A Story about Sage, Part Four. Sage comes home and joins the group at the dinner table. We learn a little about what she is like and how she looks. Read on ......
Sage did what she wanted. She wasn’t born doing what she wanted. I believe that self-awareness came to her some time after she turned twenty and gave birth to her son Eric. She married Eric’s father and became dependent on him. Well, she didn’t like that and somehow, over a period of time or maybe all at once she burst out of her cage and strode forth a free woman, albeit one burdened with an infant son and no visible means of support. She left Eric’s father and resolved to ignore him.
Stumbling her way along the freedom trail she managed to get pregnant again --- it can be that easy – and gave birth to another son, Sean, whose father basically never showed up at all. Two kids and no money. Move back in with her parents in San Jose? Why not just lie down in the freeway and get run over by a truck.
I never heard her describe any saving angel who came along to steer her forward. She found her own way. Got on welfare and food stamps. Enrolled in San Jose Community College. She wasn’t really a feminist, she never read the manual, or followed the program or went to the meeting. She just did what she wanted. Not reckless or careless or selfish, but with a sense of responsibility --- she did pay her bills.
But she had this joy in her that was her most telling attribute. She lived with joy and it filled the room.
The house where she lived in Piedmont, this group of hippies and her two kids, the furniture and the polished wood floor, the kitchen that could have been cleaner, it was a place of quiet joy and affection and Sage did that. Sage was a hugger. I was one of many huggees. She went round the evening table hugging and touching and then sat down across from me and filled her plate.
“That’s Fred,” someone said. “He’s staying on the couch.” Sage nodded and smiled. I felt a little awkward. We were not being presented to each other, unless we were and didn’t know it.
John, the soft-spoken man from rural Iowa, began to speak. He sounded like me when he talked, but slower. He had an easy sound on his vowels. Maybe it was the mustache hanging over his upper lip that benefited his acoustics. One of the few mustaches I ever liked. On his head brown hair like a mop, but combed and clean. My height, somewhat slighter in figure.
“I was in the Peace Corps for two years, in Afghanistan. Of course I didn’t know what to expect when I got there, except I was bursting with the best intentions to do right and save the people. Peace Corps training was minimal, they just wanted to see if you could tolerate a strange life in a faraway country and live in primitive circumstances.
“I could do that, and I could introduce progressive farming practices like we had on some farms back in Iowa, with soil conservation and crop rotation. Afghanistan was a paradise when the apricot trees bloomed. All the people were friendly. I had a little house with a kerosene lamp. I had a shaded front porch with a comfortable rattan chair. That was enough. The Peace Corps just left me there and I loved it.
“I would have loved it without the hashish, but it was better with the hashish. I had never smoked pot or anything until I got to Afghanistan and they offered me a toke on the pipe one evening. The hash brought me into a state of bliss, I guess you could say. And it was the end of all my Peace Corps intentions, the program part anyway.
Basically I got my own pipe and my own stash and there went the next two years, stoned, sitting on the porch, greeting the neighbors as they paced by, and representing the best of America --- peacefully. No war, no bombs, no troops, no invasion, no napalm, just me on the porch leaning back on the rattan chair,” John said.
“You made good use of your time, “ I said.
“I have friends who mail me hashish from Afghanistan. If you like we can clean up the kitchen and then smoke a bowl in the living room,” John said.
Sage agreed. She said, “I need to round up these children and get them started toward bedtime, so I’ll join you guys later.”
Sage stood up from her plate at the table and for the first time I got a good look at her. The evening light was soft. The dining surface was sweetly strewn with brown rice crumbles and tamari soy sauce drips over bits of chopped celery. John started clearing plates. Sage stretched her arms wide as if to hug the world, but she was looking at me.
She was looking at me and that flattered my ego, but I didn’t want to be a show off and make antics. And I didn’t want to rub my eyes with a closed fist like a small baby.
“I like your house here, “ I said.
“We like it too,” she said.
No chit-chat. The moment felt important, except important wasn’t the right word.
She had fine light brown silky hair, curly and down past her hears but not down to her shoulders. Combed easily. No makeup. Small earrings, pretty blue eyes under light-brown eye brows. She wasn’t a looker, but her face was expressive and unguarded. Smiles came easily, sorrow showed with blotchy red flushes on her cheeks, and tears jut as easy as her smile.
It’s hard to describe what she looked like, and much easier to describe how I felt when I looked at her – and I felt good.
She was my size, maybe an inch shorter, square in the shoulder, firm breasts, wide hips. Untucked flannel shirt and jeans, often barefoot.
She looked at me too and made her own description in her memory bank. No, no. She didn’t have a memory bank like me. She didn’t hold on to the image and file it away under broad categories to be sorted and treasured like a collection of coins. She was no mental hoarder like me.
But she looked at me and then turned away, saying “I’ve got to read my kids a story and sing them to sleep. I won’t be long.”
So I went to the living room and sat on the couch. John was there and Nick, the astrologer, was there too. Listening to a Cat Stevens record and waiting for her to join us.
“Did you say were a Cancer?” Nick said.
Sage came in at this and said quickly, “Gemini. I’m Gemini.”
“Gemini and quick as a flash, for you Sage,” Nick said. “But Cancer is deep water for you, Fred. Now let us pursue the dangerous course of making comparisons. Think Gemini. Feel Cancer…..Shall I continue?”
Stumbling her way along the freedom trail she managed to get pregnant again --- it can be that easy – and gave birth to another son, Sean, whose father basically never showed up at all. Two kids and no money. Move back in with her parents in San Jose? Why not just lie down in the freeway and get run over by a truck.
I never heard her describe any saving angel who came along to steer her forward. She found her own way. Got on welfare and food stamps. Enrolled in San Jose Community College. She wasn’t really a feminist, she never read the manual, or followed the program or went to the meeting. She just did what she wanted. Not reckless or careless or selfish, but with a sense of responsibility --- she did pay her bills.
But she had this joy in her that was her most telling attribute. She lived with joy and it filled the room.
The house where she lived in Piedmont, this group of hippies and her two kids, the furniture and the polished wood floor, the kitchen that could have been cleaner, it was a place of quiet joy and affection and Sage did that. Sage was a hugger. I was one of many huggees. She went round the evening table hugging and touching and then sat down across from me and filled her plate.
“That’s Fred,” someone said. “He’s staying on the couch.” Sage nodded and smiled. I felt a little awkward. We were not being presented to each other, unless we were and didn’t know it.
John, the soft-spoken man from rural Iowa, began to speak. He sounded like me when he talked, but slower. He had an easy sound on his vowels. Maybe it was the mustache hanging over his upper lip that benefited his acoustics. One of the few mustaches I ever liked. On his head brown hair like a mop, but combed and clean. My height, somewhat slighter in figure.
“I was in the Peace Corps for two years, in Afghanistan. Of course I didn’t know what to expect when I got there, except I was bursting with the best intentions to do right and save the people. Peace Corps training was minimal, they just wanted to see if you could tolerate a strange life in a faraway country and live in primitive circumstances.
“I could do that, and I could introduce progressive farming practices like we had on some farms back in Iowa, with soil conservation and crop rotation. Afghanistan was a paradise when the apricot trees bloomed. All the people were friendly. I had a little house with a kerosene lamp. I had a shaded front porch with a comfortable rattan chair. That was enough. The Peace Corps just left me there and I loved it.
“I would have loved it without the hashish, but it was better with the hashish. I had never smoked pot or anything until I got to Afghanistan and they offered me a toke on the pipe one evening. The hash brought me into a state of bliss, I guess you could say. And it was the end of all my Peace Corps intentions, the program part anyway.
Basically I got my own pipe and my own stash and there went the next two years, stoned, sitting on the porch, greeting the neighbors as they paced by, and representing the best of America --- peacefully. No war, no bombs, no troops, no invasion, no napalm, just me on the porch leaning back on the rattan chair,” John said.
“You made good use of your time, “ I said.
“I have friends who mail me hashish from Afghanistan. If you like we can clean up the kitchen and then smoke a bowl in the living room,” John said.
Sage agreed. She said, “I need to round up these children and get them started toward bedtime, so I’ll join you guys later.”
Sage stood up from her plate at the table and for the first time I got a good look at her. The evening light was soft. The dining surface was sweetly strewn with brown rice crumbles and tamari soy sauce drips over bits of chopped celery. John started clearing plates. Sage stretched her arms wide as if to hug the world, but she was looking at me.
She was looking at me and that flattered my ego, but I didn’t want to be a show off and make antics. And I didn’t want to rub my eyes with a closed fist like a small baby.
“I like your house here, “ I said.
“We like it too,” she said.
No chit-chat. The moment felt important, except important wasn’t the right word.
She had fine light brown silky hair, curly and down past her hears but not down to her shoulders. Combed easily. No makeup. Small earrings, pretty blue eyes under light-brown eye brows. She wasn’t a looker, but her face was expressive and unguarded. Smiles came easily, sorrow showed with blotchy red flushes on her cheeks, and tears jut as easy as her smile.
It’s hard to describe what she looked like, and much easier to describe how I felt when I looked at her – and I felt good.
She was my size, maybe an inch shorter, square in the shoulder, firm breasts, wide hips. Untucked flannel shirt and jeans, often barefoot.
She looked at me too and made her own description in her memory bank. No, no. She didn’t have a memory bank like me. She didn’t hold on to the image and file it away under broad categories to be sorted and treasured like a collection of coins. She was no mental hoarder like me.
But she looked at me and then turned away, saying “I’ve got to read my kids a story and sing them to sleep. I won’t be long.”
So I went to the living room and sat on the couch. John was there and Nick, the astrologer, was there too. Listening to a Cat Stevens record and waiting for her to join us.
“Did you say were a Cancer?” Nick said.
Sage came in at this and said quickly, “Gemini. I’m Gemini.”
“Gemini and quick as a flash, for you Sage,” Nick said. “But Cancer is deep water for you, Fred. Now let us pursue the dangerous course of making comparisons. Think Gemini. Feel Cancer…..Shall I continue?”
Alan Archibald Another fine episode Fred!
Please note the typo in your phrase "down past her hears."
Also note that a word is missing in "Did you say were a Cancer." (I'd also re-work the last paragraph which - as it stands - ends this "chapter" on a weak note.)
I just uploaded the following post whose subject matter has predisposed me to think how Americans are acculturated to assume that lots of people should be poor because they're n'er-do-well failures. This same orthodoxy holds that the piggish rich deserve everything they've got - even crooks like Mafia Don.
And so Sage -- a hard-working, loving Mom (arguably the world's most important occupation) -- should have had adequate wherewithal simply by virtue of "society's structure" rather than defaulting to strip joint dancing.
The nearly ubiquitous American belief that "Life is a Lottery" and that we're all "waiting for our number to come up" to spare us from penury, is just suckhole barbarism and ideological bottom-feeding.
Trump as dopamine for dimwits.
But here is how it could work -- except for the real haters who NEED "the undeserving poor" just like some people need a dog to kick -- and they need to have humans-reduced-to-doghood more than they need civilization itself. Shame on us. https://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/.../nicholas-kristof...
Seventy Individuals Now Own As Much Resource As The Lower Half Of Humanity.
http://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/.../70-individuals...
Please note the typo in your phrase "down past her hears."
Also note that a word is missing in "Did you say were a Cancer." (I'd also re-work the last paragraph which - as it stands - ends this "chapter" on a weak note.)
I just uploaded the following post whose subject matter has predisposed me to think how Americans are acculturated to assume that lots of people should be poor because they're n'er-do-well failures. This same orthodoxy holds that the piggish rich deserve everything they've got - even crooks like Mafia Don.
And so Sage -- a hard-working, loving Mom (arguably the world's most important occupation) -- should have had adequate wherewithal simply by virtue of "society's structure" rather than defaulting to strip joint dancing.
The nearly ubiquitous American belief that "Life is a Lottery" and that we're all "waiting for our number to come up" to spare us from penury, is just suckhole barbarism and ideological bottom-feeding.
Trump as dopamine for dimwits.
But here is how it could work -- except for the real haters who NEED "the undeserving poor" just like some people need a dog to kick -- and they need to have humans-reduced-to-doghood more than they need civilization itself. Shame on us. https://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/.../nicholas-kristof...
Seventy Individuals Now Own As Much Resource As The Lower Half Of Humanity.
http://paxonbothhouses.blogspot.com/.../70-individuals...
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