Betrayal

Today I saw a woman flirting with a man, a man who is not her husband. I say to myself: She ought not have improper relationships with this man, this is absolutely incorrect, JUST NOT RIGHT. I say this woman should not be seeing this man in an inappropriate way when her husband is picking raw from ripe tomatoes in the back aisle.  But I do tend to confuse an old reality with a new one. This woman is close to being 80 years old, her husband instead of picking tomatoes is pushing daisies. Yet, How can there be improper relations with a woman of 80? My confusion must be this: though her body is old, her capacity for betrayal is still young and fresh. 

Five Senses

My dearest one every once in awhile you ask me 

Why do we have to go to the art gallery?

why do we have to go see a play every other weekend?

why do we have to go a concert?

why go to the restaurant and try new cuisines?

   I could tell you, "I just feel like it" and leave it at that and you would resent me label me extravagant and never understand my curiosity or intent. 

    My darling child, just like I have you too will learn over the years to treat your five senses with respect and consideration. you will take your eyes to the museum, your nose to a flower show, your hands to the fabric store for the velvet and silk; you will surprise your ears with a concert , and excite your mouth with a restaurant meal. You will also meet people who make their senses work hard for them day after day: Read me this newspaper! Pay attention, nose, in case the food is burning! Ears!- get together now and listen for a knock on the door! their senses have jobs to do and they do them, mostly-the ears of the deaf won't, and eyes of the blind won't . soon you will see their senses get tired. Sometimes long before the end they will say, "I am quitting, I am getting out of this NOW"! those persons are less prepared to meet the world, they will stay at home more, waiting for that knock which they might miss, letting milk spill over, the eyes and hands sore from scrubing clean a kitchen. My love, when one day if it all quits on them, they are really alone...in the dark, in silence, numb hands, nothing in the mouth, nothing in the nostrils and you will hear them ask themselves this "Did I treat them wrong?" "Didn't I show them a good time?" and no, you don't want to be that person. Go ahead, drive three hours to watch that play, camp overnight for those concert tickets, spend a tad extra on fine wine, do whatever you can and show them a good time. 

One such person.

“Tell me, when are you the happiest?”

“Why do you ask?”

You have to tell me because it will help you find out what you can do for the rest of your life apart from eating, breathing, sleeping... you know what I mean. You need to do something with your life, maybe a vocation even!

We can get to it if you can answer some simple questions. Okay?

Sure.

So, here goes.

You can pick these options if you cannot think of anything original.

“I am happiest when”,

a)  I am with my family

b)  I am doing something meaningful (travel, pursuing hobby, helping the poor, friends etc)

c)   I am quiet

What is this? You are supposed to help me, not ask me daft questions.

You have to answer it.

Well, then my answer is “Depends”.

That is not an option.

It has to be, sometimes I am happy when I am just a witness to something that is out of the ordinary.

Like, for example?

You want me to tell you an “out of the ordinary” event which has made me happy?

Yes. Go on enlighten me.

Okay, you have to promise not to be prejudiced.

I’ll try.

Well, I’ll try and tell you the way it is.  Jacob got this offer in one of Vienna’s finest restaurants as “head chef” or “Chef de Cuisine” as the French like to call it. Jacob started his career as line cook and it took him 20 years to move from line cook to “Assistant-chef”. “Delayed promotions” was his answer to missed opportunities. Nevertheless, “Chef De Cuisine” offers don’t come in everyday, so we packed and moved to Vienna. Our home there was in this beautiful picturesque suburban neighborhood, it was quiet and barely anything happened there, this can be quite un-nerving to a person who has lived all her life in New York. My immediate neighbor was Marie, she was a muralist and her house was her canvas, the central wall had the portrait of Raphael with a door to his shoulder and the two other walls had Michelangelo and Da Vinci. Her house was like an art museum; I’d wake up and see Raphael eyes peering down, which was quite spooky. Anyway, Marie also tutored some students but most days she worked on her walls. However, one day, I saw Marie sitting on the pavement under the streetlight and she was making these sketches on paper. Now, if it were New York, I would not have noticed her at all, but Marie and her quirks were out of place in that suburbia.  By mid afternoon, she had her paints around her and she was intently on to something, I thought I must walk up to her but her intensity was intimidating. I wondered how everybody else in that lane reacted to Marie, perhaps they felt just as intimidated as I did or they conveniently ignored her, or maybe they were just too used to Marie. At around 11 Pm I peeped out of my window and saw Marie sitting very still, what could she still be doing at this unearthly hour?   A few minutes later, I heard a shrill shriek; you know that animated scream when someone presumes to have seen a ghost. I jumped out of my bed and ran out and I saw this young girl run past Marie. Under that street light Marie looked still, she didn’t move, it didn’t look like she was breathing either. I called the police and I told them what had happened and in a while an officer knocked on my door and asked me what the problem was.

“Don’t you see that women there officer, look, under that street light. Marie, she is sitting so still, you have to help her, something is not right, she isn’t moving, don’t you see her?”  I yelled pointing toward the light.

“Sure we do see a woman, and yes, she is still. We don’t expect murals to move in this country,” he said plainly as if it were common or it had all happened many times before.

“A mural” I said and walked toward the pavement and yes, it was a self-portrait.            

       Therefore, my dear Clara, I do not know what you will make of this story but, it is this “out of the ordinary” that makes me happy. I don’t have to be with my family, I don’t have to do something meaningful and neither do I have to be quiet. That moment there as witness to an unrecognized genius was when I was happiest and that is what I want to do as long as I live apart from eat, sleep, and breathe. 

 Found this short story unexpectedly fishing for an old file... this was a story a friend told me. Don't know where she is now... the things your comp throws up on you.

our lips raw with love

you gave me everything you had 
and I offered you what was left of me

i don’t sleep

i pace

i ponder 

i plot

i plan 

i worry

i wonder

i wax

i wane

i relive

i regret

i rethink 

i rehash

i contemplate  

i evaluate

i deliberate

i speculate

i ruminate

i analyze

i strategize

i dramatize

i fantasize

i brood

i delude

i stress

i obsess 

i digress

i’m a mess 

and i don’t sleep. 

Today

I gave a rupee to an old bum who looked the way I feel. 

Sometimes

I close my eyes and all the world drops dead
sometimes, I lift my eyes and the world is born again

Sometimes I dream that you bewitched me into bed
and sung me moonstruck and kissed me quite insane

Sometimes I think I made you up inside my head.
and
Sometimes I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.