Recovery Triptych: The Echo

Recovery Triptych took shape 9 Feb 1990. Originally I conceived only this section, The Echo. I shared it with a critique group and was told I shouldn’t submit anything to the group containing such vulgarity and violence (see Writers Groups – Critiquing Methods – Ruled to Death, third bullet). I remember thinking at the time, “You think this has vulgarity and violence? You’ve had a protected life, huh?”

The triptych’s three parts are:

  1. The Echo
  2. Welcome to My Sandbox
  3. The Stone in God’s Sling

Here for the first time in slightly over thirty years and continuing over the next three Mondays, Recovery Triptych.

It is precisely because a child’s feelings are so strong that they cannot be repressed without serious consequences. The stronger a prisoner is, the thicker the prison walls have to be, which impede or completely prevent later emotional growth.
– Alice Miller, The Drama of the Gifted Child

The Echo

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Rabbits are Billy Preston Fans

The Wild, as most know, loves music.

Music is loved because The Wild is full of music. Not just the calls of animals but their movement as well. Not just the wind in the trees but the leaves budding, the bark hardening, the sunlight nourishing. Not just the waters in their courses but the rocks they wash over, the paths they carve out.

And, of course, good tunes.

We’re always playing music and it’s fascinating to learn which critters like which music.

Rabbits, it seems, tend to pay attention to Billy Preston.

Don’t know why. Haven’t asked.

I appreciate their taste, though.

Long ago I would go out at night with my clarinet and alto sax. About five minutes playing in, eyes would ring from out of the woods. Soon I’d hear rustling as four-legged things hustled back and forth. Soon a coyote or two would come forward, then another, then another and another, and together we’d all sing.

Glorious.

I wonder if Billy Preston needs a partner?

 

Mitre (four rewrites from previous version)

As mentioned in last week’s Marianne, the original Mitre‘s been through some rewrites. I wrote the original Mitre sometime in the mid-1970s and have never been happy with it. The current version is four rewrites since the last time I offered it.

Part of my challenge with this piece is genre? It’s not fantasy. Literature, maybe?

Do a three-way compare and let me know what you think.


Mitre

 
Mitre stood on the thick, granite steps leading from home to ocean, her flannel nightshirt flapping in the moist, fall breeze, her wrinkled hands clenching the cold, iron railing. “Let me go, Maria.”

Maria pried Mitre’s fingers up one by one. “Mother, stop it.”

Mitre snapped forward and bit her daughter’s hands.

Maria screamed, “Ben.”

Mitre bit harder. Maria let go.

Mitre hurried to the bottom step. “Everyone dies, Daughter. Your father died, your brother died. Now it’s my turn.”

Maria blocked Mitre’s path. “Ben!”

“Let me die while I know what I’m doing and who I am, not when I’m drooling on myself and hurt myself not knowing how it happened. Don’t you think I worry about waking up and wondering why I’m in a hospital bed with a nurse looking down at me?”

Ben came to the top of the steps. “What?”

“I could use your help here.”

“I could use your help here, too, Son-in-Law. How about you earn some of that inheritance you’re hoping for and get your wife away from me.”

“Mother!”

“Oh, shut up.”

Mitre’s eyes lost focus. She smiled. Her grip loosened on the railing.

Maria took her unresisting hand. “Mother?”

Mitre pointed. “Water?”

Ben came down the stairs. “We can’t keep going like this, Maria.”


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Strutting to Bach

Sometimes I want to get Susan’s attention.

A special kind of attention (wink wink, nudge nudge).

That’s when I strut.

Our neighbors can tell when I’m a’struttin’ because they hear Susan laughing hysterically.

Yeah, I’m a good strutter.

But I’m nothing compared to these fine young chaps.

Especially when they be a’struttin’ to Bach.

Susan really gets a treat when I be a’struttin’ to Bach.

You can tell by her gasps of joy.

Or laughter.

No problems. I’ll take what I can get.

You?

 <

Marianne

Marianne started life as a rewrite of Mitre. I wrote the original Mitre sometime in the mid-1970s and have never been happy with it. The current version (I’ll share it next week so you can see how Mitre and Marianne differ and how Mitre‘s change from the first sharing back in Oct 2018.

Anyway, Marianne is a different take on the same idea.

As always, let me know what you think.


Marianne

 
Marianne looked up as Rose threw some paperwork down on her table. “What are plane tickets doing on your MasterCard bill, Mother?”

Marianne turned her wheelchair and glanced at the bill. “How many guesses do I get?”

“Well?”

“What exactly is the problem? I paid with my own money, used my own phone, tapped the order with my own fingers, arranged for Uber to pick me up and drop me off on both ends of the trip, – ”

“Are you going to Oregon to commit suicide?”

“I can’t go to see my sister?”

“Is she going to help you commit suicide?”

“She’s always been such a dear, hasn’t she?”

“You think I’m going to allow you to do this?”

Marianne laughed. “You won’t allow me to do what? How about I won’t allow you and that Captain Holes-in-his-Pockets husband of yours four thousand a month rent for this – ” She looked around her. ” – room.”

Rose’s face blanched.

“Is that your big worry? You won’t be able to keep your house once I’m gone? How about you stop spending money you don’t have. And I don’t remember giving you Power-of-Attorney. What gives you the right to open my mail?”

“I just thought I’d be helping -”

“You just thought you’d be snooping.”

Rose clutched her arms to her chest.

“Close the door on your way out, Daughter.”

Marianne checked her wall calendar. June. Doctor Mulvaney said she’d be bed-ridden by this time next year and little more than a locked-in idiot in two. “I’d like to go while I’m still able to know I’m doing the going.”

She grabbed a Mackintosh apple and a small paring knife and wheeled herself to her window. A crow and a catbird stood on either side of a feeder she attached to the window when she moved in. “Hi, Amos. Hi, Andy. How you boys doing? Your chicks worried about how many seeds you’ll leave them when you pass?” She gazed at the knife. “I suppose if I was brave enough I’d just do myself in. Nobody’ll notice until a bill needed to be paid.”

Amos hopped closer to the window. Andy watched, a sunflower seed rolling in his beak as he cracked the shell.

Amos tapped on the window.

“How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t know Morse code.”

Andy hopped over to Amos.

“Teaming up on me, boys?”

They both tapped.

“Want some apple?” She raised the window. The birds hopped onto the sill. Marianne cut slivers of Mackintosh and put them next to the birds.

Amos looked at the slivers. “Thank you.”

Marianne looked at the bird and blinked.

Andy pulled an apple sliver from his beak with a claw. “Don’t worry, M. You’re more sane than not.”

Marianne stared at Andy, then at Amos. Amos nodded. As much as a bird can nod, Amos nodded.


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