and stealthily, I slip
inside your dream.

I am the mud, the soft, damp, earth,
I caress your feet, and leave a part
of me behind. I am the silt
between your toes, the lingering
memory of every summer you have known.
I am the clay, I am your hearth.

I am the wind, at noon, I furrow
through the golden corn, your hair
I touch with the sweet scent of
summer and fresh-baked bread.
I bring you music and magic
in whisper’d tunes.

I am the whisting in the trees,
the clicking castanets in the bush,
the fragrance in every bloom,
and the sensual Samba of lily’s
that sway and dance to distant sounds,
and calypso rhythms from across the seas.

I am unbroken, the bended grass,
upon which rests your bended knee,
I am the single ray of light, that steals
into the darkest chamber of your soul.
Where you rest, and sigh and wait,
for the sadness to pass.

I am the orange orb in the West,
the twilight hush that welcomes night,
I am the moon and stars, the purple sky,
the parchment upon which you write
your dreams; I am not one of them.
For I am just your palimpsest.

You thought about the lily’s...

It rained tonight
in cottage country.
Drenching, wet sounds,
the drops, they made,
and machine-gunned
the window-panes.
Splashing, gushing,
flash-flood streams,
rushed through trough’s
that edge’d the roof,
down bent,old
iron pipes,
with hoops,
into the flooded drain.
And you thought about
the lily’s
...and wept.
Secret, silent tears,
that you kept safe,
behind those eyes,
sorrowful pools
of your sweetest,
sadness,
...your saddest thoughts.
Do they tremble...
...feel pain,
do they weep,
you wonder’d...
...or do they love the rain?

The country, the cottage, and canoe...

The echos of your goodbye,
still ringing in my ears,
and I should be happy
...for you.
Off to the country,
the cottage and canoe.
So why do I feel like...
...like a postage stamp?
Ten cents, no more?
You know the kind where
you lick on some spit,
slap onto an envelope,
hollow with emptiness,
and let slip...into
the bottomless pit...of
an abandoned, postbox,
no one will clear?
There’s nobody near!
O Esmeralda, if only you knew.
What good the country,
the cottage and canoe?
When my every, waking, thought
...is fill’d with you.

Imagined Publishing details (yet to be published...but this is what the Title and publishing details could look like...who knows???)Excerpts from the collection of modern verse entitled The country, the cottage and canoe, or songs for Esmeralda.
Hunchback publications, Canada

************************************************************************************
Funeral for a friend...

How could I know you better than I do
…you who can make the rain to stop,
or make the sunshine to darken my windows
…make believe out of unbelief
as I stumble and fall… waiting for you
to catch me out of my misery.
Take these thorns out of my crown
unnail this crucifix from my body…
all crazy this weedhappy dream sequential
look…my mind bends spoons and forks
my knife cut thru water like butter
I can make your hiccups cease…but
this beating, this throbbing that works my insides
makes the space between my ears
resonate like a cavern full of gongs…
I hear my heartbeat…deathbeat in syncopation
…yes…we die when we die; the beat doesn’t go on
…Sonny & Cher lied.
Confessions at the confessional
the sins all come flowing back
Iike a moonstruck tide…fresh and strong
in the sound of your voice…
my soul’s desperate howlings in the wind
when you are gone…or when you kiss me
awake in my dreams…and I am falling deeper
and deeper in the ground…back
from whence I came…falling
from the deepest depths
into shallower, more hallowed ground
six feet …no more, when we all go
kicking and screaming…my father died
this recent…distant… winter
When? …I forget exactly…but I am not distraught
Now, …never was…somehow all my sins
forgive me…or maybe he does
…yet he haunts me still.
And I make a conscious effort
to write all this down, in stream of consciousness…
oxymoronic juxtapositions of word and phrase
leave me unburden’d, like the maple tree
out my window…unsweeten’d and bereft
of leaves…all grace and supple
in these godforsaken winds
bend me then…take my pride…destroy me
…take me away from this vanity…
this surreal ‘maya’ of of immortality,
take me with you…
to a funeral for a friend…

Ukiyo-e...

Like Okuni you dance for me
religion in choreography.
Your image sleeps with me at night,
a picture of the floating world
of love, and sin and purgatory,
and eyes that glow with saddest light.

Timeless lives inscribed in wood
...bashful virgins...Samurai proud,
when Sharaku lived as mortal man,
a shooting star that none would see,
and Edo ruled his craft as rude,
the truth he carv’d with gifted hand.

I dream of you in Kabuki
a brocade, magic, nishiki-e.
The orange blossom in your hair,
your breath...a whisper’d memory.
Where do you go my Ukiyo-e
for when I wake... my soul is bare.

'I' in 'Pidgin

i toss i turn
i cold i burn
i mind in churn
i gotta learn
i laugh i weep
i wake i sleep
i body worn
all skin ‘n bone
i walk i stop
i jump i hop
i no control
over my soul
i weak i strong
i short i long
i just going nuts
with if’s and but’s
i mourn i sad
i joy i glad
i wish I knew
my point of view
i blind i see
i slave i free
i know i chain
around my brain
i sane I mad
i good i bad
i think i go
which way i know
i brave i fear
i far i near
i pray my heart
not tore apart
i soft i loud
i star i cloud
i humble mumble
jungle stumble
i dark i light
i flee i fight
i wish i may
i wish i might
i hate i love
i bird I dove
i like to fly
in your blue sky

You are Dulcinea...

Don Quixote
never met you
when his mind
was ravaged
with visions
of Dragons
in Dungeons
...when there were
only Windmills
to tilt at...
for you would
have been
his lovely Dulcinea
He never heard
the music
you compose
so easily
...when you sing
and whisper
speak soft words
from your heart
that curl Silk-like
around the soul
like a warm,
friendly hand
Or see your eyes
and know
the Paradise
he sought
lay enfolded there
in deepest green
and blue
and some,
mysterious hue,
between
Or sleep
with dreamfill’d,
visions of you
...and beauty
...and truth
that fill the mind
even in waking
dreams surreal
touch your hair
your lovely face
hear your voice
feel your grace
and know
that Heaven
is a place on earth
But Don Quixote
...Man of La Mancha
hears you
dear, dear friend
...but tilts at windmills
still!

streams of consciousness...1

sunny afternoon’s
...escape
snow in face
the sunshine
foxes at play
you saw
in a half-white field
looking for
buried treasure
reflections
Geese in glass
did you see them
mealtime masquerades
and cool vodka’s
mhl
smoke in the gloom
your eyes
fill the room
glow’in dark, and
secret’s
still...deep
hurried meals
unhurried talk
I
play
with spoon and fork
...yours
...so irritated!!!
gotta’ speak!
...I hear you
always...
everysilence
everyword
everybreath
everylaughter
everysigh
polite waitress’s
waitressing
busy businessfolk
businessing
a friend
befriending
you met...so sweet
you are...beautiful
everything
...nothing
my car
so full...music...you
showing me
the way back
so I can growl
starving
already
when
will
you
be
hungry
again...?

Fire & ice...

Burning...
this freezing cold,
this fire...like an icicle
in melt’down...a cold,
frigid, slope...
cascading seductively
into the labrynth
...of my soul.
I reach out tentatively
...touch the stream
of consciousness
that flows,frolics
in your mind’s eye,
the the windows
of your soul.

Like fire and ice
you glow...you flow
cunningly... into me
...some ocean
...some sky,
intravenous,
drip...by...drip,
one, single, look
at your mystical eyes,
...I overflow,
my cup...is fill’d
with cosmic streams.
and my heart
is still’d,
yet... I am empty

Magnificant...
this madness I feel
...suddenly,
...this glorious sadness
I taste relentlessly.
I hear, the silent,
whisper’d, songs,
from luscious dreams,
of you, ...entwine’d,
...serpentine’d softly,
dangerously...beautiful,
around my numb,
neutraliz’d head,
...still’d dreamscapes
...poignant promises,
deja vu, in mobius motion
like marijuana metaphysics
they spirit me ...away,
stone’d...immaculate,
from this Sysphean choice
...to have...or to be.

Like Garuda...I wing away
...I arise...from the ashes
of this hollow song...
...you
have
set
my soul
free...

Now ... & Zen
Now,
as the present
moves into the past
even before
the thought has left my mind.
To become crystallize'd
on this single sheet;
my fingers tap a single,
discreet, motionless, word,
‘Now’...but thats' absurd
...I mean hasn't the 'Now'
already become the'Then'
and in this Zen-like flash
the moment has
slipstream’d away into the past
...like the way we were
not so long ago...
living...
like we would never die.
Anticipating everything
we desire’d Now, everything
we just had to Have;
and leaving nothing
to chance...or
the poignant wonder of gifts that come
from the abstract, randomness
of unexpected surprise.
How could we have known then?
That our greatest gifts
are what we already have
...health...love...faith
the things that we
could never buy...
...not with all the money
in the World.
‘Having'
more than we ever needed,
'Being'
less than we could have been?
If there is a Divine Plan here
... I do not see It?

Why do the aged
and the infirm
wither away, desolate...lost,
each in the private wilderness
of their own mind,
...that secret garden
where we all bloom once
and then fade away
in utter silence...frigid cold,
for we have learned
a relentless loneliness
...one that pierces the soul,
remorseless...
...like a cold steel pick.

Sure It’s nice to know
that Barb (Tarbox) never quit
she went out smoking...
in a blaze of glory
...the Obit’s eulogize her
...the grizzled veterans
in the Anti-Smoking Lobby
chastize her...
...she was no example for kids they say
...she smoked till she dropped dead,
...they said!
Yet we know
she is only physically gone
and her metaphorical message
will live on...and on
Recognize...there is no living
like you will never die...and,
don’t go chasing the Dragon...
...the smoke will kill you;
don’t grow the vines
That seed the grapes
that make the wine
that consumes you;
...and don’t wait for the water
it won’t change
… to Cherry Wine!

Smooth jazz and pillow talk...
Smooth jazz,
and pillow talk.
The painted ladies
wear their coiffure's
and coldcoffee tan's,
like bad disguises.
Elegant...demure,
cultivated cleavage,
...teflon coated nipples,
deceive the eye,
but hey...!
You get a hard-on
... anyway!

Your ears strain,
cliched conversation
numbs the brain.
Regurgitated reparte,
slipp’d on and off,
like unladder’d stockings
the men unpeel,
from lascivious ladies
in evening gowns, and
stylishly clicking,
stilletto heels.

You watch them go.
To the quiet corners,
the gender’d washrooms,
...cfc freshn’d,
scent of pine, lemon
...legerdemain lust.
Where eyes meet eyes,
hands touch hands,
lips seek lips,
and tongue’s entwine.
Where genitals weep,
for the comfort
of strangers, and
other lovers, and
nirvana arrives,
with one,
last,
desperate
thrust.

But you nibble
at hors’d ouvres
and shrimp cocktails,
...watch made-up faces
that never pale, the
dancing couple
carved on the door, and
the men...who glide,
and come and go,
...fickle, fragile
couplings done,
...O so glamorous,
every...single... one.

You follow them back
to the empty spaces,
where they put on
their faces,
and their rented tux,
and black bow ties.
Back to wives flush’d,
in natural refulgence,
from likewise trysts,
...sensual indulgence
taken at other times,
...other places,
with remember’d lovers,
...unremember’d faces.
You watch closely how
they take their caviar,
with delicate fork, and
...gazellelike, graceful,
they sway...they walk
to the sound,
of smooth jazz,
...and pillow talk.