This is an interesting poem by Yao Lu that refers to competitive commercial space travel but has deeper meaning. It is a difficult poem to translate and I added some footnotes for clarification. I hope that you will enjoy it.
The distant moon up there, behind the clouds (if you look carefully, you may be able to see the pit made by the space traveler in the back side of the moon: good luck!) – Photo by F. Marincola; Brandenburg, Germany, April 18, 2024.
降落
月亮啊，蒙着面紗的月亮啊！
请让我降落在凹凸不平的表面。
夜晚点火发射，照亮漆黑场景，
开工已无回头箭，我的故乡是地球，
穿着厚重的宇航服，大口呼吸氧气，
在银色飞船里，窗外漂浮的太空垃圾，
远处那顆木星的光环也会化作尘埃吗？
看似漫长的旅行，距离不到1光年，
整体脱离空间站时，莫问我的归期。
据说月亮上有个男人在砍桂树，
如果我能加速飞行去探索真相，
请让我软着陆在广阔的风暴洋，
不小心……撞击在背部，留下深坑。
Landed
Moon, veiled moon!
Please let me land on the uneven surface.
Ignite[1] and emit at night, illuminating the pitch black scene,
There is no turning back arrow after we start. My hometown is Earth,
Wearing heavy spacesuits, breathing oxygen in large gulps,
In the silver spaceship while space debris float outside the window,
Will the halo of Jupiter in the distance also turn into dust?
A seemingly long journey, less than a light year away,
Everything was removed from the space station, don’t ask me about my return date.
It is said that there is a man on the moon chopping a laurel tree[2],
If I could accelerate my flight to explore the truth,
Please let me make a soft landing in the vast Oceanus Procellarum,
Accidentally… hit the back, leaving a deep pit.[3]
[1] Ignite refers to the space craft that is launched at night.
[2] A Chinese myth related to the Mid-Autumn Festival about a woodman condemned by the Gods to chop a self-healing laurel tree day by day on the moon, a Chinese version of Sisyphus.
[3] The front and back of the moon are different, with more craters on the far than on the front side. The literary meaning is to satirize those who use other people’s blind spots to make profits.
A beautiful, though deeply sad, poem by Fatemeh author also of “Echos of solitude“. This poem deserves special attention. please listen to her call.
(See translation after the original text)
Waiting for sunset – Photo by Fatemeh
سرزمینی که عشق در آن می میرد
. احساس می کنم در میان دیوارهای بلند یک قلعه محکم، قلعه ای پر از تنهایی زندانی شده ام
اسیر یک تاریکی بی امان ، هر لحظه احساس ناامیدی می کنم
هر روز منتظر هستم جهان تمام شود
اما این لعنتی مگر تمام می شود
هر سپیده ه دم ، حتی برای بلند شدن از چنگال خواب باید نبردی را شروع کنم
عشق، که زمانی که طعم و مزه ی همه ی غذاهای زندگی ام بود،
حالا یک خاطره دور شده است که با هر وعده غذایی بی مزه ، کم رنگ تر می شود
با همه ی این ها ولی همچنان دلم و قلبم می تپد برای او ،
برای زمانی که عشق همه چیز را فرا می گرفت، انقدر که دیگر نفسی برایمان باقی نمی گذاشت
اما اکنون، مکالماتمان هر روز کم تر می شود ، قهوه هایمان سرد می شود ولی نه به خاطر اینکه گرم حرف زدن شده ایم ، چون پر از فکر برای رسیدن به نرسیدن هایمان هستیم و غرق حسرت های زندگی مان .
اصلا انقدر روزهایمان شلوغ شده است که انگار این آشفتگی و هرج و مرج ها ما را از هم دور کرده است.
چه لحظه هایی پر از خنده های مشترک را باهم سپری کردیم که دیگر خبری از ان نیست.
حالااز همه ی ان خنده ها فقط زمزه ای ان هم در سکوت باقی مانده است . گویا تسلیم اغوش غم شده ایم.
براستی ما با زندگی خود چه می کنیم ؟
ما با عشق زیبای خود چه می کنیم؟
ایا در تلاش برای بازگشت به عاشقانه های گذشته یمان ، به مهاجرت پناه برده ایم ؟
و بدنبال هر راهی هستیم که از این سرزمین متروک فرار کنیم.
در حالی که من در لابلای افکارم گم شدم و با معنای واقعی این زندگی و عشق دست و پنجه نرم می کنم،
تلاش می کنم در میان همه ی این هرج و مرج وگرفتاری ها هدفی برای ادامه ی پیدا کنم و چراهای زیادی را که مرا ازار می دهد کشف کنم .
چراهایی همچون ،
چرا خاکستر دلتنگی و حسرت ، سرزمین پر از زیبایی های گم شده ما را پوشانده است ،
چرا اشک‌ها مثل رودخانه ای همیشه جاری بی وقفه سرازیر می‌شوند،
چرا غم دامن مادران سرزمین ام را گرفته و رنگ سفید را برچهره و موهایشان پاشیده است.
چرا دراین سرزمین امید خاطره ای دور وفراموش شده به نظر می رسد؟
سوالات بدون پاسخ اعماق روح من را آزار می دهد،
در این هزارتوی ناامیدی حرکت می کنم.
آیا همچنان، در میان تاریکی، سوسو امیدی باقی می ماند،؟
ایا باوری وجود دارد که به نحوی، نور تاریکی را درنوردد.
ایا در این زمانه هم ، هنوز ، حتی در تاریک ترین شب ها، ستاره ها هنوز می درخشند،
من می نویسم، بی آنکه بدانم چه کسی این کلمات را خواهد خواند،
مطمعن نیستم کسی به این کلنمات توجه کند ،
البته نمی دانم اصلا اهمیتی دارد کسی انها را بخواند یا نه ؟
من ولی امید دارم به اینکه روزی، جایی، حتی شاید در جایی خیلی دور، خانه ای می سازم
خانه ای پر از عشق .
The Land Where Love Dies
I am trapped in a fortress of loneliness,
Surrounded by towering walls, imprisoned in solitude.
A prisoner of relentless darkness, each moment suffused with despair,
Every day I wait for the world to end,
But this curse seems endless.
With each dawn’s breath, just to break free from the grip of sleep,
I must embark on a battle anew.
Love, once the taste of all my life’s meals,
Now a distant memory fading with each tasteless, dull course.
Yet still, my heart beats for it,
For the time when love consumed everything, leaving us breathless.
But now, our conversations dwindle, our coffees turn cold,
Not because we lack warmth in our words,
But we are drowned in thoughts of unattainable desires and life regrets.
Our days have become so cluttered, as this chaos has driven us apart.
What moments we shared in laughter are forgotten,
Now only whispers of those laughs remain, echoing in silence,
As if we’ve surrendered to the embrace of sorrow.
What do we do with our lives?
What do we do with our beautiful love?
Have we sought refuge in the past’s romanticism, longing to escape this abandoned land?
Seeking any path to flee this forsaken place.
Lost in my thoughts, grappling with the true meaning of life and love,
I strive to find a purpose amid the turmoil and uncertainties,
Discovering countless whys that torment me.
Whys like,
Why has the ash of longing and regret shrouded our land,
Why do tears flow ceaselessly like rivers,
Why has sorrow draped itself over the shoulders of our land’s mothers,
Painting their faces and hair white.
Why does hope in this land seem like a distant, forgotten memory?
Unanswered questions haunt the depths of my soul,
In this maze of despair, I navigate.
Is there still, amidst the darkness, a whisper of hope?
Is there a belief that somehow, light can pierce through the darkness?
In this age, do stars still shine in the darkest nights?
I write, unsure about who will read these words,
Uncertain if anyone will pay them any heed,
Yet, perhaps it doesn’t matter at all.
But I hold onto hope that someday, somewhere,
Even perhaps in a place far away, I’ll build a home,
This is the conclusion of this “ordinary” story continuation of “An ordinary man, part 2“. I want to emphasize that although, as I said before, the main story is inspired by true events, it has been modified and all details are fruit of imagination. So, do not try to dig too much into inexistent facts and enjoy the fictional version.
Carina, the extra-“ordinary” cat – Photo by F. Marincola, Boston, March 24, 2024.
An ordinary man, conclusion.
They moved into a mansion in an even more upscale neighborhood. They had managers, servants, drivers, and security guards. Architects and interior decorators created masterpieces; paintings on the walls were pedigreed. There were rooms after rooms with unreachable ceilings, living rooms with colossal fireplaces and Italian marble decorated the balconies. There were amenities of any sort in the backyards that faced beautiful parks with swans gliding over pristine ponds adorned by gaudy waterlilies. Further down an exclusive golf course pressured for their participation and Peter had to submit to professional lessons.
Jennifer and Peter had to learn to play the highlife script hosting party after party. The girls adapted graciously to the new life and learned to enjoy it. Same for Jennifer, who appreciated the luxuries without qualms.
For Peter, all of this was only a source of anxiety. A vertigo erupted every time he had to cross the sumptuous living room, when he looked at walls adorned with unfamiliar objects, were all the nice memories of the growing family had been erased or segregated in a remote corner. He would woke up at night and it took him quite some time to recollect the whereabouts, even to find the restroom.
At the firm headquarters, he became disengaged. Even his closest friends and employees started to wonder. Jennifer, who had similar engineering training but better management skills, gradually took over the directive of the company, while Peter was relegated to a legacy role. As they grew up, the girls became involved, and the business continued to prosper.
Peter tried to go back to the old routine. Timidly he tried to fuss in the kitchen interfering with the chefs, he shopped for weekly deals at the nearby grocery stores, he rummaged garage sales, and whatever else reminded him of the old frugal life, where simplicity inspired the family life. All of this was done furtively, with the mischievous satisfaction of a boy that plays hooky.
But even this was not enough to quench the anxieties. He missed his simple office with the high resolution computer screens and the drafting table. He missed the early morning coffee in the cafeteria when nobody was yet around. He missed teasing the coworkers by wishing with benevolent sarcasm:
“good afternoon!” when, passed seven in the morning, they walked in front of his office.
Most of all, he missed the creativity of engineering in that small office where his imagination could fly unbound. He missed being an ordinary employ, mingling with other engineers to discuss new ideas that could better the future of humankind; those casual gathering with longtime colleague friends, when everyone enjoyed his presence gradually adjusting to the fact that he was the boss, of the boss, of the boss of their bosses.
Jennifer thought of a simple solution and opened a Research and Development branch near their palace and put Peter in charge. But even that was too much, he just wanted to go to the office each day to work on his ideas without managing anyone. So, one of the daughters became the director of the place, learning the trade while keeping an eye on the beloved father. And Peter adjusted well to the arrangement that let him go back to his prolific creativity that had spurred the enterprise to begin with. Together with colleagues he generated new concepts that kept the company ahead of everyone else by simply being where he belonged.
But coming home to the opulence startled him. He felt alone in a noisy crowd of people he barely recognized. In those moments, he searched for Jennifer and the girls because seeing them cordially smile at the guests gave him a momentary reassurance.
Eventually, Jennifer convinced him to see a psychiatrist. She consulted Peter’s father, who was at first renitent to admit a problem with his son. According to the father, the real trouble was the dissonance between the simple way in which he was raised and the expectations of a life for which he was not prepared. But eventually he had to admit that Peter’s reactions were disproportionally anomalous.
A psychiatrist recommended by the father spent long sessions with Peter, who articulated reasonable perspectives and demonstrated no flagrant hallucinations. Peter’s viewpoint was reasonable and cogent, but the emotions were disproportionate. Eventually, the doctor made a diagnosis of hallucinatory anxiety and prescribed a few pills that helped for a while. At the same time, Peter had learned to pretend to be happy and comfortable with the new life sweeping under the rug whatever was not aligned with the expectations of the establishment.
Things stabilized for a while. Jennifer had developed a maternal attitude towards Peter as if he was the son she never had. The odder he would become, the more she loved him; the more she yearned to be home to take care of him.
Then, a minor accident happened. One evening, Peter was in the kitchen meddling with a party preparations and driving the hired caterers crazy till their manager without knowing whom he was talking to, impetuously snapped at him. Immediately, when he was made aware, the manager apologized profusely. Peter accepted the apologies lowering his eyes and even apologizing from his part. Then he left the kitchen, and Jennifer had to go fetch him from the bedroom and convince him to join the party.
***
The next day, Peter disappeared.
He had left the office at the usual time around five in the afternoon, but never made it home. Jennifer was immediately suspicious because Peter’s routine was as reliable as a Swiss watch. After a few phone calls confirming that when he left, he was heading home, she called the police.
The police initiated an informal search since it would have been premature to legally call him a missing person. Besides they considered that special tactfulness was demanded by the prominence of the individual involved.
But Peter was not only a powerful man but also a beloved member of the community. So, information was dispatched confidentially to patrol cars, and everyone looked for his white Toyota Camry that was not to be found.
It was only two days later that the car was found about a thousand miles away in the suburbs of Chicago. There was no evidence of foul playing. The car had been simply abandoned with no signs of Peter.
Day passed; the search expanded balancing confidentiality with the need to succeed at finding him.
Peter had vanished.
A call came from a stranger stating that he had met on the Greyhound a man that may have looked like a missing person portrayed in a photo at a police station. The bus was directed to Denver. The guy stated that the stranger in the bus sitting close to him had mentioned that he was escaping from people who were trying to kidnap and imprison him into a crystal palace. Bizarre encounters often occurs in Greyhound buses, and the stranger would not have made much of it till he noticed the missing person picture after arriving at his destination.
A few more day passed, and Jennifer and the girls, losing hope, were sitting in a gloomy mood at the dinner table trying in silence to put something down, occasionally looking at the seat at the head of the table, when the phone rang.
“Hi, whom am I speaking to?”
“Hi, this is detective Morrison from Boulder Police Department. We think that we have your husband here in detention.”
“Ho my God, Thank you God! How is he doing? Why do you have him there?”
“He was caught shoplifting at a department store nearby. When the security guard approached him, it was obvious that he had no idea about who he was and what he was doing. He was holding a birthday card that he had stolen. When they asked him why he did it, he stated that it was for his wife’s birthday.”
“That’s true! In two days, it will be my birthday!”
“In any case, it was obvious that he was not a usual thief. The security guard guided him to a private holding room in the rear of the premise and called the police. When one of our agent came, he asked for his identification card. Your husband looked for the wallet that he had been hiding somewhere deep in a backpack. Fortunately, the wallet was still there and intact. There was quite a lot of cash and most luckily there was still his driver’s license. When the agent ran the database, he found out that he was a missing person and who he was. Appreciating the delicateness of the matter, he called me immediately.
I told him to keep things quiet and I went personally to the place to meet him because I wanted to avoid excessive turmoil over this case. When I arrived, he was sitting in a corner of the room, dozing with the security guard and the police agent taking turns watching him.
I approached him to wake him up:
“Peter! Is this your name?”
He opened his eyes and looked and me.
“Is you Peter?”
“Yes.” He said. “And my wife is Jennifer.”
“Peter, I am detective Morrison from the Boulder Police Department. Do you know that you were caught stealing a birthday card?”
He looked surprised and he asked:
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, you tell me why!”
Looking down at his feet and pinching one at the time the fingers of the right hand with the thumb and index finger of the left one as if he was counting, he said:
“I think that tomorrow is Jennifer’s birthday. I need to send her a card, …I think.”
Your husband was calm, just confused. Of course, I was not planning to charge him with anything, neither was the department store manager. He was having obviously mental problems. I thought of taking him to an emergency department but then not being urgent I preferred to keep things under control and confidential by taking him to the police station and reach out to you.
He did not resist at all, and now he is here in good hands. We are holding him for now in a comfortable room and go from here, waiting for instructions.”
“I will be right there.”
“Great. And do not forget to bring a new set of fresh clothes.”
After hanging the phone, Jennifer could not refrain from a hysterical lough:
“Can you believe it? They arrested your nerdy billionaire Dad for shoplifting in Colorado!” and while the girls were digesting the news, she called the house manager:
“Get the jet ready to go to Boulder right away, let’s go.”
***
By the time Jennifer made it to the police station, it was early morning. Everybody had been obviously waiting and greeted her with courtesy. Then the detective, who had also come to meet her, took her to the room where her husband was detained. A simple but comfortable place with an armchair and a table with a few snacks and sodas.
When she entered, she saw Peter absorbedly staring at a picture on the wall. He was wearing a tracksuit that somebody might have purchased for him. He looked clean and refreshed and a stubble beard made him look more handsome and masculine than usual.
“The tracksuit is compliments of the department store. He really needed a change. By the way, they do not know and nobody else knows who he is. We kept it confidential.”
“Peter, my love, what are you doing here?”
Peter woke up from the trance and seeing Jennifer, he unwrapped the best smile ever displayed. Then he rose and ran to hug her.
“Where were you?’ he asked, “Tomorrow is your birthday!”
They both sat down, Peter in the armchair and Jennifer on his knees:
“What are you doing here, silly? You went away without even asking permission! Is this vacation, leave without pay, sick leave? You silly, what is going on?”
But Peter did not laugh. Looking suspiciously around, he whispered:
“They are trying to kidnap me; they want for me to live in a strange place that I do not recognize. But yes it could be unpaid leave if you think so.”
“Sure, sure sweetie, we will worry about this later. But now, what do you want to do?”
“I want to go home, our home, where the girls were raised, where we were happy. I just want to go home. I want to be an ordinary man.”
***
As Jennifer was thanking the detective and assuring him that Peter would be in good hands in the private jet with a security guard and a psychiatric nurse hired for the task, the detective said:
“It’s been an honor taking care of this man, he seems like a very good person different from all those celebrities that you see on tabloids, and you seem like a very good wife too.”
Then as they were about to leave the detective said:
“Wait, I have something for you,”
And he took out a birthday car. The one that Peter had stolen from the store.
“This is for you, the manager of the store wanted for you to have it.”
In the plane, Peter seemed to regain awareness coming out of the pseudo amnesia that had blurred his thoughts.
Turning to Jennifer he asked:
“Did I run away?”
“Yes Peter, you disappeared for a few days. I thought that you were gone forever. Everyone was missing you.”
“I am sorry that I left you alone. I am sorry that I abandoned you.”
To which Jennifer replied:
“You did not leave me alone, in fact you never left me alone for a single moment during all the years we have been together. The most important thing in a relationship is to make sure that the other person never feels alone. You never made me feel alone, whether we were together or apart. You have been listening, seeing, and feeling everything through my ears, eyes, and heart. I was the deaf and the blind one.”
“You know Jennifer, I might be an ordinary man, but I really tried my best.”
After a few minutes of silence, Jennifer said:
“Peter, I promise; we will go back to our old home, where we both belong.”
***
A few months later, Jennifer and Peter were sitting in the porch of the old home. They had moved back there and left the mansion to one of the daughters who had taken control of the business.
It was Thanksgiving and the family was reunited. Both Peter’s and Jennifer’s parents were present as were the girls with their young families. It was then that Peter, who thanks to professional help had improved his mental status, said:
“I want to thank you all for what we have, and I want to specially thank my wife, she is perfect and always right except for one day long time ago when she told me that she was not a good wife. She was so wrong; she is the best wife a man could hope for!”
And as the glasses were clinking, Peter approached his wife and hugged her.
Later on, Peter was slouching in the couch, feet on the coffee table, facing the fireplace when Jennifer walked toward him, lifted his left arm, settled inside his armpit, closed her eyes and reposing her had on his chest smiled musing about her extra- “ordinary” man.
Here come the second part of “an ordinary man” when Jennifer discovers that Peter is not that ordinary after all.
Sleeping beauty Carina appreciating my short stories
An ordinary man; the role reversal
…That evening Peter, slouched in the couch, feet on the coffee table, faced the fireplace.
The living room was perspiring silence save for the crackling of the fire; both girls, who were the ones usually giving life to the premise, were at a sleepover at a friend’s home in anticipation of the Christmas holidays.
Peter’s eyes staring at the mantle of the fireplace, were scrutinizing the emptiness but one should not be misled by the apparent lethargy.
Peter’s father was a child psychiatrist and, as part of his professional armamentarium, he often applied the peripheral vision to avoid intimidating the hesitant interlocutor by directly staring into the eyes, leaving space for spontaneity. The father also punctuated conversations with an abundance of silent pauses to encourage eruptions of naturalness. By habit the father treated his son just the same, and Peter had instinctively inherited the conduct giving, with lack of eye contact and his silence, an impression of affected humility and abstraction, while he was instead unobtrusively scanning the unaware. Thus, like a cat, he had a sixth sense that allowed him to intuit his surroundings like, on that evening, Jennifer’s stares from the armchair that set orthogonal to the couch.
Jennifer indeed was admiring her husband, as if he was a new person totally different from the ordinary man she had been accustomed to for the past decade.
Observing the transparent eyes, she noticed that they did not look as purposeless as she had thought. In fact, she noticed the intensity of a leopard staring at a pray. She observed the reverberation of the flames into those liquid eyes, and fancied that Peter, with the power of a devil, had ignited the fire.
“Peter is not the ordinary man I remember.” she thought “He has his own beauty and manliness that I missed in the time past.”
She felt a resurrection of attraction, or one could even call it passion.
***
Her attitude had changed two weeks before, when they had gone out for dinner to celebrate the tenth wedding anniversary.
In remembrance of their first dinner together, they observed the tradition of celebrating the anniversary at a nearby Italian restaurant serving plenty of good wine and food that came in courses.
As the antipasti and the minestrone were served, Peter toasted and celebrated the completion of a wonderful decade:
“I am blessed to be married to the best wife a man could hope for.”
But Jennifer, giving into a perverted impulse heard herself confess:
“Actually, I have not been a good wife, I betrayed you.”
Peter, stopped sipping the minestrone and holding with the right hand the full spoon in midair, turned the eyes to stare at his wife. Then, after a few eternal seconds, he said:
“I know.”
Jennifer was already regretting the unsolicited impulse, and at the same time she was surprised by Peter’s reaction:
“How would you know?”
“Because I know you. You changed after a business trip around a year ago. When you came back you were a different person. You know that I do not pay much attention to words as much as behavior. The way you have been since then could only have meant one thing.”
Jennifer was flabbergasted. Her mind was racing, She was also preparing for a barrage of questions from her husband. What if he would ask for details? Would she recount all the depraved encounters? No, she would give no more details. A fling was just what he needed to know about. The complete story was unnecessary and brutal. No need to disclose more of what should not have been shared to start with, particularly at a dinner celebrating a decade-long marriage. How stupid could have she been?
Instead, Peter, did not dig into details. After a few minutes of contained silence he asked:
“Do you love him?”
“No Peter, it was just a fling, a stupid mistake. I never saw that man again. I love you; this is why I had to confess. I could not bear lying and pretending that we are one person. I am so sorry.”
Peter produced one of his apologetic smiles:
“No Jennifer, I am the one to apologize. I know that I am not an attractive man. I am thankful for what you have given to me for the last decade. Let’s look at the glass half full. Let think of our beautiful daughters. Let’s be grateful for what we have.”
He removed the bottle from the ice bucket, poured some Prosecco in each glass and toasted to the good things past.
Jennifer reacted, as all women do, with tears that streamed down her cheeks, as the glasses clinked.
Then Peter excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he came back, Jennifer noticed redness in the sclera of her husband’s eyes.
“Did you cry?”
To which Peter smiled and answered:
“No, as a good friend used to say, real men don’t cry even when they chop onions!”
***
So, Jennifer was staring at her husband, who since that dinner had been his usual self, kind and caring, positive, and solicitous as if nothing had happened. With one exception: no attempts to intimacy, not even demonstrations of affection. Their relationship had turned into a cordial companionship with the ultimate goal of carrying on the business of raising two wonderful girls.
But that was saddening. Jennifer regretted her impulse to confess. After all she had not been interested in men at all after those few escapades. She soon realized that nothing of substance would come from those moments. Rather she felt contempt for those predators, who used her for one night and probably bragged about it with friends in some remote location of the world. She felt ashamed of being so stupid and careless.
She just wanted her marriage back; she wanted her Peter back, who was not that ordinary of a man after all.
So, she stood up and walked to the sofa to seat at his side. She lifted Peter’s left arm, settled inside his armpit reposing her head on his chest.
Then she said:
“I love you Peter.”
To which Peter mechanically responded:
“I love you too.”
That night they made love. Jennifer with renovated passion. Peter absolving a duty. Other occasions came when the two reunited, mostly because of Jennifer’s initiative.
So, the marriage had been partially restored for the time being, at least at the surface.
One evening, as they were laying down in bed after making love, Jennifer asked:
“Would you ever consider divorcing me?”
“No, and you?”
“No”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“Because I love you.”
Then Jennifer asked:
“And what about you? Why would you not consider it?”
“Because I could not do this to the girls.”
***
For a long time, Jennifer brooded over that sentence. At the beginning she was disappointed that he did not consider at least a statement of affection toward her, but gradually, she understood the depth of the answer. He was right, whether they loved each other or not, was immaterial. Their priority was to focus on those beings whom they had brought into the world and needed to be prepared for the life to come.
Time passed with this reasonable compromise. Jennifer was content, she realized that she did love Peter and admired his dignified strength, while she judged that the lack of spontaneity and affection from his side was a totally understandable defense mechanism.
But that tenuous balance was not meant to last. Gradually things started to deteriorate.
A few years before, Peter had started a company based on his inventions. The company was solvent at first and then prosperous, and the family finances allowed a comfortable life. But, after a few strategic hires and common sense acquisitions, all of a sudden the business picked up and the company grew logarithmically, it went public, it became nationally recognized and rapidly turned into a multinational corporation making Peter one of the richest persons in the world. What used to be an ordinary man, had been catapulted into unfamiliar territories and had to adjust to the intricacies of success.
***
They moved into a mansion in an even more upscale neighborhood, they had servants and a driver, …
This short story is inspired by true events that I had the privilege to learn from a close friend. It is the ordinary story of an ordinary man, just like most of us are but we do not want to admit. I hope that you will enjoy it.
Carina and the Murano vase; definitely not an ordinary cat – Photo by Ning, February 2024
An ordinary man (part 1)
I am not sure how to begin describing this man.
He wasn’t handsome, neither was ugly; wasn’t tall, neither was short. The build was unremarkable yet not displeasing. He was just bland.
His eyes were vitreous and motionless like those of a pig making one wonder whether he cared about the surroundings rather than waiting for images to stream over the retina without any expectation to be processed by an indifferent brain.
The smiles were rare and seemed apologetic when they appeared.
The expressions, I would say, were inexistent. So were his reactions as if whatever was going on was of no consequence to him.
In summary, this person was just the opposite of charismatic bearing an ethereal demeanor as if he did not belong to this world.
I instead was quite a beauty constantly surrounded by successful and handsome men, who, like peacocks, spread their gorgeous trains in front of me inciting the deepest yawns into my soul. Thus, for whatever reason, if not attracted, I was intrigued by him.
***
During a professional trip involving the two of us, I finally sought the opportunity to insinuate a dinner for the two of us.
It was a cozy Italian restaurant with good wine and food that came in courses allowing plenty of time for the conversation; and I was in a light, mischievous and flirting mood, perhaps because the business had gone well, and I had nothing to worry about till our return. Besides, his company made me feel confident and I enjoyed the sensation of being the one at the helm.
I took charge of the conversation, as I most often do, asking, within the realm of decency, increasingly more personal questions, which he instinctively dodged with almost monosyllabic answers that denoted, rather than defensiveness, lack of interest in his own life and were immediately followed by mirrored questions about me.
“Do you have siblings?”
“No, and you?”
“What do you like to do in the spare time?”
“Reading. And you?”
“Do you like to dance?”
“Not really, and you?”
“What about nature? Do you like to go for hikes in the mountains?”
“Sometimes, and what about you?”
I kept falling for it and my answers were verbose and disproportionate. I did most of the talking, till at the end, I could not resist anymore:
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No, and what about you?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend or a companion if this is what you are asking. But do you like girls?” “Some of them; I do, but I do not think that the one I like would care about me.”
“Like for example, what kind of woman would you like.”
He rose his eyes looking straight at me and answered:
“You!”
My skin flashed and irregular heartbeats distracted me for a moment, then I asked:
“Why didn’t you try to convey this to me before?”
“Because I am quite sure that you would not be interested in me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure!” I replied instinctively.
And so it was that within a few weeks, we started dating, became engaged, married, and had two beautiful girls.
And this is where my story begins.
***
We have been married now for almost nine years. The perfect family. I live in a stunning home in an upscale neighborhood; two beautiful and sweet daughters, and a wonderful husband enchant the daily routine. Peter is a mensch as they call them. Attentive, generous, tender, proactive at home chores, fully dedicated to the girls and to me. His quiet demeanor makes him a good listener. He is a deep thinker when engaged in a conversation of substance. In other words, the perfect companion.
***
So, why did I fuck it up?
I had it all, yet, with time I started to take notice of men around me.
At first I allowed innocent flirts, casual conversations that went just a touch beyond appropriateness, nothing special, then a few drinks after hours. Finally, one night during a business trip, I let myself go. I let a guy in my hotel room and we did it! All night long. I am not sure why I needed it so much. I never saw the guy again and when I went back home, I vouched to forget about it. It had been just a one night stand, a fling of no consequence. I would forget about it easily and return to our precious routine.
But it was not going to be the case. I increased the frequency of my business trips, and when away it was easy for me to find a way to be laid by one of the peacocks that flocked around me.
“It does not matter” I thought. “I still love Peter; I just need some distraction.”
Not that he was a poor lover. He was, indeed, responsive to my desires, energetic, always ready to respond to everything I wanted, but he lacked that spark that excites the mysterious feeling of forbidden lust. It was more a comfortable routine. He was, after all, an ordinary man.
Soon I realized that my soul had been tainted by these “innocent” breaks. I became indifferent to him as a man. At night, images of the exciting moments returned screaming, nothing that could be reenacted in the consortial bed.
Peter is a sensitive person, and gradually, he sensed my disinterest. His attempts for intimacy waned till they finally stopped.
Still, he remained the wonderful and sensitive companion that he had always been.
***
I will stop the narrative now. I do not want to bias the readers and give the impression that I am looking for underserved sympathy.
This is a poem sent to me by a reader (and friend) from Iran, who was inspired by Yao Lu’s poem: Disappeared and my accompanying short story: Citizen of the past.
It echoed the solitude she experience missing a departed person.
She graciously agreed to publish it.
Solitude in the rain – Foto by Fatemeh
Echoes of solitude
A sad and broken heart looks for comfort,
Trying to piece itself together in your presence,
Your comforting voice echoes inside of me.
The sound of your voice echoes deeply,
My heart is stuck, entangled, and caught,
Since you left, I feel tied up and confined,
Chained and captured, a stark contrast.
These chains, both similar and different, weave together,
I walk barefoot on a frozen surface,
Night falls like a heavy shawl, full of the dust of time,
Quickly and forcefully, it surrounds me in an overwhelming way.
Your absence hurts, like a widespread sickness,
I’m affected by a strange emptiness,
Weightless in a void, life becomes elusive,
Can you tell me what’s valuable without you?
Amidst cries, tears, and sighs, my breath speaks,
The nights echo in your absence,
Moments pass without the magic of past love,
In this silence, the love’s song is hard to hear.
Who, in a competent manner, can explain,
In simple words the mysterious nature of love?
Tell me as we navigate through destiny,
Is there a bright light at the end of love’s journey?
This is a short story inspired by the last verse of Yao Lu’s beautiful poem: “Disappeared” written at the times of COVID and by the memory of many friends lost during those times and of those who barely survived. I wondered so many time what might have passed through the mind of those who spent so much time in the twilight of life.
Sunset over the Santa Catalina mountains – Photo by F. Marincola, Tucson, AZ, January 4, 2024
Citizen of the past
With an introductory poem by Yao Lu
Disappeared by Yao Peck Lu
I disappeared, forever.
don’t know why I disappeared forever.
They said a disease took me away.
Before I disappeared, it seemed that my ADHD was cured.
Before I disappeared, I drove the car in intimate contact with an unobtrusive roadside tree.
Before I disappeared, I had a successful orthopedic operation after a failed walk,
Before I disappeared, I realized that I forgot the name of an old friend,
Before I disappeared, I occasionally thought of my young lover,
Before I disappeared, I accepted that I was an ordinary adult,
Before I disappeared, my hair started to disappear,
My old friend’s hair also started to disappear.
Invisible and evil forces attacked me,
Anyway, I disappeared,
…like an extinguished lamp.
Relight me,
Hang me in the night sky of the big world,
Always shining among bright stars,
…so, I can watch you gradually forget me.
***
我已消失
我已消失，永远地。
我不知道我为什么永远地消失了，
他们说一场疾病带走了我。
在消失之前，
我的多动症痊愈了，
我开着汽车与不醒目的路边树亲密接触，
我迈着失败的步伐进行了一场成功的骨科手术，
忘记一个老朋友的姓名，
我偶尔回想起年少时的恋人，
如今，
我接受自己是个平凡的大人。
在我消失之前，
我的头发在消失，
老友的头发也在消失。
邪恶势力在攻击我，
谁丢下了自保武器和防御铠甲？
总之我已消失，
如同一盏熄灭的灯。
重新点亮我，
将我挂在大世界的夜空中，
长明如星光，
凝望着你慢慢忘记我。
***
Citizen of the past
…What am I doing here?
Wasn’t I supposed to be dead?
Last I remember …I drew the gun from the drawer, and pointing it to the temple, I pulled the trigger.
So, what is this awareness? Wasn’t everything supposed to be black afterwards?
Did I miss the target?
I don’t think so.
Let me check the pulse.
No detectable pulse, in fact, no pulse at all.
Yet, I am here.
The hotel room is empty and clean, the bed made and immaculate as if I was never there.
Let me go to the bathroom and check at the mirror.
…nobody there.
Indeed, I am dead.
But then, why am I here? Is this what being dead is about?
Then what was the point of the suicide?
Sure, I was tired. My life had been fulfilling but also too complicated and overwhelming. Powerful and disjoint, even conflicting memories accumulated with time, haunting me. Perhaps a simpler life would have been easier to endure. As one ages, memories dominate and can’t be dismissed, like ghosts they take control of one’s brain.
So many attempts I made to restructure the course of lifetime events into a sequential logic; a controlled fiction meant to create a bedtime story that I could recite each evening before falling asleep. A story that could make sense of what happened and that I could bear and accept. All I was trying to achieve was to stay alive till the time I would die.
For too many years I carried the baggage of depression, not much to look forward, only problems that with age grow bigger and unpractical, …and regrets and anguish, …and irrelevance! Nobody needs or cares for an old carcass. As my grandpa used to say: “Who would be concerned about an old guy whose main purpose in life is to waste its time flossing dentures instead of throwing them into the dishwasher?”
All I wished was to get over once and for all.
But instead, …still here? What was the point then? And what’s next?
Maybe there is an afterlife in the end?
Am I in Limbo waiting for the final judgment? And how does it work? Do I need to fill out an application?
Let me Google it:
No such thing. My phone is gone, no internet in the afterlife.
…Wait a minute, here is my passport, or something that looks like it.
It spells my name correctly:
John Desire
followed by:
“Citizen of the past.”
No birthplace, no birthdate, no address.
Only instruction:
Good for visiting Earth’s past and present.
Issued on Earth’s calendar: October 23, 2023.
Issued by: Mr. Satan.
Place of issuance: Hell.
Expiration: Never.
So, this is what Hell is all about? Infinite time to regurgitate and ruminate the past?
…At least no more future! No more deadlines, impertinent alarm clocks, scheduled payments, license renewals, smog tests, etc.
That’s why I killed myself! The future was really getting on my nerves!
And…, …of course, no future after death!!! There is no future, just as much as there is no past or present in the stillness of eternity. Periods are only a terrestrial proposition, a succession of causes and effects that bestow the illusion of the passing of time. But motion belongs only to the living matter, spirits cannot built causality, the past is frozen and only memories persist; how the soul deals with recollections determines its place in hell or haven.
…Expiration: never!!!
Wow, easy to get tenure in Hell! I guess!
So, what am I supposed to do now?
A stale eternity ahead!
Is there anybody to talk to? Dead or alive?
If I still had a head, I would scratch it!
Obviously, the infernal damnation is to get bored to death,
…I guess what I meant to say: bored to “after death”, …I guess!
In truth, I am not bored.
It is sort of interesting instead.
All anxieties …gone!
And even the knee pain is gone …together with the knee.
So, what happened to my home, my belongings?
I see it now. It’s empty!! A for sale sign in front.
Everything is at the mercy of my daughter and my companion.
What a mess! I forgot to write a will before shooting myself.
Therapists should have a policy before accepting a patient:
“Write your will; …just in case!”
Too late now! Besides, who cares? It is all out of my hands!
But why is Mary selling the house? Can’t she live there? It is a beautiful home!
Maybe she found already a companion and she is moving in with him?
That would not surprise me. How could I blame her?
I was just a menace, let’s be honest.
Do you think I did not noticed how she looked at me before coming to bed?
It was just contempt. I don’t think that she hated me. She just tolerated my idiosyncrasies.
But why didn’t she ever say anything?
At least I did some good by departing. She can live a better life now without having to tolerate a lunatic.
I am sort of curious though about how she took the news of my death.
***
Wait! I see her! She is answering the phone.
“Mam? Are you Ms. Mary Dust?”
“Yes?”
“Are you Mr. John Desire’s companion? He had you down as the emergency contact.”
“Yes, I am, why?”
“I am sorry Mam; Mr. Desire is dead.”
“What?!”
She is sobbing loud, her chest is shaking, she seats on the floor.
“What happened, he was fine before he left for the business trip!”
“I am sorry mam; he was declared dead at the scene. He shot himself in the hotel room.”
“Where is he now?”
“It’s here at the coroner’s office. We have to perform the autopsy. Did he have family?”
Mary sobs, lays on the floor, curls up into a fetal position. She cannot answer: her words are undecipherable.
I feel bad for her. I am surprised that she cares that much.
Maybe …just women you know? Drama queens! She will get over soon.
“It is all my fault.” She cries.
“it is my fault. I did not listen to him, how many times did he tell me that he was tired? That he could not bear to live anymore. I thought that it was making a mountain out of a molehill, never took him seriously.”
“Mam? Sorry for interrupting, did Mr. Desire have a family?”
“A daughter, just a daughter. I can call her.”
Maria’s hands are shaking; she dials:
“Katie, Katie, your dad is dead. It’s all my fault. I did not listen to him. He was a good man, I loved him so much! But I am not good at expressing myself. I loved him!”
“What happened?”
I can hear Katie sobbing on the other side, in fact I can see her.
This must be a magic passport to the past, when I think of something, I see it!
Now the two women are crying without speaking a word.
It breaks my heart!
What is the big deal? Suicide is just like turning the light switch off before going to sleep at night. Can you imagine going through this pantomime every night?
In any case, I thought that they would be happy! Maybe “happy” isn’t the best word, … “relieved”, that’s it! They would be relieved for not having to deal with me anymore.
…They could share my inheritance, while dealing with life without having to tolerate my eccentricities!
…It is just women; emotional! But they will get over soon. They will just move on and forget about me.
***
Just wonder what happened to my body. Just out of curiosity. Cremated I guess. Much more affordable. Why waste money on a loser?
But wait a minute, what is that fresh mound overseeing the Pacific Ocean? My name is engraved on the slate. That’s me, buried there! Quite fancy piece of real-estate for a dud.
And all those flowers? Wreath after wreath; from family, friends, colleagues, professional societies! They must have been so happy to get rid of me that they had to celebrate with flowers!
Look at that one:
“To our John, love forever. Your students, past and present.”
“We will miss you John, the University Faculty.”
What is this? Are they doing this to make me feel guilty?
If I could only talk:
“First of all.” I would say. “First of all, I do not deserve any of this. You know it better than anyone else. Second, you did not do much for me when I was alive, why would you care now that I am gone?”
But I cannot talk. I should have left a note. Tell everyone not to worry; all is fine. Nothing to commiserate about. Just a win/win for everyone.
Now Michael takes the stand.
“John, I am sorry, we are all sorry. You were the best friend and mentor to all of us. A little eccentric sometimes, but caring and gentle; the office door always open to anyone; always, no matter how busy you were.
I remember our chats about science, about people, gossiping and laughing, looking at the photos of your past disciples on the wall of your office, with their grateful notes. I remember the one from Jessica:
“Thank you, John. I am proud that I survived Professor Desire’s lab!”
I wish you could say the same of yourself. I wish you could have survived yourself.
Perhaps, I was your closest friend, I wish I was there when you needed me.”
I look around, I see Mary. She is crying profusely. Not a word said. My daughter instead is frozen, not a tear. I see her shaking hands as people leave, one at the time. Murmuring mechanically:
“Thank you for coming.”
Her husband and the grandchildren are not present.
I “go” to her house. The grandchildren are sleeping, not sure where her husband is. I “walk” around, no pictures of me; none, not stuck on the refrigerator door, none on the walls, desks, counters, anywhere. I guess I am already forgotten. That’s good. Let’s all move on.
The doorbell rings.
It’s Mary.
“Thanks Katie for letting me visit. I cannot bear it anymore to be alone, I cannot be in that home, I see him everywhere. Every corner has a memory, so fresh and sweet. I cannot tell you how I wish that I could see him just once again. Thank him for all he did for me, for being my loyal companion for all these years, for listening to me, patiently when I was upset, for encouraging me. He was so quiet. I remember how he looked at me lately, as if he was yearning for something, asking for something that he did not have the courage to ask for. It haunts me that I did not ask him. Simply ask:
“is anything bothering you?”
Perhaps just hug him.
I took him for granted. I barely said bye when he left for the trip.
And now, he will never know how much I loved him. How much I love him!
I am not the kind of person that is, …I can’t find the word, …extroverted? Outgoing? Talkative? That the way I was raised. Keep emotions for myself. No need for words. Just actions. I was always at his side, I cared for him, I took care of him. But I wish that I was more affectionate. I recognize his looks now. I know; he was just asking for a hug, a touch of the hand.
I wish I could see him just once more.”
And Mary bursts crying again.
I just cannot stand it anymore. I want to comfort her.
Yes, it is true, it would have been all I needed, a touch of the hand, a hug. Something to make me feel relevant. I do not know. Something to make me feel that my existence counted, it was not just a burden. But how can I blame her? It’s true, her actions overrode any need for words. It was me that did not know how to communicate. It was me, the introverted, the emotional porcupine.
Fortunately, Katie talks for me; she translates in human terms what I wanted to say:
“Don’t be upset with yourself Mary. I know how you feel, I am experiencing the same. I miss dad very much. So many memories of when I was a little girl, his teasing, his jokes, the encouragements. Do you know, I do not even remember him being upset with me once. I should have been closer to him, but family, work took my mind.
He always talked about you; he loved you very much, but he was afraid of being a burden. He told me a few times! I should have mentioned it to you.
And I miss him. I keep a picture of us at my graduation in the bedside drawer. I look at it in the morning and in the evening before going to bed. It was such a sparkly and beautiful day. And we were so happy. The future was brighter than the sun in the sky.
I took the photos of him from the walls. It would make the kids too sad. One day, I will show to them all the good memories. I will talk to them about grandpa. How sweet and caring he was and how much he loved them. But now, I do not know what to say.
I do not want to lie, and I do not want to say that he took his life. – Why? – they would ask. – Why did he do it, didn’t he love us? – They are too young and insecure, particularly considering the problems I have with my husband. They are very sensitive; they do not need more trauma.”
The two women keep crying and I am getting uneasy. Damn it! I wish I could speak. But then what would I say? That I am sorry? That I was selfish? That I loved them both, but could not bear to live in spite of them?
Frankly, I am not even sure about why I killed myself. Maybe it was just an impulse. Maybe I had too much to drink that night?
Yes, I remember now, I was upset about something at work, I cannot even remember what. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess. But it must have been trivial if I do not even remember what it was. Trivial but sufficient it was.
Anyhow, what am I to do now? This is my curse! This is my hell; I cannot do anything about anything. Nothing to amend, only regrets and remorse.
And what about my ex-wife? I can see her sitting in front of me, and I see myself. It was years ago.
“John, I am tired. What is wrong with us? We had such beautiful moments but now you barely talk. You barely answer when I address you. You do not care about relatives, mine, or yours, you do not even ask where I was if I come home late at night. What is going on, John? Why are you so disengaged?”
And I answer:
“I am fine, just tired, I need to sleep, tomorrow I have to get up early. Can we talk about it another time?”
Another time? How could I have said that? What other time? Wasn’t it obvious that there would be no other time?
Why did I go to the bar instead, poured a glassful of scotch, and go to bed?
When was the “another time” supposed to be?
And why didn’t she understand that the real reason I said nothing was that I had nothing to say. My mind was confused, I did not know what I wanted. A lifetime of paranoias made me imagine that she hated me. She had done nothing wrong. It was just me.
Then the accident.
***
But Mary, Mary, this is what truly hurts. I did love her, I still love her if ghosts are allowed to, but now, I can’t do anything about anything.
Let’s forget about it.
Yet, it’s so painful. I can’t stand it anymore.
This is true hell!
And she does not leave me alone. She keeps torturing me, rubbing salt into the wound.
Here she is at my grave:
“John, I miss you.” She says.
“I wish you could hear me.”
And she kneels towards the tomb. She is talking to a marble slate.
“I miss you John. I took our home off the market. I hate being there without you, but it is even worse to even think of leaving our place. At least there, I feel that you can come out of a room at any time, open the garage door and greet me. I see you cooking at the stove, cheering me up with a drink when I come home. You will still be there as long as I will be there. And the kitty seems to see you. She looks up at the sealing searching for you. Maybe she sees what I can’t see.”
And she digs a hole at the side of the tomb, she plants a little gardenia bush:
“Here, your favorite flowers! Can you smell them? I wish you could!”
And she comes everyday:
“Katie got a big promotion.”
“You should see your grandson! What a handsome boy he is!”
Years have passed in fact, lots of things have happened. I know all of them because Mary has been coming every day to report, just afterwork, she stops by, with fresh flowers, a broom to sweep the dry leaves and petals from the old plants, with a book to read something to me, with a story about my students, colleagues, and friends, some departed, some still there.
“Your grandson married! They had a baby, they called him John like you!”
“Katie is a tenured professor; she just became chairman of what used to be your department. She remarried, we talk of you always, she has your photo on the wall just in front of her desk in her office.”
I listen to all, and gradually I become used to the routine. I wait for her; I see her graying hair while she walks the steps up to my tomb.
I do not even miss her anymore. In fact, I feel closer to her now than when I was alive.
One day, waiting for her, for no good reason I look at my passport, only thing left from Earth (sort of), nothing else to do.
But wait a minute, look at this:
John Desire
“Citizen of the past.”
Good for visiting Earth’s past and present.
Issued on Earth’s calendar: October 23, 2023.
Issued by: GOD
Place of issuance: Paradise.
Expiration: never.
I guess I made it to paradise now! I feel happy in fact, I feel loved, I don’t feel as alone as when I was on Earth. I guess that’s what Paradise is all about. Carrying memories with no regrets.
***
“John! John!”
Mary is in the Intensive Care at John’s bedside.
“John, you’re awake! They just extubated you a few hours ago. You have been in a coma for a month! They took you off most life support two days ago to wean you, and you have been getting better. It was COVID! but now you are well, no need for life support, they took away all the sedation! But you have been tossing around delirious since.”
John opens his eyes; he sees Mary’s smile.
As much as strength allows John lifts his hand toward her, trying to touch her hair.
Mary squeezed his hand hard and holds it close to her heart. Tears come out of her eyes:
“I love you John; I thought that I was going to lose you.”
“I know.”
John replies with the movement of the lips as no sound comes out of the throat:
I have to admit that I have been lucky throughout my life.
It is nice to be appreciated for what one does in life. A way to feel that the community appreciates your attempts to contribute meaningfulness is to grant an “Award“. I received many awards throughout life for scientific and literary work.
One that may seem Lilliputian to most readers but rises to a magnificent stature to me is being granted the “honorary citizenship” of the medieval town of Pizzo: the “San Giorgio d’Oro”. I was the second among only three to receive this award in the millennial history of Pizzo (nothing like being a big fish in a small pond!).
There are other recognitions of more international proportions to be proud of, but something that was missing by my subconscious was the one from my native town: Milano, where I was born and raised and where I went through my complete education from daycare to kindergarten, elementary, middle, high school and the University of Milan Medical School.
I would have hoped that someone from by hometown would care about my modest achievements; to at least prepare a little certificate to hang on the wall.
It never happened till yesterday when, walking along the falling autumn leaves of the “Parco Lambro” I found this wonderful dedication (see picture below) from an anonymous fan. Thank you so much to you, my unknown friend!
One may argue this is no match to the Nobel prize but, you know what? Someone else may counter that:
“it is always better than nothing!!!“
Life achievement award: a porta potty dedicated to me in the most beautiful park of Milan, …by an anonymous fan – thank you, wherever you are! Milano, November 26, 2023
Thank you Yao Lu for your translation of “Where the day never ends” the preface to the upcoming new collection of short novels with the same title soon to be published by MeiGuiLu Publishing.
Basking in the sun at the berth – Photo by F. Marincola, Princeton by the Beach, California, Novermber 12 2023
…I have been to Africa, I have been to Asia, I have been to the Americas, and I travelled across Europe, almost all of it. I have watched the black rhino run free at Ngoro Ngoro, and the lion inhale the scent of freedom at the Serengeti. I caressed tigers at Chiang Mai, and I held my babies when they were born. I prayed to an unknown God at the Temple of Heaven in Beijing and to the Black Madonna at the Pilgrim Church of Monserrate hill. I kneeled at the mummy of San Carlo in the Crypt of the Duomo, and I kneeled at the bold eagle hovering above the Potomac. I visited strip clubs in California to escape the oppressing majesty of the Grand Canyon. I observed ugliness in beauty, and I searched beauty where there was ugliness. I went through one too many E-ZPasses up and down I-95 and along many other highways of life.
But here, in the land where the day never ends; where only the ultimate travels, here, I wonder:
“What is this abandoned beauty? Why this mute solitude? What’s all for?”
“Perhaps,” …I marvel, “here is the place where the souls of the rightful come, the longed paradise for the believers in a freshness that could not be found in ordinary life, for those who aspired for a beginning without end, for an unending cycle of purity. Maybe they are sitting on that bench, viewing a crepuscule harbinger of a beginning. Or perhaps, they are walking along the sandy beach, or across the green meadows. Perhaps they are turning, my departed parents among them, to stare at me wondering whether I will ever join…
Please enjoy the purposefully chaotic style of this short story about a dog (Teddy) and its aftermath! This is why I am a “cat person”!!!
Enjoy
Sunset from Roberta’s terrace – Photo by Roberta Marincola (my adored cousin) Pizzo, November 7, 2023
One Crazy Day, One Crazy Dog
I would like to say that my time on Tuesday with the grandchildren was sweet and calm, but honestly, three hours of what was to be a day in the sun, coloring with the grandchildren, and a simple dinner that my son had already prepared before he rushed off to Sharks Ice to teach hockey, was wild.
Dane had taken the time to say he was working again with Teddy, his newly adopted Pomeranian three-year-old puppy, on manners and potty training. Once again? “Well,” Dane explained, “Teddy has had problems since knee surgery. He seems to have slipped back to his old ways.”
Poor Teddy! He had a dislocated patella that popped out of place every time he ran. After his surgery, he could gradually go for walks, starting at 100 yards per day; until then, Teddy had to be kept on a leash as he was not to jump for the next three months.
I slowly remembered why Teddy had become part of our lives. Mei, Dane’s 5-year-old daughter, feared dogs. Dane thought it would be a good idea to adopt Teddy and help Mei conquer her fears. This little plan worked as Mei and Teddy bonded, and there was peace in the family.
Almost! Last week, I arrived, and Teddy, the sweet little Pomeranian, had turned into a mischievous, wild, untamable, hairy furball. He was totally out of control! And wearing a diaper to boot! What! The diaper was just in case, as he was totally out of his mind, operating from his frontal cortex, and not listening to anyone.
TEDDY! Out in the backyard, chasing birds, lizards, and anyone that made a noise. The neighbor phoned the SPCA and came to check out Teddy’s living conditions. The dog had plenty of food in his bowl, an excellent clean water dish, and a fountain that provided clean running water. The SPCA was happy, but the neighbor was not.
Dane told me to watch Teddy as he headed for the strawberries garden, so I was careful to stay with him as he dashed at full speed after his knee surgery, chasing a flock of crows flying over the house. By the time I caught up with him, he had run to the strawberry garden and exercised his front paws, digging up the dirt and the strawberries! The soil was flying, landing on the grass below in a grand heap! “Teddy!” I clapped my hand and watched him take off again. That dog can run. Finally, after bribing him with a treat, I put his diaper back on and took him into the house.
Mei is overwhelmed. Her parents have been out of town. She is having a meltdown, and I cannot seem to calm her. Finally, after half an hour, we read Mog the Cat in the backyard. Things are slowly getting better.
Dane and Andrea have a Smart House. That means they know how to work everything. I do not. He showed me the oven and gave me five minutes of instructions for heating the carrots and cooking the salmon. He even preset the times for me. “Good luck with the oven door; it won’t stay shut.”
How difficult could it be? There were two ovens. The top oven door would not stay shut. Did this mean the oven only worked if I could get the oven door to close? Oh, the timer, they looked like they were going, but I watched the children as the little one was TROUBLE, and you could not take your eyes off her. Darn, the timers didn’t start. How many minutes have gone by? Salmon is so fussy; maybe it was 5 minutes. I will just wing it. But Mei is such a picky eater that if the food isn’t right, she won’t eat!
The food is on the table, and the girls are delighted with the teriyaki rice. Mei likes the salmon; nobody wants the carrots. Mei announces that her 2-year-old sister April doesn’t like salmon. And this is when things all went downhill.
April wants everything that Mei has. She chomps up a large mouth full of carrots and decides she does not want them. She spit them out all over her chair and then brushed them on Teddy, patiently waiting for food to drop. The carrots have all mixed into his massive amount of hair.
ABC carrots.
“Poor Teddy!” Mei yells out!
“Poor Nanny! I yell! By this time, I am really feeling sorry for myself.
Then comes the grand finale. April shoves all the salmon in her mouth. She starts giggling, which I have found out means trouble! In one big inhalation, April spits out the ABC Salmon and smears it all over the long kitchen table without wasting a second. She is laughing hysterically! I am crying on the inside.
Mei is yelling, “I am telling Mom! I am telling Dad! April, Time Out! Nanny, are you telling Mom? Are you going to tell Dad?” Mei kept repeating herself until April was in tears. Mei has her hands in a T position, like on TV during a football game.
I cannot talk to April because I am mad. I am trying to control myself. I am at my limit with patience. They are all gone, all used up. I need to lock myself in a closet and hide. April knows I am mad and wants a hug; she wants her Nanny. OMG! Really!
I grew up with manners. My parents brought me up to eat with the Queen of England. My home was run like Downton Abbey. I ate out of Bone China and drank from a teacup as a child. I need to prepare for the American way of life. I need time to gradually warm up. I must learn to relax. Go with the flow! But I am Canadian. I graduated from a military university!
Teddy, however, fits right in. He is happy to munch on the ABC Salmon that fell on the floor. I grabbed the rest of the food in April’s bowl and announced that they were dismissed from the table and that I would be cleaning up. This will give me time to calm down and refrain from myself.
After washing the dishes, I checked on the little one, as I could not hear nor see her. Mei came around the kitchen corner and yelled, “Teddy is on the kitchen table, licking the food!” Teddy, there he was in all his glory, walking up and down the kitchen table, looking for food scraps.
I am clearly upset and realize that only time will heal the situation. There is only one solution. A sabbatical! I voluntarily placed myself on sabbatical until next week. Walk in the woods, meditate, and read about love and kindness. Yes, I need to calm my turbulent mind. Writing a story may help soothe my mind. That may be the answer.
Here is a new very short story and a poem from Denise.
Welcome back!
The red maple tree – Photo by F. Marincola, Commonwealth Avenue, Boston, MA, October 27, 2023
Sweet Thoughts
Last night, I had a webinar with the California Naturopathic Doctor’s Association, CNDA, on Enhancing Patient Outcomes: Integrative Approaches in Oncology Treatment. The speaker had a sweet story at the end when asked if she had any terminal patients who felt like they had no hope.
The short story was about a man with terminal cancer with a history of 23 rounds of treatment. The cancer had returned; the patient was filled with despair and did not know what to do. He asked the Naturopathic doctor what he should do. He considered treatment in Mexico or going on with a new drug. He really did not have the heart to do either. She asked him what did he want to do? How did he want to spend his last few months living?
He replied, “I want to feel the sand between my toes and the water on my feet.”
A few months later, she heard from him. He emailed to say that he was in Hawaii and had never been so happy.
***
This story made me think about walking on the beach and putting my feet in the water in Sarasota, Florida, where Siesta Key has white quartz sand and turquoise waters. The beach is so long I cannot see where the sand ends; it is like a dream. Just the thought of the beach makes me feel so happy. I love walking on the beach, collecting shells, and letting the saltwater rush between my toes as the sand slips away.
Back at home, I love walking on Dear Medford Beach in Nova Scotia, where the tide goes out 100 miles, leaving pools of salt water, where one can chisel out amethyst crystals and treasure them like the Mi’Kmaq First Nation did hundreds of years ago. The mud mixed in with the red sand leaves my toes a slight red tint as I walk along, looking for a puddle to wash away the mud that has settled between my toes. The tide is so calm it trickles in slowly, leaving all the time to renew my soul, feed my thoughts, and leave me in simple bliss.
***
Another story that is dear to my heart occurs in Ikaria, Greece, a tiny island with a very rocky topography in the middle of the Aegean Sea. A Greek man who lived half of his life in the United States was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Since he was only given a short time to live, he decided to go back to his birthplace, his home, to die. He returned to Ikaria, the country with simple mountain ways. He planted grape vines, even though he would not be around to enjoy them. His wife would be there to enjoy the grapes made into wine. He worked hard on his land, farmed, and lived a Blue Zone life filled with friends and a simple diet. When Dan Buettner, a national Geographic explorer, journalist, and the founder of the Blue Zone, visited him the last time, it was to give a blessing at his grave. The Greek Man lived in Ikaria in the hills and died at 100. His lifestyle, love of the island, hard work, and a simple diet made all the difference and brought him into old age. The Ikaria man had change how Dan Buettner thought about life.
This story brings joy to my heart. It brings me a thought…Do I have a special place? If so, where is it? Is my soul there? What brings me joy? What brings me peace? Where is joy located in the body?
It is my pleasure to introduce our new Publishing Company with Yao Lu as Chief Executive Officer, George Patriarca as Senior Publishing Consultant and myself as Executive Vice President.
Now, one may ask: “Why would someone start another publishing enterprise among so many?“
The answer is simple: “For no good reason except love for literature and our past experiences trying to find a home for good productions without being exploited by the self-publishing industry”
Yao Lu, is one of the most avid readers I have ever met, and it is natural to have her at the helm of this venture; you can be sure that she will read and study every word that you will want to share with her. In addition, Yao Lu and I are complementary, as I do not have any poetic skills as my main interest is prose, while she is interested in poetry of all kind while, in particular she can understand, appreciate a very special kind of poetry: Chinese poetry, which is an art all on its own.
The domain name MeiGuiLumeans in Mandarin: “Fragrance of the rose” and it was chosen to underline our belief that good literature is meant to elevate the spirit just as much fragrances do.
Besides, as Yao Lu puts it:
“I think MeiGuiLu is a good name
Because whether it’s Eastern culture or Western culture
Roses are the favorite flowers of writers and poets
If you Google Rose’s literature
You can find many great writers describing this plant
Meigui is a symbol of popular literature!“
***
George has been behind our efforts for a long time and he knows how to navigate efficiently the publishing world assuring as wide of a distribution of our books as possible at a very reasonable cost.
So, we are happy now to serve as consultant to potential novices and support seasoned writers to publish in any form or language.
Most importantly, we will not discriminate based on content save for basic ethical principles to whom all publisher should abide.
Here is some information while more details can be found in the website.
The information is presented in English and Mandarin since the large majority of our readers are familiar with at least one of them; however, we do not limit our publications to these idioms and any other option is open to the best of our ability to provide high quality editing services.
ABOUT US
Since its establishment in 2019, MeiGuiLu Publishing has been supporting authors from continental Europe, the United States and Asia. Over the years, our company has edited, published, printed, and distributed manuscripts entrusted to us by our authors.
As a non-traditional and independent, print on demand self-publishing company, MeiGuiLu Publishing has forged partnership with printers and distributors in five different countries to bring authors closer to their readers. By offering authors an integrated solution for publishing quality books, we have increased the diversity of titles in the book market through our international on-demand production and distribution through our global distribution partners.
With on-demand printing as our core expertise, publishers can bring their titles to market without risk, and always keep them available through print-on-demand technology.
There are many types of books that we publish. These include the most popular genres of books, both fiction and nonfiction: mystery novels, romance novels, memoirs and biographies, self-help, science fiction, fantasy, children’s books and scientific articles, and many more.
However, we do not publish books that are prohibited by law or to which free access is otherwise not possible, for example, due to plagiarism or copyright infringement. In addition, manuscripts that incite hatred and division, as well as those considered politically, legally, religiously, morally, or culturally offensive, will also not be published.
MeiGuiLu Publishing, therefore, reserves the right to refuse or call off publication as soon as such content is detected at any stage of publication.
Self-publishing and traditional publishing are two different approaches to getting your book to market.
Traditional publishing involves submitting your manuscript to a publishing house, which will review your work and decide whether to publish it. If they do, the publisher will cover the cost of editing, designing, printing, and promoting your book. However, you will have to give up a significant amount of creative control and a portion of your royalties.
On the other hand, self-publishing allows you to have complete control over the content, design, and distribution of your book. You will, however, have to cover the costs of editing, designing, printing, and marketing your book, although you will receive a larger share of the royalties.
In general, traditional publishing provides broader distribution and more credibility, while self-publishing offers more creative control and higher royalties. Ultimately, the choice between the two comes down to your goals, budget, and personal preference. However, if you are looking to take full control of your book and maximize royalties, then self-publishing is for you.
Another advantage of self-publishing is you get to decide on everything from editing services and cover designs right down to pricing strategies. Furthermore, self-publishing allows for faster turnaround times than traditional publishing methods. This means that once you’ve completed writing your masterpiece, it won’t be long before it’s available for purchase by readers worldwide! In conclusion: whether you’re an aspiring author or already established in the industry – there has never been a better time than now for authors who want total control over their work! Self-publishing offers unparalleled flexibility while still providing access to millions of potential readers around the world – so why wait? Take advantage today!
Yao Lu, a newcomer to the world of poetry, endeavoring the provision of services that puts more authors and their work very center of the publication. She is currently working in securities affairs at a pre-IPO company in the environmental protection industry in Hangzhou, China. She was previously a venture investor in the field of in vitro diagnosis. She also previously worked on the preparation of some enterprises and assumed flexible roles such as government affairs assistant and financial advisor. The total amount of transactions she was involved in reached RMB 700 million. Investment segments include gene sequencing, medical equipment, medical services, etc. In her spare time, she enjoys writing and the peace of being alone in her room.
Dr. Francesco Marincola (Executive Vice President)
Dr. Marincola is currently Chief Scientific Officer at Sonata Therapeutics, Boston, Massachusetts. He was previously Global Head of Research at Kite Pharma, Santa Monica, California, Chief Scientific Officer and President at Refuge Biotechnologies, Menlo Park, California, Distinguished Research Fellow at AbbVie Corporation, Redwood City, California; Chief Research Officer at Sidra Research, Qatar; and Tenured Investigator at the National Institutes of Health, Maryland.
Dr. Marincola graduated summa cum laude at the University of Milan, Italy, and subsequently trained in Surgery and in Immunology at Stanford University, California. Among his scientific achievements is the description of the Immunologic Constant of Rejection which leads to cancer and transplanted organ rejection by the immune system. Dr. Marincola founded the Journal of Translational Medicine in 2003 and serves as its Editor-in-Chief. He is also Editor-in-Chief of Translational Medicine Communications. He is past president of the Society for the Immunotherapy of Cancer (SITC) and the International Society for Translational Medicine. He edited several books including the SITC-affiliated “Cancer Immunotherapy Principles and Practice” Textbook. Outside of work, Dr. Marincola enjoys writing fictional novels. His creations include: “The wise men of Pizzo”,”The Leopard and other stories” and “Cat Behind the Window”.
George Patriarca (Senior Publishing Consultant)
Having worked with some of the biggest names in the traditional and self-publishing publishing industry for over 13 years, George offers new authors advice, help, and expertise in the publishing process.
Now working as a full-time Oncology nurse and an aspiring medical researcher, George still takes time to advise authors who want to share their manuscripts with the world through professional publication.
Here is the return of our young writer Heer! Now she is back with an inspiring story that she prepared as a school assignment. I really like it. It came with this note:
This story is a historical fiction piece based on the story Never Caught (Young Readers Edition) by Erica Armstrong Dunbar and Kathleen Van Cleve. Some of the characters did not exist in real life and some of the events did not take place. Ona Judge’s character is based on her story in the original book.
We could not identify the origin of this picture and could not ask for permission. However, it was so appropriate for the story that we decided to use it hoping that we are not infringing any rights.
Runaways
You know my story. I was a girl of mixed race who grew up on George Washington’s plantation called Mount Vernon in Virginia. I was a slave since I was born to my mother and father Betty and Andrew Judge. You guessed it: I’m Ona Judge.
But do you really know my story? People write about things that happened to me and my life story, but you’ve never actually heard it from me. So here it is—the story of my childhood life and how I was affected by the society around me.
I was pretty normal as an enslaved child. I didn’t have any work to do, so I was babysat by some of the other slaves because my mother was always at work. Sewing and attending to Martha Washington. I looked up to Martha. She was beautiful, rich, and had a sense of power that just aired from her whenever I saw her, clinging to my mother’s legs. But that all changed when I turned ten.
When I “came of age,” I had more responsibilities. I was Martha’s personal attendant, doing her hair, helping her bathe, folding her clothes, attending to everything Martha wanted me to do. On top of that, I had to serve as a “playmate” for Martha’s granddaughter Nelly Custis. But it was more of being a babysitter. That Nelly was quite the hassle. She yelled and screamed and cried whenever she didn’t get something she wanted. She also ate a lot, scarfing down the freshly made wheat rolls in the kitchen and other expensive food that I could’ve never imagined eating.
That’s how six years of my life passed, but the work hardened, and the days got longer as I became older. I would retire to bed late at night and sometimes had to sleep on the floor of the Quarters—the crowded house that all the slaves like my mother and I had to live in. It was slightly better than the log cabins that some of the slaves that worked in the fields lived in, but in the Quarters, you have to share your bedroom with about fifty or sixty different people. Imagine that!
Around this time, George Washington, Martha’s husband, was elected president of the United States. He accepted, which meant that he had to move north to New York. And as his wife, Martha had to go too. Martha was not happy. I was doing her hair, and she was complaining the entire time.
“I don’t get it. Why would he sacrifice everything we have here just to move to wretched New York? There’s nothing for him over there.” Her face was very animated when she got frustrated, so I was secretly laughing in my head. I never really said anything back, just listened. I think that’s why she preferred me. I was quiet, obedient, and a good listener. She was the opposite. She had a big mouth and blabbed all day, sometimes saying more than she needed. She told me everything—I was like a statue that would just listen with no response, no emotions. Just a way for her to get everything out.
We moved to New York. It was Martha and George up front with the fancy carriages and horses, while we had to ride behind them in the most uncomfortable chariot. Not as comfortable as it sounds – more like a wagon or a cart. We passed through Philadelphia, where I thought people would be envious of me for being Martha Washington’s right hand, but the look of disgust and pity surprised me. There were so many people, most of them black. Black men and women and children stood on the streets, all of them staring at us. I realized that they were free. Not enslaved. They had the right to do what they wanted, walk wherever they wanted, work wherever they wanted. I didn’t. I was chained to the Washingtons for my entire life.
That’s when I decided I would run. It wasn’t a split-second decision; I’d been thinking about it for years. Many years. When I was younger, three girls named Lucy, Esther, and Deborah had escaped onto a ship called the HMS Savage. They got caught though and brought back to the plantation. That wasn’t going to be me, though. I was going to make it. I had to. I thought of my mother and how proud she would be of me if I did. Every slave’s dream is to be free. But it was not my dream. It was my goal. If I didn’t run now, I would wait until the perfect moment. But I would run.
One day, I was walking Nelly to school. She was only six years younger than me (by this time, I was eighteen), but I still had to babysit her. At her age, or actually, before her age, I was already doing half the work that my mother did. It still stumped me how different our lives were. Nelly was a creature of her own. She was a spoiled brat, no doubt, but she was also the most curious person I’ve ever met. Our daily conversations on the way to school just consisted of her bizarre questions and my not-so-good answers.
“Ona, why is the sky blue?”
“I’m not sure…Because the ocean is blue?”
“But that wouldn’t make sense. Okay, how about this? What’s the point of a lock?”
“To have privacy.” I would die to get my own room with my own lock.
“But a lock turns a door into a wall. That also makes no sense.”
I don’t get this girl. She has a point, though.
Sighing, I say, “I don’t know, Nelly.” This is what I said every time because it was true. I had no education in anything.
When I was heading back, I walked past the house of Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State. He lived on the same street as the Washingtons. I know. This was New York. I heard voices coming from the courtyard. Voices of important white men that were arguing. I knew I should get home quickly because Martha would be waiting, but I was curious to hear what they were arguing about.
“The capital should stay in New York. There is no reason for it to be anywhere else. Most of the nation’s people live here and there is access to everything.” The voice was stern and witty, most likely Alexander Hamilton’s. He would be the first to start the arguing.
“But the people of the South will protest if things are not fair to them. It would make more sense to have the capital near the Potomac. That’s the middle of the nation. Neither North nor South.” That was George Washington’s dear old friend TJ. He often visited the Washington’s house. I could never say it was my house, because it wasn’t. I was just living there because I had to.
“I agree with Jefferson.” This man was calmer and sounded much more composed. James Madison.
“Alright, I propose an idea. How about we move the capital to the Potomac, but on one condition.”
“And what would that be?” I could tell that Jefferson was intrigued. He hardly ever was.
“If the federal government can pay off the debts, we shall move the capital.”
A pause. Quiet murmurs, probably of Madison and Jefferson discussing the proposition. “That could work. But we need a temporary capital while the federal city is being built.”
“Philadelphia.”
That was all I heard before they all went inside. I don’t know what I was feeling. I was angry that we just got here, and they were going to make us pack our bags and haul them to another place. “Us” being the slaves. Which included me. But at the same time, I was happy. Philadelphia was the one place that would give me the opportunity to escape.
I’m going to fast-forward and skip this part. It’s rather boring unless you’d want to hear about bag-hauling, bumpy chariots, and more of Martha’s endless bickering. The point is, when we got to Philadelphia, we got into a routine once again. George Washington had a farm nearby because he was homesick. But with the farm came the slaves. He had some slaves from Mount Vernon transported here.
Then one evening, after taking out Martha’s braids, helping her out of her corset, organizing her giant collection of cosmetics, and finishing sewing a skirt, I pretended to go to bed in the room that I shared with Washy, Martha’s other grandchild. The bed was rickety and old, creaking every time I moved, or even breathed. I envied Washy’s new and pristine bed, but I knew that I would never experience that comfort.
Today was the perfect day to escape. Half of the slaves were still working out in the fields because today was Harvest Day. We had those once a week in the fall, where the workers in the fields had to stay outside until 11 at night. I was surprised when she asked me to stay home. I packed a bag, stuffing my belongings, which barely contained anything. A few pairs of clothes that I had sewn, a blanket, and a picture of my family. That was the one thing I valued more than anything.
I checked to make sure the lanterns were blown out, before creeping down the stairs. My room, well actually, the room I shared, was right next to the Washingtons, upstairs. And George and Martha were at a formal dinner party at someone’s house. Which was why today was the perfect day. I snuck outside from the door in the back, checking that no one was around. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I’d thought about this day for so long, dreamed about it even. I’d been planning the perfect escape in my head since the first time I decided I would do it. A sliver of doubt entered my mind. What if someone caught me? What then? I didn’t want to think about it. I had to make sure I won’t be caught.
It was a chilly night, so I was glad I had brought my hand-me-down coat. The wind whistled in my ears as I scrambled along the path farther and farther away from the people I’d stayed with my entire life. Where will I go? I didn’t plan what would happen after the escape. I didn’t have much time to dwell on it before I realized I was in trouble.
I heard shouts from far behind me. Shouts of confusion.
“Where did she go?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Tell me where she went!”
“I don’t know! I haven’t seen anyone!”
Dread filled me. I knew they were talking about me. I didn’t realize they’d find out so soon. Flickering lights from lanterns filled the dark night, illuminating the pathway. Then I ran. I ran and ran, faster than the wind, my cheeks numb from the cold air. I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t slow down. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to jump out of my body. I started to run out of energy until I collapsed. At least I couldn’t hear them anymore.
I knew they were still looking for me. They wouldn’t stop until they found me, or until the Washingtons gave up. I knew that news would reach the Washingtons soon about my escape. In mere hours, at the most. I turned into a narrow alleyway, hiding behind the buildings. I breathed heavily, trying to catch my breath.
“Who are you?” A voice said. I jumped. If someone found me here, I could be caught. It started to dawn on me now, the mess that I’d gotten myself in. I’d be running for the rest of my life. I’d never actually be free. Always looking behind my back, expecting someone to be chasing after me, always prepared to run.
I looked around cautiously, my body in a defensive position. I couldn’t see anyone around.
“Psst. Down here,” the voice said again. It sounded like a child’s voice. Peering down, I saw a shadow of a little girl. She had matches in her hand, and I was fully prepared that she was going to try and hurt me. But instead, she lit a lantern so I could see her face.
She was rather young, maybe a bit older than Nelly. She had hair the color of fire and her eyes were a stark contrast to them, a pale blue-green. Icy and cold, but the clusters of freckles dotting her face made her look innocent.
“So,” she said, “you didn’t answer my question. Who are you?” she repeated in a thick accent, hinting that she is probably from a foreign country.
I didn’t know if I should answer. Should I lie? I decided that there was no harm in telling her. She didn’t look like she would harm anyone. Innocent. But again, those who look the most innocent, are the real masterminds.
“Ona. My name is Ona.” I said, my voice shaking.
The girl smiles, surprising me. “Pleasure to meet you, Ona. My name is Peggy. It’s short for Margaret.” She wrinkles her tiny nose at the sound of her full name, while she sticks her hand out at me. I’m startled, but I shake it anyway. This girl is confident for someone her age. I admire it. Speaking of young age, where are her parents? I look around, but I don’t see anyone in the abandoned alley.
“What are you looking for?” She asks, turning around.
“Where are your parents?” I am merely curious, but the mention of her parents is like a slap to her face. Peggy’s expression contorts into one of pain, and her bright eyes are now clouded and empty. I feel like I have cut the old wound open again that was starting to heal. I knew I was treading on dangerous water, asking her this. She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing me for a whisper of a second. “Dead.” Her voice is flat and she looks away, avoiding my gaze.
“Oh…me too,” I say. Her gaze is curious now.
“Really?”
“Kind of…I’ve never met my father before, so I assume he’s dead. And I haven’t seen my mother for over two years now. She might not be dead, but it feels that way. At least for now. And now I might never see her again.”
Peggy seems to understand. “Come on, let’s talk inside.” She motions for me to follow her, and I do reluctantly.
She takes me to a tiny run-down house that was hiding behind a large manor. There were two small beds in one corner, opposite the kitchen. A neat stack of clothes was on the other side of the room and a small lantern kept the room illuminated. The house’s size in total is less than the size of the Washingtons’ bedroom in the Philadelphia house. Which was smaller than the ones in Mount Vernon and New York.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked, giving myself a quick tour.
“Yes. Well, there used to be another girl, maybe about your age, but she left when she got married.” She pronounced “married” like MAR-ied and rolled her R’s. “And I’ve only stayed here for a few weeks now.”
That was interesting. “Why?”
Peggy goes to the kitchen, pulling something out of the drawers. “I’m an indentured servant to the Masons.” I’ve heard of them before. They were a rich white couple that was always at the formal dinner parties that the Washingtons hosted. “I’m supposed to serve them for three more years, but…” I could tell that she was tensing up, like the reminder of the topic hurt her somehow. “I escaped because I was being abused.” I knew what that was like. I hadn’t ever experienced it firsthand (thankfully), but when you’re a slave and you live with hundreds of other slaves, you’re bound to at least see it.
My mouth was dry, and I didn’t know what I should say. Should I comfort her? Or did she not want my pity? I stayed silent as she plopped onto the bed and continued her story.
“I came here from Ireland two years ago, because my family was trying to escape the famine. But smallpox was going around on the ship that we were on, and we all caught it,” she pauses, taking deep breaths. “It was horrible. Everyone on the ship was hacking and the red spots were looked at with dread. I survived; I don’t know how. I truly thought I was going to die. But my parents weren’t as lucky. And my older brother survived too, but we were separated when we got here. And that’s how I got here.” I could imagine what her life was like. I had an older brother too, Austin. I knew what it was like to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure of how she will react.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” She’s surprisingly calm for someone who went through all of that at such a young age. I pondered over everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. At the beginning of the day, I was living my everyday life as Martha’s slave, and now in the hours of a random girl I met in the streets. “So, what’s your story?” She asked, breaking the awkward tension in the room.
“Not much more than what I already told you. I’m owned—was owned?—by the Washingtons and I escaped. I was sick of being Martha’s personal little servant.” My voice dripped with disgust. I told Peggy everything, which was surprising even to me. I trusted this girl already.
“We should go to sleep. It’s dark out.” Peggy motioned for me to take the bed I was sitting on, while she slept on the bed beside me. I started at the ceiling above me, trying to fall asleep. But my mind kept going back to the same question: What if someone finds me?
I wake up to someone shaking me frantically. My eyes shoot open. I wake up, thinking that it’s Washy, but then I realize that Washy’s are brown, unlike the greenish ones staring down at me. Then everything comes flooding back to my head. I’m with Peggy. Not the Washingtons. I’m free.
“Wake up, Ona,” Peggy says, her voice filled with concern.
“Why? What happened?” The back of my neck prickles, like someone is watching me. But there’s no one.
“Shhh…There are people outside.”
My heart skips a beat. We’re dead silent now, and I hear faint voices outside. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, come here,” she walks to the window, crouching down. Out of the cracked window, there are a few men dressed in brown coats, knee-high boots, and a matching hat. There’s one man that stands out from the rest, with his bizarre-looking mustache (that looks like he purposely spent hours trying to curl up in the perfect way) and his shrewd expression.
“I know who that is,” Peggy pointed to the rat man (that’s what I’m going to call him), “It’s the Masons’ loyal secretary, Luther Wright. Why is he here? And who are those people?”
Dread trickles down my spine. “The slave catchers.” The men huddled together, talking animatedly, and nodding to one another.
“Oh no, this is not good. We have to get out of here. Luther probably made a deal with the slave catchers to get both of us.” Peggy seems so normal about this, like she’s just having a conversation. “I have an idea.” She runs to her bed, crawling underneath it. She lifts a loose floorboard that I hadn’t seen before and pulls out bills of money. “I think there’s enough to get us tickets out of here.”
I didn’t ask where she got the money. I could feel my face wrinkle with confusion. “Tickets?”
“For the train. To New Hampshire, maybe?” Peggy was crazy. New Hampshire? I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“You can’t spend that money on me.”
“Why not? You’re my friend now. And we need to get out of here.”
I could hear the thumping of boots get closer and closer. The slave catchers were getting closer.
“Come on, we can go from the back door,” Peggy said, moving to the kitchen. I was surprised that this tiny house even had a back door.
We tried creeping out as quietly as we could because we knew that they weren’t far behind us. They heard us.
“There they are! Get them!” A shout echoed from behind us, and that’s when we ran. Peggy grabbed my hand and we both darted into the streets, dodging the random things that lay in front of us. The men had the advantage of their long legs and not being tired easily, but I felt like I could run around the entire world right now. My hands were clammy where I gripped Peggy’s wrist. I could feel her heart beating fast. But not as fast as mine. Sweat slicked down my back, soaking through my clothes. But our feet still pounded in synchronization as we ran towards the train station. I could hear our breaths, labored and heavy.
Peggy said something, but I don’t hear her. I’m too focused on running.
“Ona!” I hear her cry. I stop. “I think we lost them.”
No, we couldn’t have lost them. I didn’t have the energy to talk, so I shook my head.
“They’re not here anymore, Ona. We’re safe.” Her hair was blown everywhere, and her eyes were wide. She looked scared, but relieved.
“No, we have to keep running. They’re probably waiting for us.”
“We’re here,” Peggy said, pointing at the train station. This was our chance. Peggy put on a scarf, covering my head and face. “Keep this on and don’t say anything, okay?”
I nod. What has she got in mind?
She marches over to a man wearing a suit. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Annalise, and this is my cousin Dorothy. She’s blind and deaf, though. Can I get two tickets, please?” She holds up the cash.
The man peers at me with a curious expression, but doesn’t question Peggy. He snatches the money out of Peggy’s hands.
“Here ya go. Two tickets to New Hampshire.” He had a southern drawl. Fear sparked in my chest. What if he found out who I am?
“Thank you, sir.” Peggy takes my arm and leads me onto the train. She sighs in relief. “We’re safe, Ona.”
I’m grateful to have found a friend. I thought it was just me against the world. Everyone wanted slavery. The whistle of the train blew, clearing my thoughts. Finally, we’re free.
Of course, I was never legally freed. But once we got to New Hampshire, Peggy found us a job as housemaids. The owner of the house was a kind old lady named Beth-Anne. She was blind, so she never cared what I looked like, as long as I got my work done. She paid well too.
So that’s my story. Quite the chase, I know. But that’s how it was for fugitives like us back then. Runaways.
It came with a very simple note: “This poem is dedicated to Wordsworth, a poet I really like” but I want to believe that it was also at least partly inspired by the homonymous short story: “The swan song“.
In any case, I believe that it is one of her most beautiful.
I hope that you will enjoy
twilights in Lisbon – Photo by F. Marincola – Lisbon, July 28th 2023
We went skiing, just to break the boredom of the gloomy winter days and get out of the confined spaces we lived in. When you cannot meet new people you are stuck with whoever you happened to have around when the restrictions started. It does not feel like a prison, but it does not feel like freedom either, stranded with co-inhabitants and not exactly by choice.
The second time we went was the best. She was in a good mood, maybe because a lot of fresh snow had fallen recently. Crowds were sparse even in the weekend, as compared to normal times, due to the restrictions. It was a Monday and there were even fewer people. We went up and down the slopes so many times that I lost count.
She felt more confident than the first time, and mastered the black slopes without problems, so I easily relinquished my caution. At one point I stopped at the top of a really steep double black slope. It was so inviting, I was drawn to it, and the fact that there were no skiers adventuring there made it even more attractive. I asked her if she minded if we split and meet at the bottom. She was silent and I understood that she did not like the idea. Had I been with anybody else I would have jumped down to enjoy a moment of excitement, but with her I just felt like a pathetic bragger. So, I dropped the idea without speaking a word and we continued in the easier slope.
Towards the end of the day, while sitting in the lift going up the mountain, we saw a squirrel jumping erratically in circles in the snow between the trees. She was so amused at the little squirrel who seemed to be searching without success for the nuts buried in the fall. “Squirrels often forget where they bury their food”, her friend who knows everything about all animals had told her. Her childish amazement was so captivating. Her big brown eyes were smiling through the ski googles. I felt like caressing the lock of her curly hair that had escaped out of the ski mask but refrained from doing it. In that short yet infinite moment our surroundings transformed into an enchanted place. The sun, veiled by clouds, pretended to be the moon, making us laugh at it, while the icicles hanging from the rocks below glittered like the wand of a fairy.
I know that if it weren’t for the circumstances, she would rather be somewhere else. She will return to the life she longs for as soon as it will become possible. The memory of a squirrel jumping around in the snow, her sweet laughter and the magical winter afternoon will stay in my heart forever.
This is a very short story inspired in part by true events but also meant to represent an allegory: the young woman is the spring of life seen at sunset by an aging man.
I hope that you will enjoy it.
Sunset at solstice – Photo by Denise Tarasuk, Nova Scotia, June 21 2023
The swan song
The silver Swan, who living had no note, when death approached, unlocked her silent throat. Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more: “Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close my eyes!”
The silver swan by Orlando Gibbons
***
“If an old man speaks in a crowded street and nobody pays attention, does he still make a sound?”
We were sitting in front of each other, a Martini in his left hand and a frozen Margarita in mine, when he continued:
“My grandpa used to garnish the family dinners with his World War I stories. I still carry vivid memories of those recounts. I was the only one listening. Nobody else did. Neither did he. He spat words out of the mouth mechanically for the consumption of the innocent grandchild. I was the only one naïve enough to care. I remember this one:
It was the third year. We had done our turn, and the company or whoever was left of it was set to go back home. And then the captain says: “We are gonna go nowhere. The country needs us, tomorrow we go out and we will fight for freedom.” We looked at each other and said nothing. Sure enough, the next day, instead of going home we are in the trenches. First thing, as soon as the shooting starts, the sergeant holds up his riffle and snipes at the captain’s head. Nobody says nothing. Two days later we were home. –
Grandpa took out the dentures from his mouth; they were too loose, and a crumb of the torta del Paradiso was stuck between them and the palate. Then, he turned the index finger upside-down and judiciously scraped the crumb off. That made him gag a little and so he guzzled a good sip of Barbera. Then, he returned the dentures into their original position, puffed, rubbed is nose and forgot about the grandson waiting for the next story.”
Pretty sure it is an apocryphal recollection, maybe a dream of Grandpa, but this and other fantastic stories came out of his mouth after sufficient imbibing to be dismissed by all and, as years went by, also by me.”
After another sip of Martini and a scratch of the head, he continued:
…And grandpa, walked along the streets arguing loudly with himself. There were no cell phones then, nor EarPods and people thought that he was just a craved old man; but he was a visionary ahead of his times. There would be no qualms now.
…But now, just like grandpa, it’s my turn to be a dusty antique; a relic to be displayed in a vintage store, a gramophone with a scratchy voice.”
After another sip of Martini, he concluded with an affable smile turning the dark blue eyes towards me:
“You see? The biggest fear of aging, is to become irrelevant.”
The piercing eyes seemed lost, ambivalent between studying my reaction or staring toward the deep abyss of the future.
I had no idea about where all of this was coming from. Yet I had no propensity to encourage more of the strange conversation.
Instead, I tried to lighten it up:
“Come on! Don’t be silly! You are an icon among friends, admirers, fans. You will never be obsolete! And you will never be even close to irrelevant to me. You know that I love you!”
“Thanks!” he replied with an ironic smile: “I love myself too, or at least I used to!”
No point trying harder.
I sat silent looking at the idol of my life. A gentle soul under the hide of a grumpy old man.
“It is not just about oblivion; it’s more than that. While the world fades around, standing in front of the mirror of my conscience, I see regrets, I see the treasures that I squandered. Too many ghosts to share the emptiness with. A vague fear of the unknown is the angel of the night. One wants to shout, to tell everyone, to ask for merci, but who is there to listen? Who wants to be bothered by the whimpers of an old man?”
“As an old friend once said, an open door always makes you pause, wondering which way to go.
But what if there is nowhere left to go? Everything becomes purposeless and the distant horizon far from being a challenge becomes an insignificant nuance. How many times can I go to bed at night ready to die to wake up alive next mooring and wait for the next chance? See? This is my curse; the limbo at the twilight of life.”
***
We said goodbye. I hugged him tightly. Standing rigid like a flagpole, acquiescent, he accepted the embrace. As my hug lasted too long, he put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it gently, kissed lightly the top of my head, and said:
“Time to go now. But first I want to give you this.”
It took a gift box out of the pocket and held it on the open hand. I opened it. It was a pin; a red rose made of coral on a white gold stem with little diamonds adorning two yellow gold leaves.
***
Day passed, then months. Life was neither good nor bad, it was simply empty.
I missed him. He had been my mentor since my post-doc days. I continued in his department as a faculty member. I grew up under his protection. We were very close. I saw him go through difficult times, personal and professional. I saw him jump into retirement. I saw him lose his wife to cancer. Our relationship became intimate, comfortable, even loving. He never expressed any feelings for me, beyond what’s appropriate for a professional relationship.
But a woman knows; I saw his pride, when I gave a talk, when I received an award; it was more than paternal affection. I knew just exactly how he felt. And I waited and waited till all commitments disappeared, no wife, no children around. He was an aging old me, and I was still young and attractive. Though we became closer and closer, he never responded to my subtle hints. It was just a lovely friendship.
Yet, I never married.
Then, he disappeared.
He did not return my messages. No one came to the door when I rang the doorbell. I worried, we worried, we informed the police. Searches were begun, but he was nowhere to be found; he became a “missing person” and with time nobody cared anymore except for me.
Women have physiological needs, and besides, they are compelled to please their parents. I convinced myself that he was gone. I had relationships, then I married, and I had a daughter, whom I love very much.
Years passed.
As I said, life was neither good nor bad, it was just empty.
***
Few years after the disappearance, I received a letter. The familiar chicken scratch spelled my name and address. It came from a far away place somewhere in the South China Sea.
“My dear,
Sorry for disappearing suddenly. I had to do it. I love you. I always did since the first time I met you. Your spirit full of life, your uplift personality, your beautiful smile. But you were the “hope diamond” of my life. I had commitments and even worse, we lived in two different words which by chance happened to cross each other. Forty years separate us. What a irony of life, to meet the right person at its crepuscule. I know that you loved me, and this is why I had to go. Give you a chance to find your own life.
I was happy here, leaving in a medical resort, taking care of cancer patients till now when I became one among them.
This is my swan song, I just wanted to let you know that I love you.”
That night, I talked to my husband, I told him everything and said:
“I have to go see him; I have to find closure.”
The seaplane landed at the shore of the quiet resort. Few locals came to greet me at the pier. They brought me to the village chief. A sweet old man with a very dark skin and a very white head. They spoke English quite well.
I asked about him. The elder looked at me without saying anything. Then, he walked out of the hut inviting me to follow.
Protecting the eyes from the sun with the palm of one hand, he raised the other arm toward the summit of a close by hill:
“The Doctor is there, resting in peace.”
I asked to be carried up there. They pulled out an old Toyota fit for the jungle, and we reached the summit.
Under a tall meranti tree a pile of dirt surged among tropical flowers.
As I approached, I saw a slate planted vertically at the head of the fresh mound. A rose was carved at the top and, below it, this sentence was engraved:
“I knew that you would be here.”
***
More years passed. Life still is neither good, nor bad. But it isn’t empty anymore.
“This poem describes how to be a better poet, adding labor to talent.
Before writing a poem, one needs to set a theme; many artists start by imitating.
The five creative elements of poetry that I pursue include:
Speed, theme, rhythm, quantity, depth; balancing theme I present to the reader with each poem different styles; a process similar to the composition of a musical piece.”
六月中旬的诗篇
为什么我创作诗篇的速度
缓慢好似一位垂暮灰发老人？
为什么我只能从模仿开始，
阅尽不同时代的大诗人留下的华章—
那些辞藻优美，韵律悠扬的作品，
只为让灵感光顾我的寒舍片刻。
为什么我不断描写太阳，月亮和星辰？
它们总是形影不离—
但愿读者们洞察到真相不会抛弃我。
亲爱的，
我一遍又一遍重复爱的主题，
正如布谷鸟在绿林中声声吟唱
动人的歌谣，
若没有猎枪或箭矢击中它，
这乐曲还将被风的手指拨弄
旁若无人地继续奏下去！
Psalms in mid-June
Why the speed at which I write psalms
Moves as slow as a gray-haired old man in the twilight?
Why can I only start with imitation?
I read all the chapters left by the great poets of different epochs.
Those creations with beautiful rhetoric and melodious rhythm,
Just to let inspiration patronize my empty brain for a while.
Why do I keep writing about the sun, moon, and stars?
They are always inseparable –
I hope readers will not abandon me when they see the truth.
My dear,
I repeat the theme of love over and over,
Just like the moving ballads sung by the cuckoo[1] in the green forest,
If no shotgun or arrow kills it,
This piece will be played by the fingers of the wind.
Here comes a second version of “The life” by my son Jamie. I really like it, both for style and content although it may seem a little blasphemous if taken literally. Of course it is an allegory about what is going on the modern USA. Still my favorite is “The eve“! But you can judge by yourselves.
Clouds in haven – Photo by F. Marincola, Orlando, April 14 2023
The Life (Revisited)
She really didn’t mind at all; dying, that is. She was quite old and completely ready. Her kids were sweet to keep visiting her, but they were grandparents themselves and hardly needed her in their lives anymore. It would be bittersweet for them to finally let go, but they would move on quickly. So when the morning came, she took a deep sigh and embraced the end of life.
Unexpectedly, she quickly arrived at the other side. It wasn’t what she had imagine because what she had imagined was nothing. Yet here she was: somewhere. She felt just like herself but younger and more energetic. Her youthful enthusiasm for the afterlife renewed through death.
She was in a building. A corridor, to be precise. What a lovely corridor it was, just to her liking. Despite not having natural light everything appeared bright and radiant. Other worldly. She walked along the corridor as there was really no other direction to go and before long, she was greeted by a pleasant receptionist who didn’t seem at all fatigued from her job of welcoming the dead.
“Perfectly on time, Miss Margerie,” the receptionist quipped as she let out a big grin. “Just a little Heaven humor,” she added for clarity.
“Is that where I am? Heaven?” Margerie was taken aback. What an honor it was to be in this place which she had heard of all of her life, but didn’t really believe in until now.
“Yes, well for now. Your permanent placement will be determined by Him.”
Margerie’s heart raced, or at least it would have had it still been working. Him? “So God does exist?”
“Oh yes,” Margerie gleefully replied. “He meets with every potential entrant to Heaven. We don’t let just anybody in here, you know.”
Margerie sighed. She wanted to ask about the alternative, but she feared she already knew.
“Margerie, he’s ready to see you know.” The receptionist gestured towards the first door on the left. Margerie obediently complied. She took each step deliberately as she made her way to the foreboding entrance of God’s office. As she approached, God appeared seated on a hefty leather chair with his head down at his desk filling out assuredly important paperwork.
“Ahem,” was all Margerie could muster. After receiving no response she meekly followed up. “God?”
At that, God looked up at her quizzically at first. As he focused his vision, his concentration seemed to snap into focus. “Yes, come in, come in! Margerie, is it? Of course! I remember all of my creations!”
Margerie proceeded into the room. It was austerely decorated without much affair save a glorious ornately decorated wooden desk, God’s leather chair, and another well-worn chair directly across from God which seemed destined for her. “Sit, sit.” He encouraged her while pointing to the seat.
“So…” God began, “…have you been good?”
At first, Margerie was taken aback. How could she answer such a vague question encapsulating her entire life? Then she realized that she was waiting to answer this question her entire life. The moral code she had constructed for herself helped guide her in the darkest of times to make decisions which supported those she loved and benefited the world at large. She sat up in her sagging chair.
“Yes, God, I have.”
“Is that so?” God, conversely, sat back in his leather chair prepared to listen to Margerie’s life story. “Go on…”
“I raised three wonderful children who have each contributed to the planet in meaningful ways. The first became a doctor and has saved hundreds of lives. The second is a teacher and has taught generations of children. The third is a businessman who retired early in life and then started a foundation to support those suffering from homelessness. I like to believe it was my influence in their lives that led them to live such altruistic lives.”
“And you believe this makes you a good person?” God reflected.
“Yes,” she paused, worried that God may not be satisfied with such a response. “But it is not only their achievements that I am proud of. I, myself, have dedicated countless hours volunteering at environmental cleanup events, supporting neighborhood gatherings, and mentoring troubled youth. My money and my time have all been used for good. I have loved every person that I have ever known and never turned away a single soul in need.”
Margerie puffed out her chest beaming with pride.
“I see.” God put his fingered to his illustrious beard and started to twirl. He looked towards the window before asking his next questions: “And what is your position on gay marriage?”
Margerie was confused. “Gay marriage? What does that…?” She again paused. Who was she to question the questions of God. She owed him a response.
“Well,” She measured her word carefully before responding, “I believe people should be free to love and marry whomever they please, as long as the relationship is consensual and between two adults.”
“Hmmm,” God was a stoic and his thoughts were indecipherable. Was this an adequate response?
“And what about you, yourself, have you conducted yourself with another woman?”
At this point, Magerie actively lurched back in her seat. “Me? Well…” she thought about it hard because she knew God would know if she was lying and didn’t want to attempt to deceive him. “No, God, no I never have.”
“Good, good.” God seemed relieved.
“Good?” Margerie responded. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, you see Margerie,” God began. “It seems you have lived a good life, but I’m trying to weigh this one thing and whether it disqualifies you from entering Heaven. You see, it is very important that gays do not marry. Did you ever voice your support for the gays? Perhaps vote to legalize gay marriage at some point?”
Margerie was mystified. “Yes, I suppose I have, but this is ridiculous. Why should that matter? And why shouldn’t gays be able to marry? Did you not create them to be gay, why can’t two men or two women express their love for one another?”
“I baked the bread sure, but, you see Margerie, not every loaf turns out the way you want. That’s why we’re here. Man was created in my image and so I have a reputation to uphold, you see.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t fully understand,” Margerie was getting frustrated. Panicked even. “What is wrong with being gay?”
“Let me put it this way, Marge, have you ever play with LEGOs?”
“It’s Margerie, actually.”
“Yes well, none the less, when you put two LEGO pieces together, they need to be arranged in a certain way. If you try to put them together top-to-top or bottom-to-bottom, it simply doesn’t work. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Honestly, no God, I don’t.”
“Look, it’s just not natural. It’s not right.”
“And you’re saying that of all the problems in the world, this is the most important thing?”
“Precisely! Now we are understanding each other, Marge!”
Margerie sat back in her chair. They let the conversation breathe a little. God even returned to his paperwork before Margerie chimed in once more.
“God, have you ever been in love?”
God looked up immediately from his desk at her, then quickly veered his eyes to avoid her gaze. “I had a child with a woman once. Mary was her name.”
“Did you love this Mary?”
“Oh Me no,” God laughed. “It was a one-off incident. She raised the child, but he’s here with me now. Mary and I have pretty much gone non-contact since then.”
“So it was just one night of passionate love making?”
God blushed. “Not exactly,” he confided. “We weren’t exactly intimate. I just sort of put a baby in her. It’s complicated. I’m God, you know?”
“I see.” It was Margerie’s turn to reflect. With a sudden realization, she almost forgot whom she was addressing before formulating the sentence, “God, are you a virgin?”
“Don’t be absurd!” God snapped with the power of a thousand bolts of thunder. “I am the divine creator of mankind! I was present when Adam first peaked under Eve’s fig leaf! How dare you question my sexual vitality!”
God took a deep breath and shifted his disposition. “Look, I’ve just been busy. Running the universe takes a lot of my time. Also I have a lot of hobbies. Did I mention LEGOs?”
Margerie knew she was sitting in front of a deity that would determine her eternal fate, but realized this may be her only chance to better understand the meaning of life, the universe, everything.
“I noticed you didn’t answer my question, God.”
“What was that?” God feigned confusion, but knew damn well what Margerie’s question was.
“Have you ever been in love?”
The pigment on his face turned redder than the sea that Moses had parted as he fled from the Egyptians.
“Once,” God mumbled. “Only once.”
“What was their name?” Margerie pressed.
“Their name isn’t important!” God snapped back. “What’s important was that they weren’t interested in me so it’s really not a big deal.”
“Did you ever tell them how you felt, God?”
“Yes I did.”
“And what did they say?”
“They said that they thought we should stay friends. It was humiliating.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Angry!” God erupted. “I felt like absolute shit. It took me many months before I could even get out of bed. Honestly, I’m not proud of how I handled the situation.”
“What did you do?” Margerie attempted to probe as gently as possible
“I told them that if I couldn’t have them that no one could.”
“I see. Was that it?”
“Yes, that was it. Well after I drowned everyone else on the planet in a biblical storm, that is. I told you I wasn’t proud of it. It was my emo phase. I’m not the same person.”
“God,” Margerie pondered as she focused all of her experience raising her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren towards mentoring the troubled divinity before her, “I think you are the same person. You clearly have a lot of pent-up emotion about this. Perhaps you should talk to someone. Do you have a therapist?”
“Yes,” God openly confided, “Professor Ed. He’s the best there is up here. Honestly he hasn’t been great. He’s convinced I want to marry my mother. I’ve told him I don’t even have a mother: I’m God! He can be infuriating some times.”
God looked across from his desk at a rather confused Margerie trying to take it all in. He attempted to clarify, “What? Seeing a therapist is perfectly normal. You people have invented nuclear weapons but still think talking about your feelings is taboo? Get over it!”
“No, it’s not that…” Margerie reacted.
God looked down. “I’m not how you imagined me, am I?” he reflected, disappointing in himself.
“Don’t say that…” Margerie attempted to console him.
“Look, I’ll let you into Heaven. I promise, I’m really a good guy.”
“I know you are,” Margerie scooted closer to the desk, reached her arm across and put her hand on his forearm. God looked up.
“You mean it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Margerie.” God grinned. “I know you’re only saying it because your soul is at my mercy for eternal damnation, but I really do appreciate it.” He took a deep breathe before gesturing towards the door. “Karen, will show you to your room. Enjoy it here in Heaven, it’s really a great place. Bingo on Thursdays!”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Margerie stood up and made her way towards the door. As her foot entered the threshold to God’s office she turned around. She saw God stooping over his paperwork. Unlike before when he was toiling away, it seemed he was just doodling his pen in circles with his head leaned against his hand, elbow firmly planted on the desk.
“God,” she said. He looked up.
“He’s still out there, you know. He may never love you like you love him, but it’s never too late to fix a friendship.”
God’s face was expressionless. “You think so?” He responded.
We are back! with a co-poem between me and Yao Lu! in preparation for our launch of the Website for MeiGuiLu publishing. Soon to come. More about the latter in the future. For now enjoy: as Careless as the wind…
Shine and Rain at Fennimore – Photo by F. Marincola, from my home, Tucson, Arizona, May 15, 2023
As careless as the wind… 像风一样漫不经心…
As careless as the wind…I wish I could be,
Never turn back,
…as careless as the wind.
像风一样漫不经心…我希望我能
永不回头，
…像风一样漫不经心。
Scatter leaves over the endless prairie,
Dismiss the thump of falling trees,
Laugh at shingles flying in the air,
And, at the hat that from the balding head, flees.
把树叶散落在无尽的大草原，
消除大树们倒下的重击声，
嘲笑在空气中飞舞的黏土，
接着，那个秃头顶上的帽子，逃跑了。
As careless as the wind, recklessly smirk at the sailors’ screams,
California: We are in the middle of an atmospheric river. I am saving my little story as I type. The wind is blowing in gusts, and the rain is pounding down. This weather is great for writing.
Teddy Visits the Llamas
As you may recall from the previous story, Teddy has been wild and misbehaving, so the family decided on consequences. The 3-year-old, 13-pound Pomeranian puppy was a handful, out of control, chasing and terrorizing the six cats and the dog in the family home. He barked non-stop at any noise and threatened to take the leg from the mailman or anyone delivering DoorDash. Due to Teddy’s repeated behavior, the DoorDash courier would drop the food five feet from the front door, turn quickly, and run for his life!
Teddy was impossible to discipline and was wearing a diaper to prevent a natural occurrence where he lifted his hind leg and peed on the furniture when he felt the need or wanted a little exercise. His owners decided the best option for Teddy was a home away from home where he would be taught social manners. Most of all, the family wished to preserve their furniture, home, and sanity.
Teddy was sent to boarding school!
We waited to hear a word about Teddy for weeks. Where did he go? My 4-year-old granddaughter would sigh as she put her head on a pillow, “Poor little Teddy!” There was a reason for the lack of communication. The family where Teddy lived all had Covid and were slowly recovering. Finally, after what seemed to be a month, Dane got a text saying dear, sweet Teddy was back home.
Teddy had returned from a farm where he roamed with llamas and had learned social manners to help him adjust at home. Upon return to the family home, all was going well the first week. Then, things started to change. Teddy began chasing the cats and turning the house upside down. He operated purely from his frontal lobe and clearly could not remember any social graces he had been taught! He was impossible to manage. Teddy was impulsive.
As before and every so often, when there is difficulty at home, Dane receives a phone call from his best friend. Dane’s best friend got straight to business. “Could Teddy join your family?” There was complete desperation in his friend’s voice.
I could see the smile on Dane’s face as he answered, “Of course, we love Teddy! He is welcome to join our family, two cats, and my little girls, who miss him dearly.”
Everyone celebrated! The grandchildren were delighted to hear that Teddy would join their home. The thought of Teddy moving in brought complete joy.
All is calm. Now, at any point, you will see Teddy following Dane and the kitten following Teddy. The kitten has grown and is almost the same size as Teddy. Teddy is the kitten’s best friend. Dane is Teddy’s best friend.
When it is time to rest, Teddy will curl up on the couch beside Dane. The kitten, of course, is snuggled up beside Teddy as they are best buddies. Teddy is smiling… I think.
Time flies, I have been living at the foot of the mountain for almost 2 years, and residents, who saw me wondered why I lived in the scenic area. It is humid and foggy; the mountains obscure the monsoon in all directions. If someone who knows geomancy sees it, he will think that I am poor and withdrawn, I have no point of view.
What does poverty mean? It’s not just that one can’t buy luxury goods or go to expensive restaurants, but a kind and honest person may be bullied, and once the sufferer gains power, he returns the favor to pass on the pain that he has suffered, to bully people who are weaker, because he will think that this is the natural law of survival. Sometimes I feel that I am a juvenile barnacle goose born in a harsh environment constantly crashing against the cliff, and when I land, it remains to be seen whether I will survive, since predators may take me away at any time. That’s why I’m often ridiculed: “She can’t even survive.” Most of the time, I like to be at home alone, but there is not enough food in the fridge, so I have to go out.
In order to expand on business opportunities, people like to drink, eat, and play cards, and they gather late at night in dance halls, bars or KTVs. I almost never attend such events since it’s clear that these gatherings don’t build real friendships.
I don’t know if readers have read Tagore’s famous poem: “The Farthest Distance in the World”. The bird in the sky and the fish in the water were originally destined to follow different paths, but due to the law of attraction, they briefly intersected in the physical world. “Depth of friendship does not depend on length of acquaintance.” I used to think that some people would never leave me, but they wouldn’t even say “see you again” when they said goodbye. Sometimes I even suspect that, except for the love of parents for their children, all adults are willing to give only because they expect to be rewarded.
The ugliness of people chasing profit reminds of vultures searching carrion from the sky; can I point this out? I am ashamed of such people. Some people …even if they have earned plenty of wealth, still obsess with grabbing more; they have no worries about food and clothing while still searching utilitarian value. Despite good education, they expose the nature of the law of the jungle, do not know how to communicate nonviolently, to prove that they are above others. Do not say“Life is not easy”, when we go forward, it’s always windy and rainy. In my spare time, I love writing and enjoy being alone in my room. When I was a child, I was afraid of snakes and spiders, but growing up, I discovered that humans are the scariest among all animals.
California: between the raindrops and the snowflakes
Teddy is Coming to Town
Teddy, the tiny 3-year-old, 13-pound Pomeranian puppy, was misbehaving and terrorizing the other six cats and dogs in his home. The wild puppy was creating havoc and emotional upset in the family. The owners of Teddy were beside themselves and did not know what to do with him. They loved Teddy but, at the same time, could not calm or discipline him, so they reached out for help.
When Teddy’s family has problems, the most logical person and their best friend receive a call. The best friend of the family is my son Dane. Although he has a busy life, he is always available to help his friend, who has always been open and supportive of him. A big decision was made for Teddy to get a time out, and with that decision, Dane drove over and picked up Teddy for a week at his home.
Let me describe Dane’s home. Busy, hectic, and complete chaos are thoughts that come to my mind! He has a family, two little ones, and two cats, and both family members work. The older cat has social issues, and the kitten is feisty. His youngest toddler just learned to walk.
I held my breath at the thought of one more animal creating confusion at their home. I was concerned about Teddy’s history of chasing the cats and jumping on the girls. In full glory, Teddy arrived, with spirit, running all through their house and kissing everyone!
As Dane arrived at my home with the grandchildren on Wednesday, Teddy came too. I opened the door, and without warning, Teddy ran into our home like the wind during a hurricane. Within minutes, he had jumped on the couch and rubbed all the pillows with his nose and the long length of his body.
Teddy continued to run full speed ahead. His legs could not keep up with his body and were spinning mid-air. Within a flash, Teddy bolted upstairs to my bedroom, rubbed his long nose on all the pillows, and finally lay in the middle of my bed. Out of breath and panting, he seemed pleased with himself. He was content!
I could not help but notice a blue towel wrapped around his midsection and wondered what it was. Dane quickly informed me it was a diaper!
“A diaper!” I exclaimed, trying to keep calm, and absolutely faking it. I was utterly freaked out about Teddy peeing on the furniture, I asked Dane to explain further.
Dane replied, “It is complicated.”
“Really,” I replied, “What can be so complicated about explaining why Teddy wearing a diaper?”
Dane did not comment further. He distracted me with the little ones who had dumped out all the toys neatly placed in baskets on the floor. Stacked books were suddenly scattered from one end of the living room to the next, and Teddy, who had now, with careful precision, run between the toys and books, headed for the kitchen. Before I took a full breath, Teddy had stuck his nose and mouth into the food recycling bin and was munching on a chicken bone!
I grabbed dear Teddy to avoid him choking on a chicken bone, reached into his mouth, and had a tug of war with the chicken bone. Teddy pulled and pulled, shaking his head, but did not growl or bite me. Finally, after quite a wild scene, I rescued the chicken bone from his mouth. He just sat on his hind legs and looked at me with what I was sure was a smile. Apparently, he was waiting for a treat, perhaps a bite of chicken.
Dane told me later that day, after I recuperated from the visit, that Teddy was “in the doghouse.” Teddy would be sent to boarding school for the Christmas holidays. Teddy would learn to behave in dog training school. Honestly, I did not know my emotions, as they were mixed. Poor Teddy! Such a naughty but loveable little dog. Now he was in a tough spot. His family of origin was sending him away to have him potty trained and teach him manners.
I wondered and asked every day about Teddy during the holidays, but there was no news of Teddy. Really, I was worried about dear little Teddy. Teddy’s family was ill with Covid, and I would have to wait for more information. I waited and waited.
A thoughtful comment from our friend and contributor Catterina Coha about the ending of Giselle’s and Paul’s story: “Tidal Lock“. Thank you Catterina
Noctilucent clouds over the San Francisco Bay – December 2022.
Your fairy-tail ends with the prince and princess dying happily ever after
As the opening paragraph promised – Tidal Lock is a story about the incompleteness of the soul searching for its other half.
When found, it cannot be separated anymore.
The truth is that a relationship does not have to be as perfect as Giselle and Paul’s for two people to feel so deeply connected that the loss of one makes the other feel incomplete. My parents had countless disagreements and fights during their many decades together, but they were so complementary that when my dad died my mom felt like the broken tin soldier who could not stand anymore on his only leg without the support of his ballerina. In a strange way, and with a subconscious sense of guilt, I also perceived her as incomplete and when possible I filled a little bit of the huge space left empty by my father’s disappearance. I drove his car and took care of things the way he used to do, and my last beautiful memory with my mom was a summer evening in Florence when she told me that she felt the way she did when he was around.
What is that brings two halfs to match so perfectly around the edges that they become a whole? I think that, above all things, it is the learned experience that they can count on each other.
Back to Giselle and Paul, somebody said that Hell is the absence of the people you love (symbolically absence of God). People we lost live within us until we do, otherwise life would be intolerable. Sometimes, like in the case of Paul, this is not enough.
Ginkgo Biloba Tree at Filoli Gardens – Photo by Denise Tarasuk
The Art of Head Massage
Lately, I read the best description of getting a head massage in a book. The details were so good that I could feel the massage and drool over the thought of having one. The author, who lived in China, went for a head massage every time he had a headache. The idea was brilliant! There was only one catch about getting a head massage. I lived on the other side of the world, where a head massage had not caught on as a therapy for headache relief. With dismay, the art of a head massage constantly roamed around in my head, and I wondered how I would ever experience one.
On Saturday, I woke up with a stiff, sore back. I could hardly move. At least, I reasoned with myself; I was not on the floor or crawling on my hands and knees. My situation could be worse. I felt miserable and blamed the weather for changing from a warm day to a nippy cold chill.
I watched the fog roll in, surrounding the giant redwood trees from my window, and decided it was winter in the San Francisco Bay Area. A chill went further down my back. The weather had turned on a dime, and my old condo did not provide enough insulation to comfort me. A cold, damp draft leaked through the front door and the windows.
A massage was just what the doctor ordered. After getting the first appointment for a Thai Massage, I knew I would feel better. A massage would address my tight muscles and make me feel mentally able to tackle the rest of the weekend. A Thai massage, for those of you that have never had one, is an experience resulting in profound healing both in body and mind.
Covered in warm towels, I laid face down on a large, warmed mattress. Dressed in Thai attire, my hair was neatly done in a bun on the back of my head. My hair, for those of you who have never seen me, is long, thick, and curly. At best, I would label my hair as unruly at any point and time. My hair is wild, on its own path, uncontrollable much like my personality, and better tucked up. Tucking my hair up gives me a false sense of being in control.
My female masseuse sat at the head of the mattress. With a slight tug, she pulled, unleashing my long, brown hair that now laid a foot in front of my head. I wanted to protest. I wanted to say, “It is better to leave my hair tucked up. Unraveling my bun will result in complete bedlam. Oh yes, exactly so! It is better to tuck my hair back into a bun, for leaving it down is like opening Pandora’s Box. One never knows what will happen next.”
But did I say anything? No, I was utterly speechless as she began massaging my head. Her nimble fingers sifted through my long locks with complete ease. As I smelled an earthy essential oil that permeated the room and cleared my sinuses, she rubbed oils into my scalp, and I could feel my muscles slowly relax. She worked through every tight spot on my head and neck. Her strokes went back and forth, up and down, as I melted further into the headrest.
The pressure was just enough to bring joy and soothe my nerves. I realized I was receiving a perfect head massage. My only thought, my only worry was my long, black hair that was spread out, turned upside down, in and out, twirled, and tossed in every direction.
What would a Thai massage be without a little jaunt, a little walk on the back? My masseuse stood on one foot on my back, with her other great toe massaging each acupressure point down my spine. With such precision, this was the perfect treatment that addressed all the lumps and bumps, leaving my back muscles smooth as silk.
My massage therapist may have been 90 pounds, but she bent and twisted me into every known stretch possible. Just when I was thinking how lucky I was to be flexible, she commented, “Oh, you are so flexible. You must do yoga.” And it is a good thing, as I wonder how others survive that cannot even touch their toes!
I now turned over onto my back. Once again, the masseuse was sitting at my crown, massaging my head. Long strokes, short strokes, I could feel her fingers as she rubbed oil deep into my scalp. Cradling my head and working deep into my occiput, she applied the right amount of pressure to mitigate sore muscles and prevent a future tension headache. This was the head massage the author talked about in the book I had read; this was the art of head massage that brings total relaxation and bliss and prevents tension headaches.
I was spellbound and relaxed when she whispered that our session had ended. All I had to do was get dressed and shuffle my way home for a cup of tea. Suddenly I realized that Pandora’s Box had been opened; I could feel a large bouffant, a backcombed mess in my long curly hair. I now knew what it was to have dreadlocks. My hair was wild!
Feeling the wildness of my new hairdo, I reached for a comb, but in my hastiness to make my appointment in time, I had forgotten my comb. It was not in the hippy sack that I placed on my left shoulder that fell down at my side. In all reality, my new hairdo was so tangled I had to admit a comb would not help the situation. Instead, I twirled my wild, tangled mess into a bun, put my shoes on, and walked out the door.
After half an hour, with a lot of patience and slow brushing, my hair was now presentable. With more volume than I had ever dreamed of having, I concluded that this massage was just what I needed. I was feeling better in my body, mind, and spirit. I put my hair back into a bun and took a sip of tea.
As for anything else sooner or later, we reached the conclusion of our novel; the story of Giselle and Paul. I will miss them very much; my loyal companions for the last year. I hope that the story will please my readers. Perhaps, it is my only one among my stories where love dominates over cynicism. Definitely, it is, among all my stories, the one that was most accepted and praised by friends and readers. The ending is predictable and I hope not disappointing.
When by chance two celestial bodies cross paths and the smaller one is drawn into the others’ orbit, an eternal bond is established and a marvel occurs: in tidal attraction, both slow their spin to face each other. The gradual process first locks the rotational period of the smaller one to match its orbital pace. Then imperceptibly, the dominant abides to the same fate. It is such a common occurrence in the universe that one pays almost no attention to it. This is how our Moon pointed her seductive face to Earth for billions of years past. And the Earth will have no choice but to reciprocate in the billions to come …unless a premature death will part them beforehand, when the Sun, as a giant red explosion, will engulf both in a mass suicide. But till then, the fatal attraction will persevere.
Twilights at Pillar Point Harbor, El Granada – Photo by F. Marincola
…A few chapters later …the conclusion:
Our last paradise
The following decade was indeed their last paradise. Giselle and Paul were at each other’s side day and night, coveting the remaining bits of life, capturing each moment as if it was the last one. They walked along the beach at sunset, climbed the mountain trails that overlook the endlessness of the Pacific Ocean, strode end-to-end in Golden Gate Park, listened to the semi-professional bands, and visited the Rose Garden, where Giselle took pictures of every flower. They watched the Dragon Dance in China Town and ate dumplings for Chinese New Year. They observed children play and, from the distance, listened to the monkeys’ hoot at the San Francisco Zoo. They giggled at the penguins’ rocking steps, while the mischievous otters chased each other. They empathized with the snow leopard that, from the console of its cage, scanned the horizon searching for something that would never materialize. And they drove the vintage Ferrari to Sonoma, to Mendocino, and up further into Oregon’s redwood forests. And further up, and further down in an unending succession of unforgettable moments.
Wherever they went, they held hands because they were alone in a world where all ties, family, and friends, were no more. The two orphans were all that was left, the only survivors of an enchanted tale. In that solitude, they were reborn. In the darkness of oblivion their souls were attracted like moths to the light. They were twin flames that kept admirers at the outskirts of their seclusion to repel distractions that could spoil the intimacy. They never argued because respect was the foundation of their relationship, a perpetual benefit of the doubt that molded a life without regrets. And they yearned to believe that everlasting love exists in this world as a pledge to be carried to the ultimate journey.
***
But, as for all of us, Giselle was not meant to live forever. Her abdomen began to swell. A diagnosis of cancer was dealt, and the clock started to tick down.
Giselle accepted the news with grace. She reserved gratitude for a life that had offered all that she could ever want; most of all had given Paul, the Paul standing by her at the doctor’s office. But it was a fiend’s verdict for Paul. In front of Giselle, he acted confident, but inside life was hell. He could not accept that his younger self, his precious Giselle lived in death row, while he was still healthy and strong. He had always assumed that he would be the first to disappear. He had arranged for Giselle’s comfort without him. He dreamed of her revisiting the places of their life, remembering everything to keep the dream alive. He imagined her beautiful eyes searching for him at sunset, her melodious voice whispering to him over the ocean breeze. But he never thought of a life without Giselle.
***
Jerry, visited often during the chemotherapy cycles. When Giselle was in the hospital and Paul could not stay by her, Jerry would take him to Ebb Tide café, in Miramar. On one occasion, Jerry was recounting his older brother Mark’s anguish when their dad reached the finish line. Jerry was jittery more than usual; he was sweating emotions as if Giselle was his wife rather than Paul’s and he was expecting support rather than giving it. Just the same, that day was not the best in Paul’s new life, neither was the worst. It was just average. It would have been a horrible day according to anyone else’s standards. But he had adjusted to the burden of depression.
“Mark is a physician, the one upon whom my dad had always counted on. Dad always stood by him and trusted him more than anyone else. But on the last days of his life, Mark did nothing to save him. Dad’s death haunted him, although, from a medical perspective, he had made the right choice. Dad suffered an intestinal infarction as a complication of a surgical procedure. Nothing could have been done to help at that age, in those conditions. Yet, as we were standing by the ICU bed, powerless watching his last heartbeats, guilt swelled into my brother’s heart …but it was too late.
In a deeper sense, letting him go was the finest of all the decisions. Life is merciless. At an old age, each day maybe the last one, but even worse, it may be one of many crowding the waiting room of death. Senseless life can go on for years; one can age, get sick, become handicapped and things still go on and on. My father wanted to die when he could not be what he used to be. But life kept torturing him with nothing to hope for and only pain to fear.
One day, I hope not too soon, Giselle will be terminally ill, and you will have to make the most arduous choice. She is an angel, whom everyone loves. But then, it will be just you and her. She will be at your mercy and only you, the companion of her life, will share those treasured moments when, at the threshold of the eternal silence, each whisper from the departing will echo into the rest of the other’s life. In a few moments, your lives will be replayed. She will look at you for the last time with an inquisitive expression, like my dad did with us. She will hold tightly your hand. She will smile trying to express gratitude for the love received, pleading for a promise of a reunion in a world with no beginnings or ends.
Life is a continue struggle to translate what we are into what we do. But at the end of the journey, nothing can be done, and one can only witness impotent its natural course.”
And Paul replied:
“I am trying to spend time constructively, but a form of mental depression removes my thoughts from what I care, as if I am afraid of disturbing the beauty of memories by contaminating them with the current ugliness. We used to love the pilgrim soul in each of us, but now we can only admire the unspoken sorrows over our erratic faces. I live in the twilight or reality, questioning whether the present is an illusion, whether she is gone already. Yet I cannot let her go, because since we have been together, Giselle has been the blueprint of my life.”
***
After a few more cycles of chemotherapy and experimental treatments, Giselle gave up. Water filled her lungs and needed to be drained with increasing frequency.
That evening, she decided no more. Paul helped her upstairs to the bedroom, adjusted the nasal cannula and the oximeter. He watched her fall into an intermittent doze. He sat at her side admiring her beautiful hair that had regrown after the last cycle and of which she was still very proud. The breathing was elaborate. On occasions she opened her eyes and searched around questioning the whereabouts. When her gaze encountered Paul’s, she smiled, reached for his hand, and held it as tight as she could.
A while later, Giselle asked:
“Paul, I need my pain pill, please get it for me.”
“The doctor said that we should be cautious with pain pills if you have trouble breathing. Let’s go to the hospital. They can make you breath better first.”
“No Paul, we are not going to the hospital anymore. These are my last moments and I want to spend them alone with you. Please give me the pain pill.”
Paul rose, went to the bathroom, and fetched the pill and a glass of water.
When he returned, Giselle smiled. He tucked the pillow behind her to help her breath when Giselle said:
“Thank you!”
“…I mean, thank you for everything. For being the reliable companion of my life. Thank you for loving me. I could not have been more fortunate. I remember the day we met when you asked for my name. You were so handsome and charismatic. And your words, your words changed my life.”
Paul smiled:
“I remember that moment too. I forgot to breath when you turned your face and stared into my eyes. Without knowing, I fell in love with you right on the spot! My mere existence had been questionable till I met you; you gave meaning to my life. Thank you, Giselle, my better half. Thank you for every moment, for every smile, every word, every kind gesture. I also could not have been luckier. I am the lucky one!”
Then Paul lost control and, reclining over Giselle’s abdomen, sobbed.
“Shh, shh, …come on Paul.” Interrupted Giselle, caressing his curly hair:
“Don’t forget; as Turo said, real men aren’t supposed to cry even when they chop onions!”
***
A little later, Giselle woke up again and finding Paul’s eyes staring at her she pronounced her last words:
“Say goodbye to all our things for me.”
More time passed and Giselle slipped into a coma; her breathing became irregular alternating deep with shallow breaths. The oxygen saturation declined.
…Silently and peacefully, Giselle died.
***
Paul sat at her side for a while not knowing what to do then and for the rest of his life. He then rose, searched for the phone, and texted Jerry:
“It has happened. Please go ahead with the plan, please take care of everything.”
Then he went to the bathroom, looked into the mirror. It was ironic that he did not look that old after all. It was obvious that too many empty days without Giselle laid ahead, too many to bear. He wondered why he did not cry. He tried but no tears came out. The soul was numb as if he was made of marble.
Turo was right, he thought:
“Real men don’t cry even if they try.”
Instead, he opened Giselle’s medicine drawer and grabbed the bottle that contained the narcotics. It had just been refilled. He took it to the bedside. Then he went to the kitchen, found a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He brought them upstairs and sat them on the bedside table. He then hugged Giselle one more time, kissed her lips, closed her eyes, and laid at her side holding her hand. With the other hand he ferried to his mouth in turn a pill and a glassful of whiskey till he was about to lose consciousness. He then laid waiting to join Giselle in the ultimate journey.
But things were not as expected. Life did not fade into eternal darkness. Instead, Giselle and Paul were walking side by side, holding hands toward an overpowering light. It was as if the sun had levitated into a red giant ball that covered the visible sky and they could look into the glare with impudence. The light though was not from the sun; it was God smiling at them. In him, they saw the face of many. They saw, Turo and Naomi, and Uncle Borysko, and Yvanna, and Igor the fiddler, and Signora Maria and Professor Federico, and Lori, and Giovanni the Maestro, and Madame Ivanova and, of course, the sweet Lauretta and her parents. They were all smiling, while a voice emerged. It was a chorale of hundreds, thousands, millions of voices chanting:
“Sometimes when I finish writing a poem, I think it’s a very strange thing. I don’t even understand why I wrote it.”
It sounds familiar to me. What about this quote from Paul in the chapter where Paul meets Giselle?:
“…Like the summit of Everest was inside George Mallory, and he couldn’t resist the compulsion of climbing it! No reason to rationalize why we do what we do. If we would follow logical thinking, we would do nothing. We would sit on the fence, from dawn to sunset, waiting for time to pass and for death to relieve us of the burden of life. In the end, I had no choice. If I listened to my inner self, becoming a musician was the only option.”
Enjoy
Winter sunset in Pizzo dyes the lands under the monarchy blood red.
Here come a generous translation of “The speech” by Yao Lu.
I hope that you will enjoy
Twilights in Pizzo – Photo by Matteo Betro’, Pizzo, November 2022
The Speech
演讲
I do not know if you ever had to give a speech, …at a wedding, at a funeral, in some public occasion to support a cause? I often must do it and as I listen to myself, I cannot forget impressions I had of others giving speeches. Here is one:
It was around sunset and one among the last sun rays pierced through the rarifying branches of a very old oak tree and came all the way to shine for a few seconds over Martin’s tanned and thickened skin and at the same time irritate his eyes.
Martin squinted, looked away, cleared his throat, and began his speech:
马丁眯起眼睛，移开目光，清了清嗓子，开始了他的演讲：
“I have a dream,
“我有一个梦想，
…Yes, like Dr. King, …I have a dream too…
是的，像金博士那样……我也有一个梦想…
…I dream of a humanity that communicates through a common language called empathy; a language that is listened way more than it is spoken, and I dream of people who are powered by gratitude rather than envy, revenge and selfishness
And in my dream, I see people walk at dusk along the riverbank and turn their heads in silence to observe on the other bank folks just like themselves who are walking in the same direction and those people feel happy because, while divided by the river they know that they are not alone for they share common goals.
And I see fathers holding tightly their nipper’s hand happily protecting the same child that one day will stand by them as a grown person when they could no longer walk.
And I see women who follow their husbands with devotion not because they ought to but because that is all they want, and those husbands care for the women for no reason other than the one voiced by their hearts. And there would be no divorces because there would be no marriages, but just eternal unions governed by the joy of faith in each other.”
Martin paused and looked around, he corrugated is eyebrows, grimaced into a scornful smile, chuckled even and then composed his posture and the expression. He also took a deep breath in a dramatic pause and then resumed…
“Beware Fools! Everything flows as Heraclitus said long, long time ago
“当心傻瓜！一切都像赫拉克利特很久以前所说的那样流动
Do not be misled by expectations of perpetuity. The subtle motion of time deceives the traveler, but life is short, and its product is only a baggage of memories.
不要被对永恒的期望所误导。时间的微妙运动欺骗了旅行者，可生命是短暂的，其产品只是记忆的包袱。
And I see the dying old man holding in a tight grip the hands of the survivor. I see the old man smile and that smile is a promise for a reunion in a better world where there will be no beginnings nor ends, where the rightful will repose after the lifelong journey, the longed paradise for the believers in a freshness that cannot be found in ordinary life…
There the Savior, the Omnipotent will be waiting with His open arms!”
在那里，救主，无所不能者将张开双臂等待！
And so on and on…
等等…
***
Around the time when Martin had paused momentarily to clear his throat, a gentleman who had just rushed across the street, noted the orator and in spite of the hurry walked directly toward him.
A cat that was dozing at Martin’s feet put asleep by the speech was alerted and opened its eyes. Simultaneously a pigeon that had been waiting for something more substantive than words from Martin trotted afar as it was just about to give up anyway.
The gentleman opened his wallet and took out a five-dollar bill:
这位绅士打开钱包，拿出一张五美元的钞票：
“Take good man. Go home, it is getting chilly here!”
“拿着好人。回家吧，这里越来越冷了！”
And even Martin’s deranged brain understood that the five-dollar bill could do some good on this Earth. He started, therefore, to walk toward the shelter with the intent to stop on the way somewhere where he could buy a beer because they do not serve alcohol at the homeless place.
This is the last chapter of Tidal lock, the end of Paul and Giselle’s story. It has been difficult for me to write this farewell to the characters, but it is time to move on, time to explore other corners of life if inspiration will allow.
Meanwhile, I hope that you will enjoy the last chapter and you will accept its melancholic tone.
At the winery – Photo by F. Marincola, Sonoma, California, October 27th, 2022
Following the reunion at SFO International, Giselle and Paul lived happily forever after.
***
Time runs fast; yet its flow is imperceptible. It seems like only yesterday that Giselle was born. And now, as I condense into an epilogue the decades that followed, I reckon that the essentials rest in the chapters past; life is not about its conclusion but the path that leads to it. Therefore, my dear reader, quench your expectations and be content with the morsels that keep life going when the dreams of youth are fulfilled, and the best is gone.
It is now the time to ponder whether a similar account was ever authored, not by writers or poets, but by the actions of people. I would love to know if any among us experienced in person or know of someone who lived the magic of Giselle’s tenacious dream.
This novel explored the hypothesis that true and everlasting love sometimes, somewhere may occur and a bond between two people, when sincere, can be as tenacious as the utmost powers of the universe that defy the boundaries of space and time. It concludes that, at least in Giselle’s case, it does, and, therefore, this novel best belongs to the fiction category where it can rest on the bookshelf in peace together with Snow White and Cinderella.
In the real world, there are people important to us, whose existence we verify on occasions[1]. They exist unchanged in the corner of their life distant from our mind, buried in the depth of the subconscious. This may apply to long gone parents, still staying with us, visiting our dreams, defining who we are. And what about the image of one’s far away lover, so far that the true person becomes a stranger. Or maybe, we are the fictional element fruit of someone’s imagination projected into a lost soul? Is the mental image stronger than the physical presence? In the end, it does not matter. It is the communion of materiality and fiction that sculpts our life, and it is upon us to determine the balance that comforts.
Therefore, Giselle’s story, fiction, or reality is important to me. When in bed I close my eyes and imagine, I learn more through introspection than peeking into the real world. For this, I thank my characters, who patiently listen and talk to me, and, whether they exist or not, they stay true to comfort the spirit when it would be otherwise dejected.
Thus, with this novel, I created most likely a dream, a paranoia, a delusion that, improbable, unlikely, impossible as it may be, is still worth living.
***
Returning to the story, one can assume that Paul and Giselle had children and grandchildren, that they paid regular visits to the respective families and to the other characters that enlivened this novel. It may very well be that Yvanna Yvanova and Uncle Borysko espoused, that Professor Federico and Signora Maria learned to coexist and enjoy life together under Lori’s supervision; that the Maestro bragged for the rest of life about his pupil, while Madame Petrova recounted for the benefit of younger disciples the miracle that made a dream come true. And one can also imagine that Laura spent most of the time with her beloved friends uncertain about whom to adore the most: big brother Paul or the charismatic Giselle. Giselle and Paul might have also established a charitable fund to inspire little girls from rural areas to pursue untouchable dreams and envisioned other good deeds in harmony with their simple and benevolent personality.
***
I will miss all these personages dearly, but before bestowing the ultimate goodbye, let recount one among several reunions that they enjoyed during their lifetime.
***
Giselle and Paul took upon themselves to host their legacy each year in El Granada for Thanksgiving. In this occasion, they even flew in the fiddler and his violin…
***
…Paul was distracted looking at Uncle Borysko, who meticulously chewed and squished the wine in the mouth before gulping it down. He pondered over the value proposition of that awkward habit. Live music at the Princeton Brewery had taken a break, and Dane, the lead guitar, and a friend, walked toward him. While listening, Paul grabbed the bottle of wine, and poured a generous portion into the glass to fill the mouth. He then chewed and squished the wine to appreciate the prolonged sensation offered by the concoction. Looking at Uncle Borysko and raising the glass, he nodded and smiled. It was Thanksgiving after all, time to forget about the world out there and enjoy the emotional overload that casual conversations spiced with alcohol can offer.
“Let’s invite your fiddler to play with us!” Dane was saying! “You bragged about him so much! Let’s give it a try! We will follow him with drums and guitars when we figure him out.”
And so, after the break, Igor the fiddler, took the stage and began to tap the foot. The distant music from the steppes revived in the Jazz Club, and for a memorable evening, Igor’s foot, and the drummer beats, recounted that levitation of humanity that most unites us: the universal language of music. Giselle foot started to tap, then the other one did till she soared into the dancefloor to improvise a rain dance that combined Cossacks’ and Native Americans’ steps. All present laughed at the ad-libbed performance.
Turning toward Paul, the Maestro said:
“We should record this! It could be another hit!”
Paul smiled and about to answer, he was distracted by Madame Ivanova, who took his hand to pull him onto the dancefloor. There she harmonized her steps with Giselle’s and even poor Paul had to abide to the rhythm. Signora Maria joined dragging Professor Federico, who, after warming up and to everyone’s surprise, was a darn good dancer. And look at Uncle Borysko with Yvanna Yvanova! That’s what I call (almost) professional dancing!
While people danced, Paul returned to the table, where Laura was sitting. She had been withdrawn and did not care to join, rather observing everyone with grace.
As Paul sat close, she mumbled:
“I will never understand how these waiters can carry across crowded rooms Martinis filled to the brim, without spilling a drop, particularly without being drunk.”
“How come you are not dancing, Lauretta?”
“I have not been sleeping well recently. I am always tired; I keep counting sheep till there are no more left in the brain. They should create a “counting sheep” App for the phone to help the insomniacs.”
Then, changing subject she continued:
“I am so happy for you Paul and for your Giselle. You seem so happy, and I feel pride for having been part of this story. I hope that one day, you will remember your Lauretta, when I will not be here anymore.
I remember when you were a clueless teenager, who could not remember where he left his socks the night before, and I had to go fetch them for you in the morning. I remember the times in the Bronx, and how much we loved each other then, when you took me around with your friends. You were so proud of the little sister. And I continued to adore you and always hoped that you would do the same. And after my divorce, after I returned to America, I was willing, I was willing to go near you because I was also a lonely explorer of life as you are; I longed for true love and freedom. But I remained a little sister to you, you never saw me as a woman. It has been bitter and sweet. Then Giselle came into our lives. That was when the world changed colors; from rainbow to gray; when the present turned into the past and I chose your happiness over mine. I am thankful that I am part of it. And it is OK. I do not care about the outcome; I just want to know in the end that I did all I could: I have no regrets. But for you, I am afraid, I am just an ordinary person.”
Paul smiled:
“I never met an ordinary person, Lauretta. Each human being is special one way or another. If you are ordinary…you are the first one, which makes you even more special.”
“OK I am special then, but not for much longer…” Replied Laura
“…I have lymphoma Paul, a bad molecular type …Started chemo few weeks ago. The doctors are encouraging but inside of me, I already gave up. What is the point of living longer? I was lucky enough. I lived a privileged though purposeless life. What’s the point to beg for a few more days? Months? When one tastes the flavor of death, life suddenly takes a different meaning. I need to retire; I do not belong to this world anymore. When I look at old photos of myself, my eyes were different, determined at scrutinizing the future, now they are inquisitive and lost, wondering about the essence of that future.”
Paul held Lauretta’s hand and told her:
“Sorry to hear this, why didn’t you tell me before? Don’t give up Lauretta. I love you too, I love you very much. True, I never saw you as a woman but a sister; we were raised together, I held you on my knees when you were just a little girl with curly hair. How could I change my mind? But you are important to me, and to Giselle. Remember what you told me once: “life is not meant to be perfect, but it is worth living to the best of one’s capabilities.” Don’t give up, I will talk to Giselle after Thanksgiving. I am sure that she wants you to move in with us. Together, we will overcome.”
Lauretta smiled and mumbled:
“How much hope can one squeeze out of an empty toothpaste tube? The bulldozer of life: death; the great equalizer.”
Meanwhile the dancers were back. Giselle sat close to Paul and squeezed his arm. Lauretta had changed demeanor to play the expected cheerful character. The news was not meant to be spilled to spoil a great reunion. Paul understood and, releasing Lauretta’s hand, said to Giselle:
“Laura has not been well recently, but she is getting better.”
Giselle scrutinized the depth of Paul’s eyes, and she understood. Several questions came to her mind that she knew there was no point asking.
Meanwhile Uncle Borysko was recounting war stories. Paul herd him throwing hyperbolae in broken English recounting heroic acts in between chewing the wine. It was the remnant of a true Cossack and his enemies:
“They were so scared, …they ran so fast that they left their legs behind!”
And then turned toward Yvanna to gauge the effect. But Yvanna was intent trying to grab a conversation in Italian between Lori and Madame Petrova. Giselle had been working hard to draw her into the adoptive parents’ culture during frequent visits to Milan.
Lori seemed irritated about some pretentious character saying in Italian to Madame Petrova:
“I asked myself, if he is so rich why can’t he buy a wig for himself?”
Paul guessed that she was talking about a suitor that did not trigger her fancy.
To the other side, the Maestro was saying to Professor Federico:
“She is sort of a tentative intellectual. She tries hard, one must give her credit. But in the end, she is an intellectual desert.”
Which prompted, in an apparent non-sequitur, Professor Federico’s reply:
“In my mind, photography is there only to plagiarize life, but there is no camera fast enough to take picture of deep emotions.” To which the Maestro continued in his parallel soliloquy:
“I agree, nothing is as loud as stupidity; people can go on and on repeating themselves to those unfortunates who are stuck listening. And the paparazzi take advantage of it, to amplify, and eternalize stupidity to give a story to the press. They do not only plagiarize life, but they distort it: they are Hollywood’s Photoshop surgeons. And people around them, critics and journalists are intellectual cowards that have nothing to offer but rehashed garbage!”
Meanwhile, from the other front, the conversation, mixed with vodka, wine and Martinis was degenerating. The fiddler, possibly recounting events from long gone youth adventures, in perfectly broken English was trying to impress the recently acquired musician friends:
“She was so ugly that I could not have made love to her even if I took a Viagra overdose!”
And we should forgive the medical anachronism that he used just to make the point.
Uncle Borysko looked with embarrassment at the ladies around him and as he was about to reprimand the old friend’s comment, the proper Signora Maria interjected:
“True that some people can be unappealing, I hope that you would not count me as one of them.”
And so, these silly bits of incongruent conversations went on and on during that carefree Thanksgiving evening that Paul’s mind collated into a symphony to memorize those voices beyond the life of the beholders.
And here is where we leave all of them, in that cheerful autumn dinner
***
Giselle was by then a Hollywood star. Gradually, from live performances, she had taken more screen roles that allowed a regulated lifestyle. At the same time, the big screen made her visible to broader audiences. She received most prestigious awards and together with Paul accumulated a fortune that was preserved according to the simple lifestyle imprinted upon them by their modest roots.
Like Paul, Giselle did not bask in success. Popularity contrasted her longing for privacy and frugality. Soirees and big galas were no match to the gratification of feeding the hens, caressing Oldie, and enjoying egg and tomato soup in front of Grandma after a day spent running across the fields. Like Paul, she considered popularity as an imposition over true life. In the end, she aspired to reunite with Paul; anything else was irrelevant.
By then Paul, had given up most social commitments and spent his time with Giselle. Giselle and the music made life complete, and Jerry had learnt to leave them alone recognizing that the business was doing just as well despite the seclusion.
They still lived in El Granada but moved to a recessed home, with more land to allow privacy and space for a chicken run. There they hosted friends or spent evenings alone. Paul composed music based on Giselle’s ideas, and Giselle danced according to Paul’s creations. And every evening, before dinner, Paul, reenacting a routine dear to Naomi in the old Bronx days, said grace:
“My God, if you exist, I am thankful to you for us today; another day spent with the reverberation of my life, the companion that makes me real. Thank you for giving Giselle to me. I thank you for her smile, for her eyes, for a heart that listens to my words, for her kindness and thoughtfulness that imparts joy not only to me but everyone around us. I thank you for today and pray for a tomorrow just like today.”
***
On a weekend morning, Paul went to the garage and drove out the Ferrari. Despite the frugal life, Paul maintained a strong affection for the luxury convertible inherited from Wayne. With Crazy Wayne at the steering wheel, they had gone places and so many memories had accumulated into the dashboard together with the miles dialed by the odometer. Therefore, on occasions, Paul drove Giselle up and down Highway 1, along the California Coast with the wind fondling her hair.
That morning, Paul announced that they were going for breakfast up to La Honda to Alice’s Restaurant. With the top down, the sunglasses on to protect the eyes from the sun and privacy from snooping fans, they climbed I-92. At the top of the hill, they turned into Skyline and drove into the redwood forest.
It was early when they arrived at Alice’s and parking was open in front of the Restaurant. Paul opened Giselle’s door leaving the vintage car for the bystanders to admire. As they waited in line for a table, a couple recognized Giselle, and for unclear reasons offered to let them skip the line. Paul graciously declined stating that they were in no hurry and that he was just as happy to enjoy the coolness under the shade of the centenarian redwood:
“Every moment spent with my Giselle is just as precious; sitting or standing.”
When their turn came, however, there was no separate seating, and the host guided them to the end of a large wooden table occupied at the other end by a young couple and their daughter.
“May we sit here?” Asked Giselle with her affable smile.
“Yes, you are very welcome.” Replied the wife.
Soon young admirers came to greet Giselle and asked for the customary autograph. When the fuzz was controlled, Giselle noted that the little girl was staring at her, so she cheerfully asked:
“What is your name?”
“Sabrina.” And then she added:
“Are you Giselle? The ballerina?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I am also a ballerina!” said Sabrina “I have been taking ballet lessons for years.”
“I have a question for you Sabrina: why do you want to dance?”
“Because I love it! I do it by myself and train, and train and train. I would never stop no matter what.”
“Then you already have your answer; now you know why! You dance because you cannot do otherwise!”
The little girl’s face lit up. She giggled, smiled, and said:
“Because one day I want to be like you!”
In response, Giselle looked into Paul’s eyes and then turning to Sabrina, she replied:
“No Sabrina, you do not want to be like me. You want to be better than me and better than anyone else; never put limits to your dreams.”
***
On occasions when he could not join her on tours, Paul waited at home for Giselle’s. He spent time scanning the walls for old and new memories, that kept accumulating in the form as posters, sketches, paintings, and awards mostly about Giselle. He had become dependent on Giselle and detested her absence just as much as he cherished the anticipation of her return.
So, one afternoon Paul was fretting in the kitchen as he had resumed the old habit of cooking with Turo. Christina, the housekeeper, was helping by meticulously cleaning and cutting a bag of Brussel sprouts when they were both surprised to hear the doorbell ring earlier than when Giselle was expected.
Christina went first to open the door ready to discourage solicitors or fans.
Instead, Paul heard:
“Is Paul home?”
It was Giselle’s voice. Paul went to the door. Giselle stood with the backpack at her feet in front of him.
Answering his inquisitive look, she preempted:
“Paul, I quit my job!”
“Why Giselle? What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just do not want to be separated from you anymore. It is not worth it.”
And then she continued:
“Paul, this is our last Paradise. Nothing will come after this. Each moment, each second is precious. I do not want to be away from you, not for a single day. We do not need more money nor fame. We just need each other. I will not spend a single day away from you from now on.”
Paul stepped out of the door and hugged Giselle.
“I did not have the courage to ask, but I have been hoping that you would make this choice on your own.”
***
As for all of us, Giselle was not meant to live forever…
She was a praying mantis that I saved from the inexorable madam’s outsole ready to eradicate the insect from her home.
As you can see, she was disabled because she lost an antenna and both predatory forelegs (perhaps because of a fight?). So, she could not defend nor feed herself.
I took her home for a week and named it “Faith” …I fed her ants, she liked bananas and loved to crawl on my arm.
The pet mantis – Photo by Delia Bassetto
At night I preferred to keep her in a shoebox, while during the day she basked in the sun, wandering from flower to flower.
She recognized my voice and trusted me without fear or belligerence …I talked to her …my little one while my own sons lowered the bar of their esteem of me.
***
I feek stupid. Faith is gone since yesterday afternoon and left me miserable. The thought that she may die of starvation tortures me. I was really attached to her. Am I crazy? Mourn a bug? But she was special to me.
I looked for her all over, even this morning I checked plants out of my home, in the courtyard. I hoped that hunger would make her come back or make her visible. Perhaps feasting on ants and bananas recovered her strength so she could fly away? Perhaps she molted. Perhaps she was annoyed with me because I eradicated a wild nettle plant that had attracted her attention. I was afraid that she would fall into it and be hurt (and by the way I used the nettle bundle to make risotto!).
I miss her head turning to look at me. I really miss her a lot.
***
On the contrary, the ants in the terrace, organized a party to celebrate the end of the menace.
Today, during my busy day, I took a few minutes to pause, listen to the rain, stand out on the porch, and feel the breeze blow softly into my face. The breeze brings a gift, the clarity of my thoughts. The deep colors of autumn bring joy to my eyes and enrich my senses. I love to watch the leaves, golden brown, bright orange, and red, dance that sway in the wind.
When I mention I live in Nova Scotia, Canada, to anyone abroad, they immediately picture my family and me up to their waist in snow, even mid-summer. When I describe Nova Scotia, a peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean, catching the Gulf Stream, it is beyond comprehension that we have hot summers and balmy falls right until Halloween, when the temperature seems to quicky dip. This bizarre weather pattern that brings hot weather and high tropic humidity in the summer and fall seems to change precisely on Halloween, so the children must bundle up and dash between the raindrops as they run from house-to-house Trick or Treating.
But I must remember to tell the reader that the waters are warm in summer. There is no need for a wet suit, just bare feet and a pair of shorts or a swimsuit. Our tides are drastic and unforgettable to see. Lobster boats and large ships lay on the ocean floor during low tide. This event, low tide, happens like a miracle, two times a day, and is related to the pull of the moon as I describe it to outlanders, those who visit our precious land.
As teenagers, we spent our summer in the Minas Basin, where the tides are the highest in the world. My brother and I would play in our sailboat on Medford Beach as water ripples slowly rolled in. Our sailboat, called a Sunfish, was a perfect size. We would dive out of the sailboat for hours, swim, and look at the bottom of the Bay of Fundy until the tide was low. When the tide was at its lowest, there would only be enough water to cover our knees. We would carry our sailboat back to shore 3 miles away! The boat was light, and the muddy sand would squish between our toes. I can still feel the mud between my big toes to this day.
As a teenager, I knew that Minas Basin tides topped 45 feet and that there was a 3-mile difference between high and low tides. Each moment and thought seemed to be ever so unique and in the present.
Every day was incredibly peaceful, and most days, I walked to Paddy’s Island during low tide. Paddy’s Island is a feast for the eyes. The land with grass on top is surrounded by water for just a pause, then the current and calm ripples carry the water out again, leaving the Island isolated with no water in sight. I spent many hours looking for my soul on the way to Paddy’s Island. I always found a sense of peace that was so deep it could not be described.
During low tide, we would climb Paddy’s Island. Mother Earth and the spirit of life were on top of the land, just waiting to be discovered. With each and every climb, there, at the top, was a promised view that took my breath away. My eyes digested the scenes as the breeze would blow, touching my skin, letting me know how alive I was and that I never had to search for anything further than the beauty within.
My friends that owned Paddy’s Island would, during the summer months, walk out to the Island during low tide, hike up and stay the whole night! They would camp out during the high tide, through the dark night, with just the full moon to gaze at.
Tucked in their sleeping bags, they waited for the morning and the low tide. They would carefully hike down, off the Island, on the muddy beach, to the shore, and to their family’s farm, where their mom would make a hot breakfast. I have pictured their event for many years and imagined every moment over and over. Sometimes, a story is just as good as being in the moment when the imagination is so vivid and intense. As a teenager, I had to use my imagination a lot. I was always homesick for Medford Beach and Paddy’s Island, and the mud at low tide squished between my toes when I was elsewhere. Homesickness is a common malady for Maritimers that leave Nova Scotia. My heart, soul, and most profound thoughts were with each step as the little streams of water swirled around my toes, on the beach, at low tide, on the way to Paddy’s island.
Fall leaves at the mallard pond in Nova Scotia – Photos by Denise Tarasuk
Whirling Dervish
My brother, Greg, woke up in the middle of the night last month worried about my uncle. Our uncle, who is now 80, was and still is his idol. He phoned me early the following day to say he would cook Thanksgiving dinner for our uncle, as he was concerned about my uncle’s ability to make a full-out turkey dinner with all the trimmings for his wife.
Within the week, my brother had an airplane ticket for two from Portland, Oregon, to Halifax, Nova Scotia. (4,000 miles) All of the plans were in a rolling motion. Nothing is too much for my brother Greg. Greg informed me that I did not need to do anything.
Worried about getting caught smuggling a turkey across the border, I explained that he could not bring a live turkey on the plane. Airlines were no longer tolerating peacocks or turkeys as companion animals for anxiety or other health issues. I know this as I write numerous prescriptions yearly for companion animals. Last year, I received a notification about peacocks; they are no longer on the fly-free companion list.
My brother assured me that all would be well. “Relax!” He would buy a turkey upon arrival, cook the bird at my house, and bring turkey dinner to my uncle’s home. “I am used to cooking turkeys and all the trimmings for the residents at the care center. I started early this year, as there is a turkey shortage. I already have enough turkeys. We have turkeys in every refrigerator at work” He assured me that his care center would have the best Thanksgiving dinner ever. November 24th at his care center was all planned out in early September.
Now all he had to do was arrange Thanksgiving on the East Coast in Canada on October 10th, as Canadian Thanksgiving is early here in Canada. My brother assured me, “Denise, you do not need to worry about anything! I have it all under control. Thanksgiving will be so easy.”
My brother reminded me that he cooked for many days during lockdown at his care center when the chef was ill with Covid. My brother, Chef Greg, cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No problem! By trade, my brother is an accountant and director of the care center. He is an athlete, plays hockey, and can organize just about anything.
My brother is a whirling dervish. He was born in constant motion. He does everything with a smile and loves to be of service.
As for the rest of the story, you will have to wait to hear what happens. My uncle lives on the Bay of Fundy, out in the country. From his home, he has a million-dollar view. On Canadian Thanksgiving, there will be a beautiful turkey with mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, and all the vegetables. I did not hear anything about pumpkin pie, but I am sure it will be in the oven the night my brother flies in.
Another beautiful poem by our favorite poet Yao Lu , returning at the home town. The poem is accompanied by an old drawing by her when she was a little girl.
Wanderer by Yao Lu – Many years ago she tried to complete her first pencil drawing
故乡
故乡的符号
漂泊者脑海很少想起
可双脚一旦踏上那片熟悉的土地
便思绪万千
每一次离开，每一次归来
便体会一次近乡情怯
浪花里的一粒沙
无论你漂泊到何方
无论你扮演什么角色
一回到故乡
就想起第一次看见世界的情景
你变成最真实的自己
你是那个沿着老街肆意奔跑的孩童
你是坐落在老街尽头
那家服装店主人的初中同学
从他乡回到故乡
过去卖电瓶车的人现在在卖锂电车
邻居们是举家迁徙的雨燕
身影齐齐消失在巷口
一回到故乡
母亲还坐在古老的竹床之上
电风扇的叶子吱吱呀呀作响
她每隔不久就会喊你的名字
你还是那个闷声不吭的孩子
独自待在自己狭窄的卧室里
像一本书塞进拥挤的书架中
Hometown
A symbol of hometown
The wanderer rarely thinks about it
But once his feet stand on that familiar land
His mood becomes complicated
Every time he leaves, every time he returns
He experiences homesickness
A grain of sand in a wave
No matter where he drifts
No matter what role he plays
Once he comes back home
He remembers the first time he saw the world
He becomes his truest self
He is the child who runs along the old street
The clothing store are situated at the end of the old street
Its owner is his junior high school classmate
Return to hometown from another hometown
People who used to sell battery cars are now selling lithium trams
The neighbors are swifts to migrate with their families
Warrior and the dead redwood – Photo of Denise in Big Basin the week before the big fire.
Moments: Present and Past
Thursday, September 1, 2022
Time: 12:50 pm
Campbell, California
83 degrees
Weather: Sunny, not a cloud in the sky
Sunrise: 6:39 am
Sunset: 7:36 pm: Autumn is coming
A Perfect Accent
Upon my arrival in Germany, it was apparent that I spoke German with a very thick Swiss accent. Everyone was sure I was from a remote mountain in Switzerland and was amused when they discovered I was Canadian and had learned Swiss German while working in a large Swiss state hospital a few years before.
My newfound friends tried speaking Swiss German with me. The difference between German and Swiss German is vast, and I could not understand the German spoken in Munich nor the difficult local Bavarian dialect. All was quite confusing.
Work was a different story. I was hired by a prominent orthopedic surgeon who had escaped with his wife under a secret truck compartment from East Berlin. Their escape was during the Cold War when the Berlin Wall surrounded West Berlin, separating families, and loved ones.
The surgeon and his wife were eternally grateful to all Canadians as the female truck driver used for the well-executed endeavor was indeed Canadian. The surgeon was delighted to work with me, but his joy went beyond happiness.
The surgeon had impeccable English. My husband and I were both amazed to find the surgeon was not American but German. His accent was perfect, and he loved to speak English.
To my surprise, on my first day in surgery, the surgeon announced that the surgical team would speak English from then on! However, speaking English did not bode well with the other team members. Immediately there was an extreme shift in their mood. They did not hold back their dismay.
What could I do? I performed and did what I was told. My co-workers were angry at the surgeon and jealous of me. I could feel the daggers thrown at my back.
When recovering patients from anesthesia, my thick Swiss accent was apparent. The female anesthesiologist would crouch in a corner and listen to me talk with the patients. She would hysterically laugh at my Swiss German dialect. However, I found the anesthesiologist sweet and full of love; and I adored her. She seemed to take everything with a sense of humor and made the animosity bearable.
Every evening for three months, my husband and I went to downtown Munich for private German lessons. I was determined to blend in. I carried a little black Moleskine, a tiny booklet, where I kept new words to learn and memorize. My Moleskine became my dear friend, and still, I have it tucked in a bookcase at my bedside.
After a few months, my British neighbor and good friend announced she would study German intensely. She had enrolled in a class of phonetics to improve her accent. Without hesitation, I joined her. Each evening, we put on headphones and repeated the phrases with fine-tuned corrections. I had a goal. With a solemn face, I announced to my husband that I would be a spy if there was ever a war. With extra studying, my German had become quite good.
After many months of sitting with state-of-the-art headphones perched on our heads and getting our speech corrected, we graduated! We had mastered the perfections of speaking German. I was delighted.
My bubble was about to burst! Upon graduation, my British friend turned to me solemnly, “I now speak German with a perfect Canadian accent.” It was true; I could not lie to her, for I now spoke German with a beautiful British accent!
I have been to Hangzhou; a magic place standing above the myriad of magic places in China. And this poem best describes the feeling of being there. Go to Hangzhou before your die; highly recommended!
A light boat and a centennial tree at the West Lake – Photo bt F. Marincola, Hangzhou, March 21 2019
寄自杭州的明信片
A Postcard from Hangzhou
杭州，丝路上的古城，
满载货物的慢船从海上来。
杭州有几个名字，更多历史，
几百个传说都发生在西湖边，
说书者一纸合一扇，说了千万遍，
“话说……”
是故事生动还是风景醉人？
满座看客才愿意定居于此，老去。
Hangzhou, an ancient city on the Silk Road,
Slow boats full of cargo come from the sea
Hangzhou has several names, much more history,
Hundreds of legends happened by the West Lake,
The storyteller shake his paper fan, thousands of times:
“It is said……”
Is the story vivid or the scenery mesmerizing?
Audience sitting under the stage,
They are willing to settle here and grow old.
一提杭州，人们就想到阿里巴巴。
诗人，创业者，企业家，身份不明的游客，
青年们浓妆淡抹，在镜头前推销产品。
中年人们下午在下满觉陇聚集，
喝茶，天南地北胡侃。
施主心有所求，就去灵隐寺，祈祷，
在溪水边冥想：
“见鱼出游从容而言鱼之乐”。
Whenever Hangzhou is mentioned, people think of Alibaba.
Upside down world – Photo by Denise Tarasuk – Nova Scotia, August 2022
Thursday August 11, 2022
Time: 2:45 pm
Campbell, California
78 degrees: sunny
Sunrise: 6:21 am
Sunset: 8:04 pm
Sturgeon Supermoon tonight: I will be sitting under the moonlight
Healing with a Shaman
Before entering medical school, I worked with the Yanomami indigenous people from the Amazon rainforest on the border of Brazil. My Peace Corps project included raising money for a Shaman-based clinic and lecturing about indigenous people and ways to help their survival. The Yanomami people are endangered by malaria and diseases brought in by gold diggers who attack the tribes. Our imprint on the rainforest, the animals, and the indigenous people must be delicate and filled with thought, kindness, and love.
It wasn’t until years later that I had the opportunity to venture into the rainforest itself, for after my project with the Peace Corps, I entered medical school. I refer to entering medical school as “the deep plunge.” My survival as a student depended on how fast and much information I could intake, absorb, assimilate, and spit out, as the fire hose of knowledge was wide open. Surprisingly, I thrived and loved the depth, speed, and challenge.
Before classes started, my husband and I watched Medicine Man with Sean Connery. Set in the rainforest, the film opened my mind and lit a spark deep within my soul. When watching Medicine Man, I was in the rainforest, if only in my dreams.
The story is about a doctor, a cancer researcher working who discovers a cure for cancer contained in a rare species of indigenous ants. He is joined by Dr. Crane, nicknamed Bronx because of her heavy accent, sent from the pharmaceutical company they both worked for to investigate the status of his research. Her life is changed forever when Bronx receives Shakti from a Shaman, a blessing that leaves a large, big blue tattoo on her forehead from side to side.
It seemed an odd coincidence. Right before I had watched the movie, I visited a Shaman, and the experience permanently changed my life mentally and physically.
I should recall how I met the Shaman, but I do not. It all seemed quite natural at the time. Why not try every healing mode, especially when nothing seems to be helping the current problem? I was into everything wild, and visiting a Shaman was just something I thought was interesting.
I remember feeling so safe as the Shaman explained we would lay down together on Mother Earth. She would hold my hand during the journey and guide me. My journey began.
Surrounding drums began beating. Vibrations filled my head. The beat of the drums went on and on. After an hour, the drumbeats slowed and then stopped.
The Shaman explained that I must be cautious in taking care of myself. My healing would start slowly. It was Wednesday, and my major shift would happen at 4 pm on Friday. She explained I would have a profound healing experience and feel much better.
Right on cue, at precisely 4 pm on Friday, I felt a massive shift in my feet and legs. I felt this sensation I will call a flow. It was as if all the blood and fluid were traveling up the veins in my legs. The feeling was intense, strange, and fast. There was an inner sound of a swish! Then swelling in my legs and feet was gone. The situation that had plagued me for a year suddenly disappeared.
Although challenging, I have done my best to explain the deep healing of soul retrieval with a Shaman. My recovery was profound, yet my words to describe the affair, to this very day, are entirely lacking. Unlike Bronx, I must report that I do not have a blue tattoo on my forehead.
Francesco Marincola 