Proslogion

Love the one good in which all good things are, and that is sufficient.

Desire the simple good which contains every good, and that is enough. For what do you love, O my flesh, what do you  desire, O my soul?

There it is, there it is, whatever you love, whatever you desire.

:)

Short Story 5

The Fourth Movement

Mary’s cello weighed a little heavier on her drooping shoulder as she took one last look at the arched ceiling and marble floor of the beautiful lobby. With sore fingers and heavy hearts, the other musicians filed out of the rehearsal hall. They did not know when they would return. Perhaps never. Stepping out into another grey, rainy day, they lingered wistfully on flooded the sidewalk in front of the hall. The musicians were all reluctant to acknowledge the end.

            It was the principal trumpet that broke the spell. The tall, bespectacled man, usually so amiable, was irreparably deflated today. With a wave, he silently made his way across the street to the bleak parking lot where his rusting Ford waited. He had hoped to get a new car, but the week before he was to make the purchase, the orchestra director made his tearful announcement. Let go, all of them. 80 unemployed musicians. Something about poor sales, declining audiences, not enough “cultural relevance.” Now he only hoped he could pay the heating bill.

            The others slowly followed the trumpeter across the street. They were instrument-wielding specters, with pale faces and empty eyes that reflected the steely sky. No one could speak.

            “Wait.”

The word carried through the heavy air, clear and ringing as a French horn’s call. It was Mary the cellist. A young woman with a short brown bob and a frame about the size of the instrument she played, Mary was one of the youngest members of the symphony. A year ago, she learned that she had beat out hundreds of other competitors for the coveted open spot in the cello section. A month after that, she’d moved to this struggling city with the renowned orchestra. She practiced, rehearsed, and performed. She breathed in eighth notes and drank up sweet-sounding melodies, pure as water. And it was the beginning of her dream, until it ended. So abruptly. Far too early. It was all wrong.

“Everyone, wait,” Mary said again. The others turned around, still half-immersed in their melancholy daze.

“Don’t leave. I’m not ready, and neither are you. Let’s do something.”

“You’re young, you don’t know how it is,” said the oldest member of the orchestra, a violist with no hair and a hoarse voice. “There’s nothing to do. They’ve been threatening for years, and now it’s finally happened. It’s done.”

“No it isn’t,” said Mary, her voice rising. “We’re going on strike.”

            Now everyone was awake.

             “You can’t go on strike if you’ve already been fired,” replied the gloomy violist.

            “Look, that was our last concert, but our contracts are good until the end of the month,” the tall trumpeter said excitedly. “Let’s strike.”

He turned to his pessimistic colleague. “Do you have any other plans for the next few weeks?” he asked incredulously.

Silence.  “Didn’t think so. We have nothing to lose.”

The soft murmur rose to an excited clamor of voices. Plans were made, concerns voiced, problems worked out. And for the first time in weeks, hope emerged from its hiding place, delicate but unmistakable. In a city accustomed to hard times, the musicians joined the ranks of the strikers. Like the assembly line workers and the casino employees, they were manual laborers; they suffered back pains and arthritis for the sake of the beautiful final product they produced. They needed this commodity, and the city needed it too.

So the musicians prepared for battle. Tuxedoes were their suits of armor and bows their swords. They carried sheet music like battle standards, and they bravely sounded their fortes with the force of a gunshot. They returned to the hall they loved, they took possession of their land and refused to move. Gradually, the story trickled out of the hall and into the streets; it spread rapidly through a population eager for news that didn’t involve corruption or bankruptcy. “Sit-in Symphony,” the evening headlines proclaimed. “Rogue Orchestra Refuses to Quit.”

The musicians eliminated “quit” from their vocabulary. They didn’t have much of a vocabulary at all, for they were too busy playing Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn, dressed in their finest attire for the occasion. At first, they played to an empty hall. But as the news broke, a few curious enthusiasts took their seats. Others followed; they were supportive, idle, or simply hoping to witness a confrontation.

The seats filled to capacity, and the musicians played with the passion born of true emotion. Through the music, their anguish, worry, rage, and hope became manifest. The sound engulfed the audience. It soothed and startled them, it elated them and sunk them into despair. Sometimes, they forgot to breathe, so immersed were they in the wonderful, reverberating notes.

The orchestra played and played. The conductor gracefully waved his baton, sweat trickling down his temples as he poured his being into his orchestra. They were performing for themselves, for the audience, for the city, for the cause. The sun went down without any sign of weariness from the laboring players. Dinnertime came and went, and no one made a move to stop. Far into the night they played, onward through the darkness.

The clouds of the previous day had dispersed, and the sun’s first inviting fingers beckoned over the broken city. The last quavering note died down in the cavernous expanses of the hall, absorbed through the parted mouths of the transfixed listeners. In silence, the conductor shook the concertmaster’s hand. He bowed. He serenely descended the podium and walked off the stage. The orchestra sat still, their energy and passion spent.

A single clap broke the silence. Then another, and another. Slowly, the sound grew into a deafening thunder of applause. Cheers rent the air. The beautiful chaos was music of its own, an expression of gratitude and solidarity from the audience to the orchestra. They all understood each other; they needed each other. And they would find a way to help.

The orchestra struck up a joyful march as the audience emerged into the sunlight. 

Short Story 4

Catching Up

She’s carried all of the cleaning supplies from her car to the kitchen. She sits at the table and eats lunch, a can of tuna and a banana, before she starts to work.

…She sez she don’t wanna go to school today. And I sez, well ya gotta, I ain’t calling you in sick and you sure as hell ain’t gonna miss the bus again. She’s a good girl, but she sure is lazy sometimes. All she wantsta do is sit on the sofa and drink pop and watch those crappy shows about pregnant girls. You ask me, those shows are a real bad idea, girls don’t need to be watchin’ stuff like that. So anyway, that’s why I’m late, see, ‘cause Tina didn’t move her butt fast enough and I ended up having to drive her to school. Late again. One more and she gets detention. That girl. I keep tellin’ her, education is important. Look at me, I did it all backwards, now I’m tryin’ to get my basic courses in at the community college and they don’t give me enough scholarship money to buy the books, even. I tell ya, they don’t make it easy.

… Oh, yeah, we broke off the engagement. No, no, don’t be sorry, it just wasn’t meant to work out. He’s a nice guy an’ all, but he wasn’t cut out for a father. I got four kids and I gotta watch out for ‘em, y’know? And they was just too much for him. My oldest, she’s engaged, though. Real nice guy, he works out at the GM plant. The wedding’s gonna be in August. We’re tryin’ to make all the arrangements. Budget’s tight, but I think we can do pretty well. She knows it’s not all about the reception anyway, the ceremony’s the important part. That’s the fact of the matter. …Oh yeah, thanks, I’ll let her know. I’m real proud. She picked real well.

‘Scuse me for a minute while I find my pills… all these dang medications, you’d think I’m my mother’s age. I’m only 43, but all the bendin’ over I have to do, it really messes with my back. And these are for my blood pressure, and this one’s for my knee pain. And these here, I can’t tell ‘em all apart, but they do somethin’ important. Gotta go to the doctor again soon, make sure everything’s workin’ the way it should. My mom, she went for a normal routine visit, and next thing ya know, they tell her she’s got breast cancer. So ya never know. Gotta keep an eye on everything. …Oh, she’s doing better. Still in the hospital, though. I don’t know how much more they can do. I’m just tryin’ to visit as much as I can, keep her from being bored, ya know. She loves to draw, I got her some of them colored pencils from the art section at Meijer’s and she just loves ‘em. Drew a real pretty pitchur of herself on her wedding day, way-back-when. Copied it from a photograph. It made me wanna cry, it was so pretty.

I do wonder sometimes if I’m doin’ the right thing, goin’ back to school. Especially right when all my kids are getting to that age themselves. But this job, ya know… I mean, it’s fine, it gets the bills paid, as they say, but it’s so unpredictable. And with everyone gettin’ less money these days, folks are less likely to hire someone else to do the cleanin’. I’ve always wanted to be a therapist, I like talkin’ to people and listening and trying to help. Woulda done it way before now, but I had Lizzy and got married and before I knew it, the time was gone. I don’t regret it, I wouldn’t for a second wish things were differn’t ‘cause then I wouldn’t have my kids. But… it woulda been nice if I’d had more time. For me. Gosh, that sounds selfish; that’s not what I mean. You know what I mean. So now I think I’ve saved up enough to try it again, but it just takes so dang long, only takin’ a few classes a semester, and at night. And they want so much for grad school, they want all the way up through precalc, and I never was good at math. Still just tryin’ to get beginning algebra done with. But I think it’ll be a real investment, if I can do it. I looked into this program at Wayne State, and starting salaries coming out are 50, even 60,000 a year. So that’s not too bad. And it can only go up. I figure, people always need people to talk to. They always got problems. And man, I’ve had practice listenin,’ just being a mother.

… You’re lucky you’re so smart, you and your brother. Man oh man, how did your parents do it? My kids just don’t have that work ethic, ya know? I guess some people just have it. I mean, I guess I don’t, and my ex-husband sure don’t, so I don’t know why I would expect my kids to. But Jimmy, my son, he might just have it. He’s the smart one, always buildin’ things and readin’ about how to take apart computers an’ all. He’s gonna do real well, if we can just get ‘im to pick up his English grade a little. Sez the books are too girly, he can’t stand to read ‘em. Can you believe that? I sez to him, I sez, if it was good enough for Teddy Roosevelt, it’s good enough for you. He loves history, see. And I told him Roosevelt used to read three books ever day. That’s a fact, ya know. And I bet some of ‘em were the “girly” books, and he turned out just fine. So he’d best get readin’ or no Wii for a week. Boys are funny like that. Sometimes ya can’t reason with ‘em, ya just gotta tell ‘em like it is.

…No, no, thanks anyway, I got a Mountain Dew right here. That’ll give me a nice kick. And I hope ya don’t mind if I turn on the radio, it just gets a little lonely up there, in this big old house. Nice to have a little noise. … Oh good, glad it doesn’t bother ya. Like I say, it’s a fine job, but there are times when I miss being around people. ‘Cause most of the time I come in, clean, and leave and no one would even know, not a soul around, they’re all at work or school. That’ll be another nice thing about getting this degree, I hope. When I’m a therapist I can be around lots of people all day. No time for radios.

… Oh, yeah, of course, you gotta go. Well, it was real nice seein’ ya again. Tell your mom I sez hi, and your brother and your dad too. Real sorry to hear about your dog. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it. Anyway, guess I should get up and start on this floor. Aah, aaaah. No, hon, I’m fine, just these stubborn old knees again. Well, have a good one, and I’ll seeya again sometime.

…Oh yeah, thanks for that, I hope it all works out too. Bye now.

I don't like Aristotle, but I like this quote.

"Most cities of this sort preserve themselves when at war, but once having acquired imperial rule they come to ruin; they lose their edge, like iron, when they remain at peace. The reason is that the legislator has not educated them to be capable of being at leisure." - The Politics, Book 7

I think I'm a city at war. I'm always trying to control things, and then when I gain control I can't handle the ensuing peace. Relaxation makes me go insane. I am incapable of being at leisure, because I'm always worrying about the next battle. And then relaxing becomes an assignment as stressful as any other... "have fun, or else." Who is my legislator? My mind? My soul? My mother? Whoever you are, I need to figure out how to follow your advice.

Now y'all know I'm nuts. As if there was any doubt before.

Short Story #3

This one's for Mom.

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The Bottle of Champagne

The flight attendant’s cool voice sounded over the intercom, asking if there was a doctor onboard. I half-smiled incredulously.

            Every time I fly, someone needs a doctor. Every time I push the call button above my seat to offer my services, the flight attendant approaches and gives me a sweeping glance. She takes in my petite frame, short hair, and baggy fleece pullover. She asks if I’m a nurse. I say, no, I’m a physician. She says thank you in a tone of polite rejection. Then she accepts the second volunteer, a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair and a corduroy suit jacket. My children whisper furious insults at her back. I glance down the row and calmly tell them to let it go.

            This time, though, it was different. I did not press the call button. I sat attentively, listening for the sounds of a patient in distress. There were none. It was probably a case of popping eardrums, or lightheadedness, or panic induced by swollen fingers. Calm words and regulated breathing would cure them all. People don’t realize that half of practicing medicine is simply refusing to get worked up about things. Over the years, I’ve debunked countless, unfounded fears of illness with reassurance and the occasional Tylenol. It’s not laziness on my part. In fact, it takes a lot more energy not to offer treatment, to gently wade through floods of tears and to soothe anxiety with words of reason. That’s the truly exhausting part of my job.

            The intercom chimed to life once more. The flight attendant’s voice, more urgent this time, called again for a doctor. I sat up a little straighter in my uncomfortable seat. We were six hours into an eight-hour transatlantic flight. I hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Soon I would have to navigate the streets of an unfamiliar city and stumble over the words of an unfamiliar language. Surely, I thought, surely someone else can handle this. Someone who actually likes the attention and glory forced upon the healer of minor injuries. I had seen the man across the aisle reading the Journal of the American Medical Association and completing the multiple-choice test in the back; that’s not something people do for fun. He had even made sure to carefully fold over the pages so the attractive young woman next to him could see the dense articles and the pictures of x-rays. But now he was feigning sleep. I could see his eyes fluttering open every so often, shutting tightly again as soon as he felt my gaze.

            I am not a guilt-ridden individual. I consider, I choose a course of action, and I do not dwell on what-ifs. It’s what makes me a good doctor. But at that moment, as the flight attendant rushed down the aisle with a cup of ice and a towel, her face lined with concern, I stopped to reassess.  An unfamiliar twinge of shame filled the pause. Shame that I had, if only for a moment, become cynical at the world, at its melodrama and little injustices. Yes, people are filled with flaws, but isn’t that all the more reason to care for them? To heal them? 

            Rising from my chair, I walked briskly down the aisle until I found the site of the dilemma. A small group of people hovered over a row near the back of the plane. Between the whispering bystanders, a man was stretched across three seats, his head resting on a pile of rough airplane blankets. He was unconscious, his face tinged with gray, his forehead damp with perspiration. I pushed through the audience and asked them to please go and sit down. The man’s wife, looking stricken, told me the man had passed out without warning and showed no signs of waking.

            He looked bad, but he was still breathing in quick, shallows gasps. I removed the blankets from beneath his head and used them to elevate his feet. I wiped the sweat from his face with a cool towel and gently spoke in his ear, trying to coax out some sort of response. And I waited. All of the fainting spells in churches, on planes, and in theaters that I’d ever treated drifted lazily through my memory. This was the true nature of medicine, of life: sudden dilemmas in difficult places. Often, waiting patiently is all we can do.

            The man groaned softly and his eyes cracked open. I bent over him, blocking the  harsh light from above, and asked if he knew where he was. He did. I asked his name, his age, his hometown. A shaky nod from his wife affirmed that his answers were all correct. The plane’s first-aid kit was scant, but included a stethoscope, which I used to check the man’s heartbeat. Weak, but regular. I told him to keep his legs elevated, to take deep breaths, and to tell me if he felt faint again. I reassured his wife that he would be fine, that this was a common complication after heart surgery, and that he should go to the hospital once we landed to make sure everything else was fine. Then I went back to my seat and sat very still, eyes open.   

            Two hours later, we landed smoothly. I collected my coat and bag and waited for the paramedics to board so I could give them a quick summary of events. They cheerfully thanked me and joked with the man as they lifted him onto a gurney, despite his protests that he felt much better. I walked away from him down the aisle. Just as I was about to exit, the flight attendant stopped me, thanked me sincerely, and handed me a bottle of champagne. Bemused, I took it and kept walking.

            I did not want champagne. The sleep-feigning doctor flashed through my mind. He probably would have gladly accepted it; too bad he was nowhere in sight. Maybe I had only imagined him. The only real thing was the bottle, heavy and cool in my hands. The next time I passed a trashcan, I gently deposited my burden into the bottom. Then I walked sleepily down the hallway to customs, ready at last to slip into dreams. 

           

            

Short Story #2

I hesitated to put this up. It's pretty rough, due to the fact that I had to read King Lear on the same night I was supposed to write it. It's scary, putting these things up here. But I like y'all, and I know you'll like me even if you think this is silly. 

__________________________________________________________________

The Recovery

During the third hour of the “I Love Lucy” marathon on Saturday night, I started to crack. I was alone in the dark living room, my parents having retired to bed many episodes before, and my thoughts, which I had tried to suppress all day with errands and television, mutinied into a terrible roar that overpowered Ricky’s singing and the exuberant laugh track.  All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears, all I could feel was the hot, roiling despair in my stomach, and all I could see was a blurry screen through the tears escaping from the corners of I eyes. It was done, and I was done. I was broken.

            I hated myself for these cliché symptoms of teenage heartbreak, but at the same time, I finally sympathized with all the melodramatic characters in books and movies that I once despised for their weaknesses. This hurt, more than anything I’d known before, more than any physical pain I’d ever been in. And I’ve been around for a full 17 years, which I maintain is plenty of time to learn what absolutely awful feels like.

            My self-destructive reverie ended with the increase in volume that accompanied the commercial break. It was a late-night infomercial, one that catered to the largely baby-boomer audience of an “I Love Lucy” marathon. For some reason, I always give more attention than I would like to admit to the advertisements for miraculous cooking utensils, power tools, and cosmetic products that the overly enthusiastic salespeople proudly proffer to the camera. This particular commercial was for a new version of Rogaine, specifically targeting those half-bald men who stand in front of me at church and reflect light off of their astoundingly shiny pates. I wonder if anyone I know uses this stuff? I wondered.  Maybe Sara’s dad. Or that unfortunate, prematurely balding kid in my French class. Bad luck, to be in the prime of one’s life, body at peak physical form, and share a burden with a man twice one’s age. A flaw, of sorts. Flawed. That’s what he is. So very flawed, and I wish to God everyone else could tell. I wish his appearance reflected the meanness inside of him.

            I looked up. The well-coiffed salesman assured me that two easy payments of $19.99 would bring a full head of hair to my doorstep. And then I knew exactly what to do. I picked up my cell phone, which I had placed on the table next to me with the secret and shameful prayer that he would call me. Now I would do the calling. I dialed the toll-free number on the screen. On the other end, ringing. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Rogaine Sales Team in Burbank, California.  This is Joe. May I assist you with a purchase?”

“Yes. Uh… yes.” I said, trying to make my voice sound male, husky and post-pubescent. “I need your product. I suffer from… severe hair loss.”

“Sir, I can offer you our Basic Package, which includes—“

“Better make it deluxe. I’ve lost a lot of hair,” I responded, trying to sound doleful.

“Oh, well, of course, that’s our best deal by far,” said Joe, astounded that I was doing his job for him. “I’ll just need your name, address, and credit card number, sir.”

How fortuitous, that my ex-boyfriend had written down his Visa information so that I could buy us concert tickets for the next weekend. How unfortunate, that he should decide to break up with me before I bought said tickets. And how providential, that the little slip of paper with the number on it should still sit innocently on the table in front of me.

I hesitated. This was wrong. I had never dreamt of doing something like this. I was not vengeful by nature. But I had been so very betrayed, so dragged through the mud.  I made the decision in a snap.

“My name is Ben Auburn. Address is 1695 Lerner Lane…”

It was done before I knew it. I hung up with a triumphant flourish. He had just bought $100 worth of Rogaine for himself. I hoped it arrived on his porch when his new flavor of the week was over for a make out session. I let the satisfaction wash over me.

Engulf me it did, but not enough to prevent a trickle of something less comfortable from creeping into my mind. Soon, that same empty feeling from before had returned, compounded by the certainty that whatever bad thing he saw in me was real, because I’d just done something wrong to prove it. What was wrong with me? How could I fly from one extreme to another like that? It wasn’t me.

I sat very still for several minutes, my thoughts racing at an impossible speed until they dead-ended in resignation. Fingers trembling, I reached for the phone once more. I pushed speed dial 3 (an honor he no longer deserved, but one which I could not yet bring myself to revoke) and sat immobile with baited breath. And then I was hearing that voice again.

“Hello? Liza?”

“Oh… um, Ben. Hi.”

“Look, if you want to talk, I don’t really think—“

“No. I mean I do, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”

“What else could you be calling about?”

“I did something bad and I have to tell you.”

“What did you do? Shit, Liza, if you saran-wrapped my car, I’m gonna—“           

I stopped listening. He didn’t know me at all. He never had. With a newfound clarity of mind, I interrupted him.

“Actually, I sent $100 worth of hair-enhancing product to your house with the credit card number you gave me to buy tickets to the concert that we are no longer going to because you no longer love me. It’s alright, though, I’m fine with the way things turned out. Have fun with your hair.”

I snapped my phone shut with a satisfying click. Turning my attention back to the television just in time to see Lucy stuffing a fistful of chocolates into her mouth, I let out my first laugh in a week. It sounded strange, but not at all unpleasant. It sounded like me. 

Right here with you

I drove home for the weekend, and on the way, I reverted back to my favorite artist for road trips, good times, hard times, and all times-- Josh Ritter. One song came on that I haven't listened to frequently, and today the lyrics really struck me. It's exactly how good friends should treat each other. And mine do, and I am so very grateful. So this is for all of you. Listen to it; it will make you happy. 


"Long Shadows"


I'm not afraid of the dark
We've been here before
Fallen on hard times, honey
We've fallen on swords
But if a long shadow
Falls across your heart
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

I'm not afraid of the dark
When the sun goes down
And the dreams grow teeth
And the beasts come out
Cast their long shadows
Every time that they start
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

Out on the hills the hounds are baying
Out on the moor the foxes run
To stay alive until the light has faded
Then pray for light that seems so long to come

I'm not afraid of the dark
So if the stars get scarce
And you reach for him
And honey he's not there
Just a long shadow across your heart
You can reach for me
I'm not afraid of the dark

I'm not afraid of the dark
When the sun goes down
And the dreams grow teeth
And the beasts come out
Cast their long shadows
Every time that they start
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark