At Home with Frodo at World’s End

I live in a hobbit house. If only for a week. A ninety-eight year old man owns the place. I imagine him as a compassionate and somewhat distinguished Quaker gentleman. After all he had once argued for the life of the man who had murdered his daughter. I had checked it out. But it turns out he is a small balding man with a large stomach and bad breath who leers at me and tells me a story about a young heroin addict who once stayed there and offered herself to him for money.  I can outrun you, old man, I think. His son lives there too. I am guessing he is in his sixties, sinewy and tan with the vacant expression that results from years of what I imagine was regular drug use. He has long hair streaked with gray and his eyes are bright yet empty in the way of Frodo when he was wounded by the Ringwraith's blade . He wears cutoff jeans. Emerging from my car late one night,  I see him leap off the patio and stride across the lawn, bare chested and barefoot, holding a harpoon gun pointed at me. I step out of the shadows so he can see my face. Recognition is slow in coming but when it finally appears, he is all smiles and invitations to go harpoon fishing with him and his two friends. At night. In the ocean. No thank you. The friends, a young Hawaiin man and an old woman with stringy hair stare at me as I politely refuse. They mutter to each other and I see nine teeth between the two of them. Up the stone stairs, into my round room, and I lock the door. Someone blows a conch shell and I imagine the gathering of strange indigenous tribes.

Pink

Wedding, wedding, wedding, she sang inside her head. Joni's getting married and she’d got to sit on the groom’s lap last night in the car on the way home from dinner. He smelled nice and laughed a lot, but his mother had a wart in the crease next to her nose and looked like a witch. She had a new dress. Well it was new to her. Her sister got to wear it last year to their cousin’s wedding. But this time it was her turn. The satin felt all slippery against her thighs but her shoes were too loose. Space for you to grow into them, her mother had said. That was going to make it hard to dance, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and lifted her dress, humming. Someday she would be the bride and her shoes would fit and she would have a new dress that nobody else has worn. And her husband would smell good, like Joni’s and she would make his mother sit in the back where her warts wouldn’t show. And she would dance all night and people would take her picture. Maybe. Just not her face.

Brigadoon, Guinnness and Irish poets

April in Manhatten. 2009. After many hours of shopping and wandering with my friend, we found ourselves in that between time. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, but we were both starving. Stopping in a store filled with soap scrubs and scents, we asked the girl who dried our hands, where we might get something to eat. It was spring, we wanted to eat outside. She directed us to leave the store, turn left at the corner, go down the small street and there would be a restaurant right there. We did as she had directed. The street was narrow, the sun was at a steep angle, so all was in shade. We walked past a cement wall with peeling pain. A neon sign glowed in a window set high in the wall. “This cannot be it,” I said. We reached the place where the street ended at a T. The door to the establishment, painted green, stood open and a shaft of sunlight found its way to the stoop. It illuminated the Guinness sign there. I sighed. This was not at all what we had had in mind, but at the moment, a Guinness sounded great, so we went in. The floor was wooden, the ceiling high, the tables to the left were covered in cheery red and white checked cloths and families were enjoying themselves, adults and small children, all on a Thursday afternoon between time. We found places at the end of the bar and ordered two Guinness and a menu. Two older men sat to the left of my friend. They were scribbling on paper napkins, drinking martinis. They had bad combovers and ruddy cheeks. They introduced themselves, said they were in the advertising business. Throwbacks to another era where a three-martini lunch was the norm in the age of the Madison Avenue ad men. But they were a long way from Madison Avenue. Our waiter delivered perfectly poured Guinness, which, during the course of the long afternoon, he never let run below the halfway point before refilling them...at no extra charge we found out later. A young man sat eating alone to my right. I asked him what was good on the menu and he replied everything, but the burger was his favorite. Two burgers, coming right up. Beef for me, vegan for my friend. When he left, an older gentleman took his place. At this point we were about three Guinness to the wind (hard to tell as our glasses were never empty) and feeling extreme love for everything in sight. The bartender, mildly flirtatious, became our best friend. The gentleman to my right told me that he was a wandering Irish poet and bard, despite his lack of accent. He found out we were from Baltimore, and proceeded to recite the first two stanzas from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.” The waitress rolled her eyes as she passed. He was well known at this bar. He then took a harmonica out of his pocket and proceeded to play a haunting Irish tune as the crowd in the bar thinned out and grew quiet. When he was done, there was polite applause, he kissed me on the hand, and exited by the side door. Our burgers had arrived and were delicious, accompanied by crispy fries and a surprisingly fresh salad of mixed baby greens. The Guinness continued to flow, the ad men eventually left. Three other men came in, each separately, stood at the end of the bar, downed a beer (one each) silently in three or four glups, then left. Our bill arrived and I held my breath anticipating the usual New York prices. $23 for everything. What WAS this place? As we stumbled out the door into the twilight, we turned to look back, for a name, for anything that could identify where we had been. The light was warm, the bartender was clearing our plates and wiping down the bar and I was already nostalgic for the place. There was no name, no street signs. We went to the next intersection and I fumbled out a scrap of paper to write down where we were. My friend and I imagined it was Brigadoon, a place that would appear only occasionally to the lucky few. Yes, we found it again. It was still enchanting, and the food was still good. But there were no ad men there, no irish poet. Maybe they disappeared that evening, were there for only that day, only for us. At least I like to think so.

Travelogue #1: Madrid

"Variations in air pressure against the ear drum, and the subsequent physical and neurological processing and interpretation, give rise to the subjective experience called sound."

The acoustics of Old Town Madrid are their own. From the fourth floor of the old building, the sounds drift up the air shaft. Cooking sounds of pots and pans, and voices speaking in a foreign tongue. Spanish. My one year of it in high school leaves me ill-equipped. There is a spicy smell along with the tiniest whiff of garbage. I can hear children playing. There is laughter and the sounds of booted heel on cobbled street. The buildings are so close that I can’t see the street at all, only the tiled roofs across the way. They feel close enough that I could jump. (I dreamed of having to jump across an open abyss between buildings. Onto a metal surface and I knew I would not make it.) There is a cat in a window box that is filled with plastic geraniums. Around the corner from the restaurant where the tiny spanish woman tried to talk to me, all smiles and nodding head, a canary sings from a cage on a small iron balcony. The sound swoops and soars, echoing off the stone walls and streets. The acoustics of Old Town Madrid become about what is missing. The sound of cars, buses, sirens in the night and rap music blaring from open windows. Instead, it is the softer sounds from another time. It could be any time, a different time, somewhere older, less advanced than cities today. I could be back in the 17th century. I cannot understand the voices around me, so they could be saying anything. “How are the crops faring?”  “When will the midwife come?” “The ships sail from Barcelona at dawn.” Waiters try to lure us into eating at their establishments. I shake my head. “No habla espanol.” But I want to habla, very badly. Or maybe not. We drift through the plaza. Fat spiderman is there again. A man is playing an accordian and singing. Close my eyes as I walk at dusk. An elf on the corner and strange ringing music. An old man sits in front of an elaborate rack of glasses, each filled with water to a different level. He moistens his fingers and runs them around the rims, creating an eerie melody. He is wearing a suit and does not look up at the people passing by. There is no cup or can for the coins of passing strangers. His acoustics are his own. 

She didn’t mean to do it.
Not really. It’s just that the colors 

were so bright, like blood in the grass, 

and the spiders were on the move. 

The awards from long ago just weren’t 

enough anymore, and she had to have that 

metal case.
At least the floor is clean.

What do you mean, we’re not going? 
I told you that the lampshade can’t stay 

here. The wine has turned and skeletons 

are falling from the drapes. Do you see 

the cat? Do you see what she is doing? 

Her very presence mocks me and she 

never gets the hands right.
All I want is a pair of long gloves.
Is that too much to ask?

Pig

Blue square, orange stare. The wirings gone awry. 

The keyboards in the corner, unplugged again.  

Striped sock, stained rug, who will bang the gong 

when I am gone? Feathers round my neck –
but no, I can’t.  

This cat is very soft, maybe that will work.
You see, the pig’s the thing.

Chaos

Neat and tidy, neat and tidy.
That’s how I like things.
Pencils know their place, but sometimes the 

lava can be difficult. It likes to go with the 

flow. That is not the way of things. No way.

Not here. I keep them in line. I show them 

who’s boss. Let me tell you what happens 

if the drawers are not lined up, if the books 

don’t climb like stairs. Chaos reigns and the 

forks get out of hand.

Seriously? This is it?

This is not what they had decided and her

companion seems    detached.

Long legs, brick wall. (let's play) The light is soft

but the chair is hard. He can smell a thousand 

different smells. The sugar jar –

the sweat-stained couches, the heat of the lightbulbs

and the hand on the chair. She's laughing in a cloying

way and he becomes impatient, bleary.

Why did she bring him anyway?

He smells    and his stare is unnerving.

Mr. Dog stares into his glass.

The courvoisier was an excellent choice,

but he can't enjoy it.   Not now.    Not like this.

Blind

Keep the shutters closed please.
I don’t  think you understand how
persistent she can be.
The television’s disconnected – only the computer 

keeps me sane. When that goes, who knows what 

might happen. You think I don’t understand the
pattern on the floor? The message that she sends?  
She thinks that she can trip me up, but she’s
the one who’s going to take the fall.

Will you be much longer?  
Not that I mind, you understand.
It’s just that I have these things
I have to do.  It makes me nervous here.
This rug, those blouses. Its not like
I meant to do it, you know?
I just needed the space.
He always leaves the hair dryer.
Everywhere he goes.
Did you know that?
It really burns me.

Sisters

Has your son been by?
No. It’s not like having a daughter.
He’s busy with the baby.
That scarf is long enough.
It’s not finished.
It’s never finished.
When are you going to start?
I never liked that painting.
But the walls are nice.
They remind me of the sky.

Archer

Shhh......   Quiet.
They’ll hear you.
They’re waiting. Always waiting.

For the apple to fall, or for her
to choke. It’s hard being the one
who sweeps up. I’d rather be in the 

woods. The hunting there is cleaner, 

more direct.  But someone has to
keep an eye out, so to speak, ready
with the arrow. The coffee helps, but
it’s not the only thing.

Story

See, the Wolfman and the Bellydancer,
they met one summer by the river.
He played the music, she danced the tune. 

That was their story. Then
one Christmas, Santa came down her
chimney and left a little present.
At least that was the tale the
Bellydancer told to the Wolfman.
Now they have this little green baby
and they’ve lost all their shoes.

But the man with the vegetable head keeps
growing, and her socks match
his pants. The baby’s the Story now.

The Egg

Shoes strapped, check the drawers,
the giant’s gone astray.
The glasses never fit, and the bottles ache to pour.
Lipsticked toes and
 polished lips can’t hide the fact
that something’s here.
So, yeah, I climbed the vine,
I found the harp. It’s only a
matter of time before that goose
gives itself away.

The egg is mine.

The cat vomited again.
In the sheets.
Can’t seem to keep the pictures straight and the 

dust is settling in the creases of the headboard.
Books askew, muffled lighting and shiny shoes. 

Where have those marshmallow peeps gone? 
The bed is bleeding out;  dirty
underwear and clotted clothes.
Is Lily still alive? 
Bag of bones and beaded vest.
We shouldn’t talk like that
where she can hear.

Alice

In the dark she can hear the pink flamingoes

in the yard. They’re coming closer, 

but she’s drained the bottle in the kitchen and

the last few drops hit the floor.

There’s going to be a stain.

Her head is getting bigger and she hopes she doesn’t lose it, 

but the thumping upstairs

is getting louder.

She takes off her shoes, sets them carefully. 

Side by side.

The rabbit is going to be a problem.