1300 hours. Carol worked in the basement all morning and I
worked in the yard for an hour or so. Otherwise, I rested in air conditioning
and fans. It is hotter outside than it looks. Cleaning drive, porch, sidewalk
and raking the front yard took most of the time. The work is not all that labor
some but the sun saps what energy I have. The work is done, that's the good of
it.
Mid-afternoon. Carol is still working in the
basement throwing out lots of old school 'stuff' from 2003 and before. Makes
you feels somewhat guilty because you have more to throw away also. Later,
dude. - Amorella
Carol
wanted a break from work and you drove her to Graeter's off Cox Road next to the
West Chester (UC) Hospital, which is next to I-75. Once home you raked the
southwest yard since more clouds have come in.
1704
hours. We are having pizza for supper so I am sitting in the car after raking.
I am thinking I should study this discussion for Brothers 18 before tackling
it.
No need, boy. Let's get to it. - Amorella
1730
hours. I have 770 words presently but it needs tweaking. One line in the conversation about privacy, Amorella, that's a little much.
2059 hours. It appears presentable for the present. Somewhat
dark content though. But, hey, that is how it is sometimes. I'm difficult to
get along with and the conversation is right on for one of the reasons why.
Sometimes I'm just an ass, that's what wife thinks, or that's the look I get
when I do crap like this. My old friend Bob understood and would have
probably replied like Rob in the story. Few would probably read this as
realism, but it is to me, and I'm not too pleased with myself about it. Bob's poems always make me think. I miss my friend.
Add and post. - Amorella
***
The Brothers 18, ©2013, rho, draft for GMG.1
The two couples sat on the front porch across from
Central Ohio's John Knox Cemetery. Connie and Cyndi sitting on the wood stained
gliding swing chair for two and Robert and Richard were sitting in sturdier
charcoal black chairs one on either side of the porch glider.
Robert
and Richard had just adjusted themselves on the warm but cloudy day. Robert
spoke first, "Where are we going for supper?"
"Let's
go uptown for a change, I'm tired of the chains," commented Cyndi.
"That's
a good idea, how about Jimmy John's?" added Connie.
"And
we could have ice cream for desert," said Cyndi in retort.
"That
was quick. Sounds settled then," commented Robert shaking his head with
the hint of a grin. "What did you want to do, Richie?" he added with
a hint of sarcasm.
He
grumbled, "Like it would make a difference." Noting the sharp looks
from both women, he mimicked his brother's dry grin. "Where did you want
to eat, Robbie?"
He
shrugged his shoulders, "Hey, Jimmy John's is fine with me."
"Why
do you two not speak up? Why didn't you suggest where you wanted to go, Richie?"
asked Cyndi.
"Why
didn't you ask a minute or so ago?" His shuffled face explained he had
made his point.
"We
can't read your mind, Richie," said Connie with some irritation.
"We
can just let them scramble up some baked beans and hot dogs for
themselves," reinforced Cyndi.
"Mind
reading would be illegal because of privacy laws," quipped Richard.
Both tightened their lips and jaws. "Let's go to
the kitchen, Connie." Both left without another word.
Richard
felt a tinge of guilt for instigating the squabble, thinking, 'I'll pay for
this incident later,' but said, “How’s your cemetery poem coming?”
“I
haven’t been working on it, but I have another I’ve dressed up.”
“Let’s
see it.”
Robert
left the porch for a few moments then returned. “I had it in the folder under
the car seat along with a few others I like to work on from time to time.”
“Like
where do you work?”
“Sometimes
when I am out for a short drive I will go down to the park, sometimes just a
parking lot, or park under an old shade tree down the street. I can dig out a
poem and see if the setting helps change my attitude towards the words. Here’s
the poem.”
Richard
read Robert’s poem intently, recognizing his own parallel patterned thinking
while reading.
**
TRANSPLANT WAITING ROOM, CHIIDREN'S
HOSPITAL
Parents
pace among the scarred tables,
settle
anxiously into shell craters,
stare
about for tonic comfort.
New
magazines paint the litter of butchery:
more
reminding of a holocaust
with
one picture, a girl,
middle
of a row, gently smiling
at
a sweet, treasured thought
lost
to the ashen grass of Auschwitz;
it
was the Christians, at Chatila--
broken
rooms, stray dogs lapping
blood
from pools, furnishings line
the
roads, the gray remains compose;
children
sled, tumble, cane to rest
in
the red snow of Sarajevo;
good
intentions stick to poles,
grim
advertisements for aid.
Western
Art in gilded frames haunts the walls:
still
life with ripe fruit; poppies
bleeding
a hillside; myths of Primavera
down
the bright corridors of morning;
yet
in one scene, parents perhaps,
bending
the will to stoop,
glean
the fields at evening --
they
could be Arab women
sorting
clothes at Kasserine Pass,
or
thin fathers picking rice
among
the limbs near Camranh Bay, or
Parents,
bent at the bed of human future,
who
have sent the organ-gathering troops
to
scour the farms of combat,
and
who have willingly bowed
toward
the any-price of child salvation.
**
“I’m
not sure what to say about this. It leaves me organizing thoughts and
speechless at the same time.”
Robert
gave him a sardonic look, saying, “That’s really quite a helpful criticism,
Richie.”
Richard
returned with, “Sarcasm is a slice and dice scalpel, Robbie boy.”
“I
got the pun, Dickie.”
Richard
retorted slowly and more seriously, “That’s the problem with words sometimes,
you think they mean one thing in context, and it turns out they mean something
else again.”
“That’s
what was good about being a surgeon,” said Robert. “I was in and out, and the
body being operated on was never my own.”
Richard
had a twinkle in his eye, “You can’t cut your thoughts, like it or not, the
brain just keeps on working and producing.”
“These brains of ours will stop one of these days,
then where will we be, bro?” said Robert, who almost always slammed in the last
word.
Rob's
content with having the last word, sighed Richard, and frankly I can't think of
anything else to say. We need the girls out here to liven things up.
791 words
***
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