Tag: books

Gun Racks to Book Shelves

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments 



My computer indicated it needed to be restarted this morning and then it wouldn’t stop. I would have panicked and forced a shutdown had not James, the patient man from the repair shop, assured me these things take time. “Chill,” he said. “Have some breakfast.”

James did not realize that I’d already eaten two breakfasts and downed my morning half-beer. I did not share this with James. Instead, I made myself putter, peeking at the screen every five minutes for two hours.

And voilà! The computer finally stopped restarting and seems docile and responsive enough to risk writing some words.

During that down time, I distracted myself with housekeeping which led to some rearranging ideas. The Coauthor appeared as I emptied a shelf unit and started to push it to the door.

“Don’t try to move that alone,” she scolded. “It’s too heavy for you.”

The shelf in question was an old gun rack I’d converted to a bookshelf in my efforts to bring about world peace 35 years ago. It has grown uglier, and the world has grown more vicious. I want to donate both the shelf and the world to an unwitting charity and start over.

“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” the Coauthor said sympathetically.
 
I cried a little. My increasing incapacities are deeply disturbing. 

“You move it then,” I said, defiant. “Or else I’ll keep trying, and it will fall on me, and I’ll die a slow death pinned under my own stupidity.”

“That’s how most of you will die anyway,” she laughed.

“Not funny,” I said and threw a paisley orange pillow at her. She caught it, and we sat down on the worn and disconnected sectional (my latest attempt at the perfect couch).

“Let’s go,” she said.
“Let’s not,” I said.

But I was outvoted, and the cosmic train pulled into the station. 

We dissolved into waves of symphonic sound. Timpani drums made from the skins of scapegoats boomed like bombs bursting in air. The bass moaned low and mournful, the cellos and violins sobbed as they were deported. But somehow, life itself was beautiful beyond words.

“How can this be?” I asked the Coauthor. But I knew. The celestial choir had dismembered me, and my atoms were dancing shamelessly inebriated in the variegated light.

Eternity receded. I resisted reassembling, but here I am, alone with my keyboard, an empty bookshelf, a list, and a plan. Somewhere, in another time, another place, I am an oboe.

A leopard. 
A mollusk. 

I am puffed cheeks blowing out fifteen candles and the first gasp of a new planet. 

And at some incomprehensible level, I trust that all will be well.


Pilgrimage

Rita Sommers-Flanagan8 Comments

Our final pilgrimage to my favorite Goodwill was a resounding success, but it was twinged with the usual autumn sadness. My father died in the fall when I was nineteen. For whatever reasons, I began shopping at thrift stores shortly after. Maybe I needed to prove I could take care of myself. Or maybe I wanted to give discarded items one last chance at usefulness. A selective resurrection.

Whatever the origins, it’s a spiritual practice now.

Time ceases to exist as Original Source and I sort through bins of castoffs and misfits, keeping in mind the needs and tastes of everyone we love. The possibilities are endless. Our cups and our carts runneth over.

Unpacking is less rewarding. Original Source abdicates as I face the flood of questions:

How did this get in my cart? What, dry-clean only? Why didn’t I check this zipper? Where’s the other boot? Will this really fit her? Oh, dear, are scarves out of style? Aren’t they still worn by Germans and movie stars?

Then, the recriminations:

You have too much stuff. Red is not your color. You’re a hoarder, a second-hand capitalist. You idiot, here’s the other boot, and they’re both for the left foot. Five aprons will not make you a better cook. There’s no room for more coats. And this candle stinks!

Next, the defenses:

You can’t have too much hand sanitizer, and red looks better with a little blue. That stain might come out. It’s hard to find a gold lamé shawl when you need one or Halloween pajamas, for that matter. Single boots make quirky, boho vases, and if the electricity goes out at night, you can locate that candle by smell alone.

Finally, action:

It’s all sorted. Little futures line the halls like wallflowers. I sidle up, dressed for any occasion, hoping Someone will ask me to dance. My imagination has a touch of arthritis, but I can still feign elegance and squeeze my feet into glass slippers.

Here’s the truth: Glass slippers offer no support whatsoever and shatter easily.

The sound of breaking glass attracts Cinderella’s attention. She glares from her repurposed throne, fanning herself.

“No worries,” I tell her. “I’ll glue the shards into a collage and call it Happily Ever After.”

Prince Charming and I bring in the last load of laundry.

“Warm for this time of year,” he says, mopping his brow with a silk bandana.

Cinderella sashays over in a chiffon gown, and Prince Charming tenderly takes her hand. Original Source takes mine, and the orchestra begins playing my grandmother’s favorite waltz. I have no idea how close we are to midnight, but I don’t care.

Texture

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

Nine years ago, when the walls I’m staring at right now were taped, mudded, and painted, I was in the midst of chemo; my attention was limited, and my judgment fractured. I chose the texture of least resistance: orange peel. We ended up with a boring, slightly bumpy, ivory creaminess as far as the eye could see. I’ve since blued and purpled some rooms to break the grip of ivory, but undoing texture is a whole different matter.

Humans are a thin-skinned, acne-prone, melanoma-inclined, busted-nose species. We’re born smooth, but life has a way of texturizing and shaming, so we add layers. Leather and tatts. Silks and fine linen. We use fat wallets and fancy cars to distract.

“What about sanding?” asks the Creator of Walnut, the Weaver of Wool. “And there’s always acid, epoxy, varnish, and grinders.”

Even allegorically, this sounds painful. In the looking glass, I see that I’ve grown more textured than the last time I looked and not in ways I’d describe as appealing.

“Don’t be so judgy.” says the Big Eye in the Sky. “I’d go face to face with you any day.”

“Of course, you would,” I say. “And I’d be toast.”

“Toast is soft bread with a roughened exterior,” the Eternal Jokester counters. “Quick exposure to intense heat.”

My friend Scott rails about the energy required to make toast, but I like toast. I resist feeling guilty because I turn off lights like a religious zealot, hang my clothes to dry, and heat water on the wood stove. Shall I thus be held blameless for the fractured ozone? Mudslides? Fires? For a carbon footprint larger than my feet? Shall I be exonerated?

“Of course not,” the Balancing Beam assures me. “Exoneration is out of the question. But when your fault lines widen into fatal apertures, and your body rejoins the teaming earth, your consciousness will be windswept and shiny. Smooth as glass.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say. “That sounds just peachy. But in the meantime, I think I’ll get some Botox and touch up my hair.”

 “Oh, yes! And amass more riches and fame,” Pock-Face Crooked Arm grins.

“Easy peasy,” I say. “It’s all about appearances. And lying. The bigger, the smoother, the lie, the better.”

“I’m not sure where I went wrong,” The Truth admits. “But there’s hell to pay. The course corrections are going to be rugged.”

“But it will come out okay in the end, right?” I ask in a weak voice.

“You may have to define what you mean by the end, honey,” the Lover says, stroking my sagging cheek. “That word isn’t in my lexicon.”