By Pattiann Rogers
From "Symphony in Three Movements"
I thread through the assembly
between the rows of violins,
the ritual bows rising and falling.
I confess to the oboes, counsel
with the wisdom of the flutes,
linger in the church of the momentarily
stilled tambourines and timpani.
All the while Satan in white
satin tux follows me silently,
his white patent leather pumps
with the soft soles keeping time
almost imperceptibly to the beat
of the baton at the altar.
His synchonrization is perfect.
I try to avoid him, wandering
the hallway between the intoning
of the cellos, hiding among
the statuesque faith of the bass
fiddles. I draw the nearest one
to me, feel its deep strum
in my belly, press against its body.
He peers straight at me
through the strings of the harp.
He understands, he forgives.
Abiding and patient, he spies
on me in the blue of his pale
eyes as I kneel praying
with the woodwinds. He seems
to pray himself; beseeching
it appears. He stays so close
I can smell the ice-cold silver
of his hair, his boutonniere
of violets, an occasional
scent of rare whiskey.
He willingly enters the cadence
Of heaven beside me. I allow him.
He hums by heart, along
with my heart, the good news
of the horns, the hallowed
score of the first and second violas.
He is becoming the clean white
seed of reverence. He takes
my hand. Neither I nor the flaring
sun of the trumpets can detect
any longer his black glass skeleton.
He kisses my cheek. I say he is
as innocent and constant as beauty.
No canticle, no hymm of salvation
from the celestial, can ever save us now.
--------
It was a clear, cool Wednesday and I took several walks...unfortunately some of these were inspired by having a migraine, because exercise and fresh air sometimes help, though in the end it was drugs that cleared my head. I had really wanted to go see Obama speaking in Leesburg, but my parents are out of town visiting my uncle and I knew I'd have to get down there early in the afternoon and probably wouldn't get home till late in the evening, so since younger son had tennis, I figured I needed to stay local, and given how I was feeling that is probably just as well. I went out briefly to pick up a leather pouch for next year's RenFaire from a Freecycler and stopped at the mall to sniff the new Lush solid perfumes (not impressive -- Karma and American Cream remain my favorites). Then I took younger son to tennis and took a twilight walk in the gorgeous cool evening air, which smells of dry leaves...at least until Saturday, when we're supposed to get storms. Meanwhile I must report that the bed did not get made for the usual reasons:
This was the condition of the bed when I got out of it -- all three cats in place.
I went upstairs to check on several occasions and the situation had not changed.
Rosie could not even be bothered to raise her head.
Cinnamon, as always, was wary...
...while Daisy was busy licking herself.
The cats apparently took turns being on watch duty.
Though most often it was Cinnamon...
...unless it was her turn to lick herself.
In the evening we watched Pushing Daisies, which wasn't my favorite -- no aunts and some really cracky aspects, though some were also wonderful. Spoilers: There is something hilarious about a film noir episode of a show filmed in super-saturated technicolor; Olive's apartment is as against the rules of noir as is Olive's personality. And I totally adore Emerson's mom! Though I kind of wish they'd given the role to a black actress -- there are so few, though really there aren't a lot of roles for any women over 50 on television, and Emerson and Calista have fabulous screen chemistry. (She wants to hit a bar! She smokes stogies in the Pie Hole!) And there is something so charming about Ned (who's too sweet to go to The Obvious Place about Olive and Chuck's new cuddly relationship) not even knowing that Randy Mann is a weirdo -- okay, he's freaked out about the taxidermied Golden Retriever, but as soon as he knows Randy isn't the killer -- Mr. High School Football Asshole is after all much creepier even before we know he's also the Spartan mascot (and the writers are juuuuust this side of homophobic with that characterization, but only just).
Then we watched Crusoe, which we recorded off the USA rerun on Tuesday because we were at Girlyman when it originally aired on Friday night. I wish those reruns were going to be a regular thing, because I must admit that I think my days of watching SGA are over, otherwise. If I'm going to watch a show centered on two guys that has race-"otherness" issues and not enough awesome women, Crusoe has some awesome advantages from its era and source material to its Sean Bean lookalike main character (whose father is played by Sean Bean, whom I doubt will be back, but I will see Sean Bean every time I look at Philip Winchester). Plus it has Sam Neill as a regular castmember playing a guy whom I suspect must end up a villain, but I don't remember the book at all. The show can't seem to decide whether it's Cast Away or Pirates of the Caribbean; right now comical excess seems to be winning, but that's fine with me.
I was going to say something about Sarah Palin's wardrobe and travel expenses, but really, what more is there to add? I want to be a Real American just like her, except I hate high heels and lipstick and have no use for designer clothes and, you know, tie-dye is probably by definition Fake American!
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