black cat passing under waning moon

time to go

Wed, 09 May 2007 07:02:48 GMT

we're moving to london
or paris or somewhere exotic

it's time to go.

let's quit our jobs,
pack our bags
and leave without saying goodbye.

we'll go by pseudonyms
eat pastries in cafes
smoke cigarettes in alley-ways
run from the rain
adopt pretentious accents
make friends with strangers
and read newspapers written in languages we can't even speak.

let's just get the fuck out of this town.

above the fray

Mon, 31 Jul 2006 10:52:56 GMT

in a room painted burgundy deep
with brass fixtures and porcelain hanging from the walls
you gaze at me and witness in my eyes a scene of quiet desperation

outside the window is rich squalour and cheap glamour
you can't buy this sort of happiness

nothing in life is free, he said to us
but we laughed it off, telling ourselves the secret of life
why not ask for more?

i heard someone whisper the other day
about me, about you, about her, about us
and i pretended that i couldn't hear

we were disappointed when she left
but we soon realized that you can't keep a good girl down

Song of Solomon (4)

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 05:38:38 GMT

submission four, Song of Solomon
[postscript: I'm finally out of my rut! -BB]

Michael Maresca entered his apartment, locking the deadbolt behind him, and hung up his coat before he realized that he had broken his plans with his children. He was supposed to have picked them up and taken them to FAO Schwarz to pick out their Christmas presents. Tomorrow was Lydia's Christmas Eve social gathering and the kids would surely be with their grandmother. He glanced at the oven as he made toward the kitchenette... could he take them now, at 9:00pm? He dismissed the idea, arguing that the toy store was likely closed and that their mother would give him hell.
He figured he should call Lydia to let her know that he was alright in case she was worried and to apologize for forgetting his promise to their children. He dialed the number and counted to the third ring that Lydia always waited for before answering.
"Lydia Sandler," she spoke into the receiver. She was assuming a formal tone because she was upset, he gathered. She knew with whom she was speaking because of caller ID.
He hesitated before muttering, "Lydia, it's Michael. Look, I've been up at the office for hours. My secretary didn't remind me about the appointment..."
"You shouldn't have to make appointments with your children, Michael," she interrupted. "This is ridiculous. You divorce spouses, not children. How do you think they feel? David is still young and impressionable and he bought the phony excuse I gave him. But Tara... Tara's sixteen years old. No, she doesn't have any need or desire to visit a toy store. But she would like to see her father now and again."
Michael and Lydia had gotten married late in their lives. He was Solomon's age and she not much younger. However, Lydia was surprisingly fertile and as they both had always wanted children, they conceived Tara.
Tara Maresca was a red-headed fireball with a fiery personality. She never declined a confrontation and was predominantly sardonic. She was able to fill out her overpriced Abercrombie jeans and wore small shirts with plunging necklines - needless to say she was desirable to males. She was dating a senior named Bryan Eatenton though she was a mere sophomore, and she never let anyone forget the couple's popularity.
Taylor Maresca was not much younger than Tara. At fourteen, he attended the same school as she but as a freshman. Despite this closeness in age, their mother tended to treat them as if there were decades in between not only their numbered years but their level of cognition. She pictured any sort of introductory to sex and the like for Taylor would occur years down the line, not realizing that he had already been deflowered and had done some deflowering of his own to several girls in the ninth grade.
Lydia hung up the phone and looked briefly in on Tara who was using the internet and then on Taylor who was reading a magazine. She moved swiftly to her room where she fell silently into her plush bed without bothering to remove her clothing. She was exhausted and wanted to stay ensconced there eternally. She had been so angry with Michael that she had simply hung up the telephone.

III

Lydia Sandler bought what was actually a refurbished synagogue on 173rd in the Bronx. It had been built in the late 1920s and had been abandoned for about thirty years when she found it. It was scheduled for demolition but she was able to convince the company to overlook it for a hefty sum. Then she had set about restoring it.
What was once a flourishing Jewish neighborhood had all but disappeared, encouraging other minority and immigrant groups to flood in and stake claim. The fact of the matter, plainly put, was that white people didn't like going past 115th into Harlem and much less all the way to the Bronx, so the synagogue had fallen into disrepair in the mid-1970s and hadn't been thought about since. One day Lydia wanted to live there, but for now she was simply hosting a get-together in what was once the main temple and was now a large and open room with marble floors and vaulted ceilings.

"We left Park Avenue for this?" Ruth asked impatiently as she scuttled out of the cab after her eager husband. "It's not much for looking."
Solomon contemplated before speaking, a habit he had probably learned from his partner. "It's a beautiful corpse of a building." There was a giant pink archway that obviously led to the guts of the building where all the refurbishing must be taking place, and a tall oaken door in the middle of it was open, spilling the light within the foyer onto the walk like a flood. "Where are the kids?"
"Coming and coming," Ruth replied as if she had already answered this question and he was asking again. "Let's go and have a look."

Lily was hurrying Lou along. She had been ready for going on ten minutes, but Luciano was meticulously dressing himself in pressed slacks and a black coat. He counted every button at the ends of each sleeve and turned his cuffs over them stylishly. To be assiduous was somewhat out of his character, but Lily was too worried about their punctuality to suspect anything unnatural. "We're going to be late to the big affair, she urged, pulling a tie from the closet and draping it over his shoulder. "Lydia's going to get everyone's attention and Mom's going to announce our big news..." she drifted off, looking at her slightly swollen stomach in the mirror of the Cohens' guest bathroom.
"Honey," Luciano finally said. "We don't want to be late." They left the Den with arms interlocked and hailed a cab.

Across the street, another couple was entering a hotel lobby from the innards of a glass elevator. Loren Defusco, the girl from California, was wearing a shimmery gown with matching heels and handbag, and Zach was also dressed for the occasion in a rented tuxedo. He had ordered a limousine to pick them up outside the hotel and take them to Lydia's social in the Bronx and sure enough, a white stretch was awaiting them as they exited the building. "You're going to love my family," he said as they settled in comfortably. She leaned on his shoulder, taking care not to ruin her perfectly crimped hair.

Michael Maresca had arrived to the party early, feeling it would be appropriate to help Lydia set things up. Every other year he had helped Lydia with her Christmas party and he didn't see why this year should be any different. Of course, there was the whole separation and conflict caused by it, but he was willing to put their differences aside if only for a night. He knew how important this was to his wife.
The guests had started to pour in about half an hour after he arrived. He enjoyed greeting them because many of the couples had been friends of his before his marriage went awry. Apparently Lydia had stayed in contact with them whereas he had attempted a rebirth when he moved to Long Island. Their formal attire was also a thing of interest to him because Lydia had never specified a dress code.
When Solomon and Ruth entered the synagogue-turned-banquet hall, Michael embraced them both lovingly. They were his only real friends in this sea of artifice. Solomon, never banal, had worn a shockingly yellow suit. With his black bowler hat and a cane, one didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or applaud his individuality. Michael did both. "I love the suit," he chuckled.
Lydia swooped toward them, her black gown trailing somewhat behind her, the pearls about her neck swaying ever so slightly in rhythm with those dangling from her ears. Her lips were a vibrant red to complement the subtle blue painted over her eyes. Her hair was short and styled with streaks of frosty blonde and she seemed at the height of fashion. "Hello, my darlings," she ventured, kissing Ruth upon both cheeks and embracing Solomon but briefly. "How do you like everything?" she asked, gazing around at the party about them and at the refinished synagogue in which they stood.
"It's brilliant," Solomon remarked absently. He too began looking around, though Lydia had refocused on Ruth, who was beaming brightly.
"I absolutely adore it, Lydia. It's really fantastic. I'm so happy for you!" Ruth took her hand reassuringly and continued to smile. "It's amazing how quickly you’re pulling this together!"
"Well, it hasn't been easy," Lydia confessed, frowning comically. "I haven't been to work in weeks... Michael here has been holding down the fort, you could say. I've just been so busy with this; even my children are beginning to resent me." Her face dissolved into a real look of somberness, much unlike her sociable unhappiness at her busy disposition. Michael placed a hand on her bare shoulder to comfort her, but she pulled away. "It's not that big of a deal. They actually enjoy coming down here and everything, but I just wish I could spend more time with them when I wasn't working... either at Mirror Image or here remodeling, you know?"
Solomon looked at her seriously. "I know exactly what you mean. I like to feel proud of my career but I sometimes think... what would be different if instead of writing these utterly useless novels, I had spent all of that time with my children? With my wife?"
"Oh Solomon," Ruth said. "You spent plenty of time with us, dear. Don't kid yourself... you only wish you could have escaped us more often."

"Thank you all for coming tonight," Lydia said to the group, who were seated at a couple of dozen round tables with white tablecloths draping over them and to the floor. "I really appreciate your support in my venture. Because this venue is so large, I do plan to host many public receptions as well as create a home office so I'll be able to spend more time with my two children.” She smiled at that, before continuing. "Before we continue this wonderful social affair, which I'm very grateful for because of the opportunity it's providing in catching up with all of you, I have a very close friend that has an announcement to make. You all know her, I'm sure, and she's assured me that it's very pleasing. So without further ado... no drumroll Michael... here's the beautiful Ruth Cohen."
Ruth Cohen slid out from her velvet chair and stood, a short woman with a weathered but lasting face and a memorable smile, wearing a conservative dress of the deepest navy blue, and smiled. "Good evening..." she began, still smiling. "I don't know how to put this except bluntly. Most of you are familiar with me, with my husband Solomon," she smiled in his direction, "and of my two lovely children, Lily and Zachary." She paused to gaze at them with a small blush building in her cheeks. The same blush appeared on Lily's face in an almost identical expression. "Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter Lily and her husband Luciano have given me the privilege to announce that she is expecting a baby boy in just nine short months."

cats and other things

Thu, 07 Apr 2005 05:00:28 GMT

black cat passing under waning moon
as if he owned the streets
and the streets were his.
I look briefly at you and you’re
looking back at me; awkward.
we both focus on the wayward cat
as if it really matters that he’s lost
or that he never had a home.
you don’t really care, or at least
I don’t really care and you
never had a thing for cats.

broad daylight and you run
the meadow like it’s easy,
like it isn’t acres of field and
like it doesn’t tire even the
steadiest of mares. it’s your
freedom and your home inside
your mind where they can’t
see or intrude upon your ecstasy.
no one has to know you’ve
never left the city once.

what purpose does it serve,
I ask in vain for you’re looking
at the cat intently, with concern.
they can call you crazy but it
doesn’t change your point of
view; the view is too pretty
from here to let go now.

don’t let go now. hold on to
what you’ve got and don’t let
me convince you otherwise.
as the black cat chases the
floppy bugs that dob the dirt
relentlessly to no avail, you
chase your dreams and find they
are exactly where you left them.

first day

Thu, 07 Apr 2005 04:48:39 GMT

days and nights
what are the differences between these two dramatic contrasts?

a love running deeper than rivers run and longer than the burning sun
my heroes have always been stronger than me

these sacrifices are getting harder and harder to make
and if I had any intellect or insight at all
I would be your philosopher-king
writing books
and books
of the history of the world

there’s speak of revolution
and dickens can’t be right
it didn’t take me long to reach the age of chivalry and therefore I am now what is called an atlas

yes, an atlas filled with pictures of this day and maps with lines and dots
and little dentures where the mountains lie.

[This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Everything I've attempted lately has been execrable and I wanted to share something, so I chose something mediocre from my sketchy past. The novel is not progressing at all. I'm at an impasse. There are too many important decisions to make and I'm fickle. We'll see how things go. -BB]

ambiguously straightforward

Mon, 21 Mar 2005 20:31:43 GMT

I wish that I could knowingly lie to you
and tell you that he's perfect
and that you'll live a perfect life together with a perfect house on a perfect block with perfect children and housebroken dogs and a dishwasher that's never broken and dry towels on the rack and wet towels in the laundry where they belong

but I'm not going to lie to you
you could do so much better, girl
it's like you want to get hurt again and again
just to prove that you can

it's like you want my sympathy when he leaves you
it's like you want my shoulder to lean on
but I'm not going to be around forever
and I'm not going to lie to you forever

starting today I'll be nothing but honest
dishonesty but an imperfection I can tame
starting today I'll be nothing but honest
and I really think that you should say the same...

if you were honest with yourself
you'd know that what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is not okay

how can you keep living life this way?
I want to ask you but I keep it to myself
and with windows down I drive you home.

steady now

Tue, 07 Dec 2004 04:07:16 GMT

I think I'll remember you this way
uneven hair and speckled nose,
your toes getting dirtier as you
make your trail through the old
and new and the burrs cling
tight like they want to be carried
to a new town, however far away.

you hear the same thing every night
and can't decide if the monotony
is driving you insane or if the
white noise simply offers solace
to a lonely boy on a quiet night.

I think I'll remember you this way
and how you don't give a damn
about what they say and what
they think because they'll never
understand you anyway.

I can't look into your hungry eyes
without feeling somewhat insecure,
denying in earnest what you have
become: an aging antique on a
thrift store shelf, indulging your
surrondings and admiring the
dust that begins to settle,
quite like fragmented memories
escaping from an endless rest
atop an oscillating ceiling fan.

no thanks for asking

Sat, 25 Sep 2004 04:55:33 GMT

I don’t have the tendency to weep
at stories of two passionate lovers torn from each other’s grasp
or at funerals
or the cutting of onions.
I am cold and growing cold cold cold with time;
I don’t remember truly feeling my heart beat within my breast
or feeling the raw hard deep deep hard raw pain of love
because I haven’t lived and I haven’t loved.
Should I be so lucky as to never love,
or at the very least,
to never love again.

I don’t have the tendency to weep,
not much anymore, anyway, anyhow.
I am seemingly empty and just living
dead but living daily empty-hearted.
The doctor can prescribe a pill to cure a heartache
but of course there’s no efficacy there
if the patient, however impatient,
never had a heart to treat.

I don’t have the tendency to weep
so refrain from treating me like a child
or a fragile woman
of the times dating back before the liberation of the female gender
when women were expected to obey
and courteously demure.
Nevermind my harping, mind you me,
for I’ve forgotten that I’ve mentioned that I never
had a love or a heart or a tendency to weep:
I probably wouldn’t listen to you anyway.

Song of Solomon (3)

Mon, 19 Jul 2004 06:58:51 GMT

submission three, Song of Solomon
[postscript: thank you for reading. I appreciate your feedback and the "demand" that this has created.
I'm glad y'all like my characters. Just remember that I am not the one in control... the characters are writing the story through me.]

Lily and Luciano were the first to arrive at the Cohen’s small gathering on the night before Christmas Eve. They took a short flight from Boston and rode a taxi cab to the Den. After ascending the stairs, Lily knocked twice.

Ruth had been cooking and cleaning throughout the day and was just fixing her hair when the caller beckoned her. She put her graying hair up and paced toward the door. “Who is it?” she called. The return was an adenoidal, falsetto “housekeeping!” She knew it was her daughter. “Welcome, dear, welcome home,” her mother gushed as she hugged Lily and invited her into the apartment. “Do you have any luggage?”

“Lou is bringing it up,” Lily said. “He knows the way.” They proceeded in, exchanging niceties and giggling like schoolgirls. “I love the burgundy!” Lily commented, looking around.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely? They were trying to paint it an ugly maroon, but you can imagine that I set them straight,” Ruth lamented. “My house will never be maroon, as long as I’m living in it; that’s for sure.”

“Oh, Mother,” Lily said. “Where’s Dad?” She had not seen her father in his usual chair watching television or reading, and she did not see him cooking in the kitchen, so she asked even though she knew the probable answer.

“He’s in his study, of course,” Ruth chortled, “He’s had some inspiration lately, though I’ve no idea his muse.”

“That’s nice, it really is,” Lily said, “It’s good that he’s still working. Did you read White Noise? I did; it was really rather good. He deserves it, you know, the credit he receives.”

Ruth was silent a moment, digesting what her daughter had said. Ruth was never one to speak or act without first thinking it over, and one got the impression that she was inwardly intelligent. Perhaps she was. “I don’t make a habit of reading your father’s work, because he’s always reciting paragraphs and whole chapters and soon it grows old and boring. But it is rather good material, and he does deserve the esteem. However, I don’t care much for the publicity,” she added, “for seeing my name, or even his, on a magazine or whatnot is somewhat disturbing.”

“Completely understandable,” Lily offered, as her husband let himself in carrying two suitcases and pulling one behind him.

Luciano also noticed the paint, as well as the signed photographs of Solomon. “Mr. Cohen was never modest, but that’s what’s so appealing, I think,” he admitted, sorting through the stack of glossy prints. “Does he expect to pawn these off on the family?”

A clippity-clip could still be heard faintly resonating from the study, spurring a conversation in the sitting room about Solomon’s deep-seated obsessions with the past. “I think I’ll buy him a computer for Christmas,” his daughter Lily laughed, “something that can run a word processor.” She had come to stand by her husband at the bar, and she poured herself a drink as she looked over his shoulder at the autographs. “He signed his name in all lower-case,” she noted.

“Don’t ostracize your father,” Ruth said, maternally. “Let him be when he’s not here to defend himself.” She knew how eccentric her Solomon was growing; he’d even asked to be referred to as ‘Soco’ by friends, family, and peers.

Solomon himself, however, embraced these eccentricities that seemed to him more and more natural with time. He was aging, for sure, but he was positive that this was no mid-life crisis, or anything of the sort. He actually thought it made sense to go by ‘Soco,’ a nickname created by combining the first two letters of both his first and last name. As for the novel signature, he had despised the capital letter ‘S’ for half a century, and was just now gaining the courage to rebel.

Zachary Cohen had boarded the plane with no intentions whatsoever besides arriving in New York safely and in a timely manner. However, his agenda changed when he saw the young woman seated next to him in his row. After stowing his bags in the overhead bin, he sat down next to her with a friendly smile.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Even when he was corny he was irresistible. Something about his smile lit up a room, not to mention his beautiful physiognomy. He had distinguished shoulders and his chest and taut stomach could be made out through his tight shirt. The girl was attracted immediately, needless to say, and couldn’t keep her eyes off of him.

“My name is Loren DeLuca,” she responded. Loren was quite obviously attractive, for Zachary had shallow standards. Her light brown hair fell around her face just so, and she always had a look of beauty without effort. She wore only a little makeup to hide occasional blemishes, and other than that and basic eyeliner and such she was not fussy about her face. She had an efflorescense about her, as if she was a constantly blooming flower planted in soft, loamy soil. As Zach Cohen had followed his dreams to LA, she was doing the same in the opposite manner. She had been raised in California and was now moving off to New York in hopes of being discovered and signing a recording contract. Besides the strong physical attraction felt by both persons, their shared internal ambition brought them even closer together.

Later, once in the city, they shared a cab because they were both heading to the same vicinity. She had booked reservations at a hotel adjacent to the Cohen Den. Zach had left a message for his mother stating that he wouldn’t arrive until early the next morning, so he obliged when Loren invited him up to her hotel room.

“Oh,” he said, with little emotion, “there’s only one bed.” He sat his briefcase down on the ground and sat on the end of the thinly covered mattress. Loren took off her leather coat and hung it on the bathroom door, and sat down next to him.

“I think we can share...” He leaned in and kissed her pretty face, brushing the soft hair that had fallen around her cheek. She hungered for him.

The discussion at Mirror Image had only to begin in order to worsen. Though a self-proclaimed professional, David Montgomery was prone to make inflammatory remarks and speak without regard to consequence. Most considered him a charlatan and a liar, but Lydia Sandler attempted to look past that and focus on the issue at hand.

“Mr. Montgomery,” she began, “I have reviewed your proposal scrupulously and numerous times, and I must insist that I agree with some of what you have stated. Yes, the growth of Heritage directly benefits Mirror Image, and I fully comprehend that. However, ‘selling out’ is not on our agenda.”

Montgomery gave a half-smile that was more of a smirk, and rolled his eyes upward. “You are terribly mistaken, Lydia. I don’t want to sell out anymore than you do. I simply think that the criterion are much too strict in the Heritage wing alone.”

“What you’re failing to see is that the criteria is purposively discriminative,” she sighed. “We do not want to lower the standards concerning which authors we will sign at Heritage, which is in the best interest of both Heritage and Mirror Image. We can discuss this further, but the board has voted against this proposal once already. Do you really think you can change their minds?”

David Montgomery was an obstinate man. He wouldn’t cave in, even when the faults of his opinion were put into the light. “What you’re failing to see,” he quipped, “is that lowering those high standards creates revenue for the company, Lydia. Money. When it comes down to it, we both agree that it’s about the money. Am I wrong?”

Ms. Sandler looked at him disdainfully and began to put her things in her briefcase. Standing up, she said, “While certainly revenue is one of the most important factors in operating a business, I look at Mirror Image as more than a business, Mr. Montgomery. Maybe to you, it’s all about personal profit. But for me, dear sir, it’s about the authors, the books, and the people that read them.”

Song of Solomon (2)

Sun, 18 Jul 2004 07:57:41 GMT

submission two, Song of Solomon

Ruth was supervising the painting of the Den when Solomon returned home, covering his nose to reduce the inhaled fumes. “Dear, I thought it was unique that the walls were white,” he said as he removed his overcoat and hanged it upon the gold-plated rack. “It was a statement, you know?”

“Oh Solomon, shut up,” she interjected. “You know that was your excuse for indolence.” Her focus moved from him to the painters and she began instructing them again. “No, that is too deep of a maroon; I’m looking for more of a burgundy. Carry on.” She brushed past her husband and into the kitchen. “I’m making latkes,” she called.

“Ah, something else to contribute to my obesity,” he lamented, loosening his tie. Solomon was anything but fat, and he loved to jest with obvious contradiction.

“If you’re overweight, Solomon, then I am Anna Karenina,” Ruth said as she flipped a sizzling potato pancake in the frying pan. “And we both know I am not Anna Karenina.” He put his arms around her stomach, hugging her from behind, and kissed her neck.

“You are the belle of my ball, at least, and prettier than Anna Karenina,” he whispered, as she turned to kiss him. The kiss was brief but loving, and he let her continue with her cooking.

“You cajole me, boy,” she laughed. “Yes, you do.” She used a spatula to move three latkes from the pan onto a plate and Solomon picked one up and took a bite.

“Not bad,” he ventured, even though they were very good. “Maybe I’ll take one or seven with me to my study, for I think I have some sort of inspiration to write. This Pacific Autumn isn’t going to write itself, and Maresca insinuated that it was coming along too slowly.” He filled a plate with her latkes and opened the refrigerator, retrieving the orange juice. As he poured a glass, he continued, “With the success, or what’s deemed success, of White Noise, he thinks that my name alone will sell the new book. Isn’t that nice, dear?”

“Lovely,” said Ruth, as she fried another latke.

Solomon had been in his study an hour, clattering away at his antiquated electric type-writer, when Ruth decided to call the kids. They had not phoned or sent any word that they were coming home for the holidays, and Ruth was curious as to their plans. She dialed Zachary’s number first. “Hello, dear, it’s your mother,” she said to his answering machine, “I was calling to remind you that the nineteenth is Hanukkah, and you haven’t called yet to confirm that you’d be here. If you’re busy, maybe you could come for Christmas, instead. I haven’t seen you lately, I do hope you’ll oblige. I love you, Zach. Good-bye.” She was always very formal when it came to telephones. She felt like she was being interviewed or judged in some way, and her voice assumed a falsetto pitch and an almost English tone. She then proceeded to call her daughter. “Lily, darling, how are you?”

Lily had grown into quite an attractive lady, and had married the previous year. She was intelligent, especially for her youth, as she was only twenty-five years old. She had attended college in Boston and planned to further her education abroad before she met Luciano Cioppino, whom she took to quickly and married. They hoped to one day move to Europe to continue their respective college careers. Lily had strayed from her original Jewish upbringing and had wandered from religion to religion, searching for where she felt she “belonged." She had always felt awkward at the synagogue and had never had a bat-mitzvah. Ruth labeled her rebellious and never brought up the issue of religion when Lily was present, but Solomon was proud of his daughter for thinking for herself. Luciano was a Roman-Catholic, and Lily a Buddhist.

“Hello Mother! I am fine, just fine. I am sorry I've not called you, but we have been so busy lately, always on the go, you know. Lou has a new job where he is making good money, you know, and I have been just as busy as ever!”

Ruth detected something in her daughter’s voice that told her Lily was trying to hide something. Lily was rarely long-winded though she was verbose and had a way with words. However, she seemed somewhat nervous, and she was obviously trying to be clandestine. “Lily, what is going on? You can tell me, dear, I am your mother.”

“Oh, Mother, I knew you’d be able to tell... yes, there is something up, but I don’t want you to get all excited or anything, because it’s not for sure, you know, I’ll have to see a doctor, but Mother... I think I’m pregnant.”

There was a pause on the line as Ruth absorbed the information and as Lily gathered herself back after using such courage. “I’m astonished,” her mother finally replied, “simply astonished. This is probably the only time you’ve left me speechless. Allow me to gather my thoughts.” Another pause. “Lily, I really am happy for you. It’s a wonderful thing, being a mother. But after raising you and your brother, my only advice to you is to pray for anything but twins.”

It was decided that Luciano and Lily Cioppino would indeed come to New York for Christmas. Zachary Cohen returned his mother’s phone call, and he too confirmed that he would book a flight. Zach lived in Los Angeles and rarely ventured back east, so this was enough to make his mother happy for a few days, at least.

Zach had not married as of yet, and preferred living single for the time being. It had been long since he had felt love pangs and had known nothing romantic save meaningless sex for nearly a year. He was a good-looking man, taking after his father, and kept his body trimmed and toned. He was tan and had perfect teeth and bright eyes. He kept his hair long, though it was not girlish, and his numerous affairs proved him desirable. He was a rather shallow person and had not attended college, but he was strong in opinion and loyal. He had followed his dream of becoming a film director to Hollywood.

His mother had set about to cleaning the Den and preparing it for the visitors it would receive over the holidays. She bought a new rug for the kitchen, a delicate shade of brown, and hired housekeepers to clean the windows and toilets. The deep burgundy of the freshly painted walls was almost soothing, and kept both Cohens in amiable spirit. Ruth had brought the menorah from its resting-place in the closet, and had begun preparations for Hanukkah. “We’re not going to do anything big this year,” she had told her husband, “because the kids aren’t coming until Christmas and Hanukkah’s not that big of a thing anyway. I’ll go buy the candles for the menorah and I’ll cook a nice meal, but we’re not going to do presents like we did last year.”

Solomon had deemed it right that the twins were not coming in until Christmas, for Zach had returned on Rosh Hashanah and Lily on Yom Kippur. He did not then expect them to come for both Hanukkah and Christmas. He had always liked Hanukkah, but realized that as he was progressing with age, the novelty had begun to wear away. He no longer found anything entertaining about a dreidel, and latkes were fattening, after all.

Lydia Sandler, though professional, had a way of making one want to befriend her. She was modest and sincere, and nearly always very affable. She was capable of becoming a socialite, though she restrained herself with undue effort. She found most people rather disagreeable, her ex-husband included, and was quite comfortable standing alone. She was usually punctual and always organized, and her intellect was astounding.

As co-founder and CEO of Mirror Image Publishing, her job left little spare time on her hands. A small branch of Mirror Image, called Heritage Publishing House, had recently obtained the rights to publish many classics, from Eliot to Shakespeare. This had increased the revenue from Heritage, and the executive in charge of the house, David Montgomery, had bigger plans for it.

Lydia was not against the expanding of the Heritage Publishing House into a larger player, for she had always preferred these novels to the others published by her company. Besides classics, Heritage had always signed authors with an auspicious style, much like that of the Henry Jameses, the Edith Whartons, and the Hortense Calishers of the world. Now that they were adding these sorts of names to their collection, what could be better? However, she felt that Montgomery was losing sight of what Heritage was to begin with: an outlet for the best. Montgomery’s plan for expansion included lowering the standards significantly.

Lydia Sandler’s heels resonated against the hard wood floors of the office building, providing a certain austerity, and as she walked into the elevator she turned and stood taciturn and still. Her dress-suit was neat and formal, and her hair was combed into a stern bun. She had mentally prepared a thousand times over for this conference with David Montgomery, and though this hyperbole was nearer to truth she did not feel confident or ready. She knew that Montgomery’s propositions would most likely include branching out from Mirror Image all together, taking his newfound strength and attempting to stand independently. However, they both knew that without Mirror Image’s support that Heritage Publishing would be sure to falter.

David Montgomery was already seated when she entered the large conference room, reclining in one of the many chairs arranged about the large table. His feet were propped on the surface of the table and his cell phone was at his ear. He concluded his conversation quickly and appropriately, and straightened his posture upon noting Ms. Sandler’s entrance. She cleared her throat, set her briefcase on the table, and took the seat across from him.

“I presume we are ready to begin,” she said, professionally, opening her briefcase and pulling out a manila folder with “Montgomery” written on the tab. David Montgomery was arrogant but refined, and he smirked at Lydia’s comment.

“I’ve been ready,” he returned. Ms. Sandler was perhaps a minute or two late, though she preferred to be punctual, but Mr. Montgomery’s comment was inappropriate as a minute or two of leniency are usually not very much to ask. However, Lydia was prudent and was able to contain herself and her attitude against inflammation.

“Ah, then, Mr. Montgomery, let us begin,” she continued.

This concludes the first chapter.

Song of Solomon (1)

Sat, 17 Jul 2004 10:44:52 GMT

Note from the author: I have decided to include several portions of my novel, tenatively titled Song of Solomon, in this writing journal. I will be posting in installments and this will achieve the effect as if it were written in a series. This almost gives you an "incentive" to continue coming to this journal so you do not get behind in the lives and times of the characters. It is somewhat reminiscent of the way my hero, Henry James, submitted his novels in portions to weekly literary magazines. Please stay tuned.

submission one, Song of Solomon

Solomon Cohen, at fifty-four years of age, began signing his name strictly with lower case letters, for reasons thus far unclassified and not sought after, and has recently, more than ever, solicited his autograph. A writer, though preferring “novelist,” of satire, novellas and short stories in the style of Bradbury, mystery, love (for he considered “romance” to be reserved merely for smut), poetry, and even having published a compilation of inspirational quotes with suppliers varying from von Goethe to Lucille Ball, he happened to be fairly well known throughout the country and especially in New York, giving him chance enough to display his new signature.

His refurbished loft, which he often referred to as the Den, radiated of so many different styles, genres, and the like, that some labeled it contemporary. He chose to describe the Den as “very avant-garde,” nodding at the drapes that when taut displayed Warhol’s rendition of the Campbell’s can. The blue shag carpet was easily three inches long, and Solomon rather enjoyed sinking into it while barefoot; the ceilings were painted to a near carbon copy of Michelangelo’s cathedral paintings, the pinnacle of which centered perfectly above his bed, where the finger of God met that of Adam. The countertops in the kitchen were an unwonted shade of purple that almost emitted a glare, contrasting with the fading avocado of the refrigerator.

The loft was of fairly large size, as its building spanned nearly a third of its street. The space beneath the Den was subdivided and leased, as one of Solomon’s lifelong aspirations included becoming a landlord. One of his tenants obtained psittacosis from a homing pigeon, and another was what was known as a “cat lady.”

Several days a week, Solomon attended the health and athletic club on 42nd Street, where he quite enjoyed feigning to exercise. He lifted ten pound weights, and impressed the old women that walked by as he pretended that the dumbbells were actually of a substantial amount of weight.

We first meet Solomon reclining in the spa located just inside the men’s locker room. He is palavering with his publisher, Michael Maresca, about unimportant business and paltry affairs. Maresca begins to adumbrate on the successfulness of Cohen’s newest, as yet unpublished novel, The Pacific Autumn. “Number one New York Times bestseller will be printed on every copy of the second edition, mark my words.” Solomon simply smiles and sighs, happily. He arises from the submerged bench, water dripping down his naked body, and climbs out of the spa without holding onto the silver railing. He does not reach for his towel off the rack, but instead heads towards the showers. Maresca follows. Solomon picked the first vacant shower, and his publisher entered the stall directly adjacent. “The manuscript really does look good, Soco,” Maresca reiterated.

Dr. Michael Maresca stood at a lofty six foot four and was a fairly attractive man of sixty. He constantly dyed his hair jet black, and kept his face clean shaven and exfoliated. He smelt strongly of a copious, musty cologne, and was never seen sans a suit and conservative necktie.

Solomon turned the handle and the nozzle began to stream down warm water lightly. He unwrapped the provided bar of soap and commenced to scrubbing his stomach. After concluding his bathing, he turned the shower off, nodded at Maresca, who was still lathering himself with soap, and groped for his towel. He knotted it around his waist and opened his locker.

Maresca finished quickly, and they dressed, while contemplating aloud the proposed release date for the new book. Tiring of the subject, Michael mentioned his children and his ex-wife, Lydia.

“Yeah, how is Lydia, Mike? I haven’t heard from her in awhile. Wait, come to think of it, she sent me critique on the first manuscript, but it was mostly business.” Lydia Sandler, having resuscitated the use of her maiden name, had co-established the Mirror Image Publishing Company with her then mate, Maresca. They retained a remarkable friendship, and the enterprise never deteriorated.

Lydia Sandler was remembered for her brown, kinky locks and her quirky smile. As an adolescent, she had refused braces and never desired a generic grin. Her face always appeared that she had something on her mind that she had no intention of sharing. She was forward but not presumptuous and was often liked by her colleagues, though she rarely made new friends. She was a solitary person at heart, and preferred the isolation of a small study and a large book to the social affairs of the city.

“Lydia is well, or at least to the best of my knowledge,” said Michael Maresca, running a hand through his black hair. “She hides her true feelings rather well; does she not? I never know if her smile is real.”

Solomon laughed. “Well, Ruth is different, that’s for sure. But that’s what I get for marrying a Jew.” Ruth Cohen was a woman of short stature, but her facial features were sharp and striking. Her nose was not unattractive though it hooked, and her brown eyes could pierce the strongest metal. She was never precarious, except in that she did not attempt to hide her feelings, which sometimes came across as an instability. She had a love for tchotchkes and all things tawdry, and was a decent cook. She had married Solomon when she was twenty-three and he was twenty-seven, and so she was now fifty. She had never been afraid of age, like other women, but embraced it.

The Cohens had only two children, twins in fact, and none more. Of the two, neither particularly enjoyed sex, and neither was particularly fond of children. Ruth had wanted to name the twins Jacob and Esau and was disappointed when one was a girl. “What is the fun in fraternal twins?” she had asked the doctors. Solomon took a liking to the girl from the beginning, for she was precocious and adamant as a child. He knew that she would be independent, but he worried about his son; he seemed to latch to his mother unheedingly.

The snow on the street was picturesque and the air chilled as Michael put on his leather gloves. “Have a happy Hanukkah,” he smiled as he got into his car. “I’ll see you soon?” He shut the door and put the window down as to continue conversing with Solomon. “Are you going to Lydia’s party on Christmas Eve? Ah, I’ll see you then.” He was gone, returning the window to its proper position and leaving behind nothing but a trail of exhaust.

The Railroad

Sun, 11 Jul 2004 22:01:17 GMT

[rough draft edited 5:30pm 7/11/04]

The tracks in front of him had obviously seen many years before his birth. They had rusted golden-brown and the wood planks connecting each rail had deteriorated into what resembled petrified fossil logs. His shiny black tuxedo shoes were starting to look less new; they were beginning to show signs of wear and were scuffed in various places. Shoes like these weren't made to run away in.

Visions of the wedding replayed rapidly in his mind. The genuine or phony smile on everyone's faces was disheartening to say the least. When the rabbi concluded and the glass was broken and even he had murmured, "Mazel tov," he stood, applauded briefly, and made his way from the synagogue in haste.

He didn't bother getting into his car; in fact, he threw the keys in the front seat and slammed the door. He took great strides toward the bit of woods behind the synagogue, disappearing before anyone else had exited the great front doors. After passing through a clearing and a stretch of farmland, he had stumbled upon these brokedown railroad tracks that he had never before seen.

He sat down on the rocks that stood to one side of the tracks and held his head in his hands. How could he have let it happen? Why did he not object? He had loved her with his heart and soul. He had made love to her in a pond, in a motel, in his own bed, right before the very eyes of God. He was not ashamed; why should she be? Of course, she had wanted to marry Daniel. They had been engaged whenever he had first met her to begin with. He knew- it was almost written in the conditions of the relationship -this is temporary... for she was to be married to the man her father approved of and her mother adored and she herself loved deeply and sincerely.

And there stood the girl that Seth loved... the woman that he would give anything for, in a white gown next to his good friend Daniel. Their hands were interlocked, his tan skin contrasting with her porcelain white complexion, and they gazed into each other's eyes intermittently as the rabbi droned on.

Seth remembered the time that he had taken Jules to the secluded Ivy's Pond in Southlake. They had sat on the shore in their jeans and Juliet had screamed and jumped when she realized she had been sitting on an antpile. She ran, ripping her clothes from her body and hollering the whole way about "damn fireants," into the dark green pond before them. He slipped off his shirt and threw his wallet on the ground and followed her into the water.

"Baby, are you okay?" he asked as he smoothed his hands over her body under the murky depths, in an effort to help clear away any remaining, stinging insects. She noted that the ants had bitten her "on the ass" but that she had recovered and was possibly even healthy enough to be kissed. He seized the opportunity to lean in towards her pink lips and satisfy what her soul was craving. She put her arms around his neck and indulged in the love that Seth could provide. As he slipped gently inside of her, she lost track of all of her thoughts.

Danny knew naught of the relationship between Juliet and Seth. He had once confronted Seth about how often he spent time with Juliet; Seth promised that they were merely good friends and that he wouldn't dare hurt Danny, his old friend. Daniel patted him on the shoulder which evolved into a long embrace. Seth put his hands on Danny's sculpted back and returned the friendly gesture. He wasn't a bad guy. He could see why Juliet loved him.

Now Danny stood with what would become his loving wife on the bema. Seth's heart wrenched in his chest as he spewed a compendium of hateful rhetoric over again in his mind towards this man that was supposedly his friend.

Daniel Rosenbaum was tall, dark, and handsome. He was used to dealing with women: they treated him like heaven and offered him anything he wanted. He was a Jewish Adonis. Juliet Locke was a Gentile and a beautiful blonde with the intelligence of Albert Einstein. She came up to Danny's shoulders, but he loved leaning down to kiss her softly on the lips. As Mrs. Locke often said, they were "a match made in heaven."

Seth Goldman thought differently. Yes, the couple was nice to look at and they would create pretty children and lead a happy life in the suburbs... but he knew Juliet did not want that. She appeared to want that and let on that she wanted it; but in the few short months that Seth knew her he felt that he had learned he inner desires... she wanted freedom above all else. She wanted to run away with Seth and become a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. They would steal if they needed to eat and they would live off the land and they would find jobs in some other town in some other state where they could start a life together and she wouldn't ever have to think about the Jewish Adonis again.

Unfortunately, Juliet was weak. She let her mind overpower her heart and she refused to go on any sort of escapade with Seth. "I'm engaged to be married, Seth. You know that. I love you, I do. You have to understand where I'm coming from... you mean so much to me. But Danny was meant for me."

She had broken his heart in one single sentence.

He knew that she was meant for Seth, not for the Jewish Adonis. Danny would go through business ventures and make a lot of money and provide for her, and Seth made the mistake of assuming that this was the only reason that she loved him. He left her and didn't speak another word to either of them until the night before the wedding.

She turned and looked over her shoulder, her sparkling eyes meeting Seth's. She smiled and winked at him before turning back to the rabbi and pretending to listen to his words. Seth's shoulders sunk and his heart was crestfallen... what could she possibly be thinking? Did she not love him the way he thought she did? Did she not love him the way that he loved her?

Juliet did not have any sort of party on the night before the wedding. Instead, she opted for a night alone at a hotel and time to clear her thoughts for the next day's events. She did not expect for Seth Goldman to come knocking at the door of room 216.

"Seth, come in... what are you doing here?" she asked as she closed the door and bolted it behind them.

"I couldn't go one more second without seeing you... we were meant to be, Jules. Meant to be." He lightly carressed her cheek and leaned in to kiss her. His lips grazed hers with ease before his tongue slipped through her pressed lips and gently explored her mouth. She pulled away and said, "I love you, Seth," between breaths and they fell on to the bed and made love.

The next morning she told him to leave because she was going to get married.

In the distance, Seth could hear the whistle of a train and the steady movement of its wheels along the worn track. He dismounted from the rocks and laid himself out uncomfortably across the tracks. He closed his eyes, listening intentively to the train inching closer, and prepared to die.

undoubtedly

Tue, 15 Jun 2004 00:51:38 GMT

i wish i could think the way i thought at 7:22pm when everything made sense. the stereo is buzzing lightly yet again and the vcr blinks 12:00 for all to see that it's perturbed by sudden outages of electricity. i can't tell you what i want to say; it would be... imprudent, to say the least.

a steady sound of beating drum could salvage what's left of this brokedown fiasco. i could find myself in the wilderness. i see myself on the wings of the dove but the beady eyes pierce me and it's gone.

i want so desperately to be austere. a cold autumn in the city would fit this cold and heartless royalty, but the coronet is makeshift and beginning to crumble. the long and sticky days make me feel like i should be trying to accomplish something. so, what's your point? feelings are inevitable yet rarely very relevant or particularly valuable.

do you think i'm even listening to anything you have to say?
i don't care for your opinions or your heresy.
god, damn me and feed it to the dogs.

friends, or aren't we?

Mon, 24 May 2004 05:50:26 GMT

somehow
the conversation always turns to you.
you don't even have to be around to haunt me... your ghost shall keep you satisfied by luminescent fireflies that twirl about the scene and tell the office workers in our brain to file this memory under the heading of "romantic."
but that was then and this is now and no matter what kind of beautiful memories that we shared you've said goodbye and that's what counts. you smile as i pass and when you stare into the mirror, how do you see past the deep-seated recognition of my heart in your reflection?
the weatherman says it looks like rain. these are the last tears of the season.

7:22pm

Sun, 16 May 2004 04:35:01 GMT

october gets colder and colder as
the days wear on and the moon
wanes slowly the light is effervescent
and the grass is chilled beneath my
feet where are you now? why aren't
you listening?

i see a falling star, streaking across
the orage sky and the blue in the
distance starts to come into focus.
are you that distance? do you hear
me whisper?

my soft lullaby is carried on the
wind of an evening in october,
searching far, near, two weeks
away.

do you see the shooting star and
do you hear my singing? is the
grass cool on the soles of your feet?
the sun is setting now and i see
you in the sky and you are hanging
with the stars where you belong.

stranded on a land-locked island of fears.

Sat, 15 May 2004 22:41:07 GMT

every time i see you standing there and talking to those friends of friends and smiling at me as i pass my heart breaks a little more. i will never be strong enough to let you know how i feel, nor will i ever look on that night without remembering that i fell in love. you were descending those concrete stairs in your prom dress and laughing at our shared tendencies; ascending that same staircase with newfound "soup" for your soul. you offered me a hit of stardust, but i declined, knowing that if i were tipsy i might say something i'd regret, such as "i think i love you."

we clumsily made our way to waffle house and laughed and shared a diet coke. it was just like old times, except that they were new and it was just beginning and these times would be the old times in days to come. "stay sweet and sexy" the dirty man hollered and we shared the greatest laugh of all, falling into each other's arms.

we laid on the floor together, talking about disorder. you attempted to clean everything, but that's just you. and i was wearing kevin's shirt and tuxedo shoes while you were comfortably clothed in such out of character t-shirt and shorts. the phone call was our exit plan and we had to leave; separate cars? my heart was sinking, but i obliged. the car was filthy and i was whelmed when we arrived and i gave you a run for your money as we counted wheat pennies and you gave yourself a scar; something to remember me by.