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Congreve, Lucan, May.
All three knew
music
to soothe
and sway;
bend
and turn.
So sway me.
Bend me.
Turn me
to face you
and let’s see
if you can tame
that baser part of me.
And bend it to your will
And make it good
and quiet
and still.
Let’s see.
Come, sweet music.
Dance with me.
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This was originally posted in January 2015.
Yes, yes.
That’s the song.
Fix me a drink, love,
and let’s dance
like we did
in the vecchia’s apartment
when it was all
Paolo Conte
and wonderful
and awful;
limes
and vodka;
when New York grew
too small
and the world
scary
and marvelous.
Come, love.
I can’t breathe.
Dance us away.
That’s it.
It’s wonderful.
Yes, yes, yes.
I still dream of you.
The original version of this story was published under the title “The Chair Downstairs” in November 2017.
The chair was out of place. The design was early American, so it did not fit in with the rest of the room’s Ikea aesthetic. We used to keep it upstairs in our bedroom where we paid it little attention-probably because it was a catchall for our laundry and usually buried under mounds of clothing. But one evening, when we needed extra seating to accommodate guests, we brought it down to the living room and placed it near the bottom of the stairway. It remained there-a dignified outlier, small and stiff, like something an 18th century scholar would sit at as he pored over musty books by dim candlelight-amongst all our other cheap, assemble-yourself furnishings that young people purchase when they first move in together.
Rarely did anyone choose to sit in the chair. I assumed because it looked so uncomfortable. But there was something else about it-a quality of being already occupied. At night, when I’d turn off the lights, I’d dash upstairs, not wanting to be left alone in the dark room with whatever sat in that chair. I could feel it though, watching me take my leave, and when I’d wake during the witching hour, I’d think about the living space below and wonder.
Eventually we moved, but we did not bring the chair along with us. Whatever company it kept, I was finished entertaining.
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Some say they read literature to build empathy and develop a deeper understanding of lives different from their own. It sounds so selfless, so noble. But, if I am to be honest, I am neither as selfless nor as noble as that. Sure, one of the benefits of reading is that it invites us to reach beyond ourselves and our limited knowledge of the worlds outside ours, but, for me, what I like most about literature is that within it I can find myself and in doing so feel less alone in my own small world, for my world, as all worlds are, is a lonely place. We are solitary creatures-no matter how many people surround us, no matter how many friends and relationships we forge, we are alone with our thoughts, our memories, our secrets.
Sometimes readers and writers remain strangers, walking side by side, appreciating the company, but, in the end, they develop no greater understanding of the other than in the beginning. But there are other times, when somewhere in the forest of thought and words, there is a flicker of light, and under that light the writer fully sees the reader and reveals to her what before was unspoken, hidden, buried.
Sometimes a writer looks at you and tells you who you are. Or tells you that you are not alone, for she is the same as you, at least in that moment, in that thought, in that action. This, for me, is the greatest gift the writer bestows upon the reader.
I do not possess the ability to retain and perfectly recall hundreds of lines I have read in books from years past. There are only a handful which I carry with me, but these have been my companions, assuring me that someone else, some writer at some moment in time, felt the same way I did, and we met once when I wandered into her world of mystery and words, and in a flicker of light she saw me, and I understood that I was not alone.
Here are a few of those lines:
“The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!” Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence
“I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to secret griefs of wild, unknown men.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
” ‘You will have only one story,’ she had said. ‘You’ll write your one story many ways. Don’t ever worry about story. You have only one.’ ” Elizabeth Strout, My Name is Lucy Barton
“What if my whole life has been wrong?” Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich
What lines do you carry with you? When has an author echoed or articulated your thoughts, secrets, fears? What has an author said to reassure you that you are not alone?
There is a black box on my basement floor.
It is full of pretty things.
As a girl, I kept it in my room
atop my bureau
and filled it with all the lovely tokens I collected
from a lovely life.
*
As I grew older
the box grew too,
and I carried it with me from place to place,
and within it I placed
my heart,
and my love and my children
and all their lovely things
until it swelled.
*
One day, when I was no longer young
and no longer lovely,
I carried it into my basement
and placed it in a corner
on the floor.
And my black box sprouted roots,
cracking the foundation
and reaching down into the earth
and through the earth
to a black and bitter place.
*
When the flood waters came and destroyed all else,
my black box remained anchored.
And, now that the waters have receded, I see
that all but it have been swept away.
*
I regard my box in the corner,
but I shall not open it,
for within is a hole that reaches into an eternity of lovely things
that no longer are
and the torment of memories
of lovely places
that no longer exist.
Hello friends. Over the past year I have been busy working on my book, “The Cat in the Wall and Other Dark & Twisted Tales of Women in Strange Situations,” which I recently published on Amazon. In this small collection of six short stories, I explore the spaces between sanity and madness & reality and fantasy. Each story includes a different female protagonist at a different life stage-from an eleven-year-old girl grappling with a sinister family secret, to a mother struggling with how to best cope with a child afflicted by a mysterious malady, to a woman whose grasp of reality becomes increasingly tenuous with age. All six characters must navigate a world where the line between what is real and what is fantastic is blurred.
Now that my book is in the world, I hope to be more present here, this lovely place where I have learned so much about the craft of writing.
If you would like to read “The Cat in the Wall,” you can go to Amazon here or click on the link on the right of this page. You can purchase it in either ebook and paperback format, and the first story is available to read for free.
There is something incredibly exciting about holding your book for the first time!
I wrote this four years ago, and, since that time, have often thought about the couple in the restaurant. I hope they are still well, but time when you are in your twilight years moves faster. Time in your middle years moves faster; I know because that is where I find myself today-thinking about that restaurant, that couple, my husband and children as we were when I first posted this, and that gray December sky; the same sky I tried to ignore at the restaurant; the same sky that I see now as I look out my window.
Here is the original post (with a few minor edits).
I was intrigued by the elderly couple who sat across from us at the restaurant. It was her, really, who called my attention. She had to be in her late seventies, perhaps early eighties. And she was beautiful in a hearty New England way. I would venture that she might not have been considered beautiful in her youth, but at that moment, as the beauty of others her age faded, she was vibrant. She was robust, not lithe; her face full and happy; her skin porcelain and glowing. Her eyes were blue, but what struck me most was that the lids did not sag with the heaviness of age. Those eyes sparkled large and childlike. She drank a cocktail and breezily chatted with the gentleman who sat across from her and whose back was to me. I gleaned that he, with his nearly bald head resting upon a neck buried deep beneath hunched shoulders, was older, mid-eighties maybe.
It was a dreary, gray December day, and it seemed that the only place to be was a warm New England restaurant. All you had to do was ignore the view from the window and enjoy the soft lamplight of the indoors. As we shared a bowl of mussels, my husband, children and I chatted about our son’s birthday and Christmas and the wonderful things we planned to do over the winter recess. From time to time, however, I couldn’t help but study the elderly couple across from us.
There was a gorgeous bouquet of peach and white roses on our neighbor’s table. Their anniversary I figured. “How wonderful,” I thought. How long must they have been married? Fifty years, give or take? And still, seeming so much in love. They chatted away, her voice somewhat high pitched and girlish. She reached across the table for her companion’s hand. She smiled and giggled and sipped her cocktail, and, at one point, she belly laughed. It was the kind of deep, uncontrollable, sincere laugh that, unfortunately, you seldom hear. She laughed so heartily that, try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself, and you didn’t want her to stop for the sound of her laugh was so cheerful.
Later, a guest from another table approached the couple to congratulate them on their anniversary. Then she asked how long they had been married, and I waited for the response, certain for it to be forty, fifty, perhaps even sixty years. The elderly lady smiled and said, “It’s our one year anniversary.”
And just like that, the entire narrative I had created for our neighbors dissolved; yet, they were still so captivating, so charming, more so perhaps. Now there were so many questions. What had her life been like? Did she spend the first thirty years of her adulthood in a loveless marriage? Was she widowed while raising young children? Did she have any children? Maybe she didn’t have any. That might account for youthfulness.
The elderly couple continued on, laughing and chatting. I heard her say, “Here we are. Having this lovely lunch in this beautiful restaurant, then we will go home and sit and it will be over.” She reached for her partner’s hand again and smiled and looked at her roses and grew silent just for a moment. But when the waitress came to check on the table, she resumed her happy chatter, commenting that the when she returns she would love it if the sangria had whole blueberries in it. She ordered dessert for herself and her partner-they would share a piece of chocolate cake. She might not have wanted the cake, but she didn’t want the moment to end.
How she worked to hold onto that beautiful late afternoon lunch. I understood. I looked at my husband and our two children. He and I somewhat bewildered to find ourselves in our forties, still with the silly hopes and dreams we shared in our twenties, but different now, tired, worried. And our children. One who has so many struggles and the other who seems to navigate through life with ease but who already shoulders the weight of being the one for whom things seem to come easier. The four of us sharing a beautiful few hours. Just us. In that place. Wanting to stop time. To remain just as we were in that moment.
As the sky outside the window grew darker, we realized our moment was over. Afternoon was gone, having slipped away under a cloak of charcoal sky. Our neighbors stood up to leave. She, tall and straight and carrying her vase of flowers, led the way to the exit. He, fragile and stooped, followed slowly behind. I prayed they would return again for another anniversary.
