" LAUREN " Part 1
LAUREN
Finally free! Well, at least for two hours. Her eldest of two children was at basketball practice and his best friend`s mother would drive him home afterwards. Lauren was pulling out of the parking lot of the ballet academy where she had just deposited her eight year old daughter Courtney.
She had not decided to meet Brent until she found herself turning left at the light, heading towards the city. Lauren had been married for ten years, had a happy life; her husband and two children, a beautiful home in a fashionable community, her passion for writing. And yet here she was driving to meet Brent; just a drink, nothing more.
Lauren had met Brent at the annual Philadelphia Writer`s Guild conference. He was one of five invited guests, published writers all, with their own devoted followings. Brent O`Mara was the poet invitee and Lauren had had the pleasure of introducing him at one of the workshops.
After his reading and the last of his admirers had left for the cash bar, he came over to her as she was gathering the extra literature from the head table. Brent lightly brushed her shoulder with one finger, "Lauren, I really must thank you for your help with my workshop. Could I repay you in some small way for the pleasure of meeting you? At least a drink."
As soon as Brent and Lauren entered the main ballroom, it was clear that any chance of their sharing a few moments together was futile.
Lauren looked on wistfully as Brent was surrounded by women of all ages; touching him, trying to get his attention. Brent shrugged his shoulders and winked at her, mouthing the words "Don`t go!" as programs and pens enveloped him.
Lauren smiled, walked to the bar and ordered a glass of chardonnay. She sat at a table and gazed at the crowd around Brent. Had these women read his poetry or were they just drawn by his celebrity?
She found herself feeling warm, somewhat flustered. To be honest with herself, it felt like jealousy. She smiled at herself, sipped at her wine and went to the coatroom to retrieve her coat. As she left the room for her car, the last glimpse she saw of Brent was of his eyes, staring at her.
Lauren waited four days, checking her EMail. There was nothing from Brent. She felt a little foolish, like a schoolgirl. I met this man, he touched my shoulder and lightly flirted with me; and here I am looking for EMails from a stranger? She smiled at her folly but couldn`t resist going to Brent`s website. It was there that she saw the poem.
To L
Oh, if I be that goblet
brought to your lips,
releasing my fluid
into you.
Lauren was moved by the poem yet was unsure if it was written for her. After all, she had just spoken a few words with Brent. She shuddered as she remembered the feeling of his finger lightly caressing her shoulder.
And what if it was for her? She was a married woman with two children and a wonderful husband. The last thing she needed was a romantic complication in her life!
And yet, how beautiful the poem, how sensuous! Lauren imagined leaving a comment at Brent`s website, and how foolish she would feel if the poem was not written for her. She was just about to exit the website when she noticed Brent`s EMail address.
She thought, "What harm could it do to send him an EMail complimenting his poetry. Maybe just leave my cell phone number!" She felt a warmth in her body, an excitement that she had long since forgotten! Before her better sense could argue with her, Lauren typed the EMail and hit send.
The next morning, while loading the dishwasher, Lauren heard the Coldplay song announcing someone was calling on her cellphone. She rushed to the phone, then waited 10 seconds before clicking it on.
"Hello"; a 10 second pause; then "Good morning, Lauren. Thank you for visiting my web site. Did you see your poem?"
"The poem was beautiful, Brent, but I wasn`t sure it was for me!"
"Lauren, I was so sorry to see you leave the meeting, I went to your table and tasted from your wine glass. The poem just erupted as I tasted the chardonnay through your lipstick on the rim."
Lauren felt that warmth again; 'How can that happen over the phone?' She didn`t know what to say, how to respond.
Brent saved her by speaking, "Can you find some time tonight to meet me? I still owe you that drink."
Lauren thought about the kid`s schedules, then replied, "If you really want to, I have some time between 7.00 and 8.30 tonight."
"Do you know the Mill Race? On the way to the city?"
"Yes, Brent, though I`ve never been there."
"I`ll see you there at 7.30 then?"
"Yes, Brent, I`ll be there. Bye." Lauren turned off the phone and wondered if she was doing the right thing.
Lauren arrived at the Mill race at 7.15, about fifteen minutes early. She continued driving past the tavern for about ten minutes, then turned her SUV around and started back. She remembered that Brent had said 7.30 and she didn`t want to sit in a bar alone.
When she arrived at the tavern she found a parking space close to the entrance and, after checking her makeup, she entered the front door.
The tavern was dimly lit, but she could see the bar area was to her right. Lauren walked to the bar entrance, then hesitated. There were only five customers there, two couples and an older man. Lauren, crestfallen, checked her watch; 7.45! Feeling a bit foolish, she turned and started walking back to the front entrance.
As she approached the door, she felt a light touch on her shoulder. "Lauren, Hi. I`m so sorry. I`ve been sitting at a table in the dining room and I must have missed you. Come, it`s much more private there at this hour."
Brent took her elbow and led her to a nook near the back of the dining room, where they sat. "I`m so happy you`ve come. I was worried I`d been stood up!"
Lauren smiled nervously as Brent poured her a glass of white wine from a decanter on the table. "Chardonnay, wasn`t it?" Lauren nodded and Brent raised his glass to hers, speaking, "Here`s to our adventure."
TWO POEMS ON PSYCHOTHERAPY
Courtesy Steve Brodner NY Times
" A Nod To Freud "
The id,
undifferentiated want,
feels the breast
starts to connect.
The ego,
in service to the id,
defines the world
as its palliate.
The super-ego,
in service to society,
says no to self-indulgence
it is here we live.
P S Y C H O T H E R A P Y
Psychotherapy
is creating an atmosphere
where someone [or someones] can feel,
to the continually changing
best of their ability,
completely free
[to be
who they continually
are changing]
to become.
{......course, we can substitute love or trust......}
V
" HOLINESS "
Wm. Blake [1757-1827] "ISAAC NEWTON" c1795
A POEM "HOLINESS"
Again, the little door to darkness
opens with incantation;
"Bless me Father,
for I have sinned."
A woman, head bowed, uncovered
as is the modern want,
recites her litany of little sins,
envy, doubt, despair-
Unfaithfulness!
In his dark corner, the priest
leans toward the voice,
"Tell me of this unfaithfulness
of what, and where, and whom."
In two score years of ministering
he never tires of the sounds,
as women tell their tales.
Slowly he leads her to that first meeting,
that first kiss,
Oh, the love he can feel in her memories.
He smiles at love`s blossoming,
the titter in her whispering,
no longer shameful
but proud in lustful abandon.
And of the sighs of pain
at the inevitable loss,
her suitor gone,
taking all the fairy tales.
It is only in this little room,
when all the tales are told,
that he can cry for love
the savoring, never come.
V
MY EMILY DICKINSON POEMS
Edgar Degas " Woman in the Bathtub " 1886
A Poem " ETERNITY "
Reflecting on the morning dew
and smiling on the sea,
the sun arises, dawning
and sees me, `neath the tree.
It only seems a lifetime
since the ground was rent for me,
flowers dropping by the petal
I approached eternity.
“PURGATORY”
When death approached, I bowed my head
To Morpheus` crown,
not knowing that my soul would stay
in this body, tho` embalmed.
We see the soul as suffering
when purgatory bound,
that place unknown to mortals
is merely underground.
V
HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO MY FRIENDS IN THE AOL DIASPORA
FRA ANGELICO 1387-1455 "THE NATIVITY" [panel detail] c1450-1453
" THE CAVE "
“THE CAVE ” A Poem
Poetry is so hard
without metaphor or simile.
Nature escapes me
Rhya`s earth, an illusion.
I rub my eyes and sigh
"you know no words".
What drives this need
to sit in quietness and pain?
What need at Lascaux
to picture unicorn and bull
just a bursting
Ah! the humanness of it!
the rapture, when words were few.
V
C 2005 Deabler, V.T.
A RAISIN
Imagine a raisin
placed in your hand,
a gift for you.
You stare at the image,
seeing its barrenness,
and yet,
the clefts and ridges
draw you in.
Moonlike, it reflects
the light.
Iridescent!
like a peacock feather,
sparkling.
You feel its weight
touch it with a finger.
It resists your touch
a rainbow of fissures.
It fondles your lips,
odors redolent of wine
and earth.
Sends you to valleys,
then, gently, back.
Tasting,gently at first
the tongue exploring
then a dental teasing,
gently, softly.
Biting, flavors
overwhelming
then, gently, back
to its image.
V
c 2005 Deabler, V.T.
ODE TO CHRISTINA
The wonders she writes,fearful, yet fearless,of dreams and Godof faith and bliss.Unafraid of searchingshe peers withinand reveals her demons,naked, prideful.Her creativityan endless well,her need for heroismboundless,Christina stands atthe abyss.Calling down.V
" MORN "
Titian " Pastoral Symphony " c1508
" MORN " A POEM
I love the days of harmony.
Nature infusing itself
in your soul.
The sun arises from
the river`s edge.
Awakened by the morning song
of birds.
The clouds flee from
the heavens,
as if they fear
God`s symmetry.
I can imagine
a savannah,
and the never-ending
search for sustenance.
Suspended for just....
this moment.Vc 2005 Deabler, V.T.
Edward Moran " Sailing Ships At Sunset "
Spanish galleons
the Armada at sunset
full sail to the wind.
V
Ten Things That Make Me Smile
I was tagged first by Christina,http://myjourneywithms.blogspot.com/. I think I`ve changed the word from Happy to Smile! {Hehehe}
1. The thought of a grandchild.
2. Reading the genius of Saul Bellow.
3. Writing the "Vampire" books.
4. Reading Christina`s poetry.
5. Talking to Aynetal3 on IM.
6. Viewing Tsgerkin`s murals.
7. Seeing Lucky the dog, at my feet, lookin` for some of my dinner.
8. Hearing the arias when Rudolfo & Mimi first meet in "La Boheme".
9. Speaking on IM to Sandy.
10.Writing poetry.
" TO KIERKEGAARD "
Paul Gauguin 1891 Street In Tahiti
POEM "To Kierkegaard"
The demon takes so many forms
shapeless, murky, indistinct
That troubled minds react and run
and therefore mold its grisly shape.......
Clothed in fear of solitude
the demon smirks and smotes
and colors all horizons past
as failure, loss, and endlessness....
The mind obsesses........then denies
looking for its trump
"Aha"he says,"the body hurts",
but then the pain is gone!....
[..............at least for now.]
I know I must identify and strip away the robes
of such a heartless,mindless tool
of those who wish to do me harm.......
Projection fails, all bastions gone
the mind climbs on the demon`s steed
to see where it will lead......
Looking down, it sees some words imprinted on the bridle.
"TO BE SHARED BY ALL WHO WISH TO SEE
MY NAME IS
F E A R A N D T R E M B L I N G “.
V
" MONDRIAN" CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 26
The very first glimmer of dawning, that imperceptable greying that awakens the morning doves, produced a slight unpleasantness on Mondrian`s skin. Cautioning her of the need to retire, the feeling was one that Alucard had taught her to recognize. Although unable to shake her thoughts of God and immortality, Mondrian arose and turned the CD player off.
She called to Maurice and when he didn`t immediately reply, she knocked on the door to his studio. "Maurice, it`s time to retire", she said, as she felt the door open.
Maurice excitedly took her hand as he closed the door behind him. "Oh, Mondrian, please don`t look! I`m working on a surprise for you, but I need more time."
"Very well, my dear, but your work will have to wait until the evening. It is less than fifteen minutes until dawn."
Leading him by the hand, she escorted him to his casket. After closing the lid on the casket, Mondrian lay in hers, feeling the comforting safety of her native soil.
Safely ensconced in darkness, her mind returned to Alucard`s poem and the disquiet it aroused in her. She had never asked for eternal life as vampire, had never felt Alucard`s disdain for religion. Deep within her was a fearful paradox; what was the value of this eternal life if she was forever denied the comfort of God`s presence? Shivering, she closed her eyes and envisioned Michelangelo`s "Pieta". If denied God`s presence, she could at least share in the glory of His work.
In the casket next to Mondrian`s, Maurice could hardly lie still. Just some days ago, he was a poor struggling artist, barely existing in a small loft in Monmartre. His days were always the same; afternoons were spent at an artist`s wall in Monmartre, trying to entice tourists into buying some of his stock paintings and drawings of Parisian scenes.
Evenings were filled with serving dinners to these same tourists at the small bistro around the corner from his apartment. The job did not pay a salary, only his share of the waitstaff service charge added to each check. The amount was shared equally by the waiters and was subject to the capriciousness of the bistro`s owner. It was clear to the staff that they were not receiving the full measure of the service charge but that was Monmartre. Too many poor artists, musicians, writers, poets; too few jobs!
Maurice would work until eleven, then help set up the tables for next day`s lunch. Everyone would then be served their dinner, usually the remains of the evening`s special. By midnight Maurice had bid adieu to the other waitstaff, most of who were rushing to the nearest cafe to relax and perhaps find someone to spend the evening with.
Maurice sped home to his loft and changed into his true working clothes, a shirt and jeans splattered with oils and watercolors. In times short of cash he would draw with pencil or charcoal, replenishing his tourist wares.
Ah, but the evenings when his larder was filled with canvas and oils! After an eight year apprenticeship spent absorbing the style of the Masters; copying their brushstrokes, their vision, their very souls, Maurice had found his Muse.
His paintings had become stripped of any semblance of natural form. His canvases were becoming explosions of color, to the untrained eye without scheme or substance. Yet his vision was clear in his mind`s eye.
For him it was as if he was taking a landscape and putting it under a magnifying glass, intensifying the lens` view until all that could be identified was the essence of color that truly identified the substance of nature. He spent these evenings in concentrated rapture until exhaustion demanded the few hours of sleep needed before meeting the next day`s tourists at the artist`s wall.
V
c2005 Deabler,V.T.
EXCERPT------ From "MONDRIAN"
Alucard`s poem to Mondrian......from "VAMPIRE" Book Two....."MONDRIAN"
Your Dream,
to be immortal?
Can you make
the sacrifice?
Living on the blood
of others,
often feared
never loved.
Banished by God,
no need of Satan.
Never to see the morn
or measure the sun`s chariot.
Nights spent flying
stealthy--preying.
A woman alone
at night--
shining to me.
I alight,
become a nightmare.
Count Vlad Tepes
V
A ROAD WELL TRAVELED
Renoir "Irene Cahen--Anvers" 1880
A Road Well Traveled
Once in a while it happens,
like falling snow at night
collapses colors to their source,
sadness envelops me.
Thoughts travel their circular path...
well trodden and muddy,
descending, inevitably,
into ignominy and shame.
V
IN DREAMS
Claude Monet "Haystack--Sunset" c1891
“IN DREAMS " A Poem
In dreams and reverie
Life is refreshed by want.
All are born to the purple
Beautiful, serene.
The bashful become flirtatious
the needy, sated.
Death seems surmountable
As blackness is blanched by light.
V
HTML Code For AOL-J Diaspora
http://aynetal3.blogspot.com/ Ayn has compiled a comprehensive list of over 150 AOL-Journallers who have new homes. If you look on the left side of my blog, under the butterfly, you`ll see the list. If you comment or Email either Ayn or myself, one of us will Email a WORD Document with the html for the list, including the Butterfly. Just insert it under your existing links and republish! If we`re missing anyone, please let Ayn know.
Ayn's Multiple World: Numbers Like Friends Can Be Counted On
Ayn's Multiple World: Numbers Like Friends Can Be Counted On
" A LOVE AFFAIR "
Looking for nothing,
escaping the day,
I come upon our pages.
An old manila folder
almost thrown away
so many times,
yet always rescued
contents unread.
I feel the pages
smell them.
Eyes closed,
envisioning their mysteries.
Oh the tides
splashed upon these pages.
Passion never ceasing,
highs and lows
but overwhelming.
At first the letters,
pledges, undying,
meetings planned
consummated
written of
in full circle.
The burning within us
with urgency is fed,
consumes, is fed.
We marvel at its power
and forget we are
stripping our hearts
for kindling.
Much later
at the bottom of the folder,
I can sense the poems.
Odes to heartbreak,
to love
to our heroism and
immortality.
V
Each morn
a minute later,
the sun arises
over the river.
Each dawn
a degree south,
on its journey
to the Equator.
Canada geese arrive
following the sun;
disciplined V`s
collapse and rest.
Bees and wasps
flitting lazily,
the sun signalling
the end of struggle.
Leaves depart,
depending on the kindness
of strangers,
for their blaze of glory.
Autumn, inexorable,
cloaks its arrival
in glorious colors,
soon to be blanched
by winter`s snow.
V
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