La Belle Dame Avec Regrets, Part III

Blue-gray light flickers through the spacious den, casting a film of limp, hollow color across the entire room. On a dark suede sofa sits Eric, crystal high-ball glass balanced on one knee, its cracked ice refracting the inconstant glitter of the television and casting eerie light shards across his face. He stares woodenly at the latest reality show, expression more veiled than blank, and his eyes display an unblinking, glossy sheen. Before him, a kidney-shaped coffee table of beveled glass supports an untidy stack of newspapers and magazines, a discarded felt-tip pen, and a bottle of rum that glows a lurid green in the cold light. He does not look away from the aspiring singer clutching desperately at fame as Rory enters, and a nervous warbling fills the air as the high notes of “All By Myself” defeat the doe-eyed, cosmetic plastered girl dominating all fifty two inches of the flat screen hanging on the wall.

“Are you ready to g –“, Rory begins cheerily, punctuated by the sharp staccato of Italian heels upon the polished wood floor. Awkward straining from the wannabe soprano stops her short, and Rory stares with half-open mouth at the TV in silence until the girl finishes with a long, unsteady note and eyes full of emotion that tips the scale from angst to fear. She knows this is the last time she will ever be allowed on television, and the knowledge is bare and raw on her overdone, oversized face.

And now the commercial break. Eric takes a drink and glances over at Rory as she strides forward to grab the remote from the coffee table. He notes her long dress and thinks it looks a little too complicated for a nightgown. Why is she dressed up? Is she going somewhere? Why did she just mute the TV? That’s his favorite Bud Light commercial.

“Obviously, you’re not. You forgot the reception tonight, didn’t you?” She leaves the TV on because the reflected light on his face looks like fairies dancing around his head and she likes it. “Maybe you should go put on your tux. We have to leave in ten minutes.” Please Eric, just go get dressed.

He groans and takes another drink, the slump of his shoulders a precursor to the answer she has already formed in her own head: let’s just stay in tonight. Eric leans forward, breaks the fairy spell by putting his glass on the table beside its parent bottle and propping elbows on knees. His head falls forward and long fingers thread into longer hair to squeeze his temples.

“Let’s just stay in t –“.

“No! We are not staying in tonight! We stayed in last night, and the night before that, and the night before that. Don’t do this to me again.” Her hands rest on charmeuse covered hips, and her expression clouds ominously. Rory has been told all her life that she is beautiful when she is angry. Secretly, she agrees, and uses the knowledge to great effect, though recently her success rate with Eric seems to be at an all time low.

His head comes up and he looks at her with open-faced exasperation, parts his lips as if to speak but closes them abruptly. Scrubbing hands through his hair, he stands, sighs again, stretches his back, and all six feet of him ambles toward the door as if it were his own idea.

She watches, silent, still, waiting. Eric exits without another word, leaving her standing in the blue glow of distraction. She knows he will get dressed, tie his hair back, wear the correct cuff links (if he can find them), the right shoes, the red silk socks that she secretly hates, and that all of this will be accomplished in less than ten minutes, to her envious amazement. He didn’t even say anything about the new Michael Kors gown that made her look like a corvette fresh off the assembly line.

Rory looks down at her feet as she sits on the couch to wait, carefully smoothing out her gown to avoid getting wrinkled. Matching hubcaps, she muses, staring at the scarlet stiletto sandals that display her pedicure to perfection, tiny diamonds encircling the second toe of her left foot on a platinum band. Leaning forward – carefully – she takes the top magazine in the stack from the coffee table and flicks it open to find a full size picture of her devastatingly handsome husband with his arms around a ten foot tall sculpture of curving, undulating bronze that looks, to her, like the issue from a mating of the Venus di Milo and Gumby. Above the photograph is a caption in a bold russet, runic font that reads “Eric the Red”, and opposite, on the next page, is a blurb circled in red ink.

“Popular he may be, but enough with the Valkyries, already. It’s been done to death.” Near the quote, inset into the text, is a small photograph of the well-known art dealer cited. He is a blob of a man, and a hastily drawn red ink mustache enhances his pinched features. Her gaze flicks up to focus on the bottle sitting on the table. She smirks, and tosses the magazine back on top of the pile just as she hears a tired voice call out “Honey, have you seen my cuff links?”

La Belle Dame Avec Regrets, Part II

When I was younger, in my late teens, I believed strongly in fate. I believed that there was a higher power that would order my steps and design the immediate world around my needs, or even my wants. Everything would fall into place, eventually, if I only believed it would. The power of desire, I just knew, would be enough to dictate what turns to take in life, and what choices to make, and everything would turn out all right in the end. All I had to do was listen to my heart.

Ah, youth.

Even now, it’s hard to say that this isn’t at least partly true, but since then, I’ve had a few hard knocks that have forced me to reevaluate my cosmology a bit. Sure, things may turn out “all right” in the end, even after all that has happened in the past ten years. But I have a sinking feeling that the older I get, the more my definition of that elusive condition will change. In fact, I feel it has already begun.

Ten years ago, my life seemed perfect. I had the houses, the cars, the memberships, the clothes, the gadgets, the horses and the husband – everything a girl like me could want, or so I thought. Everyone said I was beautiful, and I believed that, though I tried really hard not to let it go to my head. Generally speaking, I was a nice person, if a little smug from time to time. It’s hard not to feel just a tiny bit superior when you have everything you want, or at least think you do.

*******

“Oh…my.”
Eric looked up at her with a canted brow, a sudden expression of uncertainty crossing his face as full, chiseled lips parted, softening vulnerably. “You don’t like it?”

“Like it? It’s…unbelievable.” Rory’s breath finally escaped in a hot gust as her shock began to dissipate, stirring the golden streaked hair that fell in soft waves across his smooth brow. She could not tear her eyes away from the sparkling jewel held between his two fingers any more than she could close her mouth or contain her astonishment. “Eric, this is…oh, my.”

A sudden grin bloomed on his tanned face as Eric gave that signature gentle toss of his head, a habit born of necessity when he wore his long hair loose. He picked up Aurora’s left hand, turned it over with a regard that bordered on reverence, and brought it to his lips. His mouth burned like a brand upon her palm, and seemed to mark her deeply. Aurora shuddered, but could not speak.

As his lips pulled away, sky blue eyes flicked upward to gaze with smoldering heat from beneath impossibly long lashes at her luminous face. The light of the crescent moon overhead was softly refracted in the clear green of her eyes, and they seemed to sparkle with hidden facets as sudden tears glossed their surface. She had been waiting for this moment for all her young life, and it was just as beautiful as she had imagined.

“Be my wife. I want you. Forever.” The ring slid upon her finger, and her breath stopped once again as the impact of his softly spoken words took effect. The two-carat princess diamond glittered with promise, and held her mesmerized. She shivered.

“Please?”

Suddenly, she laughed. It was a laugh full of joy and triumph and the fulfillment of dreams. Her arms flung about his neck and she tangled her hands in his hair as she responded, “Yes! Oh Eric, yes!”

He laughed then in response, relief pouring forth from the release of tensely held breath as he rose, bringing her with him to stand. His strong arms held her closely against him, her body pressed full length against his as he buried his face in her neck to inhale the sweet scent of honeyed perfume that nearly overwhelmed his senses. Eric could not help but run his hands down her sides, passion growing quickly with the knowledge of her acceptance.

Responding immediately to his ardor, her face turned up to meet his in a kiss of complete abandon, opening without hesitation beneath his questing passion. Tears ran unchecked down the sides of her face, streaming into the gleaming auburn locks to dampen her temples, but she did not care. Eric was hers! She had won, and now she had everything she had ever asked for, and more. No one deserved to be this happy, but how could she reject such a gift? Fate had smiled upon her after years of struggle, confusion and strife, and nothing could take away this newfound joy. Life was now something worth living, and every day would be a new adventure that they would share together, never again to be parted by those who wished her ill, and the life so newly begun within her belly would grow to the fruition of all her dreams. A child to love, to cherish, and to have forever. Forever with Eric.

*******

Right.

I still have the ring – it is a permanent fixture in my life. No matter how often I do the dishes without remembering to take it off, or how much biscuit dough gets stuck between the prongs, it is still gorgeous when soaked in jewelry cleaner for a few minutes. It’s the one thing I refuse to sell, and frankly, I shouldn’t have to. I have put up very little fuss about having to get rid of the beach house, or the lodge in the South Hamptons, or my little Polynesian island, or even all my Dolce & Gabbana. I did complain, just a little, about losing the Prada, and it was hard to let go of the Vuitton luggage, but at least I still have my ring. Ironically, without all the trimmings to go with it, it looks fake on my hand, like some bit of cheap vanity jewelry bought off a table-top rounder at Wal-Mart.

And I still have Eric. Good, sweet, Eric. He seemed such a boy when I met him, so full of youth and exuberance, creativity, sensitivity. But he was a man, a full thirty years under his hand-tooled leather belt; a celebrated new artist that possessed the physique of a Greek god. Who could resist that? But then again, who could sustain it? The art world is fickle, and what flashes into the scene as the next brilliant flare of originality can become, overnight, a has-been. He looks the same, for the most part, though his hair is beginning to thin at the temples and there is some gray in his beard when he lets it grow - and he has, let’s be honest, grown a little paunchy about the middle - but something has changed that I can’t define. He has lost something, and now in his sky-blue eyes there is a vacancy that try as I might, I cannot fill.

Believe me, I have tried. Have I ever tried.

La Belle Dame Avec Regret, Part I

Is he ever, ever going to take out the trash? I wondered this for a week, and found that yes, eventually, he will, but only on Sunday. Apparently it doesn’t matter if refuse is spilling out overtop of the oversized, overused kitchen trash can, or that it smells like Monday’s marinated tilapia gone bad. Oh, he’ll do it all right, but on his own time and in his own way. Same as the mowing – he’ll get to it. I know he will, because he always does, but not until he’s damn well ready and the grass is halfway up to my knee. He’s never adjusted to the fact that we now have to take care of the house ourselves instead of being waited on hand and foot by Marcia and Chef Francois. Life just isn’t that easy anymore.

Marcia Divaccio was our housekeeper, back in the day of wine, roses and romance. She ruled the house behind the scenes and oversaw a troop of mostly Hispanic women that helped to ensure the smooth functioning of our home. Clean, fluffy white bath towels seemed to spontaneously multiply in a stack by the whirlpool tub in my giant, perpetually gleaming bathroom, due entirely to their labors. The delicate lingerie that I used to wear that would wind up torn on the floor every night magically appeared again in my bureau, mended, fresh and folded with honey dust between the layers. I never had to wonder whether the baseboards had been dusted, or if the bed had been made, or if the windows needed washing. It was a simple life.

Gourmet meals were available at all hours, served in the formal dining room with all the porcelain, silver and aplomb due our station, compliments of Chef Francois Jean-Pierre LeBorgne. His memory has become a legend, and his food has become something we will surely tell our grandchildren – assuming we ever have any. Breakfast, every day, would include several types of hard, crusty European rolls, a selection of fresh fish, cheeses, meats, chilled, fresh julienne vegetables, freshly made yogurt paired with homemade Indian ginger-quince and Cordova lime curd preserves, real hot chocolate and French press coffee with all, as we would say in my native Ohioan, the “fixins”. That was just breakfast. Lunch and dinner, if we planned to be eating the later meals of the day at home (which we did not do often unless planning a sexy aphrodisiac picnic), were even more elaborate and tempting. Chef Francois, whose name and title ran together to sound like “SHEFfronswah”, was a genius. I miss him even more than Marcia and her bunny-soft towels.

Their excellent service was rendered with a surprising amount of humanity. It was obvious they both took pride in their work, and it was easy to forget that they were paid very well to do so. Marcia and Chef Francois seemed more like part of the family than household employees, and it hurt to have to let them go even more than leaving our huge, pristine, luxurious home with its forty acres of manicured “lawn” (courtesy of Old Pedro and his sons Young Pedro, Juan Carlos and Hilario) and Olympic swimming pool.

Life sure has changed since Eric made that one little misstep in the stock market. His accountant tried to tell him that putting everything he had into tech stocks was risky (“What does he know about the market? He’s an accountant for crissake!”, but Eric, of course, bless his romantic, perilously stubborn heart, did not listen. And now there is no one to take out his trash, cut his grass, or polish his Cole Haans (that I suggested he try to sell on Ebay to pay for a new kitchen floor).

No one, that is, but me. My name is Rory, and I am a recovering romance heroine. My bodices have been mended, the question of my parentage has been resolved, and now I am living The Dream.

Throbbing Member Since 1976

I tried to write a romance novel in my youth. It grew like a beast from a simple story of sex and revenge to a complicated mish-mash of poorly researched historical references and dry prosody. It is said, “Write what you know”, and I know very little about the plight of the young, female, half-blooded Native American from somewhere in the 18th century southern colonies, and next to nothing about rebellious, progressive, New World aristocracy (except for what I’ve read in romance novels – that’s history, right?). I don’t know much about revenge either, having lived my life trying to avoid negative confrontation.

I do know a lot about sex, at least enough to write about it. But how does one write explicit scenes (de rigeur in the genre – can’t avoid ‘em) without sounding truly idiotic and/or crude? Are there any synonyms for ‘penis’ that are not either ridorkulous or downright nasty? Merriam-Webster Online Thesaurus does not even have an entry for the word, so other sources must be found.

Firstly, ‘penis’ is right out. Too clinical. In the world of Romance, terms must be both poetic and descriptive without being too crass. Common monikers include ‘member’, ‘manhood’, ‘pestle’ (my personal favorite) and ‘rod’. These can, of course, be combined with a host of adjectives to properly describe the hero’s…stuff, vis-à-vis ‘throbbing member’, ‘steely manhood’, etc. You get the point. But to my mind, these are just watered down, wussy versions of what I really call it, and I very much doubt that this is a unique opinion.

And then, once you decide what to call the damned things, you have to figure out how to describe their use. I really ran into trouble at this point, because I like to describe experiences realistically. I don’t know about you, but never in my life have I been in the middle of a little somethin’-somethin’ and thought “His hot steely pleasure pole parts my pliant petals like a hungry bee searching for nectar”. How do women write this stuff without cracking up? I certainly couldn’t, and eventually gave up.

It’s a shame, really. Such a huge market, and no way to take it seriously. Think of what could have been.

Christmas Morning

You always wanted
a chemistry set
neat box
reactive compounds
gleeful explosions
bare pink froth
will surely overflow
any moment now
spill all over
hot and spent
messy
little puddle of emotion
in which you dabble
gloved fingertips
with no regard
for his art
his mood
his chiaroscuro.

Interesting Factoid

I have been reading a heavy book lately called “The Age of Faith” by William Durant. It’s only one in a series of twelve tomes recording the history of the Western world from pretty much the dawn of time, and covers 300 A.D. to 1300 A.D. from the Moslem, Jewish and Christian perspectives. I picked it up for ten bucks at a used book store because I needed something thick and dry – I go through novels too quickly and am left always looking for the next thing to read. I figured this one would keep me busy for a while. It has.

For about a month now I have been reading this beast off and on (I took a break to read a Medieval themed bodice ripper last week and was the better for it) and have become completely hooked. Will Durant is a superb writer. Yes, the work is scholarly and maybe a little pedantic at times, but for someone who was born in the wrong century, it is fascinating. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of book you can take to the coffee house on the corner and read without some Patagonia-clad stranger coming up and asking if he can use the dictionary. It is five inches thick, so it doesn’t really travel well.

I learned something new yesterday. According to Durant, the Italian Renaissance is directly connected to the Russian Iconoclasm of the 8th century. Opposition to religious icons by the Byzantine emperor Leo III in 726 led to the Iconoclastic Controversy, which continued in the Eastern church for more than a century before icons were again accepted. Countless works of art were destroyed in the name of religion, but this is hardly surprising since most human evil in the last 2000 years (at least) can trace its roots directly to one religion or another. Because of extreme persecution – people, as well as paintings, were destroyed because of religious fanaticism – Russian monks fled south via the Black Sea, passing through the Bosporus, sailing around Greece and arriving at the Italian boot heel.

An interesting and pivotal effect of this exodus was the influx of educated men who brought with them not only rescued object d’art from the Byzantine world, but ancient Greek manuscripts that had been faithfully copied by the Byzantine clergy (though Byzantium produced no notable literature of its own, the modern world owes a great debt to their careful reproductions of classical manuscripts). Over time, southern Italy collected quite a group of intellectuals armed with the Classics and recent memories of bloody censorship. The impact of this migration sparked, over time, a humanistic movement that blossomed from the “progressive” schools of thought at Palermo, Pisa and Salerno into a full-fledged classical Renaissance.

I always wondered why Venice is home to one of the best remaining examples of Byzantine architecture today – St. Mark’s Cathedral. Now I know.

As Seen From the Balcony

I used the royal We
To take a standing piss
Upon the Holy See.
All bargains now unkissed,
We showed the all-isms
All the many I-isms
And just how wee their were-isms
Came to finally be:
The sacrosanct a chamber pot
The blood of Christ a drying clot
While children sang the Magnificat
In holy lands across the sea.

He fed Us at his banquet eating table
Perpetuated a stifling fable
A waving thousand-armed atrocity.
But We trimmed away the adiposity
Had a pleasant piss on the faith-built lawn
Once his banner over Us was gone.

Somnio Ergo Sum

Jumbled everythings float wistlessly
And I, you explain, jumble with them
My head full of tangled kitten yarn
And sparkly unicorn breath
Wanting to be
What I always thought
What you always said
I could be
And I, you explain, terrorize the neighbors
With these unconventional wants
Great star-snatching needs
All the flailing about to reach the Moon
You said the cow jumped over
Silly habit, dreams are for kids
Stuck in my head
Permitting me to think that
I, you explain, can be anything.

L'il Kim Called: She Wants Her Dress Back

When I was twelve years old clothes seemed so important. Church was only an excuse to show off a new outfit or wear the new three-inch high-heels I had talked Mom into buying, despite my tender age. I had won the high-heel battle when I was ten, scoring a pair of deep eighties wedges from a Christian college girl who sometimes came to church. To her, they were so “out”. To me, they were so high, and therefore so very grown up. It was imperative that I look, act and be perceived as grown up; I wasted much of my young energy on looking, well, old.

I remember the clothes I used to wear – multiple costume changes at church conventions, sometimes three or four in a day! – and I am horrified. I dressed like an old lady most of the time, but not a conservative, Miss Marple old lady. No, I dressed like a very eccentric old lady with a flair for the absurd. But then, the women held up in front of me as shining examples were generally over sixty with very eccentric tastes and bright, flighty personalities, complete with the perma-smile and perpetually astonished, penciled eyebrows. Odd teachers beget odd students.

One ensemble that stands out in my mind is truly hideous. There was a fabric back in the eighties called “liquid gold” that combined all the metallic glitz of gold with the luscious drape of charmeuse to produce a truly frightening substance that did no one any favors. It was really a throwback to the disco era, and would, I suppose, make a decent draped, backless halter top with a chain neck, assuming the wearer had pert, bra-less breasts and bronzed skin. However, I had an entire outfit made of this material that covered me head-to-toe in Tacky. There was a big-shirt that reached halfway to the knee, a shell tank top beneath, and a long, full skirt that ended quite unflatteringly at just above the anklebone. It was all made of this gooey, shocking space-age polymer, and was quite blinding. Unfortunately, I went out of doors in this travesty, looking like a Midas reject, and now I know how Beyonce will feel ten years from now.

How do you live down a long, flowing dress of color-blocked kiwi and blueberry, worn with matching blue slingbacks and an overpriced Liz Claiborne pseudo-leather clutch? How can I justify the ginormous silver lame bow worn in poofy permed hair, or the navy and white polka-dot sailor suit disaster (worn with matching spectators, thank you)? Even worse, an Oleg Cassini matador-esque blouse of magenta taffeta with black velvet dots and accordion-pleated polyester palazzo pants. And I can’t forget the full, denim skirt worn with a white, ruffled petticoat and (this hurts me to type) a white, cowboy fringed leather jacket.

I look back at my fashion-backward youth and wonder how I became the woman I am today; I appreciate clean lines, understated elegance and modestly sexy garments. Now, instead of outrageous and daring, I opt for quality and simplicity, and only throw in the occasional eccentric accessory. Yes, I will sometimes wear a studded leather dog collar with a pink blouse just to tweak a nose or two, but except for a slight gothic undertone, my wardrobe has far less “flair” than it did. In a way, it makes me sad to lose that free and easy tackiness so embraced in the eighties, but as God is my witness, I will never wear liquid gold again.

The Retired Army Rangers of WWII Annual Banquet

Bowing from the waist, courtly you held out your hand
And beckoned me from my seat.
Who, me? Yes, you, and nodded with an aged smile
Blue eyes that did not wait to see the whites of theirs
At Normandy
My skirts swirled and danced, sensed the anticipation
Teetered toward you with a questioning smile
Hello, sir, thank you for coming out tonight,
Poised with idle conversation.
But your hand, which once stormed that shore
Drew me sweetly, still strongly, to the dance floor.
And when my satin slippered toe touched the wood
I danced into your era, lead by your firm hand
And coaxed into the steps you know by heart.
The band played Song of India while people whirled,
And beneath my young, eager feet the floor
Gentled, held me straight and womanly
Within your dying arms.