lemonpie dreams

i've never tasted one but they sound delicious

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

NOT EXACTLY A CHRISTMAS STORY

Stranger



It was the morning of the Christmas Eve. It was cold outside and the trees and the house’s roof tops were carrying the ice-cold burden of the previous night’s snowfall. Apart from those, pretty much everything else was covered too and the spotless white scenery was only ruined throughout the main road, which was leading the locals to the big highway, where two brown unremitting lines had shaped from the vehicles that were crossing it with their dingy tires.
After shoveling the snow from the front door’s steps “so that Santa knows we’re expecting him”, George sat at the kitchen’s round table, watching his wife, Mary, cooking eggs and sausages for breakfast and listening to his two daughters’ voices coming from the living room, fighting over who’s star should be placed on the top of the Christmas tree. George’s wife, Mary, was really absorbed by the preparations for the holidays, as every year was and missed to discern her husband being more thoughtful than what he pretended he was that morning. Mary, a twenty seven year old woman, ten years younger than George, was really overcoming herself every time around Christmas, cleaning out the house, cooking traditional pies and sweets and in general creating a fitting atmosphere. During the whole year, every year, she was the “typical housewife” with all that means but around Christmas she was really doing nothing else but cleaning and cooking and decorating the house properly for the instance. On return, she never really enjoyed the holidays due to her angst to get everything as they should be, for her husband’s and her daughters’ delight.
The phone rang twice before Mary picked it up with her left hand, while blending the sausages and the eggs with the other. George felt relieved when he heard his wife greeting back her grandmother who was on the other side of the line. At first he was afraid that the one who had called him last evening was the one who had called again that morning. But fortunately, it was Mary’s grandmother who was very old but still in good condition considering her age and never missed to call on Christmas Eves that it was Mary’s birthday, as well.
Last afternoon’s phone call was the George’s anxiety feeder. Ever since, he was thinking about what he should do. Should he meet that woman who told him to go and find her at the only motel of the region alongside the highway, the motel without a name, just with the blue sign beyond the front entrance, in which M and T where lighting up and then was fading away slowly again, or he should just stay with his family which seemed the right thing to do, anywise…?
Vivienne, or Vinnie, as George used to call her a long time ago, was someone from the past until that phone call. A memory that took voice, flesh and bones just in a second. Vinnie and George used to be engaged when they were both twenty two but Vinnie left one day and let him live until that current day in that small town. She said she had to find her mom and dad who had abandoned her in the orphan when she just a new born, before she was ready to make her own family. And even though she used to love George and he loved her too, she left.
After almost fifteen years she called at his house and without a hello or a pause to hear his voice and let him answer back to her invitation, she hanged up the phone. With the same familiar warm voice, but way more hoarse, she told him that she was back for a while and she would wait him at No.23 room the next day; just the day before the Christmas day.
George was so confused. He didn’t know if he would go or not but he was avoiding to look his wife Mary in the eye, feeling that he had already betrayed her, just by taking that phone call.
At noon he was in front of the mirror observing for the first time how much his belly had pumped now that he wasn’t still that twenty two year old fit boy and felt bothered for the first time. Fortunately, he hadn’t lost neither one hair from his head so far, while many of the men in his age he was associating with, could already be characterized, well… as bald or semi- bald. Apart from the two long lines which had circled his mouth and the three more on his brow, appearing every time he was laughing or lifting his eye- brows higher in surprise, he still could be deemed more alluring (French prefer this word) than most of his friends.
George got out decisively and somehow mechanically from the bath and kissed his wife on the cheek. He told her he would be back in an hour, as soon as the dinner is served I’ll be back again, he said and closed the door beside him, letting his wife believe that the drive with his car that he just launched would end outside his parents’ house.
Vinnie was still looking gorgeous. A little older and not that fresh but gorgeous. Maybe if she wasn’t smoking that much she would look even better, George thought sitting next to her, while making the ice cubes swimming in his scotch change places as he waved his glass. He drank a sip and tried to imagine what would be the sense of touching her long silk robe she was wearing. “Sorry but my wife and my kids are waiting for me. Mary must probably have served the dinner and wonders where am I…” George said looking to Vivienne and trying to resemble her with that twenty two year old girl some fifteen years ago. “I’m glad and surprised that I met you… But really why you called me?” he added, surprised by his own self for his straightforwardness. “I just wanted to see you, didn’t you? Vivienne said, pushing her cigarette against the ashtray. “I just wanted to feel you” she said and George realized what she meant as she moved closed to kiss him. He resisted, but he wanted to feel her too. He thought of Mary and his kids. He even thought of his work and his bedroom while kissing Vivienne, who was Vinnie again but he didn’t stop kissing her. In addition, he grabbed her tight with his hands and placed her to the undone from hers last night sleep bed. He came in a minute or two but they didn’t stop. They did it again; more slowly now but with same passion. They became one body. They became the twenty two year old kids again.
Vivienne got up from the bed naked and went back again with a cigarette lighten up between her fingers. She lied beside him, naked bodies touching, and passed him her cigare after a long whiff. “I don’t know if you heard… but my foster dad just passed away…” Vivienne said and George thought that he hadn’t heard but didn’t say anything as she went on. “They called me just for my signature and to accept everything he left me. I’m rich now you know…: Vivienne said, using the same tone for every word she was saying. “But I don’t mind because I became rich ten years ago when I married Bob.” Vivienne was looking at the wall on the other side of the room while talking and someone could think that she was talking to no one in particular if George wasn’t laying down beside her, smoking her cigare. But then she turned to his side and gave him a gentle look and a gentle kiss “He must be here any time now… so I guess…. I don’t think we will meet again” Vivienne said and started to get dressed.





End of story

Thursday, December 21, 2006

THERE SHE WAS

Me; walking down the wet street while spatters of rain are establishing themselves on my glasses. Headphones on, so tiny and discreet, being difficult to be discerned, playing some summer song…
Her; walking up the wet street, holding a bag probably filled with newly- bought gifts for her intimate people… It’s Christmas, remember? The lucky bitch, though I don’t like calling her that because we used to be so good friends in high- school, is not a myope or a presbyope, so has absolutely no idea how frustrating it is to see everything through the scattered diffractive water- balls on your glasses.
I see her, around twenty- two twenty- five and I think, hhmm… cute… She makes some strange clown- type moves to stop my hurried pace, I needed to get back to work because I was already too much purposely late as I had an exterior thing to do , and I think hhmm and funny too… This must be a striking combination…
But then I see more clearly and I get it that it’s her… My classmate/friend from school I have seen her only five or six times since.
The dialogue letter- perfect
Me: It’s you… (both cheek kisses)
Her: Of course it’s me… And it’s you… nice…
Me: (I hold her from the shoulder now; tenderly I try… awkwardly it comes out somehow) what are you doing here? Christmas shopping?
Her: Well, not really… some shit so far… but I’m heading for the boots…(she seemed hesitant to tell, so I suppose she had bought underwear…That’s not a taboo anymore, she could tell it to someone she hadn’t seen for, let’s say… like a decade)
Me: You should go from that street… the shops are better there…
Her: That’s where I was going… Ah, let me see you… you’ve lost weight?
Me: I think… I used to be fatter anyway… and you look great… Honestly… With this, how you call this, a beret? Yeah, let me see you… you look great…
Her: I was looking to some pictures the other day, from that trip, remember?
Me: Vividly!
Her: Well, you were scratching your nose in one of those… disgusting… though it was fun…xixixix
Me: xixixix oh, let’s forget the past…
What are you doing, are you still with that person, we should meet sometime again, let’s have a coffee, was few of things we talked about during that three minute meeting…And then I felt like a school boy again, when she mentioned between laughter the gigantic pimple that is thriving just a little higher from my left eye-brow since last night.
Her: What’s this? You are twenty two from Christ sake… You still get these?
Me: (while walking to the opposite direction from hers already) You’ve noticed? I had totally forgot about it ( the eye- brow was hiding it, otherwise, I’m sure I could see it just by upturning by eye a little bit….) Did I really have to meet you today? (laughing back)


That’s a picture of me before the pimple… And thankfully it’s almost and already disappeared…

SOLID FEET MADE FROM HOPE AND ENDURANCE

Christmas are coming, so this poem was inspired from this time of the year...


32, 8, 34


The woman passed over another one
Like she’d never really been there;
She didn’t do it in purpose
It was that her shopping bag
Hided her out of her sight

But her little girl saw her
And she would remember her
For the rest of her life,
Sitting there on a corner
With her hand blue from the cold
But too proud to leave its erected place

The woman looked her back,
The daughter not the mom,
And she wished she could
Show that kind of love to her own one day,
Hurried and anxious to get home on time
And do all the tree ornamentation
The pie and dinner cook

But she stood there
And when everything got illuminated
She walked her way;
The opposite way
From the long and short pair of tracks
Still being static pints on the ground’s white blanket;
Four, eight, twelve pints
As far as she could see

The gathered coins
Clinked liked jingle- bells
Inside her pocket
As she waved them mellowly
With her hand raking for some warmth

She looked high
But the old star was still out of sight
And then she looked low
And she wished the new mark she would shape
Would lead her a step closer to that star

Sunday, December 17, 2006

MATERIAL BOY

I know Christmas is around again because:

1. My diet Coke can looks different than the usual.
2. I got an amazing useless gift with my special order from any fast food place I visited
3. 10% of the price of the cologne I bought will be distributed for a philanthropic purpose (I hope at least they don’t mean more animal testing, by this)
4. I gave my condoms’ changes to a beggar, while I usually try to ignore these kind of people (they don’t fit with the utopia, it’s hard to be achieved, in any case)
5. I’m trying to decide the color of my New Year’s Day about- to- buy underwear
6. I already change any radio station whenever they play Last Christmas, because I’m so fed up of listening to it since the begging on November
7. I take a look at my bank account and I promise to myself to do that trip to London next year, definitely
8. The repetition of the question “so, what do you want me to get you this year?” from people around and myself, gets more and more frequent
9. Santa and his twins have deluged the malls
10. I get 10 euros poorer in the hope I’ll become 1 million euros richer. A wild dream they call it, the national lottery, I do.


PS: I hate to do this but I need to explain in fear of getting misunderstood. I could in no case get that superficial or arrogant and selfish, but I only criticize the perception we some times tend to get about this period of time. Love and peace for everyone…

STORIES FOR DOGS

There were two dogs the other day on the street, which were practicing something peculiar…
Well, I don’t know if it’s the mating season, or if what they were doing was indeed mating, but it whatsoever seemed like a kind of a doggy sexual activity… I guess at least…
So, these probably gay, definitely experimental, dogs were… well, how to say it, it’s quite of awkward… ok ahhh, “communicating”, adjoining each others arse- hole for a respectable long time. Weird, you may think, weird I thought and it actually probably is…
BUT(T), while I thought that it was probably just the two of those shameless four feet with the brutish instincts, yesterday or the day before that, I saw two more dogs practicing the same… What’s going on??? I wondered outspokenly… And a voice answered inside my head: dogs probably have trends nowadays and this is the newest one… and the kinkiest I suppose…

Yesterday I was feeding my dog a few bites from something I was eating… I don’t remember what… So, he champed my finger a little –unintentionally I hope- and after that came out an amusing, extremely short dialogue(in Greek of course) I had with a very amiable to me woman, who happened to cross from the street right outside my house’s yard that moment…
Me: you pig… (talking/yelling to my dog for biting me)
Her: who are you calling pig, boy?
Me: my dog!
Me again while she had already stepped further: I call my dog a pig, this must be funny… xixixix

Sunday, December 10, 2006

SYNDAY MORNING CONTEMPLATIONS

Why do I feel that it’s always have to be me the one who has to call in order not to lose touch with my friends?

Why does my prima guapa A. always tell us to go home around 1:30 am when we’ re out at the club cause she feels bored but it has to be the rest of us later on, who try to convince her leave the damn place at 6:00 am? (hello love, I know you’re reading this)

Why it gets harder and harder to lose the few more pounds when we get older? Metabolism you’ll say, but still, not fair

Who are these people anyway who invented bureaucracy and made it be so hard?

Why after a marvelous hang out comes a hideous hang over?

Why blogging is free and so easy (I just love this) while many believe that making statements in a widely public medium as internet is, under the coverage of anonymity, is at least exceptionable?

Why some people always text to other friends of theirs while they are along with other people and don’t just communicate with the ones they are at the moment? (believe me, I can see this happening a lot observing people sitting on cafes, restaurants etc)

Why don’t I think it’s enough if I like a song, unless I hear it one million times on repeat?

Why typing with my left hand is still rare even though I have used this keyboard excessively?

Why whys never seem to stop when you start questioning for a reason, like writing a post about Sunday morning contemplations?
 
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