Creative Writing –Fiction
Kate wasn’t looking forward to this next birthday and dreaded the day that was fast approaching. Her life goals seemed to be unattainable if life continued to play fast and easy without real success. She could barely start her day and moved slow and steady without too much thought.
Patrick called as she readied herself for a Court pretrial hearing at the District Court. She was late and Patrick told her that he wanted to take her out for her birthday. He’d pick her up tonight at seven. He told her he’d take care of everything and to just be ready to go.
Kate wanted to feel happy and knew he was trying to please her. She just couldn’t. Thinking about criminals would distract her and she took off.
The Hearing was a basic ‘Show Cause’ with only one police officer testifying to preliminary matters that sometimes make or break a case. Kate’s client sat next to her and he was preoccupied with the legal yellow pad that she gave him and pen for him to jot down questions and any thought he might have about the case. This technique of having clients ‘help out’ worked well and gave her a break from answering their questions when she should be concentrating on testimony being given. Kate had many strategies to keep her clients under control, similar to those she used to keep the cops under control. Both having similar high energy and continual needs for attention, it seemed to Kate that some of the busy work she gave the cops and now the defendants were similar to those for small children. That did make her smile.
The day passed without incident and without much fanfare about her birthday. A few phone calls of congrats and that she was able to handle.
Seven and Patrick was knocking on the door ready to enjoy some time with her on this propitious day. She was dressed and ready but still glum.
He had a small a package with him, wrapped in newspaper and tied with a plain string. How did she feel?
“Happy Birthday! Come on, thirty isn’t so bad.”
He said it out loud, thirty, and she cringed. How fast the year had passed. Being twenty-nine had made her sad and she dreaded this one all year long.
Kate sat on the edge of the sofa and opened the package. Patrick sat next to her and waited, expectantly.
She breathed out thanking him. It was a seagull on a canvas reminding her of Americana but actually nicely detailed. The scene was framed with rough wood and a white line of thin paint on the border. The seagull had the wing-spread and was in air. Most of the painting was of the seagull, not the background sky. Kate loved it. She thought of a book she had read about freedom and life from the perspective of a seagull. “Hmmm, what was the title of that book about a seagull?” Patrick didn’t know. He wasn’t much into reading fiction. He read philosophy books and used the logic to win and strategize his defense of his clients. He was writing a book, but still didn’t like fiction or anything contemporary.
“Let’s go! Are you ready?”
“Thank you for the lovely gift. Thank you, Patrick. I love it.”
They left Cambridge and drove north. Kate wasn’t sure where he was planning to go and just let the air and the movement of the driving taker her away from her darker thoughts. Her mind kept wandering to past days with Jack. How would she be celebrating this day with Jack? She had to let it go and she had to let him go. The last gift that Jack had given her was a paper parasol. It was huge and had a hand-painted flower on it. What would she possibly do with a parasol? She recalled thinking that Jack was so unconventional in some ways. He’d been so happy to give it to her and he had not inkling really on what she would do with it. They had both laughed and Jack wanted her to open it and walk with him up Mass Ave under the parasol. What a crazy idea!
Earth to Kate! Patrick was saying something to her. She hadn’t heard him, the actual words escaped her. He was smiling broadly, so she returned the smile and wondered.
He took her to a place on the north shore that had a secret gate and they walked through a pathway that seemed to be private, but he assured her that it was not. At the end of the path was a small gate that filled an archway. Ivy covered most of the opening. On a closer look, Kate could see through to the ocean. They both saw the ocean in its more active and waves crashing nature. Kate loved it. The temperament of the ocean banging against the rocks mirrored her feelings. She and Patrick crossed through the gate and they were against the rocks on a ledge that went nowhere. They were close up against the rocks looking out to the sea and looking down to the crashing waves. Her spirit soared. Patrick knew her, after all. What joy!
Patrick leaned on her and began to search for her and she was overcome with passion for life and for him. They stood against the wall of boulders and they made love.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Baudelaire - 'Be Drunk'
Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
by Charles Baudelaire
Translated by Louis Simpson
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Larsson / Truffault - Magnificent!! - JK Cosmos
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – Stieg Larsson
Transitions –
From Character to Character & Story to Story
Major narration, first with Blomvist and then Salander and the question becomes how to have the overlaps of the stories entwined in such a way that it is crafted seamlessly and effortlessly. Larsson considers both characters and so the inquiry is how to mesh the tales in order to show the plot-lines first as indivisible plots and then as overlapping.
The craft of transitions to clarify not confuse is effectively accomplished in this novel. Analyzing the language and the structure of the chapters supports the premise that Larsson is a master at transitions and storytelling.
The initial overlap is when Salander is asked to investigate Blomvist in the capacity of her employment with a security firm. She is interested in the dilemma of the inquiry and his recent conviction for slander and libel, necessitating incarceration, in addition to a hefty fine. Her investigation comes to a halt at the client’s request and concurrently, the client invites Blomvist to work for the Owner of a conglomerate with dual purposes. How does this assignment for Blomvist add depth to Salander’s story. The narration moves in a parallel way without the two characters meeting or having knowledge of each other. The transitions from his view to hers is planned to coincide with events that may or may not lead to the ‘ah ha moment’ of uncovering a murderer.
The narration switches from each of them, through the events, not particularly chapters as other writers may choose to format the story.
I think that the event-driven transitions and point of view change-ups is effective.
“The lawyer Frode from Hedestad had hired her to do an investigation of Mikael Blomkvist, the journalist who was given a prision sentence for libeling financier Hans-Eriuk Wennerstrom. A few months later, Henrik Vanger, also from Hedestad, joins Blomkvist’s magazine’s board of directors and claims that there is a conspiracy to crush the magazine. All this one the same day that the former goes to prison. Most fascinating of all: a two-year-old background article –‘With two empty hands’- about Hans-Erik Wennerstrom, which she found in the outline edition of Monopoly Financial Magazine. It seemed that he began his career in the very same Vanger Corporation in the late sixties. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that these events were somehow related. There had to be a skeleton in one of their cupboards, and Salander loved hunting skeletons. Besides, she had nothing else on at the moment.” Larsson p. 271.
The above quote refers to Salander’s perspective as Blomkvist presents himself at the prison for his sentence to begin.
Both prior and subsequent to his incarceration, events are dramatic and viewed by each according to their age, station and education, but very purposefully.
The stories do run concurrently after each is engaged in a path of discovery and prior to any firm conclusions as to the murder.
The transition between both lives and events is not a smooth pathway in terms of what is happening to each of them. It is smooth in regard to the language and structure of the narration.
Larsson pulls together clues for the murder simultaneously giving clues to the corporate corruption and Salander’s inquisitive mind and search for facts and inevitably truth.
Beyond chapter breaks, Larsson writes methodically to give each story a deeper texture and a clearer comprehension of the engagement of both stories. It is written like a film outline with the chapters and stories paced to keep the reader engaged and pursuing similar outcomes of the characters. Truffault, the French director, used this technique of overlapping and transitions in his film-noirs and this technique used by Larsson is reminiscent of that genre of film and perhaps writing, at least in screenwriting of the day. The technique enhances the plot development and enriches the narration. Larsson use of this literary craft is a successful one.
Works cited.
Larsson, Stieg: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Vintage Crime/Random House, NYC, NY, 2008. (translated by Reg Keeland)
Truffault, Francois: Day for Night (1973).
The Children's Book - A.S. Byatt
The Children’s Book – A. S. Byatt
Transitions – Past, Present - Connections
The plot has flashes of stories within the main story and Byatt effectively transitions from one time to another; from past to present seamlessly. This ability in her craft of writing the novel reflects an unique skill to move the plot and layer the storytelling. Analyzing her novel shows that the layering and the transitions between stories and flashbacks are not only useful but add an energy and a tenure which works well.
A book is written for each child in the main story and the mother/author has the ability to tell a tale and successfully capture the energy and pulse of each story. Byatt writes with details and significant language to describe at length the story. Rather than discourage the reader, the transitions and the details elaborate the telling.
“Toby had been lecturing in Winchelsea and Lydd, in the winter and spring, speaking about the Saxon fairy-faith, and the Paracelsiona elementals. He had become a great friend fo Patty Dace, Frank Mallett and Arthur Dobbin. The inner group of the Theosophists had held discussions of Edward Carpenter’s Love’s Coming of Age in Miss Dace’s parlour.” P.201.
This quote relates to a time of youth and connections which relate to the plot later in time.
A story within a story and how it fits with the main plot moves the plot and infers more than the straight-line of events. “In the studio Philip told Fludd he had been to see the sea. He said he hoped to go again. Fludd said, why not, and that Philip should go to Dungeness, Dungeness would interest him. Phillip made his way to Dungeness, on foot, one hot day when the broom was shining gold and the seakale was covered with spherical seeds, turning form pale green to bone.” P. 151
The Text includes vibrant descriptions and a flow of past, present storylines.
How does Byatt write long fiction and transition from one time to another, from one story to another? Her successful novel, The Children’s Book parallels her prior work, Possession. In Possesion, Byatt transitions from past to present through letters and the discovery of a story intertwined with historical facts and letters that elaborate on a personal intimate history of lovers.
Both works seem to wrap up more than one story effectively and naturally.
Works cited.
Byatt, A.S. The Children’s Book; Knopf, New York, 2009.
Byatt, A.S. Possession, Vintage/Random House, New York, 1990.
Transitions – Past, Present - Connections
The plot has flashes of stories within the main story and Byatt effectively transitions from one time to another; from past to present seamlessly. This ability in her craft of writing the novel reflects an unique skill to move the plot and layer the storytelling. Analyzing her novel shows that the layering and the transitions between stories and flashbacks are not only useful but add an energy and a tenure which works well.
A book is written for each child in the main story and the mother/author has the ability to tell a tale and successfully capture the energy and pulse of each story. Byatt writes with details and significant language to describe at length the story. Rather than discourage the reader, the transitions and the details elaborate the telling.
“Toby had been lecturing in Winchelsea and Lydd, in the winter and spring, speaking about the Saxon fairy-faith, and the Paracelsiona elementals. He had become a great friend fo Patty Dace, Frank Mallett and Arthur Dobbin. The inner group of the Theosophists had held discussions of Edward Carpenter’s Love’s Coming of Age in Miss Dace’s parlour.” P.201.
This quote relates to a time of youth and connections which relate to the plot later in time.
A story within a story and how it fits with the main plot moves the plot and infers more than the straight-line of events. “In the studio Philip told Fludd he had been to see the sea. He said he hoped to go again. Fludd said, why not, and that Philip should go to Dungeness, Dungeness would interest him. Phillip made his way to Dungeness, on foot, one hot day when the broom was shining gold and the seakale was covered with spherical seeds, turning form pale green to bone.” P. 151
The Text includes vibrant descriptions and a flow of past, present storylines.
How does Byatt write long fiction and transition from one time to another, from one story to another? Her successful novel, The Children’s Book parallels her prior work, Possession. In Possesion, Byatt transitions from past to present through letters and the discovery of a story intertwined with historical facts and letters that elaborate on a personal intimate history of lovers.
Both works seem to wrap up more than one story effectively and naturally.
Works cited.
Byatt, A.S. The Children’s Book; Knopf, New York, 2009.
Byatt, A.S. Possession, Vintage/Random House, New York, 1990.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Process of Writing / Goddard College
j. k. cosmos
-Process – about language and spirit. How? Beginning at Goddard, the literal was the rule and I attended every workshop possible…had some angst on missing any of them and continued to read the handouts and run around from building to building with few minutes to spare. I did not speak. I did not volunteer to comment. I did not volunteer to read. I did not volunteer to ask a question. The days past and I also did not fully engage with my colleagues. I did not speak at the huge square table at meals. I listened. I did not nod my head in agreement with faculty or with other students. My recollection is that my initial days on campus were frightening; not in a way of horror, but in a way of being intimidated. Frightened was the theme of my first residency, as I had decided to come to Goddard only a few days prior to the residency, having accepted another MFA Program. I felt ambivalent as I had talked with the Director and staff at the other program and only one person at Goddard. I hadn’t quite centered myself at home first, prior to the drive from outside of Boston to Plainfield. I hadn’t quite made the time in my head to be fully cognizant of the decisions and the possibilities at Goddard.
One fifth term student spoke with me; she actually looked at me and the invisibility cleared up for a few moments. I appreciated her attempt to get to me. The time after the readings and very full schedule, I went to sit in my car and listened to James Taylor’s melodious voice, his soothing lyrics and songs. I sat in the car way too much and listened to JT and sat in the air conditioning. I called my oldest son, and he calmed me. He said to give it a chance. I knew that. Yes, I knew it intellectually. I could logically move to the place of being thankful that I had the opportunity to be a member of the Goddard community. But, the rest of me was uncomfortable and that is not usually the case for me. I usually am very able at being flexible with circumstances, people, social situations and those events where it just takes some thoughtfulness to be comfortable. I really am very okay in my own skin. That is why this feeling of not talking and just observing and listening was so very difficult.
The last evening of the residency, walking from Manor to the Admin Building, the Director of the Program was walking towards me with his dog, Darla. I wished I could walk slower or faster to miss any real contact with him. It wasn’t to be. As we approached each other, he said, ‘You are not here by chance, Jeanne. You are here for a reason.” He kept walking, as did I. If I responded to him, I cannot recall. It sounds like I’m coming back, I thought. I wish he’d told me that the first day and not the last.
Trust the process is the mantra. I thought about the conciseness of the theme on campus and the following morning returned home. Let the writing begin in earnst.
-Process – about language and spirit. How? Beginning at Goddard, the literal was the rule and I attended every workshop possible…had some angst on missing any of them and continued to read the handouts and run around from building to building with few minutes to spare. I did not speak. I did not volunteer to comment. I did not volunteer to read. I did not volunteer to ask a question. The days past and I also did not fully engage with my colleagues. I did not speak at the huge square table at meals. I listened. I did not nod my head in agreement with faculty or with other students. My recollection is that my initial days on campus were frightening; not in a way of horror, but in a way of being intimidated. Frightened was the theme of my first residency, as I had decided to come to Goddard only a few days prior to the residency, having accepted another MFA Program. I felt ambivalent as I had talked with the Director and staff at the other program and only one person at Goddard. I hadn’t quite centered myself at home first, prior to the drive from outside of Boston to Plainfield. I hadn’t quite made the time in my head to be fully cognizant of the decisions and the possibilities at Goddard.
One fifth term student spoke with me; she actually looked at me and the invisibility cleared up for a few moments. I appreciated her attempt to get to me. The time after the readings and very full schedule, I went to sit in my car and listened to James Taylor’s melodious voice, his soothing lyrics and songs. I sat in the car way too much and listened to JT and sat in the air conditioning. I called my oldest son, and he calmed me. He said to give it a chance. I knew that. Yes, I knew it intellectually. I could logically move to the place of being thankful that I had the opportunity to be a member of the Goddard community. But, the rest of me was uncomfortable and that is not usually the case for me. I usually am very able at being flexible with circumstances, people, social situations and those events where it just takes some thoughtfulness to be comfortable. I really am very okay in my own skin. That is why this feeling of not talking and just observing and listening was so very difficult.
The last evening of the residency, walking from Manor to the Admin Building, the Director of the Program was walking towards me with his dog, Darla. I wished I could walk slower or faster to miss any real contact with him. It wasn’t to be. As we approached each other, he said, ‘You are not here by chance, Jeanne. You are here for a reason.” He kept walking, as did I. If I responded to him, I cannot recall. It sounds like I’m coming back, I thought. I wish he’d told me that the first day and not the last.
Trust the process is the mantra. I thought about the conciseness of the theme on campus and the following morning returned home. Let the writing begin in earnst.
Sgt Crowley & Professor Gates - Tension & No Resolution
Despite the racist undertones, it seems to me as a former Assist.DA & Criminal Defense Atty, that this is a clear case of abuse of power by the police officer. It is not uncommon. The unique component is that it happened to a Harvard Professor. I hope that there is some movement towards reasonable de-escalation of the issues pertinent to police overstepping their authority. Sgt Crowley should have exited Prof.Gates home and gotten back in his cruiser. This is not a disputer where both men had equal power and authority. The report issued in this circumstance may be politically correct, however, it is very clear to me that the members of the panel are not criminal defense attys/prosecutors and have little understanding of the criminal justice system. They, unfortunately, missed a significant issue and did not step up to address the problem. By issuing a report giving both parties equal blame & responsibility, it is very clear that they were not able to get a clear perception of the problem in this case, nor do they 'get' the system and the average person's real danger of being arrested or abused when dealing with the police.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Boom / J.K. Cosmos - Reviewer for the New Rep
Boom – Review by J.K. Cosmos
Expectations aside, what was the point of ‘Boom’. Keeping an open mind, was this production entertaining? Was it informative? Was it engaging? Mastering language and staying in focus. Are these the requirements of an effective play? What is it that holds the audience and speaks to us as individuals? What is it that we seek when we take the time and buy the ticket?
Mulling it all over in my mind and reviewing the particulars, ‘Boom” is not it. The playwright tries very hard to create a work that is significant. He does not succeed, in this reviewer’s humble opinion.
How does the New Rep select their season is the next logical question? Not knowing the answer to that one, we can only hope for the best and wait on the next play that comes along in Watertown.
The scenery and costumes as has been the case in this season’s productions are fabulous. Really exceptional and not a disappointment. Kudos to those in charge and those accomplishing a fab set and dressing the actors.
The Actors over the top and the swearing and vulgarities were for what purpose? The repetition of swears and crassness, if it adds something to the work is fine. But when it is there and purposeless, then it is not fine at all. It grates. It annoys and looking to get out of my seat and out of the house, as soon as possible. The three actors tried to save this play, giving them some credit. To no avail. The 'woman' behind the scenes, Karen MacDonald, made sounds effects that was the closest to a female Mork from the popular show "Mork & Mindy". Not very effective use of talent. MacDonald is a talented actor, however, this play doesn't add to her creative process.
Some of the audience laughed at a few points in the play and it was hard not to notice the heartiness. So the question becomes were those few laughing, relatives or friends of the actors?
This is a production that you may miss. This is one that is not recommended and a true disappointment. This saddens this reviewer to have to share this negative opinion, as any creative endeavor deserves a shot. Unfortunately, there are so many playwrights working hard and having something to tell, to share or to just give us a reprieve from our daily routine, that this one is just not up to snuff in any way.
Reviewed – J. K. Cosmos
Expectations aside, what was the point of ‘Boom’. Keeping an open mind, was this production entertaining? Was it informative? Was it engaging? Mastering language and staying in focus. Are these the requirements of an effective play? What is it that holds the audience and speaks to us as individuals? What is it that we seek when we take the time and buy the ticket?
Mulling it all over in my mind and reviewing the particulars, ‘Boom” is not it. The playwright tries very hard to create a work that is significant. He does not succeed, in this reviewer’s humble opinion.
How does the New Rep select their season is the next logical question? Not knowing the answer to that one, we can only hope for the best and wait on the next play that comes along in Watertown.
The scenery and costumes as has been the case in this season’s productions are fabulous. Really exceptional and not a disappointment. Kudos to those in charge and those accomplishing a fab set and dressing the actors.
The Actors over the top and the swearing and vulgarities were for what purpose? The repetition of swears and crassness, if it adds something to the work is fine. But when it is there and purposeless, then it is not fine at all. It grates. It annoys and looking to get out of my seat and out of the house, as soon as possible. The three actors tried to save this play, giving them some credit. To no avail. The 'woman' behind the scenes, Karen MacDonald, made sounds effects that was the closest to a female Mork from the popular show "Mork & Mindy". Not very effective use of talent. MacDonald is a talented actor, however, this play doesn't add to her creative process.
Some of the audience laughed at a few points in the play and it was hard not to notice the heartiness. So the question becomes were those few laughing, relatives or friends of the actors?
This is a production that you may miss. This is one that is not recommended and a true disappointment. This saddens this reviewer to have to share this negative opinion, as any creative endeavor deserves a shot. Unfortunately, there are so many playwrights working hard and having something to tell, to share or to just give us a reprieve from our daily routine, that this one is just not up to snuff in any way.
Reviewed – J. K. Cosmos
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 2010 -
Bored out of my gourd & should be grading students' essays. Boring and dreary, unlike being in class. I should have used the time to write my own creative work, but kept thinking I had to grade & revise the kids' papers. Pretty much successful at avoiding doing anything at all. What a day! Now time to go to bed and get some sleep. Mondays are the longest day of the week, not just figuratively. Classes begin at 8 AM & end at 10 PM - it's an effort on pacing oneself.
Glad to have the teaching 'gig', still wondering where this will all move towards and where the end-game will be. At the moment, wishing for more and too tired to go after it.
Happy New Year!
Glad to have the teaching 'gig', still wondering where this will all move towards and where the end-game will be. At the moment, wishing for more and too tired to go after it.
Happy New Year!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Norseman in Skiathos
Leaning hand to chin, watching the sailboats on the blue sea was becoming routine on this island. What’s to do today? What else could be seen? How can this solitude in beauty become so boring? This is something that won’t be shared when she returned home.
She finished her Greek demitasse coffee and paid the waiter. The staff at the cafes wore white shirts, black pants and black shoes, even on the most humid and hot days. For the most part, they had fair skin, brown eyes and tanned bodies and faces with black, slicked-back hair. They kept their cool, somehow. That coolness was an island secret.
Walking along the dockside and near the shops and small cafes, she had seen it all before and didn’t stop or slow her pace. She was restless. She was so restless, that she entertained going home earlier than planned. The quaintness of the shops and the items for sale held no interest for her.
Tan and healthy-looking, trim and tall, she kept to herself and saw the sights. She hadn’t tried to meet anyone or talk with anyone on this trip. The island had so much to offer and she had brought plenty of books.
The prior evening at the Skiathos Palace, she dressed for dinner on the piazza. She dressed in turquoise and sheer flowing dress. The outfit was very short, to display her tanned, long legs. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals. They were silver. She didn’t want to have company for dinner. The maitre d’ led her to at a table of other guests and seated her with a group. He most likely thought it was for the best, the young woman to be seated with a group.
How would it look for an established hotel to have young women alone at tables for one, dressed in such a provocative style? He appreciated the style, but as his position was one of decorum, he had to seat her with a group.
The dinner seating was with Americans, and ugly they were. They dressed too casually and were too loud. She didn’t appreciate being a part of this little party. Directly after dinner, she requested a small table for one. The wait-staff accommodated her request. After all, they were Greek and had dignity. They appreciated the young woman’s preference to be alone than with an obnoxious group. She smiled a too wide, too welcoming smile to the waiter that lead her away and closer to the sea.
The sound of the waves and the night was mesmerizing. She was still bored, but at least the boredom was in a most pleasant atmosphere. The darkness of the night was opaque and velvety. The stars were not glistening at all. The stars were hidden from view, an unusual event on a summer night.
After her coffee and glikia (sweets), she decided to walk around the hotel grounds. As she moved away from the dining tables, two other young women approached her. She wasn’t offended and thought perhaps this conversation would be more entertaining than that of her dinner companions.
She was right.
One woman, blonde and petite, was chatty and soft-spoken. She said that she was from just outside of Chicago. The other woman was somewhat mousey, the dull brown hair and of medium stature and appearance. Both seemed genuine enough. They were tourists and open about their visit and touring around the Greek Islands to see as much as possible before the start of the school year. They were teachers, elementary teachers and very nice. Not interesting, but nice.
After some introductions and pleasantries, the women mentioned a Norse ship and Norseman in the bay area of the Old Town. They met him earlier in the day and were fascinated by the ship and his reclusive lifestyle. They were invited to the ship for cocktails the following afternoon and asked if she would like to join them. She did.
No qualms about going on board with strangers. What an adventure.
She went to bed, glad for this happenstance at breaking the boredom of the island. She fell asleep thinking of Norsemen and ships. She fell asleep and dreamt of the Norsemen and how they might be so far south of their homeland.
Meeting the women the following day in the hotel lobby seemed fine and easy to do. She met them and they greeted each other with enthusiasm, not so much for each other, but for the adventure that they were about to embark on. She decided to wear her swimsuit with a dress as a cover for the party. She had found a blue bikini in Athens and so, that was the choice under the dress. The dress was white, a light cotton with embroidery on the edges of the hem. The hem was uneven and had small pieces of material on the edges. It was more of a skimmer, than a dress for the city. It was fitted and sheer. She decided a scarf of blue would be a perfect accessory for the boat, or ship. Whatever, it ended up being, it was on the water. The blue scarf had tiny coins attached to the edges of material. It was gauzy and a large square of material, that she tied in a double French knot, insuring that the coins were visible. The others in the group had on sundresses with empire style high waists and sandals. She knew that she looked sleek and well-done in comparison. It was comforting.
A bare-chested man welcomed aboard. The three of them boarded the ship, which was not in the least as she had dreamed. It was much more.
The ship was of Norse design, made of wood and high polish or lacquer on the bow and sides. The front of the ship was shaped like a warrior with long, wavy hair and a large nose coinciding with the front of the ship. The entire front end was painted a bright blue and the paint melded into a turquoise colour with yellow edges and a tone of white/blue overlapping on the entire side of the vessel. It was a work of art. The ship had an appeal that the Greek sailboats did not. The romantic fantasies dancing in her mind couldn’t be resisted. The artwork and the lines of the ship were so engaging. The women were on board and looking around to get their bearings. The view of the harbor and being viewed by the tourists walking by was a break from the routine that had become a daily chore these past weeks. The evening breeze lifted their spirits and lifted them.
Their host introduced himself and surprisingly he was not from Scandinavia, but from Germany. His features looked to be German, aquiline nose and penetrating eyes. Was that German? She couldn’t decide. She knew that he wasn’t Greek or from Southern Mediterranean.
He was charming although not warm. He was gracious and the staff passed around trays of interesting appetizers and desserts. He thought it might be fun to have guests on board he told his guests. There were only ten or so people on board. It wasn’t a very large party, but a more intimate gathering. He seemed to want to tell those onboard about the ship and how he came to have it and how he designed and painted it for this journey. The details of the story again, too boring to retell. She kept thinking that being on this boat would be a diversion; however, the chatting was also routine about the host. There was little discussion about anyone else or any other subject. The purpose appeared to be to ‘show’ the ship to tourists and to entertain him by retelling his story.
After some time of small talk about the ship, the journey and the Captain, many of the guests left and went ashore. The women that invited her stayed on and were getting somewhat tipsy on wine coolers. They were funny in this state, more talkative and cheerful. She thought she’d stay and see how things developed. The small group went below deck to have a few more drinks and relax. It was surprisingly relaxing. The Captain proved to be very gracious and his hospitality included a tour and more discussion on the features of the ship and his journey from the north to the Aegean Sea. All an adventure and the sharing of that adventure seemed generous to her. How cool was all of this? She was glad to be included in the evening’s festivities. There was no major upset or any shenanigans. The people were there to enjoy and have a party. Being in the hold of the ship with total strangers should have worried her. But, the reality was that the group was all having fun and the stories were interesting.
The following morning, she decided to leave the island and return to Athens, not Boston. At least in the city, there would be plenty to do and to see. Although, she’d traveled to Greece many times before, this trip was a solo one and deserved some effort before returning to work and life with responsibilities.
She packed, checked out and after a light Greek breakfast, found a taxi to take her to the airport. She had travelled here by a Flying Cat Hydrofoils. It was an exciting experience and the best and quickest way to travel between islands. This time, the flying to Athens seemed to be reliable and also quick. She found her way to the small, gray airport terminal and found the check in for the Onassis small aircraft. The flight was delayed. Being here in the dreariness did cause some angst, as it would be preferable to be sitting in the sunshine and under a blue Greek sky. She made the best of it, and found a spot near the gate to settle in and wait for her flight. She had no way of knowing that flight would be five hours late. Even for the Greek time of casual lateness in schedules, a five hour delay was unusual. She sat and read for an hour or so, had a coffee, well, at the airport it’s a Nescafe at best. She tried to entertain herself and after another hour, started a conversation with an Australian man, also waiting. He was her age, had a backpack and was tired of waiting. They started to talk, but he was reticent and didn’t have much to say beyond the obvious waiting on the flight and being delayed. She tried to get him engaged with some discussion, maybe of his trip so far. He was not well-versed in having social graces. He smiled a lot, but no deal with passing the time talking together.
She was disappointed, and oh, so bored.
Giving up any hope of a connection, his friend returned to sit with him. Ha, she thought, his friend. And so, she introduced herself to the friend. He was not as handsome, but did shake her hand and seem pleased to meet her and talk about not Australia, but Afrika, where he was from and lived most of his life. He was actually from Swaziland. He was tall, dark and had a magnificent moustache. It was hard to see his mouth under the moustache, so she couldn’t really describe his mouth. He had so much to tell, about his country and his life. They ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against his backpack. His friend roamed around the area, but didn’t join them.
His name was Mario and he was Greek-Afrikan. She had never heard of such a combination, nor thought about it. She hoped that he didn’t see her as an ugly American. She tried her best to be sociable, interested and interesting. She tried to pay attention to what he was saying. It wasn’t hard to do, as she thought he was a wonderful storyteller. He was entertaining without being silly. The time began to fly by as they continued to talk about themselves and then the politics of Greece and their respective countries. It was as much fun as she’d had in weeks. And to think it was fun in a dreary airport, sitting on a dingy floor.
There were a few passengers also waiting and some were Greek and others European. They were becoming just background noise, as the discussion between the two of them became more intimate. The hours passed and the connection between them intensified. It did due to the commonality that they shared. The heritage and culture of Greeks that were expatriates and longing to know more about their roots was strong for both. Each of them had come to Greece for many reasons, but also to be with their relatives and their people. Both felt so strong about who they were and wanting to know more about their history.
The discussion also turned to politics. Their knowledge of Greek politics was not as well-versed as that of their own countries. Mario had fled Cyprus at a young age, and then his family followed him to Afrika, after he had lived there with his grandparents for a few years. He was brought up by a Nanny, a native woman that was the one to nurture him as a child. He told her it was part of the culture to have a Nanny and to learn and be with them throughout childhood.
Just as their connection was becoming more, the intercom announced the flight. Both of them found seats, unassigned for this short island hop over to Athens. His friend walked towards them and joined in the movement towards the gate. On board, the friend sat next to her and so, she was crunched in at the window seat with a person between her and Mario. The conversation had ended so abruptly, and they returned to posturing of being polite travelers, only.
They were back in Athens and the landing bumpy, but safe. As the group disembarked, she heard her name.
“Katerina, come my koukla (darling).” She cringed. She forgot, since being on Skiathos for three weeks that her boyfriend was even in Athens. He was smiling and held wildflowers in one hand and was waving with both. She didn’t return the smile, but kept her head down and tried to manage her baggage. She so much wanted to speak with Mario. She tried to maneuver over to him. His friend was blocking her way, and he looked up, smiled and wished her well. The moment had passed.
“Funny, how a moment in time passes and closes off a chance. Closing off a chance for happiness?” She wondered.
Everyone was leaving the area, and she did find her boyfriend. He was from Athens and they had only been together for a month before she left for Skaithos. He was working and living his life, and was unable to join in on the island. Time passed, and her infatuation had faded. Here he was, and she felt some annoyance at his unexpected presence. How did he know she’d be on this flight? Well, she had felt lonely and called him from the hotel on the island when she decided to return to the city. Her poor judgment ruined a possible romance.
C’est dommage!
She finished her Greek demitasse coffee and paid the waiter. The staff at the cafes wore white shirts, black pants and black shoes, even on the most humid and hot days. For the most part, they had fair skin, brown eyes and tanned bodies and faces with black, slicked-back hair. They kept their cool, somehow. That coolness was an island secret.
Walking along the dockside and near the shops and small cafes, she had seen it all before and didn’t stop or slow her pace. She was restless. She was so restless, that she entertained going home earlier than planned. The quaintness of the shops and the items for sale held no interest for her.
Tan and healthy-looking, trim and tall, she kept to herself and saw the sights. She hadn’t tried to meet anyone or talk with anyone on this trip. The island had so much to offer and she had brought plenty of books.
The prior evening at the Skiathos Palace, she dressed for dinner on the piazza. She dressed in turquoise and sheer flowing dress. The outfit was very short, to display her tanned, long legs. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals. They were silver. She didn’t want to have company for dinner. The maitre d’ led her to at a table of other guests and seated her with a group. He most likely thought it was for the best, the young woman to be seated with a group.
How would it look for an established hotel to have young women alone at tables for one, dressed in such a provocative style? He appreciated the style, but as his position was one of decorum, he had to seat her with a group.
The dinner seating was with Americans, and ugly they were. They dressed too casually and were too loud. She didn’t appreciate being a part of this little party. Directly after dinner, she requested a small table for one. The wait-staff accommodated her request. After all, they were Greek and had dignity. They appreciated the young woman’s preference to be alone than with an obnoxious group. She smiled a too wide, too welcoming smile to the waiter that lead her away and closer to the sea.
The sound of the waves and the night was mesmerizing. She was still bored, but at least the boredom was in a most pleasant atmosphere. The darkness of the night was opaque and velvety. The stars were not glistening at all. The stars were hidden from view, an unusual event on a summer night.
After her coffee and glikia (sweets), she decided to walk around the hotel grounds. As she moved away from the dining tables, two other young women approached her. She wasn’t offended and thought perhaps this conversation would be more entertaining than that of her dinner companions.
She was right.
One woman, blonde and petite, was chatty and soft-spoken. She said that she was from just outside of Chicago. The other woman was somewhat mousey, the dull brown hair and of medium stature and appearance. Both seemed genuine enough. They were tourists and open about their visit and touring around the Greek Islands to see as much as possible before the start of the school year. They were teachers, elementary teachers and very nice. Not interesting, but nice.
After some introductions and pleasantries, the women mentioned a Norse ship and Norseman in the bay area of the Old Town. They met him earlier in the day and were fascinated by the ship and his reclusive lifestyle. They were invited to the ship for cocktails the following afternoon and asked if she would like to join them. She did.
No qualms about going on board with strangers. What an adventure.
She went to bed, glad for this happenstance at breaking the boredom of the island. She fell asleep thinking of Norsemen and ships. She fell asleep and dreamt of the Norsemen and how they might be so far south of their homeland.
Meeting the women the following day in the hotel lobby seemed fine and easy to do. She met them and they greeted each other with enthusiasm, not so much for each other, but for the adventure that they were about to embark on. She decided to wear her swimsuit with a dress as a cover for the party. She had found a blue bikini in Athens and so, that was the choice under the dress. The dress was white, a light cotton with embroidery on the edges of the hem. The hem was uneven and had small pieces of material on the edges. It was more of a skimmer, than a dress for the city. It was fitted and sheer. She decided a scarf of blue would be a perfect accessory for the boat, or ship. Whatever, it ended up being, it was on the water. The blue scarf had tiny coins attached to the edges of material. It was gauzy and a large square of material, that she tied in a double French knot, insuring that the coins were visible. The others in the group had on sundresses with empire style high waists and sandals. She knew that she looked sleek and well-done in comparison. It was comforting.
A bare-chested man welcomed aboard. The three of them boarded the ship, which was not in the least as she had dreamed. It was much more.
The ship was of Norse design, made of wood and high polish or lacquer on the bow and sides. The front of the ship was shaped like a warrior with long, wavy hair and a large nose coinciding with the front of the ship. The entire front end was painted a bright blue and the paint melded into a turquoise colour with yellow edges and a tone of white/blue overlapping on the entire side of the vessel. It was a work of art. The ship had an appeal that the Greek sailboats did not. The romantic fantasies dancing in her mind couldn’t be resisted. The artwork and the lines of the ship were so engaging. The women were on board and looking around to get their bearings. The view of the harbor and being viewed by the tourists walking by was a break from the routine that had become a daily chore these past weeks. The evening breeze lifted their spirits and lifted them.
Their host introduced himself and surprisingly he was not from Scandinavia, but from Germany. His features looked to be German, aquiline nose and penetrating eyes. Was that German? She couldn’t decide. She knew that he wasn’t Greek or from Southern Mediterranean.
He was charming although not warm. He was gracious and the staff passed around trays of interesting appetizers and desserts. He thought it might be fun to have guests on board he told his guests. There were only ten or so people on board. It wasn’t a very large party, but a more intimate gathering. He seemed to want to tell those onboard about the ship and how he came to have it and how he designed and painted it for this journey. The details of the story again, too boring to retell. She kept thinking that being on this boat would be a diversion; however, the chatting was also routine about the host. There was little discussion about anyone else or any other subject. The purpose appeared to be to ‘show’ the ship to tourists and to entertain him by retelling his story.
After some time of small talk about the ship, the journey and the Captain, many of the guests left and went ashore. The women that invited her stayed on and were getting somewhat tipsy on wine coolers. They were funny in this state, more talkative and cheerful. She thought she’d stay and see how things developed. The small group went below deck to have a few more drinks and relax. It was surprisingly relaxing. The Captain proved to be very gracious and his hospitality included a tour and more discussion on the features of the ship and his journey from the north to the Aegean Sea. All an adventure and the sharing of that adventure seemed generous to her. How cool was all of this? She was glad to be included in the evening’s festivities. There was no major upset or any shenanigans. The people were there to enjoy and have a party. Being in the hold of the ship with total strangers should have worried her. But, the reality was that the group was all having fun and the stories were interesting.
The following morning, she decided to leave the island and return to Athens, not Boston. At least in the city, there would be plenty to do and to see. Although, she’d traveled to Greece many times before, this trip was a solo one and deserved some effort before returning to work and life with responsibilities.
She packed, checked out and after a light Greek breakfast, found a taxi to take her to the airport. She had travelled here by a Flying Cat Hydrofoils. It was an exciting experience and the best and quickest way to travel between islands. This time, the flying to Athens seemed to be reliable and also quick. She found her way to the small, gray airport terminal and found the check in for the Onassis small aircraft. The flight was delayed. Being here in the dreariness did cause some angst, as it would be preferable to be sitting in the sunshine and under a blue Greek sky. She made the best of it, and found a spot near the gate to settle in and wait for her flight. She had no way of knowing that flight would be five hours late. Even for the Greek time of casual lateness in schedules, a five hour delay was unusual. She sat and read for an hour or so, had a coffee, well, at the airport it’s a Nescafe at best. She tried to entertain herself and after another hour, started a conversation with an Australian man, also waiting. He was her age, had a backpack and was tired of waiting. They started to talk, but he was reticent and didn’t have much to say beyond the obvious waiting on the flight and being delayed. She tried to get him engaged with some discussion, maybe of his trip so far. He was not well-versed in having social graces. He smiled a lot, but no deal with passing the time talking together.
She was disappointed, and oh, so bored.
Giving up any hope of a connection, his friend returned to sit with him. Ha, she thought, his friend. And so, she introduced herself to the friend. He was not as handsome, but did shake her hand and seem pleased to meet her and talk about not Australia, but Afrika, where he was from and lived most of his life. He was actually from Swaziland. He was tall, dark and had a magnificent moustache. It was hard to see his mouth under the moustache, so she couldn’t really describe his mouth. He had so much to tell, about his country and his life. They ended up sitting on the floor, leaning against his backpack. His friend roamed around the area, but didn’t join them.
His name was Mario and he was Greek-Afrikan. She had never heard of such a combination, nor thought about it. She hoped that he didn’t see her as an ugly American. She tried her best to be sociable, interested and interesting. She tried to pay attention to what he was saying. It wasn’t hard to do, as she thought he was a wonderful storyteller. He was entertaining without being silly. The time began to fly by as they continued to talk about themselves and then the politics of Greece and their respective countries. It was as much fun as she’d had in weeks. And to think it was fun in a dreary airport, sitting on a dingy floor.
There were a few passengers also waiting and some were Greek and others European. They were becoming just background noise, as the discussion between the two of them became more intimate. The hours passed and the connection between them intensified. It did due to the commonality that they shared. The heritage and culture of Greeks that were expatriates and longing to know more about their roots was strong for both. Each of them had come to Greece for many reasons, but also to be with their relatives and their people. Both felt so strong about who they were and wanting to know more about their history.
The discussion also turned to politics. Their knowledge of Greek politics was not as well-versed as that of their own countries. Mario had fled Cyprus at a young age, and then his family followed him to Afrika, after he had lived there with his grandparents for a few years. He was brought up by a Nanny, a native woman that was the one to nurture him as a child. He told her it was part of the culture to have a Nanny and to learn and be with them throughout childhood.
Just as their connection was becoming more, the intercom announced the flight. Both of them found seats, unassigned for this short island hop over to Athens. His friend walked towards them and joined in the movement towards the gate. On board, the friend sat next to her and so, she was crunched in at the window seat with a person between her and Mario. The conversation had ended so abruptly, and they returned to posturing of being polite travelers, only.
They were back in Athens and the landing bumpy, but safe. As the group disembarked, she heard her name.
“Katerina, come my koukla (darling).” She cringed. She forgot, since being on Skiathos for three weeks that her boyfriend was even in Athens. He was smiling and held wildflowers in one hand and was waving with both. She didn’t return the smile, but kept her head down and tried to manage her baggage. She so much wanted to speak with Mario. She tried to maneuver over to him. His friend was blocking her way, and he looked up, smiled and wished her well. The moment had passed.
“Funny, how a moment in time passes and closes off a chance. Closing off a chance for happiness?” She wondered.
Everyone was leaving the area, and she did find her boyfriend. He was from Athens and they had only been together for a month before she left for Skaithos. He was working and living his life, and was unable to join in on the island. Time passed, and her infatuation had faded. Here he was, and she felt some annoyance at his unexpected presence. How did he know she’d be on this flight? Well, she had felt lonely and called him from the hotel on the island when she decided to return to the city. Her poor judgment ruined a possible romance.
C’est dommage!
January 2010 -
Just home from Vermont and fooling around with finding books of interest, as the Chair at Bunker Hill called to assign a section of Eng 111 which is another prep as I already teach 095 –developmental and 112 – research this spring. Wandering on Abelbooks, noticed James Salter mentioned & great to see my old friend. I was turned on to Salter late rather than early in life, one summer at a class in Modernism/Post-Modernism. The book list for that term was exciting, including Beckett and Kafka & the discussions, ones that I looked forward to all week. Salter, started out with Sport & Pastime. I used some of his work the following semester at Bridgewater State College & realized that perhaps the subject matter was too juicy for Freshman, although they wrote reflective essays & seemed fine sharing their thoughts. It was the most up-close & personal class that I’ve taught, that one group.
I am finishing up The Children’s Hour-Byatt & recalling that this type of novel is my favorite kick-back read. Very much looking forward to Larrsen’s work, as I am guessing it will most closely follow my own writing. Larrsen may be the ‘one’ that most follows a process that I’ve been looking for in terms of integrating mystery and politics and social justice thesis.
The Dean at MassBay called last night to assign one more Eng 101 & I contacted the bookstore to assign the students Farenheit 450 – Bradbury. I am looking forward to re-reading this one and hearing the discussion of the classroom in terms of events in our present society. These classes at BHCC consist of students who are highly motivated & planning on getting themselves out of the hood. I support their efforts and find them more engaging than students at the private four year college where I taught. The BHCC is progressive and the students engage with the materials presented in a thoughtful and real way. The Chair of English invited Adjuncts to a Conference & the long & short of it was that I met Robert Bly and Donald Hall, talking w/ Bly for quite a while which I appreciate and revel and the chance. Having been a feminist prior to the term being used and having parents who supported my intellectual independence and pursuits from a young age, my development as a free spirit and thoughtful person without regard to gender still comes in play, surprisingly, when faculty or students perceive one image and question a female role in the mix. I brought up two sons, solo and can be definitive in the premise that gender-neutral and being central on the individual is the only way. The child or person’s interests and self-image is the ‘it’, not whether or not someone is male or female. I loved talking with Bly and I really feel it was mutual, as he focused on identity and ran with it, as did I. What a bonne chance to have moments of clarity and purpose of ideas.
I am finishing up The Children’s Hour-Byatt & recalling that this type of novel is my favorite kick-back read. Very much looking forward to Larrsen’s work, as I am guessing it will most closely follow my own writing. Larrsen may be the ‘one’ that most follows a process that I’ve been looking for in terms of integrating mystery and politics and social justice thesis.
The Dean at MassBay called last night to assign one more Eng 101 & I contacted the bookstore to assign the students Farenheit 450 – Bradbury. I am looking forward to re-reading this one and hearing the discussion of the classroom in terms of events in our present society. These classes at BHCC consist of students who are highly motivated & planning on getting themselves out of the hood. I support their efforts and find them more engaging than students at the private four year college where I taught. The BHCC is progressive and the students engage with the materials presented in a thoughtful and real way. The Chair of English invited Adjuncts to a Conference & the long & short of it was that I met Robert Bly and Donald Hall, talking w/ Bly for quite a while which I appreciate and revel and the chance. Having been a feminist prior to the term being used and having parents who supported my intellectual independence and pursuits from a young age, my development as a free spirit and thoughtful person without regard to gender still comes in play, surprisingly, when faculty or students perceive one image and question a female role in the mix. I brought up two sons, solo and can be definitive in the premise that gender-neutral and being central on the individual is the only way. The child or person’s interests and self-image is the ‘it’, not whether or not someone is male or female. I loved talking with Bly and I really feel it was mutual, as he focused on identity and ran with it, as did I. What a bonne chance to have moments of clarity and purpose of ideas.
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