Art, Music, Opera, Writing

Waiting on Elizabeth’s portrait

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Upon my arrival, I can tell from her raspy greeting they had been singing at the studio piano then likely singing a capella instead of being at task for this interminable sitting. The walls seem to pulsate with absorbed melodies and laughter. If I put my fingers on the plaster, would they palpate vibrations?

Her mother started this project with Sargent. An expense, as he is known to be slow. But she wanted her daughter portrayed as she was when engaged. Prima del matrimonio. Who knows what I, as the mid-tier career soldier, might do to diminish her daughter? She will tell my children “Your mother was a great beauty.” with a grand gesture toward the portrait.

I am not a fool. I see an aspect of Elsie coming through. Sargent’s warm regard in wanting her. I lean over his shoulder and note the blush and exaggerated care given to her lips. As I loom he is silent, not from bravery but a worry a tremble in his voice may reveal too much. Famous as he is, he is still vulnerable and must fear a bad report. Yet he knows I will not pounce upon his work. His creation will outlast this room and my review. His desire imbues her portrait and becomes what she exudes for him. I have earned and sustained my higher station, but my victories on the field and maneuvers in this scene may not last as long as this portrait. His strategy is longer.

In her cool appraisal of those who evaluate her, the flush of her cheeks, this portrait is Elizabeth as a maiden. As she stands apart from me now, a laugh still in her stance, has she been girlish with him? I do not think she would be so rude as to bite her lip and act less womanly than she is. That may put him off, too. Knowing her power, and knowing it is accentuated by being not yet attained. She is not flighty here, she is strong. She knows and has lived, much by what we have shared. Her mother is not getting the portrait she wanted. That is gratifying.

And I indulge Elsie. No, too patronizing. I endure from others the whispers, asides, occasional daring remark in my presence that Elsie’s avocation and accomplishments as a concert singer are déclassé.

But it fills her. To see her take savor and draw in the air, bosom rising, delay before her note, knowing she could convey so much in her lilting soprano then drop to a feral resonance. Where will she go? Follow her training? Let the spirit take the moment? She is lost and happy and delirious in the suspension of the world and those fixed on her. We are held in thrall. She is happy. Obliged to perform, but the setting is of her choosing. Let them natter on in parties. She feeds from us. I am among those feeling within her and sustaining her. Admiring her as the room does, coveting my own all the more as others covet her. Then, her decision or spirit assented to, the note selected, force sanctioned, she carries us all along again.

And, my hand will be on the upper side of her hips, John, as her hand is posed off her waist. I will hold her there as she’s straddled over me to fix her in place. And her left hand will be set over mine to pin her even more. She will press on me with the assurance and lovely heft you have conveyed so well, John. And before then the palm of her right hand will tend to my need, wrapped with confidence as on the rim of your sitting chair. Yes, Sargent, those hands are daring and skilled and loving and clever and I know you have made a guess that is so, but I see you do not know from experience. You have posed her hands in speculation. I am amused.

This is a painting of allegation, admiration, want, abundance, poise. Her bosom is a marvel. I have seen our child feed there, and I still have desire and feel relief to take refuge and time there. And she lets me. Her soldier is happy there. And I am happy to make her happy.

“We are obliged to leave soon.” I say glancing at the clock on the wall. Strong chance Sargent’s clock is not accurate. Stronger chance any array of clocks he may have here do not corroborate one another.

Mrs. George Swinton (nee Elizabeth
Mrs. George Swinton (nee Elizabeth “‘Elsie” Ebsworth) painted by John Singer Sargent

“What time is it?” Elsie says. Her voice evenly modulated. I do not think Sargent would truly do anything untoward. He tantalizes himself. I look at the nearest clock again.

“It’s 22 past six.” Recital at 8. Reception at 9. Would she wear this ensemble? He paints her in white and coppery pearlish taupe. She stands now in royal blue. He is using her expression and proportions. She will not need a change tonight.

After the recital: praise, and flattery, and as she is flush with regard and expression I shall take her home, and we will bid the help good night then gaze upon our infant son asleep in the cradle then adjourn to our chambers. I will pin her down by her left wrist, leaving her right hand and my left to wander as they please, and I shall take her as she is arrayed now. She will see how what she set in motion by my catching her in this scene in the studio and her later scenes this evening will culminate in the light in my eyes fueled from the swells of desire from the crowds of men and envious women channeled and churning through me and she will be well pleased and sleep soundly and it will be a good morning.

Activity, Eating, Parenting, Reading, Writing

On a ride with my son

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All this week, my daughter was scheduled for Zoo Camp. My son didn’t have anything scheduled.

I had to work, and my mom was willing to have him stay for four days.

Got him back Thursday night, and wasn’t sure what to do. Then decided to cut work and spend Friday with just him.

He’s 11, and signs are accruing that puberty encroaches. Height increasing. Closes the door to his room a lot. More guarded about changing his clothes, bathing, growing sense of privacy.

We dropped his sister off at Zoo Camp, then strolled around the Zoo for several hours. I gave him the map and let him navigate. We weren’t in a hurry.

We boarded the Zoo Train (I hadn’t been on for a decade or so) and I noticed dark hairs on his legs. I said (quietly) “You’re growing up. Your leg hairs are darker.” “Not as dark as yours” “You’re getting there, though. It’s good to see you growing up.” He smiled. We talked about growing up and being able to drive, and going to college, and other milestones only 5-7 years away.

See the bag of green candy? Sour Skittles. He was MISERLY with them. I only got four, once he gave me three. A second time, one. He worked on that regular-size bag for about two hours. Hope he holds to that Golden Mean.

From the Zoo we went downtown. I let him pick lunch (noodles), and we went for ice cream. We read for about an hour and a half in the library (Me – reading on an artwork to write about, J – Fellowship of the Ring). Then he wanted to see if there were books on martial arts. I made him ask at the information desk and he was directed to a shelf of them. After about 20 minutes of browsing, he picked one. Checked it out, we were on our way.

Outside of the library, he asked me what sixth, seventh, and eighth grades were like for me. I told him they were tough for almost everybody. Puberty, confusion, frustration, kids getting more concerned about the body changes and new feelings, and not as attuned to the feelings and needs of others. I also mentioned around 6th grade is when my parents divorced. He listened thoughtfully. I told him he would someday go through those body and feeling changes, and I said I hoped he would come to us with any questions. “I will probably come to you, ” he said, “as it’ll be about boy and man changes.”

Took the light rail back to the Zoo, then sat in the cafeteria and read some more. All four of us met there after my daughter’s Zoo Camp was finished.

Throughout the day, he ran his arm around mine and we walked together arm-in-arm. He said “I don’t feel like holding your hand much anymore, but I do feel like doing this.” I nodded, absorbing the moments.

Later at night, he was speaking with his mom about cell phones. One of his friends recently got one. He wants one, too. “Other kids in class have them, too.” My wife asked: “Do you want one for talking with them?” “No, only my friends.” “Don’t you mean the kids in your class?” “No, I’m not friends with EVERYone in my class.”

Then she discovered he was only friends with the boys in his class. She observed: “That will probably change.”

“Yeah.” He guessed around age 13 he would use the phone to talk with girls. Then around 17 he would be old enough to drive, and then use his phone and car to go pick the girls up.

My man.

Activity, Poetry, Writing

Remembering stones

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Sculpture on NW Lovejoy portraying the I-405 Fremont Bridge.

I like to walk long distances,

Stones in my pockets, and subpockets.

I know them each by how they clack and scrape.

Other, smarter, faster people shed stones from choice or shoddy pockets.

I like the feel of them crammed, how they complain or chatter.

Each step of mine heavier, a fall forward, foot pressed to ground to stop the fall, stomp, stand up.

It says “I am here”.

Step and fall and stomp and stand and stronger.

Though sometimes I just up and run for the fuck of it.

Activity, Writing

International internet sex malaise!

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According to Squarespace analytics, a person using Google in India came across this site using the search term “sex feh”. Wonder how much an SEO consultant would have charged for that return. Is that a market worth targeting? Seems grouchy.

Activity, Art, Writing

Airplanes as a refuge

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Writing on an airplane is HUGELY productive. An expensive habit. Is it the boredom? Disinterest in the in-flight movie, especially compared to the delights of parsing the safety video? Sustained physical discomfort resulting in yoga-ish inward journeys? Mid-conscious realization that flight in a huge metal tube at lethally cold low-pressure altitudes is an hours-long defiance of the designs of Nature, and Nature ALWAYS wins?

Art, Poetry, Writing

A chant.

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Pen to paper. Fingertips to keyboard.

Like thousands, millions, billions high primates before.

A boon, a propitiation to no one around.

I choose not to go numb, though stumbling clumsy and thick.

And frowning at what has been scrawled or tapped more often than smiling.

But I choose to try. To last.

Art, Writing

Slogging through a bog, getting sips of strawberry lemonade.

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So far with the writing project, it’s been writing by hand while out ‘n’ about, then getting around to typing that writing up by hand on the computer. Doing some editing in that process, especially hiting spots of leaning into the notes and thinking “Wha-a-at the heck?” and reinterpreting.

Finished up typing up manuscript up to the end of May. Broke 127,000 words, still in the middle chapter.

Neil Gaiman, a writer I like in interviews but have never read, said in an interview that waiting for inspiration to strike is something for poets. Novelists need to sit and be at task or it’ll never get done. That’s echoed by a LOT of writers. I’m finding that to be true.

Haven’t had Writer’s Block, but DO suffer from acute Writer’s Avoidance. Finding distractions to keep from the physical effort.

And it is often dreary typing up notes, not liking what I’m going over. But then a gem or scene or description comes on that I like and it’s a relief. Promise of the project restored.

I’m really getting excited for the process of revision after the First Draft is done. It’ll be a while from now, and it’ll be brutal, but the prospect of slimming this thing down to something elegant makes me antsy and happy.

Poetry, Writing

Autumn thoughts for mid-summer

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We each took a rake to a corner of our garden
And dragged the dead leaves, pulling grass tugging root,
Which made Earth flinch.
Then plunged our hands into the separate piles, clammy inside but warmer than the air’s bite.
And laughed as our fingers grazed deep and nabbed broad leaves almost whole.
“These I will share!” Each laugh from a corner an instigation to the other.
And we held leaves for review by the other.
In the leaves and detritus we christened meaning and belonging,
Then left with dirty fingernails.

Poetry, Writing

The heart is a potato.

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The heart is a potato.
Carried with you, talisman against famine in your breast pocket, pants pocket, skirt pocket, hip pocket, purse.
Next to your body, always warm, as warm as you.
Rough skin against your smooth skin. Pocked. Divots. Stems. Sprouts to be snapped.
You forget it’s there. Starchy. Filling. You forget.
Takes heat beneath the sun. Gathers heat inside the oven door.
Its rind crackles, it shudders about to burst.
Cut lightly on the rind and it blossoms and steams out to meet you.
Bready and sweet.
Plastic butter knife in your hand you ask do you want to share?
Cold pat of butter watch it lather and bubble and soak in.
Both are smiling, both of you glad. Dive in! With a fork, never a spoon.
Minutes, hours, weeks, years done.
Cool it down. Cram the fluff back into the casing.
Only you now. Tenderly pack with patience the settling starch.
Barely tug at its skin, pull the lip over the spuddy envelope.
Lick your thumb and run it along the gash’s edge.
Press it shut. Does the seal hold?
Back into your pocket.
Run your thumb along the seam when you want.
And you want.

Activity, Music, Pop Culture, Writing

Flying back from Chicago

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‘Cloud Gate’ by Anish Kapoor (also known as The Bean”) in Chicago’s Millennium ParkOn a plane headed home. Four and a half hours to kill. Groggy. I typically have trouble sleeping the night before traveling. Not with worry, but wondering if I should dash out and do one more thing in a famous place I may never see again. Flush away the minor concerns of sleeping and packing and proper sleep. Grab the supply of the wines of experience to fill my brain and have it swirl around in the hope that between my eyes and the cheat of a camera it will stain the walls or its residue will settle at the base of memory to give an aroma when scratched.

I packed in stages. Made up one last jaunt. Came back to the room and packed some more, then split the difference: stayed in the room and selected photos with their subdued colors (Chicago was overcast, but mild, the whole time) and lack of depth and sound and smell and motion and will and posted them to share. Wrote terse captions while my sense of geography and paths were fresh. Fell asleep after 2:00 a.m.

Woke up at 5:30. Push-ups. Shower. Wimbledon on television. Reviewed the comments on the posted photos and videos. Enjoyed the attention but also the reward of delivering the boon of new visions or evoking memories for some people who are dear, others I’ve not seen in decades, still others I’ve never met or have spoken with for scant seconds or minutes. An exhaling gust at my deeds and my people. I turn on my heel and remove the shaman robes and set them on the rack, or hand them to someone else to don. Can’t recall if the robes are in a closet or another’s possession. I had to pack, and only know the robes did not drop to the floor.

I get to airports at least two hours early. It’s prudent, but also to get through security and take strolls up and down concourses to get some exercise into a day of being launched across states and time zones, but while sitting on my ass.

An actor from a cult t.v. show (Michael Horse – Tommy “Hawk” on ‘Twin Peaks’) popular 20 years past walked by, slightly hunched, into the Men’s Room. Wiry white hair to his shoulders. Blue denim jacket with a patch of a white hand making the peace sign, words “American Indian Activist” over that logo. He looked well, and not visibly anxious about being in public. I let him go pee instead of saying “Hey!”

On the plane as it ably performs its aeronautical miracle of transport, but the cabin air is hot and muggy. The air nodules in the console above offer no cooling, allowing minimal airflow like pointing a body-temperature, sustained, stink-free dilated fart lasting several hours.

Big gourmet headphones (not Bose!) clamped over my head, I am surrounded by rectangles. This journal. Book of poetry on my lap but under the seat tray. When Music player wedged between my legs piping about an hour of The Western Canon audiobook (a chapter about Marcel Proust) before I switch to Québécoise chanteuse Martha Wainwright trills and torches Piaf songs ably and with a full voice she does not commit to her own songs. One bar of organic fair trade chocolate in my belly, another bar of another kind in my bag at my feet. Laptop in that bag. Portfolio holding notes and outlines of a writing project. Kindle. Powered-down smartphone in my bag (pssst… you don’t truly have to shut it down, the crew only needs that for your attention during the tender take off and landing phases – so says science and airline pilot columnists). Girl two seats down jumping from movie to movie on her parents’ laptop. Rows of monitors mounted above us play the CGI cartoon film Rango and I wonder if someone in an airline meeting room raised a hand and suggested they routinely calibrated their monitors. Am guessing that person was shut down by a bean counter or a philistine boss who sees no problem with wildly different hues, washed out or blown out colors that look nothing like what artists and other billion dollar companies intended. The same kind of philistine who thinks the wide screen HD televisions with murky non-HD programs look just fine so long as the stretched image fits the whole screen even with people looking like squat blotchy toads. Usually within minutes in a hotel room I’m trying to circumvent the pokey Fisher Price remote and leaning behind the t.v. searching for buttons or knobs to make the window to the world or to fantasy look normal.

I have a fever. Wish they would hook up the apertured fart vents above us to a frost giant. Can I roll down the window? Frost along the edges show it’s nice and cool outside.