DRASH PIT - A literary theme park for readers & writers

Last Week’s Leftovers: Women/Men In Trouble?

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 23:02:45 -0500

Del was born in 1949 and grew up in a new, raw, tiny, asbestos shingled house that came in three colors, pink, yellow, or green. Mother taught me to respect, love and fear women; and in turn, they taught me everything worthwhile I have ever learned.

   If that is too-too, born in Texas, came to Austin, first generation College, work as a clerk now, and love culture/gender/history, with an ironic openness. I enjoy creativity that allows us to look at one event/object and come away with so many ideas. That is what art is for me, the space between object and observer. Then, my day job is to pull staples out of papers for 8 hours at a government bureaucracy.

  Artist Del Wielding was born in 1949 and grew up in a new, raw, tiny, asbestos shingled house that came in three colors, pink, yellow, or green. His mother taught him to respect, love and fear women; and in turn, women taught him everything worthwhile he ever learned.

He enjoys creativity that allows us to look at one event/object and come away with so many other ideas. That is what art is for Del, the space between object and observer.

This piece is from a small picture pamphlet on the destruction of the garden. Eve looks down from the safety of the apple, alone, as feminine waters wash over Utopia.

Del says, “I believe Eve saved us. She swept away the stagnation of perfection. She made choice possible, art, and allowed us to know beauty and ugliness. She allowed herself to become a mirror, for us to see who we are, or wish to be, who others are, or importantly, who they are not. She sees her body, for the first time from the apple, as a dancer on waters, as the stone of Utopian order sinks, and then, her body as a fragment, incomplete, as desire, but as desire she will act on, and no other. Or, perhaps she is thinking: "Now that is done, what shall I wear tonight?"

Revenge

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 22:30:30 -0500

Lab Experiment
Laura Kooris

The White Rat was a panel van used to haul equipment on location film shoots.
It was the basic model and had earned the moniker because it remained perpetually dingy white, no matter how often it was washed. It needed more seating occasionally, and in the mid-‘70s, seatbelts were only required for front seat passengers. Some kind of chair—director’s, side, or office—would suffice, held in place only by the additional person’s butt. Lori sat in an overstuffed chair sat between the two front seats for that purpose today. It was hefty and solid, going nowhere.

Lori and Tom were driving it for a lunch rendezvous with an old girlfriend. Tom had insisted on taking the woman, Cathy Wiley, to lunch. She had moved back to town job hunting, and hoped for some kind of connection with Tom. Lori was especially concerned about a re-connection with her husband that had nothing to do with a job. Lori’s worry began the day she called.

“That was a blast to the past,” Tom said.

They had been discussing production plans for film project. Lori raised her head from the notes in her lap. "You mean 'from the past,' she said.

“It was an old, old girlfriend, Cathy Wiley,” he said. “An odd call.”

Lori squinted her eyes. He looked away from her, tightened his lips and blinked. They had only been married for a few years, but she remembered this woman's name. He'd told her about Cathy during the get-to-know-one-another part of passion when each told the other about previous heartbreaks. He'd only said it was so brutal he'd sworn off women for some time afterwards to repair the damage. Why would a woman like t/at decide ti get in touch? Tom seemed to read her mind.

He sat back in his chair and gave a distant laugh. “Cathy said she was here to visit an old girlfriend, not anyone I know,” Tom added, “ and job hunt. She wants to get together for old times sake and catch up.”

Lori asked, "you aren't going are you? She didn't trust the connection would be innocent.

Tom pushed back his desk chair and put his fingertips together He looked and stared out the office window. Then he turned back to her and said, "yes, we are."

He then turned and looked at her. “She should meet you. I’ll agree to lunch. Besides, I don’t want to be alone with her, only you.”

Tom always attracted women. Not only was he handsome, engaging and intelligent, he had a successful, respected career as a director/cameraman. This old girlfriend still had some hex on him; he apparently didn't trust himself. Was this a desperate play by Cathy Wylie? Lori couldn't push the nagging thought from her mind. And Tim…would he be gullible? She looked up and found him staring at her.

Loris's heart fluttered as his eyes softened into hers. The look always took her breath away. Tom knew she would be jealous of this out-of-the-blue lunch date. Lori had not wanted to marry. She'd suffered through her parents’ disastrous marriage of repeated infidelities. It had always been off the table for her. He told her that they could only do their best to never hurt each other; she'd have to trust him. Lori would do her part, support him facing this old challenge, and bolster herself against her insecurities.

Are you ready to go to lunch? Tom had stuck his head into her office that morning.
Lori looked at her watch "I thought we were meeting her at the restaurant."

“Cathy called; asked me if I could pick her up,” He said. “Her friend can't drive her downtown, and she doesn't have a car.” He paused. “I agreed to get her.”

Lori felt her stomach twist. “Do I need to take my own car?”

They only had two passenger sports cars. Three passengers didn’t fit comfortably. Those goblins and suspicions nibbled inside her ears.

“No,” Tom said. “We'll take the White Rat. The overstuffed chair is still in it.”

Lori had laughed. “Ok.”

It was the perfect vehicle, Lori thought, unpretentious and with a distinct character to it, just like two of Tom's best attributes. They arrived at the condo complex. Lori moved to the back seat.

"You don't have to sit there," Tom said.

“I know how to keep it stable, Lori told him. “Besides, it'll be more cordial to have her sit up front where I can keep an eye on her.” She gave a strained smile.

Lori watched him walk toward the complex. The place had been lousy student housing back in the 1960's when Tom and Cathy were in graduate school. The apartments had a shoddy facelift to fit into its misnomered reincarnation. Tom stepped through the courtyard archway back through time while she waited in the van.

Within a few minutes, Tom and Cathy emerged; his hands moved up and down as he talked. Cathy was short with long, curly red hair. She and Tom were the same age, but she dressed as though still in her 20s. A prom queen smile filled her face. She walked as close as she could beside him, her eyes attached to his face like a hypnotist's. Tom chatted away to Cathy, smiled back to her, and let her press next to him. He opened the passenger door for her. As she moved to step in, Cathy reached up and put sinuous arms around his neck to pull his head to her lips. Lori’s seating was obscured from the outside.

“Cathy,” Tom said. He stood slightly resistant and extended an arm, “I'd like you to meet Lori, my partner, my wife and the love of my life.”

Kathy froze and looked at Lori, then shrunk back from her striking position, stunned. Her face, so peachy a minute earlier, was ashen from the frost.

“Ahh, your wife? Well…I didn’t know…,” she said.

Lori stuck out her hand. “Hi, Cathy, welcome back to Austin. It's changed a lot since you left, don't you think?”

Lori smiled as Cathy climbed in. Tom had set Cathy up, but he wasn’t the one who had met a nemesis, Lori realized. He had gotten over this woman years ago. This trick was for Lori’s benefit; he keeping his trust with her. But she did note the twinkle in his eye’s as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Lunch was businesslike and cool sitting outside the restaurant, even in the summer air. Apparently the interviews in town didn't go well for Cathy. It didn't stick, and she didn't stay.

Last Week’s Leftovers: Men In Trouble

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 22:20:24 -0500

War is Hell. Especially Mine.
Shlomi Haril
I must have been the sorriest recruit ever to come to the training base for “kaf-metnikim” – soldiers whose medical profile was so low that… well, we had one guy we had to dress every morning because of his motor skills. There were two amputee kids, three legally blind kids, and this wiseass American. Me.
I was in over my head. Not because I couldn’t make the grade with my fellow recruits, but because the drill sergeants – all nineteen year old women – drove each recruit to his or her own “best.” Well, relative best: my first go ‘round in basic training was a whole seventeen days. Every time I didn’t understand a barked command, or every time I whimpered like the “saboni” (soft, pale) American that I was, I had to run to the tree and back. A kilometer; no big deal. Multiplied by a zillion (okay, at least twenty) times a day.
By day ten I was a mental wreck. Here I was, a twenty four year old American who’d had eight months to prepare for military life, totally wussed out. Shown up by a drill sergeant who yelled at us while pacing us through every exercise. And yes, even the guy we dressed had to do some exercises. And yes again, I did a lot more than most of the others
I broke down and cried that evening. I wasn’t blubbering about it being unfair, or too hard, or that I was a “lonely soldier” in that my immediate family was all overseas. I cried because I’d been forced to stare into the face of a reality my culture and upbringing denied: these girls were way tougher than me. Me, an ex cop. Me, macho computer consultant guy. The sergeant bent down, put her arms around me and comforted me. Not reassured me that “it’d all be okay.” But reassured me that I could and would do better the next day. Then she made me run another couple of times to the tree, just to "help me out."
It took seven months in some very strange army units, doing odd things, but after begging army doctors to raise my medical profile to combat status, I left my unit to be the only corporal doing basic training in Armor school that they’d seen in memory. And the fact that the best drivers, gunners and drill sergeants were all women was comforting, because I knew they had gotten from bad to good to better, just like me, regardless of chromosomal content.

Shlomi wants there to be no army, but if there has to be one in Israel it should be utterly egalitarian, and inclusive of all, not just the non-Ultra-Orthodox. And he still has a soft spot for women in uniform. Even the night-blind folks that hung onto his pack for their nighttime "hike" of three kilometers on a road at dusk.

Refuge

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 21:42:51 -0500

The Point
Liz Delaney

Two of us are one. Three of us travel the Hill Country together.
Stopping along the shoreline of this beautiful, quiet lake, we all emerge
to explore and stretch. Pulling out our car's ever-present kite, we look
for a clear patch from which to launch our daydreams. Walking, gazing
outward, we all reach a high path jutting out into immensity.

Sky. Water. Clouds. Winds. We are so overwhelmed by all of our
senses that we merely stand swaying in the whirlwinds sweeping up
along the surface of the lake. At a great distance, farther than we could
ever skip a stone, the heavens have opened, and are touching our Texas
loch. Flocks of full, gray clouds lazily drift along as beams of sunlight filter
through searching for the shallows and banks.

Sated with our views, we fumble together against the wind to assemble
our kite. The ducks sheltering from the pitching waves and downdrafts,
rock back and forth, side to side while watching our activities.

We tried each direction. One holding. Two running. Three giving advice.
Each time we held our breaths, dreamed our dreams, and watched as the
colorful designs darted, jerked, and crashed into the earth. Exhausted with
frustration and laughter, we rewound the string, folded the kite.....and just let ourselves drift away in the breeze. Holly Silver Wolf. Cindy Two Feathers.
Vanessa Running Buffalo.

lizdelaney2009@yahoo.com

Last Week’s Leftover’s: Idol Worshippers

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 21:03:27 -0500

Fill in the Blanks
Kathleen Trail

Monday morning, 8:40 a.m. – not even first period yet – and everyone is staring at me. Not just the normal kind of staring, the judge-y kind.

“Hey, Caroline!” Stephanie Curtis waves at me across the crowded hallway, baring her teeth with a pageant-queen smile. Not as if she’d ever win a Miss Congeniality award. She’s probably off to gossip with Kaitlynn about me. Whatever. They’re both just two-faced little wenches who can’t even do a standing backflip. If only I didn’t have to face them at cheerleading practice this afternoon.

I turn the corner into my trig class. “Caroline, I saved you a seat.” Thank God for Anna. I slip into the desk in front of her after she moves her textbook out of the way. I’m not sure how we got so buddy-buddy this year. We couldn't be more different. But dork or not, she’s got my back. Too bad Anna doesn’t have earplugs handy. I hear half-whispered conversations and snickers all around me and it’s making my skin itch.

Anna whispers, so Mr. Courtland won’t hear. “Um, hey. Did you do the homework? ‘Cause if you didn’t, you can borrow mine.” I can tell Anna’s trying to protect me, to drown out the evil chatter with her small talk. Actually, I do need to copy her homework. I suck at math and gave up on trig after the first six weeks. Luckily, Mr. Courtland gives special treatment to all of the jocks and cheerleaders though, so I somehow manage to pass all the tests and quizzes.

The funny thing about all the gossip is, I know deep in my heart that I’d be whispering about me and Luke and what happened at the football kegger too if I were them. God, I wish I could remember exactly what happened. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now. Too much cooler punch is never a good idea. Whether it stays down or not, it stains your dress and wrecks your brain. What little brain I have to wreck, that is.

“Really? You don’t mind if I borrow your homework? That would be awesome. I’m such an idiot with this stuff. Plus, I think I’m still a little hungover.” This is my way of letting Anna know she can ask me about Saturday night. I know she wants the dirt as much as the others do. The difference with her is that she won’t go blabbing my secrets, if I ever find out exactly what they are. Maybe I should ask Stephanie Curtis since she probably knows more than I do.

“Oh, yeah, so how WAS the party? I heard it was totally out of control.” I can tell by the look on her face she’s disappointed she wasn’t invited. I guess I could have asked her but Anna just travels in different social circles and I would have felt like I had to babysit her all night.

“Totally crazy, the stuff that high school legends are made of. I’ll give you details later.” Anna’s eyes light up at the promise of inside scoop on the school’s ruling class. Of course, I may have to invent a few things to fill in the blank spots, but I figure I owe her this. In this school, information is currency, even if you end up selling out yourself.

I will plead the fifth as far as how I know that cooler punch is never a good idea. When Kathleen is not herding her 4-year-old & 7-year-old daughters (and occasionally her husband), she works for a small recruitment ad agency in Austin. She can be reached at ktrail@alumni.rice.edu.

Justice and Us

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 15:27:48 -0500

Take My Wife
Neena Husid

Some refer to the female adult person with whom I cohabitate as my “wife.” Outwardly, I accept this terminology. In truth, each time some word rebel asks after my “wife,” I go all eeeeew and am too nauseous to revel in the empire crashing intent of this edgy usage. Yuck. The idea was to subvert, or at least cheerfully pervert, the paradigm not revert back to it.
But when we try to imagine human relationships in unfamiliar terms our minds blow out of our eyeholes. And, observing decent citizens straining to calculate the infinite variables of positions and domestic duties available to those in less traditional couplings can be excruciating. For example. . .
Usually, when at the grocery store, we, the cohabitant and I, shop rather than fondle one another. Regardless of what the female adult person with whom I cohabitate believes, this is a household task neither of us relish. You can bet if I’ve got her at Randall’s plopping jarred spaghetti sauce into a cart, she is doing it under duress; and by the time we drag up to the check- out line we feel, and look, as romantically engaged as the splayed chicken parts we lob onto the conveyor belt.
Eventually, the cashier takes her eyes away from totaling up our oddly commingled food stuffs and registers us: two middle-aged women standing side by side as if we were. . . what?
Puzzlement clouds the cashier’s face. Her brain ticks through the possibilities quicker than the perky sacker can ask, “paper or plastic.” Absent-mindedly, I graze the hand of the female adult person with whom I cohabitate. The cashier glimpses the touch. Noticeably bewildered, she turns back to her computer screen searching wildly for a UPC code that might explain us. There isn’t one.
By herself, she must unpack the bizarreness of two women buying tampons and tuna together and put it back on aisle 9 where normal is shelved. Restocking maven that she is, she does just that, saying finally, “You’re sisters, right?”
The female adult person with whom I cohabitate, smiles reassuringly and answers, “Yes.”
No wife here.

This is one of the first pieces I ever wrote for Drash Pit. It seems appropriate to rerun it in this, the last issue of Drash Pit as a weekly publication and at time same sex marriage seems less for the freaky and more for the future. Look for more coming soon in the all new monthly Drash Pit debuting October 1.

Last Week’s Leftovers: When You Get Home

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 23:47:46 -0500

Americana Graffiti
Kathleen Trail

I pivot my legs underneath the vanity table in my parents' bedroom and scoot in closer to put on my makeup. The gilt mirror on the wall is the same, but the face it reflects has a few more freckles and a lot more wrinkles than it once did. Perched atop the vintage, swivel-seat piano stool, my feet now reach all the way to the floor. And yet I still feel like the little girl who sat here so often, drinking in the Charles of the Ritz scent of my mother, sneaking a forbidden dab from her kitten-soft powder puff.

I pull open the wide, shallow top drawer to look for a Q-tip. The gilt-edged cardboard box lids that segregate combs from cotton swabs bear the marks of decades of uncapped lipsticks and errant eyeshadow applicators. Beneath a purse pack of tissues, I see a hint of frosted blue script. I nudge the Kleenex aside and uncover my childhood handiwork, graffiti tagged in a moment of impishness.

I remember the way the slick painted wood of the eyeliner pencil felt, gripped tightly in my hand. I can still hear the satisfying waxy sound it would make as I'd lift the pencil to start another word. The silver flecks embedded in the light blue wax had a sparkle and color saturation not to be found in ordinary pencils. What better way to practice your cursive? "I love Mom." A canny choice of words to be sure, although I'm not sure how premeditated it actually was.

My own daughter wanders down the hallway of my parents' house, finally discovering me in my hiding place and yanking me from my reverie. She wedges herself into my lap, creating a spot for herself that provides a full mirror view. She pulls a powder brush out of my makeup kit, burying her face in the soft sable bristles and giggling. I see her eyeing the forbidden items in my bag wistfully: foundation, blush, mascara. By the look on her face, I'm quite sure history will repeat itself if I'm not careful. Time to hide the eyeliner.

I'll confess – I spun around a couple of times on the rotating piano stool for old times' sake. When Kathleen is not herding her 4-year-old & 7-year-old daughters (and occasionally her husband), she works for a small recruitment ad agency in Austin. She can be reached at ktrail@alumni.rice.edu.

Leftovers: You MIght Need It when You Feel Better

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 23:11:55 -0500

A Miss and a Hit
Vanilla Thunder
My caller id let me know immediately that it was my father and it must have been something dramatic. I was in the middle of meeting with a new potential client. He was in the middle of his fifth day at his brand new nursing home. I had forgotten to turn off my phone. I apologized to the client, shut the phone down and tried to block out the call.
When I got back to my office I ran through my head about what it could be. He was miserable. He had ventured down the hall and found the Alzheimer’s wing, which would really scare him with perpetual moaners, escapees and grandmother’s squeezing plastic baby dolls as if they were real.
It could just be a computer issue, a cell phone charger missing or a landline whose ringer has been turned off.
It could be another medical emergency and my mother borrowing his phone to let us know.
Forty-five minutes later I walk into my office alone, take a deep breath and made the call.
“What do you call it when you miss a ball in baseball?” he asks.
“Whiff.”
“That’s it.” I can hear him typing, and he confirms my answer and spelling over the web.
He is writing a poem. He is active and living life from a hospital bed surrounded by his books and family pictures. Normally, I would not like to be bothered during the day to serve as his virtual thesaurus but today I am ecstatic.
VT just put his father in a skilled nursing facility with the assistance of his three sisters and mother. They found a Medicaid bed with a single room upgrade for only $150/month. For this miracle he is very grateful and is planning on increasing his own long-term care coverage.

Your Way Out

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 22:36:32 -0500

Darkness

Esther Mizrachi

"In .2 miles take exit XX to Highway YY," the mechanical voice said.

My knees were shaking.

Another highway change! This was like the fourth one. I looked at the clock. According to the gps there was still one hour and ten minutes to go.

OK breathe. You can do this. You are a good driver.

My little pep talk to self didn't work. My knees continued to shake and I continued to take in air only when I reminded myself to do so.

I am fully confident when driving on familiar roads, day or night. I am also quite fine driving on unfamiliar roads, with the help of a gps, during daylight. But put me on unfamiliar roads at night and I am terrified. What the heck is this about?

I gripped the steering wheel and stared at the blackness ahead, trying to ignore the lineup of cars passing me on the left. I focused on a car directly ahead of me, allowing it's rear lights to provide some guidance for the path ahead. When the car exited, I could see only a few short feet in front of me, the white lines of the road revealing only a hint of the shapes to come The twists, turns, and merges that were lurking would show themselves eventually but I could not see them now, no matter how hard I tried.

The obvious hit me.

Read the rest of this blog post at: http://wp.me/p1EDjC-Q. If you enjoy this blog please let Esther know by posting your comments and sharing with your friends.

Women In Trouble

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 21:45:52 -0500

Nobody Sings for Us
Neena Husid

Balladeers wax on heartbreak
Sirens tease about lust
But mindful minstrels never chirp
about lovers like us

Nobody sings for
the lovers who make it, the twosomes that last
the wrinkled hand-holders nursing a beer and a past
troubadours don’t strum, divas don’t risk
for the dubious who venture and the uncertain who kiss
No, nobody sings for us.

Nobody sings for
the roamers that stayed
nobody lauds the true believers who prayed
pianos players don’t tickle the ebony or the ivory
for cupids practiced in connivery

No, nobody sings.
Nobody plucks or pings
Nobody sings for us.

Crooners won’t croon
Fans neglect to swoon
There’s no singalongs for whistlers tweeting our tune
Nobody sings for us

The mezzo-soprano can’t cuss
The sequined chanteuse thinks we’re a muss
Even the head bangers don’t wanna fuss
And nobody
Not nobody
sings for us.

No rapper raps and no hipper hops
For those who tryst to a sideways bop

Forget the soul sista
Give up on the bluesy voiced A lister
Nobody wails for two wantons sans a mistah

Nobody – I mean nobody- sings for us.

There ain’t no rhymes for paramours past their prime
No hymns, no haws, no riffs, no precuss
There’s no one
not nobody who
sings about us.

Lyrics anyone. Get ‘em before Melissa does. neena@drashpit.com