Heh. I love both of those - I really love ita's line about growing up to lose the night sky. That whole city thing, where you think you can see the stars, and can't.

In wrote about home, as well. Ages 14 to twentysomething, theatres are where I lived.

Drabble #2

The white china knob turns, the door opens into a white box, square, containing bed, chair, desk, lamp. A faded rag rug skids on the dark glossy floorboards, a blue cotton throw lies folded over the bed's footrail.

The windows draw her. One opens out over the slate roof, and looks to the cottage, the long gardens, the line of century cherry trees, the pond where the bronze heron stands amid fountain spray. The larger casement window's wavy panes frame the formal garden, the witch's garden, the sundial and the dolphin fountain, algae-grown and streaked since the pump quit working.

Campsite

She steps out of the tent. Goosebumps rise on bare arms, but the promise of the heat of the day is there, in the humdity, in the wet summer smell of the grass. The birds pipe a frantic tune to help the sun rise. It seems to be working – light shines clear and strong on the field, all the greens of the grasses and the leaves translucent and glowing, like a fire seen through thin jade. The river is diamonds at the bottom of the limestone bluff, the sun flashing boldly back from the clear water flying over smooth rocks.

Aw, man, places?! My hardest thing...I'm gonna whine.

Weird piece here. A friend of mine was plugging for submissions for an anthology on "Homewreckers," with all that implied. (Although, the Reader's Digest version is that they're basically in favor. :)

Anyway, this came out of it. Not sure exactlywhat it is or if it's done, or what have you:

Talking About the Weather

"I try not to commit a deliberate sin. I recognize that I'm going to do it anyhow, because I'm human and I'm tempted. And Christ set some almost impossible standards for us. Christ said, 'I tell you that anyone who looks on a woman with lust has in his heart already committed adultery.'

"I've looked on a lot of women with lust. I've committed adultery in my heart many times. This is something that God recognizes I will do--and I have done it--and God forgives me for it." -Jimmy Carter, Playboy Magazine, 1976

A lot of people laughed at old Jimmy for that one, the confession of invisible sins, the admonition of a percolating lust. But then, no one has sympathy for steadfast fidelity, not even those proclaiming their piety from street corners like newsboys.

No, everyone loves the adulterer, even if they don’t admit it. There’s an envy that flashes across men’s eyes at the sound of it, the ghost of Pavlov ringing bells. The scent of illicit sex will galvanize the pious to fall upon each other in sympathy for the adulterer, whereas the cuckold is something to be held in pity, an oblivious fool, inadequate beneath the storm surrounding him. Victims are mirrors, and mirrors, often, are uncomfortable.

Here’s the truth: it would be easy. She’s 18 and her jacket falls from bared shoulders, her smile too easy. Alabaster mask a construction of face paint and bravado, but still too young to keep secrets behind her eyes. That one takes practice. That one takes time. You sip black coffee, reading the outline of news in the paper, the barest of facts bereft of humanity—crime and politics and zoning regulation. The newspaper does not acknowledge that these are all symptoms, torrents gathering beneath the skin. She goes out of her way to say “hello.” You say hello, and smile, and know your eyes say nothing, because that’s a skill that comes with practice. You look her in the eyes and see that every kiss still sparks a lightning storm for her. And, for a moment that lingers like New England weather, you recall blood quickening beneath sudden thunderclaps, bolts that could shatter concrete crashing against your teeth.

Your conversation is as bare as the local news section. As genial and as empty as stock reports. You realize you must appear oblivious, and smile, as she wanders away and you sip coffee that is somehow, suddenly, more bitter.

It would be easy. You remember how to do it, how to transmit need wordlessly, like teletype—the pulsing and reception of current. You recall when every kiss was lightning, the caressing of flesh bespeaking storm-tossed countries. How, though you want for nothing anymore, the present can be anything but new.

You still remember how to read, and even newsprint has its subtext. She’s 45, three kids, and married since a teenage. She’s 31, and her husband’s been away for months. She’s 22, and never been kissed. You can see the storm clouds brewing, feel the gale building, the static gathering at the back of the neck. You know how to let your gaze linger too long, how to gather lightning behind your lips, until they’re magnetized.

You know enough to let the storms subside, although the lightning sizzles your skin.

Wooooooeeeee.

Victor, as a middle-aged woman? May I just say, that piece is killer.

Victor, as a middle-aged woman? May I just say, that piece is killer.

Thanks, Deb. Sometimes I write these things,and have no idea what to make of them.

Uh, I think I would take it to my bunk...

Oh, Victor, NICE.

Sometimes you don't need to make anything of them; you just need to make them.

Thanks, all. Glad to know I'm on the right track with it.

I think what my question is, is do I need to paint in some picture of what's gained from fidelity? Is there anyway to do that without moralizing, which I have no interest in doing.