Fiction: "Stars." Cannibalism of fiction, rooftops in N.Y.C., book groups

Woolworth Building

One of my first New York friends, David, used to water plants of his friend who traveled lots and lived way downtown, near City Hall.  The friend's apartment had rooftop access, with views over the East River to Brooklyn and the red Watchtower sign; west across to the Woolworth Building, an architectural stunner. "Stars" takes place largely on that rooftop. I lifted the first draft from a novel I wrote that will never see the light of day. It works, I like to think. Cannibalism works.

Thanks to VerbSap's editor, so kind, intelligent and enthusiastic, and such a good writer herself. She published "Stars" in 2005. Here are the first paragraphs, followed by a link to the rest of the story. (I keep trying to keep my stories and poems in rotation.)




STARS

“O stars swirling swirling...”

“And swirling?” I suggest.

Because she snapped at our last book group Michelle is nervous and trying to divert us with this windmill-arm thing, as if memory worked like that. Let’s see, in June Michelle screamed she was dying of loneliness, but today she’s up here on the roof exhorting the firmament so no one remembers her outburst. Everyone does remember but we just factor it in.

Michelle is a bit stocky with biker calves and thighs and has that kind of short, straight hair that is never anything but straight and never held with a bow or clip. It is also never shimmery, but because it is nothing else—not red, not brown, not black—it’s blond. Her left eye is bigger than her right eye and sometimes looks frozen.

She chose this month’s reading, “The Burrow.” Kafka as a mole. And she’s hostessing, which she does periodically in this apartment with roof access and views. It’s not far from Wall Street. The tenant, her boss’s son, flies to Prague six times a year. We didn’t meet here for that whole awful year after, but we’re back.

“You know, I’m thinking we’ve read this tale of a mole...” Here’s Aaron, black curly hair, medium height, and prematurely stooped; a LAN guy at an advertising agency on 23rd. “Which means, if you will...”

Apparently we will.

“…we went underground with him for thirty or so pages, with his detailed account of false entrances and storerooms and tunnels. This is one paranoid and obsessive—”

“—He’s being a mole, Aaron,” I break in, “he’s not obsessive.” I am tall for a woman, 5’ 11”, and always wear boots with heels as if I didn’t care. You can bet I care in summer when my calves sweat beneath the suede. My hair is black, but with richer hues than Aaron’s; these days it’s short and Marceled. I have a pert face.

“So you’re telling me it’s in the nature of a mole to spend that much time touring Castle Keep as he calls it. Did he have a name anyway?” Aaron gives me a look and mouths a word.

Lester ? The minute Michelle looks his way, he desists.

She plants herself between LAN boy and me. “I don’t believe you completed your thought, Aaron.”

“You’re right...if I may continue.” He looks at me, without acknowledging Michelle’s support.

“Go on.” I glance away.

“Oh do.” Michelle’s voice is resonant, as if bouncing in a hollowed-out container.

I lift my hand; she slaps it. Hi, five.

“So us being on the roof is some kind of redemptive state.”

I nod, but can’t decide if Aaron’s self-important or just not sure of himself.

“We’re out of the muck, out of the subway, off the sidewalk, above the dirt. We see light.”

_______
by Sarah Sarai. Published in VerbSap.com, 2006. Read the rest on VerbSap, here.

Foodstuff Friday: muffins and the angels

Who knows why anything happens or doesn't. Sure, some things are certain, like if you drop a dime on the boss an angel develops a dangerous sounding cough; or rat out the mob you'll be dubbed "mousy" in Page Six. 

As to questions of greater import, however, like why I'm in bit of a winter blog-slump or if the sun at apogee is confident it's the best sun it can be, remain mysterious in an ageless, can't solve to got better things to worry about way.

Which brings us to muffins. A few years ago, I decided that in heaven there would be the best of ripe peaches, thin-crust pizza and muffins. I was more explicit in my reckoning with the Almighty, regarding mouth-wateringness, basil from hills of Tuscany, and moist though sugarlessness packed with fruit from the garden of good and evil.

It finally occurred to me that if heaven lives up to its rep, it will make available all foodstuffs according to our soon-to-be angelic desires. And if we lack desire, so be it. We won't miss it. Maybe.

A muffin is the baked equivalent of an apple. It is transportable, always tasty, a full meal if need be.  And really that's all I have to say, today, about muffins, about foodstuffs.  I was reminded of angels and Rilke a few minutes ago and so I post one of his poems, hot off the web, don't even know who translated. 

Ignorant Before the Heavens of my Life

Ignorant before the heavens of my life,
I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness
of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still.
As if I didn't exist. Do I have any
share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with
their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow
change with their changes? Let me put aside
every desire, every relationship
except this one, so that my heart grows used to
its farthest spaces. Better that it live
fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than
as if protected, soothed by what is near.
_______________
Rainier Maria Rilke

Christmas movies, Abba, booze, free asssociation

When I moved to New York I was introduced to a loose group of gay and straight men and women, all younger than I am, devoted to their vodka, especially David, my egress to the group through a Seattle friend. He was extremely intelligent, gay, self-sufficient and devoted to booze. He was also devoted to things Scandinavian (he spoke several languages), including Abba, would crank up the stereo and we'd dance.

He owned his apartment, always enviable, but that didn't guaranty compliant neighbors. The stereo was usually and quickly cranked down. He made use of the interim to pour another round. I'm not a dedicated drinker and by then—I was in my forties—not much of a drinker redux and amplified; but very much a wuss. More than once I remember surreptitiously pouring my drink into a plant (sorry) or empty glass. Nancy Reagan, honey, it's hard to say no.

I wasn't happy with these friends and eventually they were no longer friends. A different David and some others, who I met in my first six months here, are still friends. We see action movies together and go out for a meal. Back then we'd also play board games.

I am faced with a conundrum today, a problem lite—very lite. A few times a year we have brunch first and then head to David's apartment to watch a DVD, instead of going to a theater. I've been asked to offer a few suggestions. You must remember, my family used to go to a movie on Christmas Day, after festivities died down.

A movie on Christmas Day sounds great (at least to me) but there is that serious streak running through my blood. One year we saw Brother Rocco, a grim Italian art film. I was ten or twelve. I was outraged. I didn't turn away from art film, but reserved a space in my ten or eleven year-old heart for fun film.

David is okay with comedy. He likes it, but another and more dominant of this group is disinterested. Maybe it's silly movies associated with dope. Harold and Kumar (the first was good, the second dull). I want to suggest, among other movies, The Ringer, which stars, of all people, Johnny Knoxville, and has a horrendous premise, that Knoxville will fake being "special" so he can enter the Special Olympics. So he can win. So his uncle, played by Brian Cox, who will bet, can get money owed to bad people.

My next blog will be a story I wrote, published in 2005. It's locale is a rooftop I danced (to Abba) on through the graces of the first David. I was diverted by the Davids and memory. But it all fits.

to. be. continued.

Goddess of the Palm

[note: I'm rewriting this poem every day]

World, child, my imaginal pattern, my namesake.
I throw myth and a caution to the midnight sapphire,
light stuck fires to warm goddesses and their rapists.
In my sky, women not ignored. In my pointillist
galaxy each constellation, a you-are-here arrow.
I made town square an eternal pillory of loneliness
and reckoning (a way to find your way). Mars
raped Rhea Silvia: Romulus, Remus, Lac Lupinum
[wolf milk]. Howdy, Rome. Legend’s old as lust
doomed as pride embedded in our helix vining
up a trellis tra-la. They gave me a watering can
small for a little girl which I was until confusion
cured that. Elevation’s for a few good women
and holies and what a word strolling along our
red carpet tongues. I glory in forward motions.
Like Hephaestus forging thunderbolts for Zeus
(they’re very male), we’re lucky if crippled.
The limping god is myth’s Michelangelo and
what’s his name’s shield our lame one’s Sistine
Chapel, envisioned weddings and war, cattle
and sheep, women and lightly oiled men.
We overly love standard bearers and our gestures
not enough. Oh ladies, pity our everyday mischief,
our cherished thinking. Oh my and tra la and la.
I was to detail constellations and unambiguities
of morality, venality. I was to set it right. Er, uh.
We are feral, but no one’s perfect. Look up, up.

image from:

http://www.sylvie-tribut-astrologue.com/category/petit-cours-dastrologie/