Chapter Three Exercises: Part One
Item #8
The man wasn’t particularly old, although gray. He could walk a step or two, limping heavily, but he mainly sat in, and got around in, an odd looking contrivance. Not a wheel chair, but a sort of “walker” thing, made of a tubular aluminum frame with small black wheels on each of the four legs. A canvas seat, in which he sat, was slung from the top frame and his feet barely touched the pavement. He used his feet to propell himself, scooter-like, pushing on the ground. His face revealed little emotion, ranging from blank to wistful and back again, becoming slightly animated when he spoke. He was attending a hiking trail meeting.
“…damnit, I don’t know why I come to these things. They make me feel as bad as good. Why the hell me? A stroke. I exercised , did every fucking thing I was supposed to do and now this. Shit. I guess I like being in on planning the hikes, but at the end of the day, they all hit the trail, and here I sit. Goddamnit, why me? They are all so damned solicitous, but the nicer they are the worse I feel. The next time Gloria bends down in my face to ask how I’m feeling, I think I’ll just grab one and see how she feels. Bitch. She couldn’t care less how I feel, as long as she makes a nice impression on everyone…"so fucking concerned, she's such a lovely person"...“pet the little mascot, throw him a bone”…I’d throw her a bone if I could. Sonofabitch, I’m not coming to any more of these meetings…but then...its as close as I ever get to a trail…shit…”
Item #9
It’s a small, fired clay statue, perhaps 12” high, with a rounded base about half that wide. It is the figure of a seated woman, nude, with one leg extended and the other tucked beneath it. One arm is by her side, the other in her lap. The head is held high, the gaze – if there was a face – into the middle distance. Although she is clearly nude, her surfaces are featurless, only textured gray clay, and all forms are rounded and without detail – mitten hands, club feet, ovoid head. My uncle made it in art school in 1946.
MOM: He’s sending us a naked woman for the garden.
DAD: WHAT?
MOM: The telegram says he’s sending us a naked woman for our garden. Railway Freight.
DAD: Jesus Christ. That’s all we need. …Railway Freight! How big is it!?
MOM: Doesn’t say. Just a naked woman coming Railway Freight. It might be at the depot already. If its sitting on the platform, I hope its decently crated. Oh, and her name is Isolde.
DAD: Well, the neighbors are going to love this one. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with that boy? He joins the army, goes off to war, and does he come back all rough and ready? Nope. He comes back “artistic”! I just don’t…
MOM: Oh, don’t be so hard on him. He always liked to draw, and the army made him artistic on purpose. They sent him to school for it. Remember how proud you were during the war? …him working right in General Eisenhower’s headquarters drawing maps and charts for the general himself.
DAD: That was during the war; war’s over now. Why can’t he just get a job like everybody else and settle down. Art school. Jesus.
MOM: Please don’t be that way, dear. I was so proud of you, as hard as times were…after Mom and Pop died. You let me take in both of my little brothers…worked so hard to support all of us…and I loved you for it. Still do…
DAD: And I love you too, but … for Chrissakes, a naked woman in the garden? And he’s just frittering away his G.I. Bill in Ann Arbor. If he’d just settle down he could have a serious degree in two more years. Hell, he could become an engineer, really make something of himself.
MOM: He doesn’t want to be an engineer; he wants to be an artist. Maybe you’d better run down to the depot and see if “Isolde” is here yet, we shouldn’t keep her waiting…this is exciting.
POP: (mumbling) Jesus H. Christ!
The man wasn’t particularly old, although gray. He could walk a step or two, limping heavily, but he mainly sat in, and got around in, an odd looking contrivance. Not a wheel chair, but a sort of “walker” thing, made of a tubular aluminum frame with small black wheels on each of the four legs. A canvas seat, in which he sat, was slung from the top frame and his feet barely touched the pavement. He used his feet to propell himself, scooter-like, pushing on the ground. His face revealed little emotion, ranging from blank to wistful and back again, becoming slightly animated when he spoke. He was attending a hiking trail meeting.
“…damnit, I don’t know why I come to these things. They make me feel as bad as good. Why the hell me? A stroke. I exercised , did every fucking thing I was supposed to do and now this. Shit. I guess I like being in on planning the hikes, but at the end of the day, they all hit the trail, and here I sit. Goddamnit, why me? They are all so damned solicitous, but the nicer they are the worse I feel. The next time Gloria bends down in my face to ask how I’m feeling, I think I’ll just grab one and see how she feels. Bitch. She couldn’t care less how I feel, as long as she makes a nice impression on everyone…"so fucking concerned, she's such a lovely person"...“pet the little mascot, throw him a bone”…I’d throw her a bone if I could. Sonofabitch, I’m not coming to any more of these meetings…but then...its as close as I ever get to a trail…shit…”
Item #9
It’s a small, fired clay statue, perhaps 12” high, with a rounded base about half that wide. It is the figure of a seated woman, nude, with one leg extended and the other tucked beneath it. One arm is by her side, the other in her lap. The head is held high, the gaze – if there was a face – into the middle distance. Although she is clearly nude, her surfaces are featurless, only textured gray clay, and all forms are rounded and without detail – mitten hands, club feet, ovoid head. My uncle made it in art school in 1946.
MOM: He’s sending us a naked woman for the garden.
DAD: WHAT?
MOM: The telegram says he’s sending us a naked woman for our garden. Railway Freight.
DAD: Jesus Christ. That’s all we need. …Railway Freight! How big is it!?
MOM: Doesn’t say. Just a naked woman coming Railway Freight. It might be at the depot already. If its sitting on the platform, I hope its decently crated. Oh, and her name is Isolde.
DAD: Well, the neighbors are going to love this one. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with that boy? He joins the army, goes off to war, and does he come back all rough and ready? Nope. He comes back “artistic”! I just don’t…
MOM: Oh, don’t be so hard on him. He always liked to draw, and the army made him artistic on purpose. They sent him to school for it. Remember how proud you were during the war? …him working right in General Eisenhower’s headquarters drawing maps and charts for the general himself.
DAD: That was during the war; war’s over now. Why can’t he just get a job like everybody else and settle down. Art school. Jesus.
MOM: Please don’t be that way, dear. I was so proud of you, as hard as times were…after Mom and Pop died. You let me take in both of my little brothers…worked so hard to support all of us…and I loved you for it. Still do…
DAD: And I love you too, but … for Chrissakes, a naked woman in the garden? And he’s just frittering away his G.I. Bill in Ann Arbor. If he’d just settle down he could have a serious degree in two more years. Hell, he could become an engineer, really make something of himself.
MOM: He doesn’t want to be an engineer; he wants to be an artist. Maybe you’d better run down to the depot and see if “Isolde” is here yet, we shouldn’t keep her waiting…this is exciting.
POP: (mumbling) Jesus H. Christ!
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