“Friendship” by Paulo Otavio Diniz Rodrigues (https://flic.kr/p/7qBgkT)

Friendship keeps us going, gives us support, tells us who we are, and forms a basis for our life’s stories. This week’s contributors examine different ways that friends can impact our lives.

“4’33” by Glenn Kane relives a day of mischief, courtesy of a fellow high school band member.

Old friends reconnect in “Visitor” by Kevin J. Lenihan, as their memories give way to a darker present.

“Stoned English Majors” by Stuart Michaelson is a coming-of-age story where independence, and friendship, sometimes prove to be at odds.

“Burning Out” by Kevin J.B. O’Connor examines the way that memories may be discarded as friends drift apart. 

You, who never tire of chaos, must comprehend this fire,
and the manner in which it deconstructs
the crackling logs, books we’ve read,
ablaze in orange and splintering blue.
Victims of our rage—it appears—they turn to white ash
that drifts in our nostrils, presses our tongues
in gestures of mute farewell. You, who never cared
for poetry or philosophy, part willingly with yours,
while I confess some doubt, hesitating
over tomes you’ve heard me mention with sighs.
We are wholly different, it seems, not in our desire
to purge, but in our methods of departing
from what remains of ordinary lives,
leaving behind what has touched us in time.

On a late-spring night half-a-century back, best as I recall, I drove a Plymouth through a restaurant napkin and entered another universe.

Of the first I’m reasonably sure; second, certain.

It was a time of infinite possibility, near-probability, life all full ahead, fears masked in male bravado, if there at all, and as the black rotary phone in my bedroom shot unanswered rings at Phil’s place, it was like I could hug the future. And expect it to hug me back.

1970, 18-edging-toward-19, was the last year I’d live with my folks in their West Oak Lane, Philadelphia home, which has housed most dreams since, regardless of my sleep-world’s time-period and denizens.

On the wall of that room—little larger than a closet—I’d scribbled a pathway to freedom by penciling a few memorable lines from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, celebrating the “mad ones” who want everything, simultaneously. A few feet from Jack’s quote rested, uneasily, that well-thumbed paperback and a few others in the first rung of a small metal book-case: Richard Farina’s Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me; J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye; William Goldman’s The Temple of Gold; Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus; Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha.

My collection of tomes weighed like stones in a David-model slingshot aimed at something—or, in my mind, someone—blocking me from independent adulthood.

As it was my nature to view most everything I did as part of an endless soul search, these were my “find-yourself-already” novels, destined to forge an interstate to urgent destinations—wisdom, career, loss of virginity. Not in that order.

My call to Phil’s pealed madly, and I lapsed into one of many imaginary arguments with this long-time friend—my designated Goliath—who I loved dearly for all the great moments we’d shared, the summer in Europe we were about to blaze, and resented, because most of those times were his, me tagging along, laughing at his jokes, playing his outrageous what-me-worry sidekick shadow.

Why can’t you ever listen, Phil? Must you always pole-vault over whatever I say and make it your story? If I manage a good grade, you get a better one, and if I gain ground with a girl, you make more with a prettier one…or so you claim. How come I can’t slash your Saran Wrap-like prison around me? Will eight weeks across the ocean yielding to your stifling, if fascinating, aura leave me unable to burst unshackled and genuine, into my 20s?

My door rocked open, pulverizing my navel-gazing, and Phil burst inside, Art Carney into Jackie Gleason’s apartment, all 5-feet, 8-inches (one up on me, of course), Wrangler jacket, jeans, sneakers, on which he whirled, then stretched his scrawny (less so than mine) arms (hairier), pressed his hands on my books, squeezed volumes together in accordion fashion and elevated them towards the ceiling like a cascading deck of cards until they fanned out and detonated. Farina careening into my (mono) record-player. Kerouac sliding along the third-baseline of my hard floor. Hesse crashing against the “mad ones” quote. Goldman, Salinger, slithering under the bed. Roth splat! against the window.

Phil forced his stubbly face almost into mine and invoked my childhood nickname, along with the mission squirming in my scattered paperbacks.

“Change your life, Stutz!”

I gathered the books—fat chance he’d pick them up—and restored them to their vaunted spots.

“Where the fuck you been? I call, no answer, then suddenly you emerge, some amok Wizard of Oz flying monkey. How?”

“My sister dropped me off, man.” He cast a judgmental eye at my Kerouac wall. “Can you get the Bozo-mobile? Chance-of-a-lifetime sizzling at Continental Pizza.”

As I drew nearer the house, my carriage rolling slowly under a clear sky, not a single sound to mar the late afternoon, a sense of dread pervaded my soul.

Still several miles away, I could see the ancient structure atop the hill, regal and prominent, like the residence of a Lord or a King residing in sunlight and majesty. The house had occupied that spot since ancient times, and from its birth it has been occupied by the family Van Cordt. Such a large and beautiful house it was: Of its size one could wander along its hallways and easily get lost in transit from one room to another; Of its beauty it was the envy of anyone who has ever known the family Van Cordt, or even seen the house from a distance. Generations beyond counting of the great family had resided within those walls, within the depths of that gargantuan but elegant castle. And the legend was that the family line would stretch out to eternity till the horns of judgement sounded.

But that prophesy came under serious judgement in a terrible instant when, with the passing of his sister and two brothers in the span of just two months, my good friend Patrick became the last descendent of the sovereign line of blood. And with no intent on marrying or raising any heirs, the demise of a great tradition seemed inevitable. As for the incidents of so many deaths in such a short period, it was not any maleficent cause that might raise the suspicion of conspiracy; instead it was ruled natural causes in each case by a renowned and respected physician, and therefore, any further investigation was averted. It was mere selection that had played a tragic hand. Had I learned of the tragedy sooner, I would have rushed to Patrick’s side immediately. As it was, the news reached me a mere twelve hours after the last of these tragic demises, yet not prior to my decision to travel across the state to pay homage to my estranged friend.  I had simply decided that the time had grown late, but not too late, and I immediately began preparations for a trip that would turn out to threaten my very soul.

~~~

My earliest recollections of childhood were dominated by my dear friend and my acquaintance with every member of his extensive family. Patrick and I had met in grade school, and after a very brief period, we became inseparable. By the perceptions of others, the two of us were tightly-knit friends who spent every moment together and shared every secret. By our own notion, we were sworn companions, friends for eternity, tied together by a bond weaved from the care and concern, but also connected by a thread of jealousy that cemented that bond. Patrick was envious of my academic success as well as my prowess in almost any sport at which I tried a hand; while I was covetous of his family’s wealth and influence. I reveled in the applause and admiration of my own achievements, but my collection of trophies and medals were dull and substandard next to the riches of Patrick’s very name. And I was not less jealous of the non-material possessions, the closeness of the family, the love so strong between each and every member that it seemed to generate a warmth when two or more were in the same vicinity. There seemed not a thread of discord, so obedient was son to father, and so humble and just was father to son that there almost seemed to be a spark of the divine. But the jealousy between Patrick and me was calm and quiet, and never effectuated any true insult or injury. Our friendship transcended any such vulgar feelings of guilt or anger.

But sometime in our early adult years, something suddenly intruded, some inexplicable force severed our bond as severely as a sword strike. I cannot fathom if it were a series of offenses, or a single incident that created this chasm. And now, after such a long absence, I was unsure of my place in my friend’s life, unknowing if Patrick’s bitterness toward me might be unquenchable. But I was determined to make the attempt, and in great haste I packed my suitcase enough for three days away from home. I put by business affairs into other hands, and I secured a watch for my own apartment—and all this prior to any notice of the aforementioned deaths. Just as I was exiting my building, my departure was interrupted by a stern-looking messenger who addressed me by name as if acquainted with me. He handed me an envelope with no addressee or any postal mark, and then made a swift exit as if unable to endure my reaction to the news. I tore into the note and immediately recognized the familiar scrawl, though it took me several minutes to comprehend the message. It was less an invitation from Patrick than it was a plea for a visitation. The note contained no preliminary greeting, barely any decorum at all, just his recommendation that I avail myself and head straightaway to be at his side. This entreaty was an odd coincidence, I thought, as its origin obviously predated my own sudden desire for a visit, but fully supported my intention; yet its very urgency suddenly gave me pause, rather than strengthening my resolve. Why had my friend suddenly administered this decree upon me? What trouble had visited itself upon him that he should have no recourse but to infringe on my good nature? I quickly overcame my hesitation with the force of my commitment, and within a minute I was on the road, my reluctance trailing behind me.

~~~

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2023/09/04/visitor/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2023/09/03/433/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2023/09/03/433/#comments Sun, 03 Sep 2023 21:46:00 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/?p=6340

Okay, okay, I know … I remember opening this bottle of Zocor that is right here in front of me. I mean, it was just a few minutes ago that I did, just before I let myself get distracted by the news on TV that wasn’t really news, nothing that Walter Cronkite would have put on the news anyway. The question remains, the question the bottle seems to be asking me is: did I already take my nightly tablet? Honestly, I haven’t a clue—and that, of course was something I did or didn’t do after I opened the bottle. I do remember taking a tablet—but was that last night, the night before, the week before??? And yet there are things I can remember from so long ago. Not everything, of course, but certain things. Why those? What I have long suspected is that what gets recalled is what is tagged by emotion. Like pride. Or fear. Perhaps pride, however undeserved, touched by fear, however unjustified, is the most potent mnemonic of all.

~~~

It was late afternoon at a high school in a suburb of New York, during the mid-nineteen-sixties, and time for band practice. The teenage version of me—yes, I was that young once—barreled into the commodious rehearsal room, only a little late, grabbed my baritone horn from the instrument closet, and hurriedly settled into my assigned seat. The music teacher, the conductor, was already on the podium from which, grimacing, he tracked my progress.

The usual cacophony at the start. Yet, a pattern: two acoustical diamond shapes laid end-to-end. A crescendo of random utterings of woodwinds, brass, percussion, and unruly adolescents. The gradual quieting precipitated by the conductor’s rapid beating of a metal music stand with his baton. The one moment of pristine silence preceding what was even more pristine than silence: the pure tone beckoned from the concertmistress’s clarinet. Triggering another crescendo as more and more musicians attempted to match the pitch. Followed by the inevitable decrescendo as each individual tune-up was completed.

Far to the conductor’s right, beyond the sea of clarinets, the smatterings of flutes, double reeds, and saxophones, in a crescent of gleaming blond metal, lay the domain of the lower brass: trombones, baritone horns, and tubas. Instruments whose players have a reputation for irreverence and outright mayhem. Often well-deserved. Why might this be the case?

A theory.

Every brass player knows, in his heart, that what produces even the sweetest of his music is, in essence, a controlled fart. Made with the entrance rather than the exit of the gastrointestinal tract. Which instructional manuals like to call “a buzzing of the lips.” But it’s a fart, nonetheless. Now the sound of the upper brass, the trumpet for instance, is so far removed from that aforementioned disagreeable bodily function as to allow those hoity-toity prima donnas to conveniently forget their humble roots. For the lower brass, however, such self-deceit is impossible. The very tones these musicians produce are, at times, flatulent in pitch, timbre, and volume. Yet from such tones, the tenderest of music perfumes the air. Perhaps it is the stunning paradox inherent in coaxing angels to fly out of their assholes that inevitably grants lower brassmen an absurdist take on life.

Merely a theory, of course.

While summer is often considered a time for exploration, it can also be a great time for reflection. This week’s contributors meditate on life, both literally and figuratively.

A poem by Jada Yee, “Follow the Recipe,” captures the sort of meditation caused by everyday actions.

In a short story by Laurence Levey, “Yidiot,” a man attends a meditation class and comes to some unexpected self-realizations.

Lana Bella’s poem, “Facing East on Basho Pond,” evokes a well-known poet with an intensity of imagery.

Blake discovered the world in a grain of sand,
and I am now among those grains,
tossed from a blossoming, pale sweaty, soft palm
into the darkening surf;
my last wishes.

I am dissolved within
the seaweed and misty, salty air,
deep within a child’s sand castle
slowly eroded by the high tide;
particles of me mixed with coconut oil
rubbed into the brown skin of a Brazilian beauty,
more of me still at the bottom of a
black Labrador’s joyous day of digging.

Particles of me
follow the rhythm of the tides,
taking me on a journey
into the deep green and blue ocean currents
leaving behind the beach of my youth;
hoisted high a top my father’s shoulders
before being catapulted into the oncoming waves,
time after time,
until my fear turns into giddy anticipation.

clinging to a twig
with unmoving tiny claws
— cicada shell

comes like the evergreen motion of spring, makes this boy
      who lives twenty five miles from anyone his age, his own
best friend, makes May’s bright blue air…red pools of water
                  on red-dirt roads and a mud dirty dog running beside

him biting the air in celebration, his reason to be in this sense-
                drenched, sun-warmed spirit of the earth in revolution…

sharing the dog’s delight to be alive, singing it in the endless
      soprano syllables releasing winter from a dry brown silence,
and terrible loneliness of its stores of ice and snow. Love
                  loose again on the ‘Snowy Range’, he sings out his

faith in the future to his mother…wanna’ see me empty
        the mud puddle…wanna see me jump the dog…wanna’

see me do a wheelie…staccato syllables slicing the air like
      “Laramie River’s” priapic thrust down glistening flanks
of canyon walls, percussive rhythms seeking the inexhaustible
                  mouth of high mountain meadows, expectations

swelling in the sweet ache of spring calling them to more,
      more, more…nothing but the future he declaims when he

falls, “…didn’t hurt, wanna’ see me do it again!” everything
          out in front, begging them to chase the sky blue butterfly,
delighted with the mystery of things they can’t catch, and
                  the river’s wild freedom, flinging a fence post as if a leaf,

one he helped his father make secure with dirt and wire up
      river—free again to make jazz impressions upon the eye,

as it surges back in time—joining chaste green beginnings
        of sense-drenched, sun-warmed spirit of bright blue skies
surging toward the exaggerated glory of autumn, already growing
               in dark red buds waiting in wet black branches of trees.

For day six of National Poetry Writing Month, we’ve reached “E” in the alphabet, for “Epistle.” An epistle poem is essentially a letter to someone close to the writer. The addressee may be alive or dead, a close friend or family member, or even someone the poet doesn’t actually know. The Poetry Foundation’s page on epistle poems provides several examples.

Feel free to share your poem (or a link to your poem) in the comments.