Fellow Creatures - Wright Morris

For 28 months, I lived in a small room in a small town in Romania. The room was in a student dormitory. I guess you could say that the room, rather my living space, was divided into three spaces. There was a small entrance hall. Small meaning 3 feet by 5 feet. Immediately off of the entrance hall was my bathroom. 3 feet by 8 feet. Just enough for a toilet, sink and bathtub. Walking forward from the entrance hall, you would step into my living quarters…my room. The room served as my kitchen, bedroom and study space.

Life was tough at times in this little space. It was freezing in the winter, broiling in the summer and there was at least one mosquito in the room biting me throughout the entire year. At one point, I held off an invasion of about half a dozen mice. I used a wooden kitchen spatula to defend my territory.

Early on during my time in the room, I was set upon by the devils of loneliness. The only thing that kept them at a distance was a few beers which would allow me to drift off into a pleasant slumber forgetting that I was very ALONE.

As the first winter was setting in, M and I took a trip to Iasi. As we walked down a street towards the train station we passed a small pet store.

It was in this store that I found a friend that would pull me through some dark days of my life in Romania and who would later connect M’s parents to us after our departure…acting as our presence in their newly empty nest.

He was a small white parakeet we named Bolfic (chubby cheeks).

Bolfic was plucked from his nice warm home in a large cage with about 50 other birds and slammed into a small cage, alone, thrust into the cold October air, transported by train back to Negresti and placed upon my table in my bedroom. Bolfic sat in his 1 foot by one foot square cage for about a month. I provided food and water for him and after a few short days, he seemed to be comfortable in his surroundings. He would chirp in the mornings and was nice and quiet during the evenings.

One day, late in November, I had the rare visit from some friends from another town. The girl who accompanied my friend walked into my room, and after the expected “oh…how cute…you have a little bird”, she opened the cage and allowed Bolfic to fly from his cage.

It was seconds into my protestations that she set upon me scolding me for not allowing the bird just a little bit of freedom.

It was the best thing that could have been done for the little guy.

For the rest of his life, Bolfic enjoyed a bit of freedom that most “domesticated” birds never see. He was allowed to fly about my room, sit on M’s head, and when he was hungry, he realized that he would still have his freedom even if he returned to the inside of his cage to eat a few seeds.

This little bird, in a way helped right me…kept me a bit sane. Was a presence when I walked back to my cold room after a hard day of teaching.

He had a personality, and was rugged.

When M and I got married, I moved into her parent’s apartment. Bolfic came with me. Her parents came to really love the little guy.

It was obvious that when we moved to the States, we would be leaving Bolfic.

Right away, he acted as a stand-in for us.

During our weekly phone calls back to RO, we would ask about him and he parents would carry on telling us stories about his latest misbehaviors.

M’s father would play the flute for him and feed him corn puffs.

He kept M’s mom company during the long dark cold days of wither while her husband was out working.

He had become their “child”.

Well, as it happens to all living things, he died one day.

It’s sad, because I can’t remember exactly when this happened.

I think we found out about his death through M’s brother. He mentioned it off hand during a conversation.

We immediately called her parents, and they explained that yes, Bolfic died.

They said he was flying about the room and hit a wall…they supposed that he broke his neck.

He died doing what he loved…simply flying.

From a crowded cold cage in Iasi, to a small cold room in a student apartment and finally, into a warm loving room in a Romanian bloc, Bolfic brought love and comfort.

The Piano Tuner - Peter Meinke

Peter Meinke – 1932 - ????

With harsh turns of tuning pegs and string pops and banging of

keys…drunken shouts and forcible confinement, we find piano tuners entering our lives and forcing us to look at who we really are.

Driving us to the edge of insanity…and possibly leading us directly into that very state…they do us what we think is harm but should and could possibly be a great service.

Stepping outside of our boundaries is healthy. Being pushed by “tuners” is a healthy thing.

We must learn to recognize the tuners in our lives and allow them to do their job.

We must also tune ourselves. Push ourselves into situations both physically and mentally that pop a few strings or break a few old ivory keys.

The strings and keys will be replaced with newgut and whiter ivory.

“How hypocritical” it is of me to write the above sentences you say…those of you who know me.

Yes, I battle with my tuners. It may appear that I resist their applications.

But in reality, I allow my tuners to work on me daily.

You see, my tuners do not pound the keys, pop strings and confine me.

My tuning pegs are slowly turned…so slow that their movement cannot be consciously detected.

My keys are pounded upon - but their destruction and replacement happens at such a speed that many processes as inactivity and stagnation.

And my confinement…I see it not as solitary- but as a gift of freedom.

Clothing - John L'Heureux

John L'Heureux - October 26, 1934 –

Quite a few of us find ourselves wearing the tight white collar.

Quite a few of us find ourselves shedding that collar for so

meone…something…or just perhaps, ourselves.

I found myself in that position back in the mid 90s, and I discovered that changing my clothing back then was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Now, re-reading the above sentence, I would like to change the word “changing” to “supplementing”.

I made the additions to my wardrobe for me.

I don’t think I have reached the final outcome of that clothing supplementation - and perhaps I’ll never see the final outcome of the decisions I made so many years ago.

I am satisfied with what has happened and I’ll continue to live in my weird, strange mixed up set of clothes.

You see, I added to my toolbox rather than replacing certain tools.

You’ve Come a Long Way Mickey Mouse –Bev Jafek

Bev Jafek- ???

Mickey has lived his life.

He’s lived his life, seen us, and our place within his life, and reached a certain set of conclusions about existence…the deep meaning of it.

I’m about to step through a major door in my existence on this planet (easy…it’s the only one I’ve ever been on, and the only one I ever will be on). Once I pass through this door, I feel that how I have lived up to that point ( the point where I pass through the door) in my life will be re-focused and my set of conclusions that I feel I have reached so far in my life will be jarred.

This is a great thing.

We all need to be jarred…shaken and disturbed.

It mixes the oil with the vinegar.

But then there are those that are never shaken.

I have a certain fascination with people who work in parking garage ticket taking booths.

I stress over their lives. I worry about them in their little boxes. It’s easy for me to think that they could find another job…but could they really? I mean, has their life been lead to a point where they fit within a predetermined mold that only allows them to sit in this small box and collect parking garage tickets? How does this happen?

And then I think…”do they enjoy what they are doing?”

They have a job…they are making some money…

I think that I also overly my intellectual curiosities onto them.

Maybe they don’t want to “live a life” or they don’t know how to “live a life” and all they really know is their life in the box, and that box is comfortable to them.

I just find their existence really interesting.

Mickey says –

“And then I understood the enormity I had become I was like you. My life was lived on a line parallel to yours, but my capacity to reflect my own essence was so horribly perfect. I had discovered, as only an image can, that all your ability to think and feel is based on truncated images. What an uncomfortable creature you are – how prone to obsession, myopia, how divided from all you survey, what a watcher, defender, conquer. And so it is with love – the more distant I was from her, the more incited I became.

Them I truly saw the world you had created. For you are the species who creates a world to invite images. I found that vehicles, parks, whole streets, even cities had been created to incite images. It was astounding – I now understood what your kind had been feeling, what so much of your world was intended for. I became fascinated with the dialectics of people alone – driving in cars, hidden away with their books, sitting in their homes, drinking in whatever corner the world allowed. For I now knew a human secret: When alone, people have a truly horrifying hunger for another person, a hunger beyond satisfaction, a life of images held like a hand of cards against fate”

What a wonderful set of lines Jafek has written.

The Sudden Trees – H.E. Francis

H.E. Francis - H(erbert) E(dward) Francis - born 1924

And with this story, we find another that I think will stay with me a lifetime.

I’m feeling particularly sensitive to stories about children now – for obvious reasons.

My mind is in that state where anything that has to do with a child, childhood, parenting or family that passes across my radar…is instantly tagged and my hyper-aware, laser-like focus zeros in on it and I need to know everything about what is being presented.

This particular story is the second in this collection dealing with the death of a child and it comes directly after the wonderful story by Starkey Flythe.

I read both of these stories back-to-back one morning last week, and it may not have been such a good idea.

Then again, with this quality of writing, I suppose that anytime I read it, the impact would have been the same.

Found a page about Francis and it contained the following quote by him that gives his statement of writing. It is wonderful

"I want each story to hold in its clarity its own profound sense of the mystery we live. In my work, the story has to fix on what I find to be real (everlasting) in human experience within the flexing language of madness and the forms of chaos in our time.

"I want to live in my stories the lives, the spontaneous momentary revelations, of all who really want to live before they die, or who are not aware that they are alive, or who want to live what they cannot."

Wow…just wow.

“ flexing language of madness and the forms of chaos in our time.”

The madness and chaos of the early to mid eighties was certainly different than what we have today…but they surely had some shit going down back then.

I know that the thought of being vaporized at any moment weighed heavily on my 12 year old mind.

Now, the peace and security of dying instantly in a blinding flash of light has been replaced with the possibility of a long tortuous death brought on by a poison, virus, dirty bomb, a creative terrorist attack…or even worse, that you witness the death of your family due to any of the above.

In his writing, Francis uses his skill to place you directly into the body of the narrator, holding the sickly body of the young girl he is caring for.

You feel his emotions as she progresses through the stages of her sickness.

We should all be fortunate enough to give comfort to our loved ones as the pass away. We hold them at birth, and we should be able to hold them or be held at death.

What a wonderful story.

Walking, Walking - Starkey Flythe

Starkey Flythe - February 15, 1935

Nice meaty story – add a touch of psychiatric illness, and you have just the type of short I really like.

I’m not sure why the thoughts come to me when I’m in the shower. I’m sure someone out there has written why our minds are more at ease or creative in that particular space.

The thoughts come, and at times, especially in the mornings I have to choke back emotions…M is usually on the other side of the shower curtain, and she can tell by my face if there is something heavy going on in my mind.

The thoughts concern the death of a loved one, and how I would react. The minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years after their death.

Would I ever truly get over it?

What sort of effect would it have on my mental state?

What would my life become without that person?

It’s impossible to predict how we might react. All we can do is look at previous behaviors and attempt to derive some sort of knowledge as to what could happen.

I have been fortunate. The deaths in my family have all taken place far away from me.

Their impact was slight.

I’m afraid of the future…and what will not be slight.

Roses - Margaret Edwards

Margaret Edwards - ???

How long does of an encounter does it take for person’s characteristics to become grafted into part of your personality?

I suppose you must take into consideration both parties and the circumstances of the encounter.

I meet people, work with people, and if my time with them is long enough, involved enough for me to gauge parts of them…I’ll let a little grafting take place…I’ll invite the grafting and even promote it.

I’m conscious not to let the graft create a new named “rose” but there is a bit of noticable change.

Seek people to graft with and consider the positive aspects of accepting a little bit of their world in your life.