I went to a party last night and the literary value of the personages was like fine linen paper in a box of stationary and a very expensive fountain pen. There was a sitar and an accordion player on a veranda overlooking a spring garden in full bloom. I talked to a woman in the most exorbitant array of textures and colors I have ever seen, but which gave me the impression that she had arranged them artistically and fashionably beneath her orange-streaked and brown-hair color. Her hair was Cleopatraesque and her eye glasses were honey-rimmed and olive-lensed and she wore one pink semi-precious stone in gold on her lip. Her lipstick was streaked on her left, which is where I wanted to put my hand and wipe it for her. I also wanted to kiss her. Her clothes were so thick. And the weight of her bracelets seemed like she was dragging a Persian carpet on an old wooden floor. She left before I read “A Prescription for Remembering Flowers” over the musical piece “Gliding Grace.” Each person was as deep and as interesting as the aforementioned. Image



  1. Yes, I also agree with Holistic Wayfarer about the great descriptions you do. In this story there is musicality, very elaborate language, sensuality and a keen eye for observation and detail especially in the description of this beautiful woman, an ideal that seems impossible to attain. The dominant feeling one gets while reading it is SADNESS with short moments of JOY, ADMIRATION and ECSTASY. This is a powerful combination of feelings that you are able to arise in the reader. As a result, one inevitably feel trapped in the reading.

  2. I wished for a moment the post was a bit longer and your rendition just continued a bit more for I was just about to get into the spell of your words.
    Marta was right in saying you are good with your work inspiring others to get addicted with the way you play with your words….

    • I remember that day and this person. She never came back to the parties that Irenka gave. I saw her again later on in a cafe on College Avenue at the end. She was with the friend she was with at the party, like giggling school girls with secrets. I don’t think they liked me. I am not much for materialism. I wade in impractical pools. I am like this with women. Most can’t stand me. I wanted to dive into something with her and extend this piece. I could have described the garden, the other people, but that’s not what I wanted, nor did you, I suspect. This woman brought textiles from her country. I swear I wanted to write more, but it ended. A cul-de-sac, a road with no outlet. They are usually short, cluttered with nosey neighbors, and lots of trees.

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