-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
III of XII
"Please help me Roy," Astra asked the next day.
And seeing her face, so sad and forlorn
it took me an age to think what to say.
"Oh Astra, dear, please don’t think this is scorn,
the problem you have is trying too much.
You're pretty, and sweet, a genuine pearl,
but the one thing you lack is a soft touch,
and our Billy, you see, likes a soft girl."
"I can change," Astra said, "Whatever it takes.
Just say what to be - I'll give it a try.
I'll do it for my, for both of our sakes.
If I made him smile, my heart would just fly."
"Now Astra," I said, "You reign in that hope
before this whole place becomes a bad soap."
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Novak Nohtche (Part 5)
This is the fifth of five parts of my short story Novak Nohtche.
Novak was late getting back to work. From what he had heard, money had changed hands, and someone had left a card on his desk that said "better luck next time." It was signed by most of the staff.
As there wasn't much left to do, or at least little time left in which to do anything, Novak decided to finish early. His mind was awash with conflicting thoughts, each and every one lavender and vanilla scented.
Fate. Perhaps it had been. He knew now that they had been in on it together. Anna, that name, sliding off the tongue so very sweetly. Novak had no idea if he would see her again. In a month, maybe, her face and name might even be shrouded in the mist of memory, and would only appear from time to time in his dreams.
Novak left work and went home. Standing on his doorsteps later, he had no recollection of how he had gotten home. All the way Anna was still with him, refusing to leave. Coming upon his white double door, Novak thought immediately of her, of Anna. Looking at the flowers in his garden, he knew he would have to plant some lavender, perhaps a few vanilla orchids. That way, come what may, he could be with her.
Having collected his thoughts, Novak went inside. He hung his coat, took off his shoes, and walked into the dining room. Dinner was ready, and waiting. Just roast beef and mashed potatoes, but it smelled good.
He sat down, smiled at his wife, and reached his hand over to pat his sons, and daughters on the head in turn.
"How was work?" His wife asked.
"It was a long day," Novak replied. "It looks like I'll be staying late at the office tomorrow. There's a few things to take care of."
The wife nodded, then excused herself to get some milk.
Novak began eating the roast beef, pausing to pour some gravy over the potatoes. It really was a good meal. He looked again at his two children, and his wife, who had seated herself again.
"I really am a blessed man." Novak said, and smiled.
Novak was late getting back to work. From what he had heard, money had changed hands, and someone had left a card on his desk that said "better luck next time." It was signed by most of the staff.
As there wasn't much left to do, or at least little time left in which to do anything, Novak decided to finish early. His mind was awash with conflicting thoughts, each and every one lavender and vanilla scented.
Fate. Perhaps it had been. He knew now that they had been in on it together. Anna, that name, sliding off the tongue so very sweetly. Novak had no idea if he would see her again. In a month, maybe, her face and name might even be shrouded in the mist of memory, and would only appear from time to time in his dreams.
Novak left work and went home. Standing on his doorsteps later, he had no recollection of how he had gotten home. All the way Anna was still with him, refusing to leave. Coming upon his white double door, Novak thought immediately of her, of Anna. Looking at the flowers in his garden, he knew he would have to plant some lavender, perhaps a few vanilla orchids. That way, come what may, he could be with her.
Having collected his thoughts, Novak went inside. He hung his coat, took off his shoes, and walked into the dining room. Dinner was ready, and waiting. Just roast beef and mashed potatoes, but it smelled good.
He sat down, smiled at his wife, and reached his hand over to pat his sons, and daughters on the head in turn.
"How was work?" His wife asked.
"It was a long day," Novak replied. "It looks like I'll be staying late at the office tomorrow. There's a few things to take care of."
The wife nodded, then excused herself to get some milk.
Novak began eating the roast beef, pausing to pour some gravy over the potatoes. It really was a good meal. He looked again at his two children, and his wife, who had seated herself again.
"I really am a blessed man." Novak said, and smiled.
Astra, Bill, & Stella (II of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
II of XII
“Oh Lord, oh my Lord, good God up on high.
That face, that hair, those glorious eyes!
Hey Roy! Come and look! Watch Stella walk by.
Those breasts, that rear, and those lips, hands and thighs?
No way in Hell that your blood wouldn't rise.
Roy, come on, and just look out your window,
she stands on the Earth, but comes from the skies.
You know, I would like to ask her out - though
I'm sure she'd laugh, shake her head and say no.
But how'd she taste if I gave her a kiss?
I've gotta act now, I just gotta know.
No choice now Roy, it's a chance I can't miss."
"Hey Bill," I said. "Give your head a shake, pal.
That girl don't want guys, she wants a gal."
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
II of XII
“Oh Lord, oh my Lord, good God up on high.
That face, that hair, those glorious eyes!
Hey Roy! Come and look! Watch Stella walk by.
Those breasts, that rear, and those lips, hands and thighs?
No way in Hell that your blood wouldn't rise.
Roy, come on, and just look out your window,
she stands on the Earth, but comes from the skies.
You know, I would like to ask her out - though
I'm sure she'd laugh, shake her head and say no.
But how'd she taste if I gave her a kiss?
I've gotta act now, I just gotta know.
No choice now Roy, it's a chance I can't miss."
"Hey Bill," I said. "Give your head a shake, pal.
That girl don't want guys, she wants a gal."
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Burying the Lede
It is a rare and joyous occasion when I get a comment on a post other than the "Great Unseen Middle" essay I did a while back. Even better is when that comment gives me opportunity to question my assumptions, or look on what I am doing with a more critical eye. The following was from Keefieboy
James, I've been following your blog for a while, and just a few days ago found out where the real meat is. The problem (for me) is, you seem to start each post with a bit of poetry. I don't really enjoy poetry, so whenever I saw any on your blog (I get an alert whenever you update it), I would just go away. A few days ago I realised that scrolling down yielded some decent prose. Perhaps it would be better to separate them?
I will quibble with the bit about starting a post with poetry, as I actually do two separate posts each night. But, seeing as how I do the poetry part last, and it always ends up on top, it really amounts to the same thing. That in mind, I think Keefieboy makes a very valid point.
Who reads poetry anyways?
I ask this not to denigrate the form, which would be kind of a silly thing to do, seeing as how I'm always chucking up my attempts at lyric and verse on the page here. No, I ask because I think the question is pertinent. I know why I write poetry, because I enjoy it. I enjoy the freedom to dance with words a bit, play with image, with sound, imagine myself as a pen wielding Cirque du Soliel, or as much of one as a hack like me could be. But that doesn't answer the key question.
Who reads poetry anyways?
In Canada, the state of the publishing industry being what it is, a bestselling hardcover might move 5000 copies. As low as that number seems, if a book of poetry moved one tenth that, it would be cause for the publisher to break out the Ritz crackers and maybe a box of wine if they wanted to go hog wild. Any more would break the budget. Back in tha day,well... not "tha" day, but "my" day, those interminable years as an undergrad when I sat in far too many workshops, one professor who had a great gift of being able to excise any and all sentimentality or wistfulness from his being, when the occasion arose, stated plainly that in many countries in Eastern Europe, books of poetry often sold 50,000 copies or more. There were, we learned, places in the world were poetry really mattered, was read, recited, and passed on. Where we live, he made clear, the English speaking world, is not one of those places.
So, who read poetry anyways? A whole lot of people, it turns out, just not anyone I'd know or be able to speak with absent an interpreter or years of language classes. Many of my students love poetry, and in the Gulf there seems to be a renaissance of the form, though in Arabic, in the spoken word derivation. In high school Arabic classes, students are encouraged to write poetry, and for my students, this constitutes the totality of their creative writing experience. They take to it, but not, from what I can gather, because they love poetry. But because the love Fifty Cent, Tupac, and (until the end of my days, I will never understand this) Shaggy.
They don't like poetry because it is poetry, they like poetry because it, to them, is like rap. And with rap being seen as haram (wrong/prohibited) by pretty much every adult Khaleeji I know, this leaves spoken word poetry as the only outlet for any number of teenage males here to enact their own version of 8 Mile. Still, however strong their love for the form may be, they're not the ones who'd be reading this blog or others like it. I have to keep in mind those kind few souls who might pass more than a glance here, were it not for poem shaped "stop reading" signs at the top of the page each day.
As my wife's friend said to me the other day "Hey, I went to your blog, but I just saw some poetry there. Can you send me the address again?"
A crushing blow and a telling statement all in one. I told her to just ignore the boring bits and scroll down.
What to do?
I won't stop writing and posting poems, however dreadful they may be, because, like jumping jacks, a walk around the track, and a half-hearted attempt at a push up, they at least give me the illusion that I am exercising my mind, and keeping it flexible. But perhaps I should bow to the collective wisdom of indifference to poetry, switch up the order a bit.
So, starting tonight, I'll put the good stuff on top, and keep my daily folly out of sight.
James, I've been following your blog for a while, and just a few days ago found out where the real meat is. The problem (for me) is, you seem to start each post with a bit of poetry. I don't really enjoy poetry, so whenever I saw any on your blog (I get an alert whenever you update it), I would just go away. A few days ago I realised that scrolling down yielded some decent prose. Perhaps it would be better to separate them?
I will quibble with the bit about starting a post with poetry, as I actually do two separate posts each night. But, seeing as how I do the poetry part last, and it always ends up on top, it really amounts to the same thing. That in mind, I think Keefieboy makes a very valid point.
Who reads poetry anyways?
I ask this not to denigrate the form, which would be kind of a silly thing to do, seeing as how I'm always chucking up my attempts at lyric and verse on the page here. No, I ask because I think the question is pertinent. I know why I write poetry, because I enjoy it. I enjoy the freedom to dance with words a bit, play with image, with sound, imagine myself as a pen wielding Cirque du Soliel, or as much of one as a hack like me could be. But that doesn't answer the key question.
Who reads poetry anyways?
In Canada, the state of the publishing industry being what it is, a bestselling hardcover might move 5000 copies. As low as that number seems, if a book of poetry moved one tenth that, it would be cause for the publisher to break out the Ritz crackers and maybe a box of wine if they wanted to go hog wild. Any more would break the budget. Back in tha day,well... not "tha" day, but "my" day, those interminable years as an undergrad when I sat in far too many workshops, one professor who had a great gift of being able to excise any and all sentimentality or wistfulness from his being, when the occasion arose, stated plainly that in many countries in Eastern Europe, books of poetry often sold 50,000 copies or more. There were, we learned, places in the world were poetry really mattered, was read, recited, and passed on. Where we live, he made clear, the English speaking world, is not one of those places.
So, who read poetry anyways? A whole lot of people, it turns out, just not anyone I'd know or be able to speak with absent an interpreter or years of language classes. Many of my students love poetry, and in the Gulf there seems to be a renaissance of the form, though in Arabic, in the spoken word derivation. In high school Arabic classes, students are encouraged to write poetry, and for my students, this constitutes the totality of their creative writing experience. They take to it, but not, from what I can gather, because they love poetry. But because the love Fifty Cent, Tupac, and (until the end of my days, I will never understand this) Shaggy.
They don't like poetry because it is poetry, they like poetry because it, to them, is like rap. And with rap being seen as haram (wrong/prohibited) by pretty much every adult Khaleeji I know, this leaves spoken word poetry as the only outlet for any number of teenage males here to enact their own version of 8 Mile. Still, however strong their love for the form may be, they're not the ones who'd be reading this blog or others like it. I have to keep in mind those kind few souls who might pass more than a glance here, were it not for poem shaped "stop reading" signs at the top of the page each day.
As my wife's friend said to me the other day "Hey, I went to your blog, but I just saw some poetry there. Can you send me the address again?"
A crushing blow and a telling statement all in one. I told her to just ignore the boring bits and scroll down.
What to do?
I won't stop writing and posting poems, however dreadful they may be, because, like jumping jacks, a walk around the track, and a half-hearted attempt at a push up, they at least give me the illusion that I am exercising my mind, and keeping it flexible. But perhaps I should bow to the collective wisdom of indifference to poetry, switch up the order a bit.
So, starting tonight, I'll put the good stuff on top, and keep my daily folly out of sight.
Astra, Bill, & Stella (I of XII)
-The highest of low art , the lowest of high art-
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
I of XII
Bill came on by the barbershop today,
round about ten-thirty or eleven,
when Astra came in with somethin' to say
about this new guy she'd met named Kevin.
She said she felt like she was in Heaven.
Told how he's strong, and sweet, and really cute,
and how she'd see him that night, at seven.
Then she said he ain't like Bill, who's a brute,
who tells bad jokes, and has buddies who toot.
Her feelings for Bill were all in the past.
Bill told her then that the past is all moot.
He wished her luck, that her new love would last.
I tell you right then, she swore with a yell,
kicked at Bill's shin and said "Go to hell!"
EXEMPTORY EXEMPTIONS Presents
a Jimmy O’Fool Production:
Astra, Bill, & Stella in “Roy's Barbershop Quartet : A Small-Town Love Quadrangle”
A Sonnet Cycle
Astra loves Bill...
Bill loves Stella...
Stella loves Astra...
and Roy...
Who knows what he’s up to?
I of XII
Bill came on by the barbershop today,
round about ten-thirty or eleven,
when Astra came in with somethin' to say
about this new guy she'd met named Kevin.
She said she felt like she was in Heaven.
Told how he's strong, and sweet, and really cute,
and how she'd see him that night, at seven.
Then she said he ain't like Bill, who's a brute,
who tells bad jokes, and has buddies who toot.
Her feelings for Bill were all in the past.
Bill told her then that the past is all moot.
He wished her luck, that her new love would last.
I tell you right then, she swore with a yell,
kicked at Bill's shin and said "Go to hell!"
Novak Nohtche (Part 4)
This is the fourth of five parts of my short story Novak Nohtche.
"There you are."
Novak froze, standing on the corner. He had sprinted all the way, or at least half the way, and then wheeze-hobbled the rest. If not quickly, then at least with purpose.
"It's good to see a man with determination. Heartening at least."
Bent double and panting, his breath still yet a ways from being caught, Novak nodded at the lady with the dog. She was sitting on a bench, barely ten feet from the corner.
"Some men just give up when things look difficult. There's no chase in them."
Novak nodded.
"Honestly is a rock attractive? Why is it that some men think they can just sit down in front of you, like a big, dumb rock, as if to say 'Here I am!' It's boring. There's nothing interesting in that. A fox doesn't run after a rock, it runs after the rabbit sprinting away. It goes for the chase."
"Hmm," Novak said,
"We pursue that which retreats from us. It's true. I saw it in a movie once."
Novak had now recovered enough to move to her bench, sitting down beside her.
"Life is about living, about feeling. Otherwise, why are we here?"
Novak nodded.
"Take my husband for instance. I hope you don't mind that I am married. But my husband, one could say he is a decent man in a sense, but really, he's nothing."
Novak looked down at her dog, which kept perfectly still.
"He's a lackey. He dances to the tune of other men. It disgusts me. I told him so myself. One day when I'd had enough of that ingratiating, sugary, cringingly respectful expression, I said to him 'Be off, you blockhead! And that was that."
"Really?" Novak said.
"He's pathetic. No ambition. No drive. And cheap. So very cheap. That I abhor most of all. You on the other hand. You seem different. What's your name?"
"Novak. Novak Nohtche."
"Novak? What kind of name is that?" She took off her sunglasses and leaned in towards Novak. At this close distance, he caught the overpowering scent of lavender, mixed with vanilla. It was cloyingly sweet, feminine, promising.
"It was my father's. He married late, and died early. When he was forty four, actually. He was a doctor."
"How did he die?" The woman asked.
"Tuberculosis. Very strange. Who dies of tuberculosis any more?"
The woman nodded sympathetically, and stayed silent.
Novak looked at her, waiting for her to say something, but the moment stretched into a minute, and the silence grew restless.
"Sorry. I forgot...forgot to ask your name." Novak said, finally.
"Yes you did." The lady replied.
Novak waited, but she didn't say anything further.
"So then. What...ah...is your name?"
"Anna." She replied.
"Are you busy now, Anna?" Novak asked.
"Bold. That's good. And no, I'm not. My husband's away now." Anna smiled, and leaned back on the bench. "What are you going to do about that?"
"I have an idea," Novak said.
"There you are."
Novak froze, standing on the corner. He had sprinted all the way, or at least half the way, and then wheeze-hobbled the rest. If not quickly, then at least with purpose.
"It's good to see a man with determination. Heartening at least."
Bent double and panting, his breath still yet a ways from being caught, Novak nodded at the lady with the dog. She was sitting on a bench, barely ten feet from the corner.
"Some men just give up when things look difficult. There's no chase in them."
Novak nodded.
"Honestly is a rock attractive? Why is it that some men think they can just sit down in front of you, like a big, dumb rock, as if to say 'Here I am!' It's boring. There's nothing interesting in that. A fox doesn't run after a rock, it runs after the rabbit sprinting away. It goes for the chase."
"Hmm," Novak said,
"We pursue that which retreats from us. It's true. I saw it in a movie once."
Novak had now recovered enough to move to her bench, sitting down beside her.
"Life is about living, about feeling. Otherwise, why are we here?"
Novak nodded.
"Take my husband for instance. I hope you don't mind that I am married. But my husband, one could say he is a decent man in a sense, but really, he's nothing."
Novak looked down at her dog, which kept perfectly still.
"He's a lackey. He dances to the tune of other men. It disgusts me. I told him so myself. One day when I'd had enough of that ingratiating, sugary, cringingly respectful expression, I said to him 'Be off, you blockhead! And that was that."
"Really?" Novak said.
"He's pathetic. No ambition. No drive. And cheap. So very cheap. That I abhor most of all. You on the other hand. You seem different. What's your name?"
"Novak. Novak Nohtche."
"Novak? What kind of name is that?" She took off her sunglasses and leaned in towards Novak. At this close distance, he caught the overpowering scent of lavender, mixed with vanilla. It was cloyingly sweet, feminine, promising.
"It was my father's. He married late, and died early. When he was forty four, actually. He was a doctor."
"How did he die?" The woman asked.
"Tuberculosis. Very strange. Who dies of tuberculosis any more?"
The woman nodded sympathetically, and stayed silent.
Novak looked at her, waiting for her to say something, but the moment stretched into a minute, and the silence grew restless.
"Sorry. I forgot...forgot to ask your name." Novak said, finally.
"Yes you did." The lady replied.
Novak waited, but she didn't say anything further.
"So then. What...ah...is your name?"
"Anna." She replied.
"Are you busy now, Anna?" Novak asked.
"Bold. That's good. And no, I'm not. My husband's away now." Anna smiled, and leaned back on the bench. "What are you going to do about that?"
"I have an idea," Novak said.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Observer
Deep set dark
shifts
two drops on a petal
shaking in the wind
A soft touch
tastes
of grass and leaves
when the stars rise
shifts
two drops on a petal
shaking in the wind
A soft touch
tastes
of grass and leaves
when the stars rise
Novak Nohtche (Part 3)
This is the third of five parts of my short story Novak Nohtche.
"To whom can I tell my grief?"
Having just closed the door, Novak looked at the cab driver looked through the rearview mirror. "Make a u-turn, then turn left."
The cab began to move, forward for a ways until there was space to turn around. Novak looked around, trying to find her, but couldn't see her as of yet.
"My son...my son died this week." The driver stopped at the light, signaling a left turn.
"There's a woman, I was supposed to meet her. She's all in white." Novak said. As the cab moved around the corner, Novak could see her several blocks ahead.
"It was some sort of fever, they said. He was in the hospital for three days, and then he just...just died." There was a small accident ahead, so the driver slowed down, and merged left.
"I've watched her for weeks. I have to meet her. It's fate." Novak started tapping his foot nervously. He could see her gain distance while the cab crawled past a fender bender.
"Can you believe it? My son is dead, yet here I am alive. Death has come to the wrong door." The driver sped up as they passed the obstruction.
"There she is," Novak said in a hushed tone. Two blocks ahead, she turned a corner and disappeared.
"Death should have come for me. It's not right. Do you think so?" The driver moved back into the right lane.
"Right!" Novak said, as they came up to the corner she had disappeared around.
"How can you say that?" The driver asked, looked at Novak through the mirror. "A man should not die before his son."
"What are you doing?" Novak watched, gape mouthed, as the taxi sped through the intersection and away.
"My son, he was a real cab driver. I'm too old to drive."
"Can you stop?" Novak asked.
"I haven't even earned enough for gas." The driver shook his head. "He was three days in the hospital before he died. Can you even imagine?"
"Can you go back?" Novak asked.
"There's nothing left to go back to. You would know this if your child had died." The driver stopped the car at the side of the road and began to cry in thick, despairing sobs. "Then you would know grief."
Novak stepped out, moved quickly, uneasily, away from the taxi.
"To whom can I tell my grief?"
Having just closed the door, Novak looked at the cab driver looked through the rearview mirror. "Make a u-turn, then turn left."
The cab began to move, forward for a ways until there was space to turn around. Novak looked around, trying to find her, but couldn't see her as of yet.
"My son...my son died this week." The driver stopped at the light, signaling a left turn.
"There's a woman, I was supposed to meet her. She's all in white." Novak said. As the cab moved around the corner, Novak could see her several blocks ahead.
"It was some sort of fever, they said. He was in the hospital for three days, and then he just...just died." There was a small accident ahead, so the driver slowed down, and merged left.
"I've watched her for weeks. I have to meet her. It's fate." Novak started tapping his foot nervously. He could see her gain distance while the cab crawled past a fender bender.
"Can you believe it? My son is dead, yet here I am alive. Death has come to the wrong door." The driver sped up as they passed the obstruction.
"There she is," Novak said in a hushed tone. Two blocks ahead, she turned a corner and disappeared.
"Death should have come for me. It's not right. Do you think so?" The driver moved back into the right lane.
"Right!" Novak said, as they came up to the corner she had disappeared around.
"How can you say that?" The driver asked, looked at Novak through the mirror. "A man should not die before his son."
"What are you doing?" Novak watched, gape mouthed, as the taxi sped through the intersection and away.
"My son, he was a real cab driver. I'm too old to drive."
"Can you stop?" Novak asked.
"I haven't even earned enough for gas." The driver shook his head. "He was three days in the hospital before he died. Can you even imagine?"
"Can you go back?" Novak asked.
"There's nothing left to go back to. You would know this if your child had died." The driver stopped the car at the side of the road and began to cry in thick, despairing sobs. "Then you would know grief."
Novak stepped out, moved quickly, uneasily, away from the taxi.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Communicating
I said angry words today,
words, I knew,
I should not,
but said, anyway.
As each syllable followed,
one after the other,
the apparent power,
and purpose, was clear.
Here for you
is a gift
wrapped tight and quick -
open it.
One asks questions,
one answers,
and so it goes on
until...
What is left,
is a choice;
the ineffable
or not.
Between
“Why don’t you love me?,”
and
“Just because."
Or
"You're right. I'm sorry"
and
"I love you."
words, I knew,
I should not,
but said, anyway.
As each syllable followed,
one after the other,
the apparent power,
and purpose, was clear.
Here for you
is a gift
wrapped tight and quick -
open it.
One asks questions,
one answers,
and so it goes on
until...
What is left,
is a choice;
the ineffable
or not.
Between
“Why don’t you love me?,”
and
“Just because."
Or
"You're right. I'm sorry"
and
"I love you."
Novak Nohtche (Part 2)
This is the second of five parts of my short story Novak Nohtche.
His daily ten o'clock appointment having become too crowded for his liking, Novak had begun waiting for the lady with the dog outside, in the midst of the shifting mass of man and machine. It was already Friday, his fifth day of waiting for her. On the first day he'd meant to bump into her, and had actually stepped out into the crowd, but like a leaf falling upon the rapids, opposing currents and eddies had ripped him away from her, forcing him to try again on another day. Yesterday success had been almost a hand's breadth away, if not for running into his creative director at the last moment. He had just been about to call out to her, catch her attention in some way, when he felt a hand around his arm, and a loud, un-ignorable voice call his name.
Today was going to be different. Novak had a different plan, a better plan. All this time he had been a fish running up stream, today he would let that stream break around him, forcing her to come to him.
Across the street from the light she stopped at every morning, Novak waited for the lady with the dog. It was ten o'clock, and while he could not see her yet, from where he was standing, he knew he would see her shortly. A couple minutes later, Novak's patience was awarded by a flash of pure white from amongst the muted shades. He could see her, right there, less than a hundred feet away. A heavy sense of anticipation fell over him. It was serendipity, fortuitous fate, destiny. They were meant to meet, and now they would. His heart beat faster, his hands began to sweat, his pupils dilated. Novak was ready.
Though he had been waiting for her, Novak had sense enough not to stare at her. He played it cool. He knew she was at the light, and by the sound of the traffic, both wheel and foot, he knew the light had changed. As the crest of pedestrians surged over him, he turned, ready to meet her at last.
She wasn't there. Panic flooded through him. He knew she hadn't passed by, not yet. He frantically twisted his head one way and the next looking for her in the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found. She wasn't there. He spun around, looking in every direction, but didn't find her.
It was not possible. Novak's mind couldn't wrap itself around what had happened. She had been there, across the street, only moments before. He had seen her. He had known it was her. Every morning at exactly this time she walked right past where he was standing. Every morning. Without fail. Yet today she wasn't there.
As the light changed again, and traffic sped past him, a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. It was the lady with the dog, crossing the street in the other direction. Hands in the air, as if saying the Our Father, he stared at her, watched her go. A pedestrian crossing from the other side of the street passed by him, pressing a five dollar bill into Novak's open hand. "Get something to eat," the man muttered as he passed by.
Today had been the day, and then it wasn't. Fate had smiled on him just moments ago, then laughed, pulling all of his hopes and dreams away. Every day for weeks he had watched her, waited for her to breeze through his life, even if only for a few moments. But this past week was different, he had taken matters into his own hands.
As Novak stood there, unable to decide what he should, he noticed a taxi, parked on the side of the road. In the midst of a hoard of people flagging down taxis, opening doors and stepping in, this one stood untouched, as if it were waiting for him. It was a sign. It had to be.
His daily ten o'clock appointment having become too crowded for his liking, Novak had begun waiting for the lady with the dog outside, in the midst of the shifting mass of man and machine. It was already Friday, his fifth day of waiting for her. On the first day he'd meant to bump into her, and had actually stepped out into the crowd, but like a leaf falling upon the rapids, opposing currents and eddies had ripped him away from her, forcing him to try again on another day. Yesterday success had been almost a hand's breadth away, if not for running into his creative director at the last moment. He had just been about to call out to her, catch her attention in some way, when he felt a hand around his arm, and a loud, un-ignorable voice call his name.
Today was going to be different. Novak had a different plan, a better plan. All this time he had been a fish running up stream, today he would let that stream break around him, forcing her to come to him.
Across the street from the light she stopped at every morning, Novak waited for the lady with the dog. It was ten o'clock, and while he could not see her yet, from where he was standing, he knew he would see her shortly. A couple minutes later, Novak's patience was awarded by a flash of pure white from amongst the muted shades. He could see her, right there, less than a hundred feet away. A heavy sense of anticipation fell over him. It was serendipity, fortuitous fate, destiny. They were meant to meet, and now they would. His heart beat faster, his hands began to sweat, his pupils dilated. Novak was ready.
Though he had been waiting for her, Novak had sense enough not to stare at her. He played it cool. He knew she was at the light, and by the sound of the traffic, both wheel and foot, he knew the light had changed. As the crest of pedestrians surged over him, he turned, ready to meet her at last.
She wasn't there. Panic flooded through him. He knew she hadn't passed by, not yet. He frantically twisted his head one way and the next looking for her in the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found. She wasn't there. He spun around, looking in every direction, but didn't find her.
It was not possible. Novak's mind couldn't wrap itself around what had happened. She had been there, across the street, only moments before. He had seen her. He had known it was her. Every morning at exactly this time she walked right past where he was standing. Every morning. Without fail. Yet today she wasn't there.
As the light changed again, and traffic sped past him, a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. It was the lady with the dog, crossing the street in the other direction. Hands in the air, as if saying the Our Father, he stared at her, watched her go. A pedestrian crossing from the other side of the street passed by him, pressing a five dollar bill into Novak's open hand. "Get something to eat," the man muttered as he passed by.
Today had been the day, and then it wasn't. Fate had smiled on him just moments ago, then laughed, pulling all of his hopes and dreams away. Every day for weeks he had watched her, waited for her to breeze through his life, even if only for a few moments. But this past week was different, he had taken matters into his own hands.
As Novak stood there, unable to decide what he should, he noticed a taxi, parked on the side of the road. In the midst of a hoard of people flagging down taxis, opening doors and stepping in, this one stood untouched, as if it were waiting for him. It was a sign. It had to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)