tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90980440219573347652024-02-18T21:10:39.752-08:00Femme Malheureuse's FictionCreative writing, including fan fiction, by Femme Malheureusefemme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-81405954186253958822015-04-23T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T19:30:13.667-07:00Femme d'une age<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnW-HyIjksAto8mP97HFl2G9rlsygIeRF-QUTnZGTtm4-L4NhsDVXAq1DwVTtlXXVNn8BO_YlZ4xuKSwg5dkHWoMKBXCk3Zvax8iwqI2az8aD75Ln_KmNsRjA4LjcVF_kmfphzdJrmo0/s1600/AlfonsMucha_WomanFruit_DateTBD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnW-HyIjksAto8mP97HFl2G9rlsygIeRF-QUTnZGTtm4-L4NhsDVXAq1DwVTtlXXVNn8BO_YlZ4xuKSwg5dkHWoMKBXCk3Zvax8iwqI2az8aD75Ln_KmNsRjA4LjcVF_kmfphzdJrmo0/s400/AlfonsMucha_WomanFruit_DateTBD.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
<i>Femme d’une age certaine</i><br />
they say with a Gallic quirk of the eyebrow,<br />
as if this sweetly whispered label<br />
makes any damned difference<br />
to those of us sandwiched between<br />
adult children and death.<br />
<br />
Women of a certain age,<br />
you know, <i>them</i>,<br />
the ones who are no longer first in line<br />
and whose talents and achievements are recited<br />
as if they were an old mantra<br />
from now-defunct religion.<br />
<br />
<i>Donna di una certa età,</i><br />
say those dark-eyed men with<br />
twitchy fingers at the rumps of<br />
younger women who do not yet<br />
know better than to walk too close—<br />
<i>Sono ossessionati dai loro peni.</i><br />
<br />
They, who wrap us in these words<br />
before relegating us to the shelf,<br />
do not understand the truth of this age.<br />
There’s a reason we witches are not<br />
depicted as kittenish young girls,<br />
but as sleek, powerful cougars.<br />
<br />
We are only <i>à mi-chemin,</i><br />
<i>a metà strada,</i><br />
halfway through with you.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graphic: Fruit, c. 1897, Alfons Maria Mucha</span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-29081275629852597692015-04-22T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T19:45:06.701-07:00Regrets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJafhGWMi0J6aI5aqL_ZRMpvnp00XNmXUCnc3bgs_U1PJ6AYb20WEiEFqHn_8s3kSQue76LdnpVc0GwJpMuPSHPMd6o2LSB_RWBF5o6B38f2yeUNuxn_y-4UROGVbN2yAqDk2niZwoBE/s1600/Regret_karmablue-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJafhGWMi0J6aI5aqL_ZRMpvnp00XNmXUCnc3bgs_U1PJ6AYb20WEiEFqHn_8s3kSQue76LdnpVc0GwJpMuPSHPMd6o2LSB_RWBF5o6B38f2yeUNuxn_y-4UROGVbN2yAqDk2niZwoBE/s320/Regret_karmablue-Flickr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Monday motorcade moans<br />
a mile away from where I lay<br />
waking to lingering regret.<br />
<br />
This is an anniversary<br />
marked by many motorists<br />
though they don't know<br />
they weren't invited.<br />
<br />
Built from a decade<br />
of self-denial and sweat,<br />
this house sits square<br />
parallel to the highway.<br />
<br />
Emerging from a field<br />
the color of puffballs<br />
surfacing beneath the soil<br />
where corn once grew,<br />
<br />
The frame assembled<br />
then windows sealed<br />
the snow and rain from<br />
hearthstone inside.<br />
<br />
Deer hunters' morning,<br />
the sounds of men and trucks<br />
faded with each window<br />
falling into its sash.<br />
<br />
Looking out the wet glass<br />
over the sapling-studded grass<br />
I knew in my bones<br />
the trees would shield me.<br />
<br />
But I was wrong,<br />
each morning a reminder<br />
that life doesn't stop<br />
once a goal is attained.<br />
<br />
Did the trees know<br />
another truth in the earth<br />
below them and this house<br />
I built ten years ago?<br />
<br />
They do not mask<br />
the motorists' march a mile away<br />
or failure's maudlin emotion<br />
this side of the pane.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/dnqLp" target="_blank">Regret by karmablue via Flickr</a></span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-3096075923150973852015-04-21T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T19:51:41.132-07:00Incongruity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvJElwi27YUa8NGR53J1HJnaTPDpFHIHlfT39SS_0sF7wWGPES-TtkWOcocXv5TYaNxm98819L877QaLBeaQqFXiMSZ5PCeKb8uE9QxiasJuGvGOgWEAWXIdGZr-7FhYxfEa9z8eqtIs/s1600/FogDrone_johannesg-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvJElwi27YUa8NGR53J1HJnaTPDpFHIHlfT39SS_0sF7wWGPES-TtkWOcocXv5TYaNxm98819L877QaLBeaQqFXiMSZ5PCeKb8uE9QxiasJuGvGOgWEAWXIdGZr-7FhYxfEa9z8eqtIs/s320/FogDrone_johannesg-Flickr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Drone<br />
hum of suburbia<br />
widest riding mower deck<br />
hovering over the greenest grass<br />
<br />
Drone<br />
whine of desert<br />
widest wingspan<br />
levitating over the sparest earth<br />
<br />
Fog<br />
plane parked<br />
tarmac waits wetly<br />
passenger trance along jetways<br />
<br />
Fog<br />
communications confused<br />
technicians mouse warfare<br />
weapons from too-distant screens<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/2kNuFS" target="_blank">Fog Drone by johannesg via Flickr</a></span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-43648846526370986012015-04-20T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T20:05:57.187-07:00Rise, Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4PiFHaGIx0vOw5NqlTD6M90Y3n64ZwRtM7e2yOll2B6T_lQ4Slf_tl7ratnK2KtnHvtnl3h71v_7pYlpRTXwDvDmrZF6ATbyzTEI-Em4oWo4d9dOQTN1JbgaSJok2yRfHThI2gM_9YA/s1600/Baltimore28APR2015_ArashAzizzada-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4PiFHaGIx0vOw5NqlTD6M90Y3n64ZwRtM7e2yOll2B6T_lQ4Slf_tl7ratnK2KtnHvtnl3h71v_7pYlpRTXwDvDmrZF6ATbyzTEI-Em4oWo4d9dOQTN1JbgaSJok2yRfHThI2gM_9YA/s320/Baltimore28APR2015_ArashAzizzada-Flickr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The photograph lies, its thousand-word array in millions of pixels<br />
portray a second from decades past.<br />
<br />
Helmets and batons, shields and guns, teargas and dogs,<br />
the city’s summer streets of Sixty-Eight.<br />
<br />
Soldiers, police weaponized, their attitude Spartan<br />
against the Persians at Plataea.<br />
<br />
Hoi polloi, angered, their attitude righteous,<br />
rail against their impoverished, punishing serfdom.<br />
<br />
But the photo lies, its focus betrays the scale<br />
of victims’ names drawing a larger, menacing picture.<br />
<br />
Hone in on the details, jeans, jackets, all the attire<br />
different than it was, now nearly fifty years ago.<br />
<br />
Forty-seven years will not fit in this frame,<br />
spilling over the asphalt like ageless smoke, as adolescent blood flows.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/snJMX4" target="_blank">Baltimore, c. 28April2015, by Arash Azizzada via Flickr</a></span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-38649207704887806792015-04-19T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T20:19:47.671-07:00Grey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTocaIra8rBlc5w-6BsoV82_BXW9-FEUMDHMOHjKBRoZut73Ehx4tZFodd8bxKWosqRWrhP5onB_q6Ms18aTRomhsaszIQCbLBeNoRH0d9G4jB8yipo7GViPrP-TBi_8jg_ap8M36KZU/s1600/GrayAndBlueSunrise_ScottSmithson-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTocaIra8rBlc5w-6BsoV82_BXW9-FEUMDHMOHjKBRoZut73Ehx4tZFodd8bxKWosqRWrhP5onB_q6Ms18aTRomhsaszIQCbLBeNoRH0d9G4jB8yipo7GViPrP-TBi_8jg_ap8M36KZU/s400/GrayAndBlueSunrise_ScottSmithson-Flickr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Shades there be,<br />
not those hues<br />
ridiculed or ridiculous.<br />
Reality spans<br />
nearly nuclear white,<br />
shy of midnight’s black,<br />
and all the universe between,<br />
undefined, unnamed, oft unseen.<br />
<br />
Shades of the past drawn,<br />
my grandmother’s furs,<br />
the blinds on the windows,<br />
the smoke and the ash,<br />
the granite on her grave,<br />
my inheritance in dust.<br />
<br />
Shades of this day color<br />
my mother’s hair,<br />
the foam on third coast waves,<br />
the sunrise after the storm,<br />
the fen’s air at twilight,<br />
my son’s eyes at birth.<br />
<br />
Shades of tomorrow toss<br />
my own wind-blown hair,<br />
the shadows on the wall,<br />
the snow across the screen,<br />
the light over the pond,<br />
my daughter’s pale face at dawn.<br />
<br />
Unbidden, unwritten,<br />
often unfolded, unending<br />
Truth spreads<br />
its whitening wings wide<br />
over darkened day<br />
where underneath<br />
these shades be.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/8RErrj" target="_blank">Scott Smithson via Flickr</a></i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-83017682008214545852015-04-18T20:55:00.000-07:002015-07-06T20:23:42.314-07:00The Two of You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9XrFS3ICwz8Cysa1d28qyAQkwaFgDTljKgs6cBdPl3PxfthTv3Z4uwL3vUhS1PRAJzPu2653UvBEM32Kid0j92yv3KwqIMUqcqQxRtbjKEEeqcwPrFRjtBzRScNI9A6rmyyTO4TE_Tc/s1600/CanadaGeeseSeney_LarryMcGahey-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9XrFS3ICwz8Cysa1d28qyAQkwaFgDTljKgs6cBdPl3PxfthTv3Z4uwL3vUhS1PRAJzPu2653UvBEM32Kid0j92yv3KwqIMUqcqQxRtbjKEEeqcwPrFRjtBzRScNI9A6rmyyTO4TE_Tc/s400/CanadaGeeseSeney_LarryMcGahey-Flickr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Your presence at the edge of my lawn is both reassuring and odd.<br />
I wish I could ask you so many questions and<br />
have a reasonable expectation of a cogent response.<br />
<br />
Why are you here — and why the two of you, together?<br />
It's clear you're together-together, like a couple.<br />
One of you watches while the other eats or rests.<br />
Even when you both rest, one of you is always alert,<br />
always watching out for the other's best interests.<br />
<br />
Your attire gives nothing away, dressed in the same<br />
comfortable uniform common to your kind.<br />
I don't even know if you are male and female, and unrelated,<br />
or siblings, cousins, or an old, long married couple<br />
whose gender no longer matters because<br />
the kids have long flown the coop, so to speak.<br />
I don't even know if you're M/M or F/F,<br />
though it really doesn't matter to me any more<br />
than it appears to matter to you.<br />
<br />
And why my lawn, this patch near the pond?<br />
Naturally you do not prefer the treeline or the trees,<br />
across the path away from the pond.<br />
That's not your thing, and you're like-minded about<br />
this preference.<br />
Birds of a feather, as they say.<br />
<br />
Will you be here long?<br />
Should I plan on your company for the month,<br />
for the rest of the spring and summer,<br />
for the rest of the season?<br />
Should I tell the neighbors so they avoid my lawn,<br />
walk their noisy little yappy dogs far from here,<br />
leave you in quiet, undisturbed?<br />
The loss of their presence won’t hurt my feelings.<br />
Not one bit.<br />
<br />
Should I tell the lawncare people<br />
you will be here for weeks, or months,<br />
so they exercise more care with scheduling their work<br />
around whatever schedule you two keep,<br />
doing whatever it is you two do,<br />
besides eat, sleep, and watch?<br />
<br />
I wish I could ask you these things.<br />
I wish I could know what it is I should do for you.<br />
But communications between our people are stymied<br />
until you two learn to use cellphones,<br />
or until we learn to speak goose.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/bL82Di" target="_blank">Larry McGahey via Flickr</a></i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-47196634730382063412015-04-17T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-23T23:32:49.520-07:00Seeing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI6-ta_6wt7dJNPEBPOuJx-1bHrPdLuNx8KrzoVI_5t7eNVj_5SFXXnCnjm4JrmqlW3dgJkQJbRiPic680PoCPj8XCLJnzV9Pv4auO7snS51BxyNZxIBGfzBQ6hJG0dSyYachKDfWM-k/s1600/SuperiorBeach_HeidiBlanton-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI6-ta_6wt7dJNPEBPOuJx-1bHrPdLuNx8KrzoVI_5t7eNVj_5SFXXnCnjm4JrmqlW3dgJkQJbRiPic680PoCPj8XCLJnzV9Pv4auO7snS51BxyNZxIBGfzBQ6hJG0dSyYachKDfWM-k/s1600/SuperiorBeach_HeidiBlanton-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Pink quartz sand, tinted afternoon warm,<br />
cold water wash over pine needles,<br />
broken cedar branches bowed by breeze.<br />
<br />
With my eyes closed, I am 16 again,<br />
my skin feels the same, my nose knows no different,<br />
here on the beach stretched out on a blanket.<br />
The coarse grass rustles at the top of the dune,<br />
as it did decades ago.<br />
<br />
Sugar plum trees sag, purple fruits sway,<br />
wax wings whistle under the branches.<br />
Sea gulls skree passing by overhead.<br />
<br />
With my eyes open, I can see the same blue,<br />
my sight finds nothing different in the passing clouds.<br />
So long as I do not move, the world has fallen away<br />
and back to the place where I was his,<br />
as I was decades ago.<br />
<br />
Lake waves lull, soft rapid rhythm.<br />
Blue melds grey as surf susurrus shifts,<br />
crows warn a northeaster coming.<br />
<br />
But cooling air and raindrops demand the truth,<br />
I am not a girl on a beach any longer.<br />
There is only a woman, gathering a wet blanket,<br />
who can see much further than Superior's horizon,<br />
as she wished she could so long ago.<br />
<br />
___________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/5S4m4" target="_blank">Heidi Blanton via Flickr</a></span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-5449231047515272732015-04-16T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-23T13:48:35.064-07:00Lemme 'Splain It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9RMknZBfMKpV-cRPwqfrG7_-k059iCXVLGvO1Ed3St9sEIZK01lFF7zN8YkOiW3OZbshu3iE6vdYXBzDdfk5Mg_yqNTu0HX2xdqtBzW9nvRYJbXlNGHAInGqN6qJ4petlLL7ilo1_oY/s1600/Explanation_HaroldAbramowitz-Flickr_modBW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq9RMknZBfMKpV-cRPwqfrG7_-k059iCXVLGvO1Ed3St9sEIZK01lFF7zN8YkOiW3OZbshu3iE6vdYXBzDdfk5Mg_yqNTu0HX2xdqtBzW9nvRYJbXlNGHAInGqN6qJ4petlLL7ilo1_oY/s1600/Explanation_HaroldAbramowitz-Flickr_modBW.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>Well, actually</i>, it's not about whatever topic<br />
toward which you decide to derail this conversation,<br />
something diametrically opposed to this one<br />
that had nothing to do with you whatsoever.<br />
<br />
You've interjected yourself into this conversation,<br />
which needed no further explanation,<br />
in order to redirect its participants away<br />
from criticism of the larger body of your kind.<br />
<br />
<i>Technically speaking</i>, it's not about whatever abstrusity<br />
you've chosen as your beast of burden today,<br />
one which travels 180 degrees away from here,<br />
safely away from where this conversation was headed.<br />
<br />
You've demanded data-based evidence,<br />
when we would not be herded but heard,<br />
when we insisted this critique had a life<br />
of its own without your validation or input.<br />
<br />
<i>But you're being polite and reasoned</i>, you insist,<br />
though your interjectory redirect proves otherwise.<br />
Though your mother likely told you butting in was rude,<br />
you didn’t listen to her any more than you do the rest of her gender.<br />
<br />
<i>Frankly, you're not sure what exactly this discussion is about,</i><br />
<i>but you think the difficulty lies in</i> — and cue our eyes rolling.<br />
Not everything is about you, or what you think,<br />
or what you believe is a truth we must not already know.<br />
<br />
You can hit the ground running, buddy, perpendicular and away<br />
from this place where failure to listen has worn out your welcome.<br />
Find a land of men where your mansplainin' will be greeted<br />
with open arms, or head butting, and arm wrestling, belching, and beer.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/9nJrkK" target="_blank">Harold Abramowitz via Flickr</a> (modified from color to B/W)</i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-37026213261800602432015-04-15T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-23T23:58:49.456-07:00Suit Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlPfZF_VHa2cXD-dgpXG0AxBl1BVwKoYfRz2u1QEGYdaqOGCWPs0Z7jdeSV__zN6Hnls3prcqGIMZO5H4sFGx-7duy30jGOyw1wvOJhaCJcveulMv0PEgkXk990qoOVA5XezstnyKWr4/s1600/Tuxedo_StevenDepolo-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlPfZF_VHa2cXD-dgpXG0AxBl1BVwKoYfRz2u1QEGYdaqOGCWPs0Z7jdeSV__zN6Hnls3prcqGIMZO5H4sFGx-7duy30jGOyw1wvOJhaCJcveulMv0PEgkXk990qoOVA5XezstnyKWr4/s1600/Tuxedo_StevenDepolo-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This is <i>terra nova</i>,<br />
or rather, <i>mare ignotum</i><br />
in which we now swim.<br />
Unfamiliar tongues whisper<br />
about sharkskin,<br />
as if a deep-sea predator<br />
sized thirty-eight long<br />
will swim up the aisle<br />
at any moment.<br />
<br />
Why are there buttons<br />
here along the cuff,<br />
he asks as he stands<br />
and turns about<br />
in front of the mirror,<br />
an eerie reflection of<br />
a small blond child<br />
he once was,<br />
all why-when-where-why<br />
accompaniment,<br />
a curious young lieutenant for<br />
this coin-bearing sail<br />
across retail Styx.<br />
<br />
To keep men from wiping<br />
their runny noses<br />
along their sleeves,<br />
says one theory,<br />
I can only reply,<br />
attributing the origin<br />
to that dapper Corsican<br />
who adorned his soldiers<br />
and sailors alike<br />
in the finest French<br />
men's fashion circa 1814.<br />
A student of European history,<br />
he nods wryly,<br />
knowing attire does not<br />
assure a fleet's success.<br />
<br />
And now we sail into<br />
the <i>mare crisium</i>,<br />
churning waters of<br />
crises foamed by<br />
social constraints.<br />
Which is better,<br />
this suit, or that tuxedo?<br />
Which will his friends buy,<br />
and what will his date prefer?<br />
What other hazards are there,<br />
beyond the price on the label?<br />
<br />
I cannot answer these queries.<br />
This sea is uncharted<br />
for me as well.<br />
His older sibling<br />
was so much easier,<br />
as if born to swim<br />
in these turbulent tides.<br />
She only asked for<br />
my money, she never<br />
asked for my time.<br />
Her liquid pink gown proved<br />
her powerful navigation skills.<br />
<br />
But we paddle on,<br />
attacking the rapids<br />
of ties, vests, and<br />
cumberbundian fjords.<br />
He will look as if<br />
he, too, was born<br />
to traverse these waters.<br />
Brave on, my little sailor,<br />
<i>per audacia ad ignotum</i>,<br />
voyage into the<br />
strange new sea.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/6SznTQ" target="_blank">Steven Depolo via Flickr</a></span></i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-45218866921801520092015-04-14T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-23T23:59:08.295-07:00Secrets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREGHVeyXqtBTLyJvnLsD3a9Wcee3uneXbY1qrIzJNjZEKpXGn025G3NGkrIIYXYGMM6iMSIQOMBKJNx3L1THXhv1N_gXBKmfckHWvFm8MVbQuhUo6Bl1SYH9USANLUS94FEvAH-aCrsU/s1600/LoveLetter_ortizmj-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREGHVeyXqtBTLyJvnLsD3a9Wcee3uneXbY1qrIzJNjZEKpXGn025G3NGkrIIYXYGMM6iMSIQOMBKJNx3L1THXhv1N_gXBKmfckHWvFm8MVbQuhUo6Bl1SYH9USANLUS94FEvAH-aCrsU/s1600/LoveLetter_ortizmj-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Cleaning out his dresser drawers<br />
reveals many things.<br />
Some are obvious, like the underwear<br />
and socks that no longer fit him<br />
after his last growth spurt,<br />
remaining untouched <br />
since I cleaned his room last.<br />
<br />
He has grown even more quickly<br />
than he or I have grasped,<br />
erupting faster than the span between<br />
back-to-back seasons’ shopping trips.<br />
<br />
This truth is evident,<br />
in the one foot square space<br />
containing men’s small boxers in various cotton plaids<br />
and another square foot space of smallish white knit anklets.<br />
<br />
But I am left with uncomfortable questions<br />
only a mother will ponder and suffer.<br />
Like: what underwear has he been wearing,<br />
and where is it now, if it isn’t in this drawer?<br />
<br />
Fortunately the answers are easy and<br />
not too disquieting.<br />
He is out of town with fellow students,<br />
all his daily-worn clothing with him,<br />
and I am cleaning now because he is<br />
not underfoot, moaning like the toddler<br />
he once was years ago.<br />
<br />
Mom, Mother, Ma, Mom—<br />
No. None of that, and I am at<br />
my uncomfortable leisure to clean and<br />
enable this coltish creature’s quarters.<br />
<br />
Another disquieting question <br />
lies wadded up, blue lines upon white paper,<br />
ball point ink in his sloppy still-childish hand,<br />
a love letter to an unnamed girl.<br />
<br />
I can’t help read it,<br />
the words are scrawled so large<br />
they jump off the paper like others<br />
I once saw more than thirty years ago.<br />
<br />
Did my mother similarly<br />
take pause at a scrap of paper, holding her breath,<br />
wondering if she should read further,<br />
to learn something about me, about herself?<br />
<br />
I push it away, beneath untouched socks<br />
knowing already what I need to know.<br />
Like a boy thirty years ago,<br />
he is growing up, but not grown up. <br />
<br />
No. Not just yet.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/4jY4uD">ortizmj via Flickr</a></i></span>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-5791345163352469762015-04-13T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-19T20:28:13.656-07:00The Sound of Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbUhDv7yz6yB1IMwlxZKhyfcsfhMRrCQti2HeQIz92rLdxgCW_E1ZM66iOMUoaKzHcAC4hxdIFqDg-TLicXzHtKC-yCjoEfO8otOJJuQJ4hpuPm5urWCYIPXUe2wrs3IcDSzlMrFrIDSs/s1600/Time_ToniVerduCarbo-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbUhDv7yz6yB1IMwlxZKhyfcsfhMRrCQti2HeQIz92rLdxgCW_E1ZM66iOMUoaKzHcAC4hxdIFqDg-TLicXzHtKC-yCjoEfO8otOJJuQJ4hpuPm5urWCYIPXUe2wrs3IcDSzlMrFrIDSs/s1600/Time_ToniVerduCarbo-Flickr.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Sound weighs nothing, says physics.<br />
It is only the perception of air's movement<br />
When interpreted by one's ear.<br />
Small waves of energy push<br />
Smaller particles across an airy sea.<br />
<br />
The clock's ticking-ticking<br />
Across the breadth of this great room<br />
Is really nothing but my ear's recognition<br />
Of the second hand's small motions,<br />
Swimming strokes from mark to mark.<br />
<br />
Funny how the sound accrues<br />
and gathers weight as the hand works<br />
Its way around the face,<br />
Pouring a burden upon my chest<br />
Under which I suffocate.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/4tNrxq">Toni Verdú Carbó via Flickr</a></i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-33369880060267734452015-04-12T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-19T20:23:48.056-07:00Kitchen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuMEfbKgq6OHIH1y1QjRNSB_XEQluzzLsFVF8VdQEHXGJTBOtB3ne4qjNYbYmCNJH3XjPB0z51qXAlgPBSFYQDw-6AECpYi8U_1OeqWWxHj4a-Weeewca5U6y8nVWK6_e5Qex30B2dyk/s1600/Kitchen_bgblogging-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuMEfbKgq6OHIH1y1QjRNSB_XEQluzzLsFVF8VdQEHXGJTBOtB3ne4qjNYbYmCNJH3XjPB0z51qXAlgPBSFYQDw-6AECpYi8U_1OeqWWxHj4a-Weeewca5U6y8nVWK6_e5Qex30B2dyk/s1600/Kitchen_bgblogging-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The kitchen is tight,<br />
in spite of our scrimping<br />
for more than a decade<br />
for a generous building fund.<br />
We denied ourselves<br />
so many luxuries,<br />
in order to build a house<br />
with a much bigger kitchen.<br />
<br />
The galley kitchen<br />
in our old house<br />
was too narrow,<br />
barely wide enough <br />
for two persons to walk<br />
side-by-side.<br />
Your cheek, my jowl,<br />
your stirring, my chopping,<br />
too intimate when<br />
room required to<br />
swing a frying pan<br />
or throw a knife.<br />
<br />
Parties gravitated<br />
to that too-tight space,<br />
forming two rows,<br />
face to face,<br />
drinking, laughing, talking,<br />
sucking in their stomachs<br />
should someone need<br />
to walk through<br />
to get to the porch.<br />
Body contact made<br />
most efficiently,<br />
everyone could have,<br />
might have<br />
touched each other<br />
in that kitchen.<br />
<br />
This kitchen is open,<br />
a large stainless island <br />
with wide surface area,<br />
more counterspace<br />
than we dreamed of<br />
in that cramped ranch.<br />
But the island creeps close<br />
to the counter somehow,<br />
and we find ourselves <br />
again cheek to jowl,<br />
party goers drawn<br />
to the narrowed space<br />
as if we'd never built<br />
a much bigger house.<br />
<br />
It never occurs to us<br />
to change this again.<br />
It is what it is,<br />
after all these years,<br />
crayons and refrigerator magnets,<br />
burnt toast and cheesecakes,<br />
small fingers kneading gnocchi,<br />
aprons near the stove.<br />
<br />
Those cable television shows<br />
with shiny-faced hosts<br />
demonstrating home construction<br />
and remodeling<br />
omit one key thing:<br />
As much as we think we want<br />
that expansive place,<br />
bright with paint and chrome,<br />
the thing that cannot be built <br />
with lumber and nails,<br />
drywall and tile,<br />
is the dance along<br />
that tight space,<br />
the throbbing heart<br />
of a place called home.<br />
<br />
___________<br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/4YeooT" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4d469c;">b</span>gblogging via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
</div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-33949157572448945992015-04-11T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-19T20:04:57.397-07:00Whenless<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugkO9c-OHFL9_JglJ33l4h5veYgfRe3CBr_Lv4iKlM8_-UakH1kJynq9G553QgSfc6RQx4pIVV1bRFw4XaTWvx0aTFbYpKFOIxEaAFefqW0KMhJBt4dcTnlNLEFP8aVH13XdowOfhnzk/s1600/EclipseSolaire_BenjaminGillet-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugkO9c-OHFL9_JglJ33l4h5veYgfRe3CBr_Lv4iKlM8_-UakH1kJynq9G553QgSfc6RQx4pIVV1bRFw4XaTWvx0aTFbYpKFOIxEaAFefqW0KMhJBt4dcTnlNLEFP8aVH13XdowOfhnzk/s1600/EclipseSolaire_BenjaminGillet-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Time stagnates with the darkness,<br />
its moorings hang loose and sway<br />
in night's ink,<br />
though tied between night and morning.<br />
<br />
I cannot discern when I am<br />
in this deepest shade of blue,<br />
only where I am by the scent<br />
of lavender trailing in<br />
from the garden through the window.<br />
<br />
Time dilates with the dawn<br />
staked firmly beneath the arc<br />
of daylight,<br />
the sun and time speed,<br />
slipping fast and faster without moving.<br />
<br />
I know where I am,<br />
morning chore here,<br />
afternoon errand there,<br />
worn by evening's arrival<br />
the day now a rapid blur<br />
too little time left to care.<br />
<br />
Waiting for the sun to set,<br />
twilight to give up its grip<br />
upon my person and my world,<br />
I am eager to return to that<br />
fragrant floating whenless.<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px; white-space: normal;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">_________</span></div>
<i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2000007629395px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px; white-space: normal;">
<div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/benjamingillet/16683593948" target="_blank"><span style="color: #4d469c;">B</span>enjamin Gillet via Flickr</a></i></span></span></div>
</div>
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</span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-1457514873639999882015-04-10T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-19T20:06:54.247-07:00Harbinger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
He is quite dandy, in his orange waistcoat,<br />
cocking his head as if listening to the field in the distance,<br />
and to me in the house at the same time.<br />
<br />
He dusts off his brown jacket, waving up and down,<br />
though he may be trying to get my attention<br />
with his gesticulation.<br />
<br />
He opens his mouth, then closes it,<br />
as if he needed to rethink what he might say<br />
to me in his next breath.<br />
<br />
He needn’t try so hard, as I’ve heard it all before,<br />
in years past when he came back from<br />
his winter travels to warm climes.<br />
<br />
Sing, Robin. I’ve been waiting for you<br />
to tell me it’s time once again<br />
to begin.<br />
<br />
__________
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/9QJXo4" target="_blank">Jeff Self via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
</div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-22602246842752747842015-04-09T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-19T20:18:14.579-07:00Cereal City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
My stomach growled at ten a.m.,<br />
in the middle of religion class.<br />
Eyes flick from left to right seeking the offender,<br />
but there was more than one hungry teenager<br />
trapped in a desk-chair in that room.<br />
The smell hanging in the air triggered the restlessness,<br />
though the midway point between breakfast and lunch<br />
might have contributed as well.<br />
<br />
Something sang softly of grain,<br />
like pancakes, or oatmeal,<br />
combined with a sweet, caramel overlay,<br />
like maple or dark corn syrup.<br />
If I’d known then what treacle was, I’d have called the odor this.<br />
It drew me out of my seat and compelled me to fib<br />
I needed a hall pass, and so did my classmate,<br />
the one whose nose twitched like mine,<br />
whose eyes slid to me as I raised my hand.<br />
The rest of our cohort slouched and sighed.<br />
They acknowledged we had beat them to the end game.<br />
<br />
Which was downtown, three blocks from that classroom,<br />
left out of sight of the principal’s office, right, then right again, mid-street,<br />
in a greasy diner reeking of burnt coffee and fresh bacon,<br />
a line drawn for our escape drawn by that sweet-grain scent<br />
from school door to the hole-in-the-wall on Main Street.<br />
We perched on worn Naugahyde at the end of the counter,<br />
as far from the door as students could get,<br />
in case a wandering nun or a priest might stumble in<br />
from our Catholic school’s confines for a cup of joe.<br />
<br />
Seems ridiculous now, to envision the elderly penguin<br />
Sister Mary Elizabeth popping into that diner<br />
for a thick, dark cup of bitter morning swill<br />
with a crumbly slab of apple pie,<br />
when she struggled to make it down the school’s corridors<br />
without wheezing up a lung.<br />
<br />
We ordered our ill-gotten treats and<br />
ate them with the same furtiveness we employed<br />
to arrive at the diner, our loafered feet<br />
swinging in time with the beats of our hearts<br />
and the swish of our tongues.<br />
A sticky glazed doughnut seeming the best choice<br />
over a powdered one, which would surely give us away.<br />
It’s a time-worn truth:<br />
Nobody escapes the tell-tale residue<br />
left by an illicit powdered doughnut,<br />
when the uniform is darkest navy blue.<br />
<br />
Like city-born ferrets, we weaseled our way<br />
back into school and class,<br />
Sister Margaret of the Obscure Saint’s Name<br />
none the wiser for our escape,<br />
though classmates scowled during the<br />
remaining minutes of dogma-based torture.<br />
Smugness felt like sugary residue<br />
on the tips of our well-licked fingers.<br />
<br />
Over lunch two hours later,<br />
fellow students hissed their envious disapproval<br />
at our daring fulfillment of clandestine cravings.<br />
But the smell — how could anyone not give in<br />
to the pied piper call scent of cooking grain and syrup?<br />
We were only giving into the baser natures<br />
our God had given us, we explained.<br />
<br />
Not me, said Alice, too brightly.<br />
She was a little too priggish even for a Catholic girl,<br />
the sisters’ suck-up sycophant who couldn’t be trusted.<br />
But she brazened out the curled lips<br />
and said her piece.<br />
That smell is the plant four blocks away,<br />
where my dad works.<br />
He smells like that every Tuesday and Thursday.<br />
When the corn is ground and cooked<br />
into dog food.<br />
<br />
To this day I don’t know which I regret more:<br />
that I allowed my consumption to be driven<br />
by grain-based commercial pet food,<br />
or that my children will never know<br />
the special contentment one earns<br />
by flouting convention<br />
and enjoying freedom<br />
munching an illicit doughnut<br />
off campus<br />
away from priests and nuns<br />
during school hours.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/6mdSVX" target="_blank">Jhayne via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
</div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-21835425640917642322015-04-08T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-10T06:50:51.150-07:00Aurora<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuUg2FKsR6TFJTtnRuuFugcuaXLETpM7srkQwnM8avH4ZWWMDQtjnSmDXy2uAtNMHZX2OLxoqfZTwmwL5rWef2f2ISLEm44M2VTeYQiKVpqOuFLLLiBmyNQXXhieLGey7ykpyKUyYf7g/s1600/AuroraBorealis_JoshuaRNichols-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuUg2FKsR6TFJTtnRuuFugcuaXLETpM7srkQwnM8avH4ZWWMDQtjnSmDXy2uAtNMHZX2OLxoqfZTwmwL5rWef2f2ISLEm44M2VTeYQiKVpqOuFLLLiBmyNQXXhieLGey7ykpyKUyYf7g/s1600/AuroraBorealis_JoshuaRNichols-Flickr.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Seven miles north along the shoulder<br />
You will find the right spot.<br />
The pavement ends at six miles,<br />
keep going though the road is rutted.<br />
<br />
Watch the sky as you drive,<br />
Take measure of the ambient light<br />
From farm houses and street lights<br />
Few though they are on the way.<br />
<br />
You have arrived at the seventh mile<br />
just as I did, when the north star is bright<br />
As are the rest of the Little Dipper's handle,<br />
And those of its bigger companion.<br />
<br />
Shut off your headlights,<br />
And step out of the car.<br />
Look up and away to the north,<br />
above where the road continues into<br />
The formless dark ahead.<br />
<br />
Millions of miles away, the sun<br />
Threw a tantrum, flinging energy<br />
far away in wide arcs across space,<br />
To that place above the horizon,<br />
Seven miles north from here.<br />
<br />
Shimmering curtains undulate,<br />
gossamer wisps of electrons<br />
offer evidence of a solar storm.<br />
The universe shrinks to the reach<br />
Of your eyesight at seven miles north.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
__________</div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/rowL1d" target="_blank">Joshua R. Nichols via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
</div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-88532161708556229242015-04-07T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-10T06:39:48.135-07:00Storm Warning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRqfSQ-NbL30igyfYKzTA_K6BPNQp7XTjPZ-LGNjv8syvX0KFlcof3gFUYYich1E2kGF6SZFpZq63cguwKV4q02puLA0PPxO8WljPA4sQroqzlUgW8WtjDwO4UrUMQH7XAIq8cykvnxI/s1600/HomeFarm-rainstorm_Hellsgeriatric-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRqfSQ-NbL30igyfYKzTA_K6BPNQp7XTjPZ-LGNjv8syvX0KFlcof3gFUYYich1E2kGF6SZFpZq63cguwKV4q02puLA0PPxO8WljPA4sQroqzlUgW8WtjDwO4UrUMQH7XAIq8cykvnxI/s1600/HomeFarm-rainstorm_Hellsgeriatric-Flickr.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Urgent red crawls across the screen,<br />
Bold white lettering shouts,<br />
Weatherman gestures,<br />
Orange icons flash,<br />
Warning of a storm.<br />
<br />
Frantic bleating blares from speakers,<br />
Loud alarms beeping,<br />
Bells ringing.<br />
Bad weather's coming,<br />
In case we hadn't heard.<br />
<br />
Lights flicker, then die,<br />
All electronic devices silenced,<br />
Alert signals muted,<br />
Once power lost,<br />
As we might have expected.<br />
<br />
Slide open the window,<br />
Ajar the door.<br />
Breathe deep<br />
the sweet ion charged air<br />
As dark clouds rumble overhead.<br />
<br />
Lightning flashes fill the sky<br />
As awaited sheeting rain begins,<br />
Washing away<br />
The unnecessary<br />
While watering the lawn.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/hellsgeriatric/2113543550" target="_blank">Hellsgeriatric via Flickr</a></i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-76616102587237860932015-04-06T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-10T06:19:05.766-07:00Unresponsive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPojV8nf_9coRf6x8CB7aUyJVJkIl-AuvbmFYgg0biP5o2ERw-07ynVfRATIZhojspZTTBCilfs5RK2x7J5teWRb29Y2VFXvgC9YpX1mxMTbCxuwKoYGsm_7SJ2VLOcy-AhxpCkJZM7U/s1600/ChromeUnresponsiveIcon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPojV8nf_9coRf6x8CB7aUyJVJkIl-AuvbmFYgg0biP5o2ERw-07ynVfRATIZhojspZTTBCilfs5RK2x7J5teWRb29Y2VFXvgC9YpX1mxMTbCxuwKoYGsm_7SJ2VLOcy-AhxpCkJZM7U/s1600/ChromeUnresponsiveIcon.jpg" height="203" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This untitled text is written<br />
within an unregistered application<br />
which is unresponsive at this moment.<br />
<br />
This unresponsive application<br />
was chosen because it did not<br />
fail me when I needed most<br />
an application that merely typed<br />
plain text, without any extraneous<br />
tags, comments, commands,<br />
requiring no further registration.<br />
<br />
I can only hope by the end<br />
of this piece I am writing<br />
with limited faith<br />
in technology and in<br />
the humans who created it,<br />
that my words will appear<br />
as desired.<br />
<br />
Luddites and Unabombers<br />
may have had legitimate concerns<br />
about the nature of technology<br />
and its impact on humans.<br />
We bring it forth, we nurture it,<br />
and it sucks our marrow.<br />
We cannot peel our eyes from<br />
its display, nor our fingers from<br />
its silicon grasp.<br />
<br />
And now that I've acknowledged<br />
the power of technology<br />
over humanity,<br />
this unresponsive application<br />
has revealed my words<br />
as if releasing from its<br />
censoring maw<br />
what it chooses you should see.<br />
<br />
You, me, this application,<br />
these words—<br />
we are pwned.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Graphic: Google Chrome unresponsive error message </i></span>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-51407873936721732302015-04-05T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-09T10:33:20.827-07:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVx6-imgtb9379ZyllCbWulYCPy8uLqvg_Z8RDGKaDIHo5bIQvxawUsbOddNCp5nDglHzlWisAzO7vWnhrJ1v3VWjBVRVbUDXRh9b21nAsaRaDvNxTtKujpfL8NYHyXOcnD36B731FzA/s1600/OldHouse_BillDickinson-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVx6-imgtb9379ZyllCbWulYCPy8uLqvg_Z8RDGKaDIHo5bIQvxawUsbOddNCp5nDglHzlWisAzO7vWnhrJ1v3VWjBVRVbUDXRh9b21nAsaRaDvNxTtKujpfL8NYHyXOcnD36B731FzA/s1600/OldHouse_BillDickinson-Flickr.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
There comes a time in the life of a house<br />
when all newness ends.<br />
When the smells of fresh paint and<br />
newly sawn wood have dissipated,<br />
the carpet no longer feels plush,<br />
and the doors don't hang true.<br />
<br />
There comes a time in the life of a house<br />
when all hard things begin.<br />
When the faucets leak at the seals and<br />
rooms ring with the steady drip-drip,<br />
the hardwood floor is scuffed,<br />
and the drywall is scarred.<br />
<br />
When the driveway cracks and<br />
siding sags as fixtures rust.<br />
Children’s toys abrade the paint and<br />
teenagers’ cars leave the lawn in ruts.<br />
<br />
There comes a time in the life of a house<br />
when all gone before is considered.<br />
<br />
When the weight of years past and<br />
the memories they contain,<br />
the few heartbreaks patinated by<br />
many daily pleasures and greater joys<br />
<br />
Are everything one ever wanted<br />
in the life of a house.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse<br />
Photo: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/skynoir/11530419084/" target="_blank">Bill Dickinson via Flickr</a></i></span></div>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-12576423255453458822015-04-04T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-09T10:34:26.993-07:00Fallow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxEmuW-QuPDMOiRJehRvDdWtFfe33yk1QGkYTtasHSQtVULTgiipz1Gi-FBZSgvQvZVioA4iahWA2KiG_e7wJ4Rez76P2PrpMGJ_e0yyoewg-NT7Xp4QoQEEMLPzgOB18sedXF84ygKA/s1600/AnIsolatedCopse_MarkSeton-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxEmuW-QuPDMOiRJehRvDdWtFfe33yk1QGkYTtasHSQtVULTgiipz1Gi-FBZSgvQvZVioA4iahWA2KiG_e7wJ4Rez76P2PrpMGJ_e0yyoewg-NT7Xp4QoQEEMLPzgOB18sedXF84ygKA/s1600/AnIsolatedCopse_MarkSeton-Flickr.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
Fallow fields furrowed, furled<br />
earth aerated.<br />
<br />
An expanse<br />
of soil softened, spread for spring<br />
planting.<br />
<br />
Plowed and planted,<br />
weeded, wistful when walked<br />
upon.<br />
<br />
Unfolded upward<br />
rise roseate rhizomes,<br />
wanting water while waiting.<br />
<br />
Interval interrupted and inertia<br />
banned, thus blossoms begin.<br />
<br />
__________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse<br />
Photo: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/markseton/14133404884" target="_blank">Mark Seton via Flickr</a></span></i></div>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-31214967429848238712015-04-03T20:59:00.000-07:002015-04-10T06:03:05.269-07:00Feng Shui<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMkZVe12gCsabCbF0tARqBaQA735VSwS1HWTaesHoht4y2Ur90Z8YJc0Y5WLJHY8jSUH5vLqD5Q7yhtHJw53vHGBnHneiqj8oqanOoj4GCypxGPGZ6aUwNPJ6MgbvT3QgCxNCuDThjCM/s1600/Budda_KatiePutz-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMkZVe12gCsabCbF0tARqBaQA735VSwS1HWTaesHoht4y2Ur90Z8YJc0Y5WLJHY8jSUH5vLqD5Q7yhtHJw53vHGBnHneiqj8oqanOoj4GCypxGPGZ6aUwNPJ6MgbvT3QgCxNCuDThjCM/s1600/Budda_KatiePutz-Flickr.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Some say feng shui<br />
is a load of hooey<br />
Superstitious nonsense<br />
Born of ignorant people<br />
Convenient for hucksters<br />
Who will shuffle one's<br />
Clutter to make some fast cash<br />
<br />
But I say feng shui<br />
Is worth consideration<br />
If it slows down the energy<br />
Of a dervish-like family<br />
If it buys me some quiet<br />
To simply think in a<br />
Modicum of peace.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
__________</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>#NaPoMo 2015 #NPM15</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Graphic: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/katieputz/3200859117" target="_blank">Katie Putz via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-49528633643592717512015-04-02T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-03T21:08:35.726-07:00Midnight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3_UeSCsquaYqRENBEBddIO_B4M6G2mMpZRSXXyCRBtk6nIT2ZEl2A0ZdhvsbBORsNf2auM5QDrjIej_4gz4AwmAJkOsn52KkBwAyBtX7JBd7WxsXLUynOX7Vr61sCj4BvHysVyJeA3Q/s1600/MoonlightPond_Frida-Flickr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3_UeSCsquaYqRENBEBddIO_B4M6G2mMpZRSXXyCRBtk6nIT2ZEl2A0ZdhvsbBORsNf2auM5QDrjIej_4gz4AwmAJkOsn52KkBwAyBtX7JBd7WxsXLUynOX7Vr61sCj4BvHysVyJeA3Q/s1600/MoonlightPond_Frida-Flickr.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Midnight again, alone with my thoughts<br />
Or so I believed.<br />
Until the dark surface gave way<br />
To a lone goose.<br />
He did not honk but cried<br />
Over the water,<br />
Again, and again,<br />
Calling for another one of his kind.<br />
<br />
I wasn't alone anymore<br />
Or so I thought.<br />
But the longer I listened<br />
To that bird's plaintive cries,<br />
I felt more alone than ever.<br />
Paddling by myself,<br />
Here I sit in the dark,<br />
Waiting for another one of my kind.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
__________</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>#NaPoMo 2015 #NPM15</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/gKuzoW" target="_blank">Frida via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-19919579758003548792015-04-01T20:55:00.000-07:002015-04-01T21:11:58.685-07:00Angry April<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxRj0DQfkHS6qC9ZggvAkFiM7Mi7AoahrzjOHTbORnmkZX4ZodgCCMB4JiDuzuSoXpjykKnyP9DHh5mODVcmhQQ0FsFR5jA_mSkLAiygWsL5BS803VorhrC0H2Km52WnXc0mVqQazjp0/s1600/AngryGrafitti_ThomasAngermann-Flickr_med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxRj0DQfkHS6qC9ZggvAkFiM7Mi7AoahrzjOHTbORnmkZX4ZodgCCMB4JiDuzuSoXpjykKnyP9DHh5mODVcmhQQ0FsFR5jA_mSkLAiygWsL5BS803VorhrC0H2Km52WnXc0mVqQazjp0/s1600/AngryGrafitti_ThomasAngermann-Flickr_med.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
April's angry when not angst-y.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Fuming foments frothing furor.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
March was messy, muddled madness.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Snowing sloppy then sun spotty,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Weather wet less when wind wicked.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Escape exit, egress entered,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Leaving litter lacking license,</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Halting halfway heart-light hopeful.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
April’s angry now, ablutions</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Welled-up washing those so witless</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
futile following, feckless fools.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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__________</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Copyright 2015 Femme Malheureuse</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>#NaPoMo 2015 #NPM15</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Graphic: <a href="https://flic.kr/p/6pThCu" target="_blank">Thomas Angermann via Flickr</a></i></span></div>
femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-40820872887055870492014-09-21T21:00:00.000-07:002014-09-21T21:00:07.788-07:00A Three-Uncle Job<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTg7neABhhTP39k4bfuZUub7NL4zTWIHaE34TAbfyw26gfD-FyrFmJ2ueHHfySqUpPfc6P7HsKDXFz17n2-ne0BGpkE7FE3k7BlFAUilgc42gdMdD-RddEfWnoOR3EVxdLk4ZHkl8c4L0/s1600/BenShandellEngmt_mazakar-Flickr_BW-mod.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTg7neABhhTP39k4bfuZUub7NL4zTWIHaE34TAbfyw26gfD-FyrFmJ2ueHHfySqUpPfc6P7HsKDXFz17n2-ne0BGpkE7FE3k7BlFAUilgc42gdMdD-RddEfWnoOR3EVxdLk4ZHkl8c4L0/s1600/BenShandellEngmt_mazakar-Flickr_BW-mod.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
It was a three-uncle job.
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The first when she was a scrawny preteen, hunkered tightly over a football, having insisted naively she could play with the neighborhood boys who were older, beefier, infinitely careless about her person.
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“Uncle,” she squealed, and he pulled them off her, yanking and tugging at the other boys’ belts and jackets until he reached her, sniffling at the bottom of the heap.
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The second when she lost the last of her week’s worth of gas money at cards, never having mastered euchre, the secret of signaling to her partner, or the requisite game face.
<br />
<br />
“Uncle,” as she slammed the cards on the table with tinny bravura, before he graciously offered to give her a lift to school and work until payday because she was on his way and he liked the company during his commute.
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<br />
The third when her tiny, sharp knuckles hit the back of the pub table after one, two, too-many tequilas slammed during his going-away party prompted arm wrestling dares.
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<br />
“Uncle,” she cried, no, really cried, tears dribbling weakly down her cheeks, mistaken for symptoms of physical pain as she rubbed her bruised hand against her heart.
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Three-uncles, and the job was done.
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<br />
He loved her and he couldn't leave without her, wouldn't live without her.
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<br />
_____<br />
<i>Copyright 2014 Femme Malheureuse</i><br />
<i>Submission to Revolver magazine online | <a href="http://www.around-around.com/wanted-20/" target="_blank">WANTED flash fiction contest </a></i><br />
<i>Prompt: First line mandatory; Rules: 300 words or less.
</i><br />
<i>[Photo: <a href="https://secure.flickr.com/photos/mazakar/868184379/in/photolist">Original</a> by Will Foster (mazakar) via Flickr, modified for size and color]</i>femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098044021957334765.post-37064309134872620562014-08-08T22:15:00.000-07:002014-08-08T22:22:24.825-07:00L'eclipse amoureuse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIb9BY0rt38CcG6WDqGXsxJouUGcVDkSHE-sPGt_U_nTVv0F4g8WFYzpX_tBOkr_szqFnaVbz8FvI3b1OGXNIYs6nd8RwZFjG2fRJujsw8uGSlCCUvuR247t_CIyX4YzBuF6WTAKcliyc/s1600/AngstPlay_FlashFic_1_02AUG2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIb9BY0rt38CcG6WDqGXsxJouUGcVDkSHE-sPGt_U_nTVv0F4g8WFYzpX_tBOkr_szqFnaVbz8FvI3b1OGXNIYs6nd8RwZFjG2fRJujsw8uGSlCCUvuR247t_CIyX4YzBuF6WTAKcliyc/s1600/AngstPlay_FlashFic_1_02AUG2014.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
If I lean out far enough off this balcony near the Champs-Élysées, I can see the Arc de Triomphe. It does not inspire a sensation of victory, though. Its carved limestone excess leaves me cold.<br />
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Across the street is a cafe where I can sit comfortably for hours, undisturbed by paparazzi. I take mild pleasure in this, until the waitstaff cast a Gallic eye upon me, a hint to be gone.<br />
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The streets feel like they do anywhere else in Europe, the signs are as cryptic as the people, though gutters are swept clean. Nowhere else will possess the same golden afternoon light, or a similar blend of fresh bread and bitter espresso in the morning.<br />
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A change of venue should have freed me to write as it has in the past. Paris’ scenery has inspired countless artists over a thousand years. But I struggle to do more than play my old standards, pulling them reluctantly from my guitar. No new words or notes emerge from my fingertips. I haven’t been able to write for months now.<br />
<br />
Nights are worse. Roaming anonymously in the dark through the crowds in the Latin Quarter, lost at the base of Mont Michel, or watching the <i>bateaux mouche</i> slip by along the moonlit Seine, I am as blank as the empty linens flung back on my bed.<br />
<br />
On the way to the theatre where I am booked, I find street art. I can make out the artists’ intent with my meager French. Praise here, a complaint there, and the acerbic commentary sketched in spray paint where the police were not some night past.<br />
<br />
And there, scrawled in Parisian hand, worn by traffic,<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Pour atteindre la lune,</i><br />
<i>il faut viser le soleil dans le nuit</i><br />
<i>mais "le soleil ni la lune ne peuvent se regarder en face."</i><br />
<i>Voila l'eclipse amoureuse.</i></blockquote>
Words are missing or distorted, and my interpretation of the remainder is weak at best. Some snippet from a Greek or French philosopher, I cannot say. Revelation lies in these broken bits like shards among an archaeological dig. Discovery dawns, blinding, as I reach for a pen and paper, and then my guitar.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The truth I found in Paris<br />
You are my sun and moon.<br />
You are my bliss.<br />
Without you, I am in shadow.<br />
A life in eclipse<br />
Without you, I am hollow<br />
It’s this I couldn’t face.<br />
This truth I found in Paris<br />
It’s you I miss.</blockquote>
If only I could sing to you tonight, <i>ma chère</i>. I will settle for tomorrow, before my flight aims home to you.<br />
___________<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Copyright 2014 Femme Malheureuse</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">AngstPlay FlashFic - <a href="http://angstplaycontest.wordpress.com/2014/08/02/come-flash-us-08022014-2/" target="_blank">Prompt 02-AUG-2014</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Graphic: Unknown, via AngstPlay</span></i><br />
<br />femme_malhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05991333150573057994noreply@blogger.com0