Monday, May 31, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Persian Cadence
She'd met hell straight on, no backing down, and when she got to the other side, if she did, it would be full steam ahead to wherever the path might lead her. She chuckled, thinking that if there were an etching of her face, it would not be a smooth portrait of youth. It would portray age and experience. And if there was such an etching, she thought, she would not like it. The wrinkles around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes would annoy her.
She turned her head slightly to the right so she could see this imaginary portrait, for after the operation she was blind in the right eye. Now, she viewed everything with a perspective fractionally to the left. She never let on how much this bothered her. She just kept on, keeping on.
Except for the moments when she would sit in reverie in the old Hepplewhite chair placed over by the latticed windows. When the bright sun laced through the glass panes forming small rectangular patterns on the hardwood floor. When the dappled light danced as if it was performing a ballet to one of Chopin's pastoral melodies.
And on the sidetable, easily within her reach, reposed the genie bottle which she had in earlier years nicknamed, the Persian Cadence. She kept it stoppered so none of the spirits past could escape.
Julia vaguely remembered the day her great grandfather had given it to her. What was his name? Ah yes. Paps. If she tried hard she could still smell the earthy scent of his pipe tobacco locked into the fabric of his clothing as he balanced her on his knee. She was too old to sit in his lap, for he himself was fragile with age, but on this occasion he insisted on entwining her in the embrace of his love and sharing stories of his own ancient history.
This carafe, he said, had come over on the boat from the old country. Not in steerage, he emphasized, but in a first class cabin as treasured heirlooms should. And though it appeared black as a night's moonless sky, if one looked with a knowing eye, one could see the passion of life sintered in the red colors floating atop the black and one could see the hope of the eternal in the floating blues scattered amongst the reds.
"Life is like that," he said. "When things seem darkest, there is always life's passion and eternal hope."
Julia's finger softly traced the contours of the bottle's glossy surface. That had been so long ago and almost lost in the obscuring veil that the fog of time drapes over the past.
Yes. She had cherished the Persian Cadence. For when she wanted to, she could outwit memory's timekeeper, unstopper the bottle, and let the memories flow out touching the passions she once felt and the idealistic hopes she had once held dear, for it was these that had given her the strength to keep on, keeping on.
Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
She turned her head slightly to the right so she could see this imaginary portrait, for after the operation she was blind in the right eye. Now, she viewed everything with a perspective fractionally to the left. She never let on how much this bothered her. She just kept on, keeping on.
Except for the moments when she would sit in reverie in the old Hepplewhite chair placed over by the latticed windows. When the bright sun laced through the glass panes forming small rectangular patterns on the hardwood floor. When the dappled light danced as if it was performing a ballet to one of Chopin's pastoral melodies.
And on the sidetable, easily within her reach, reposed the genie bottle which she had in earlier years nicknamed, the Persian Cadence. She kept it stoppered so none of the spirits past could escape.
Julia vaguely remembered the day her great grandfather had given it to her. What was his name? Ah yes. Paps. If she tried hard she could still smell the earthy scent of his pipe tobacco locked into the fabric of his clothing as he balanced her on his knee. She was too old to sit in his lap, for he himself was fragile with age, but on this occasion he insisted on entwining her in the embrace of his love and sharing stories of his own ancient history.
This carafe, he said, had come over on the boat from the old country. Not in steerage, he emphasized, but in a first class cabin as treasured heirlooms should. And though it appeared black as a night's moonless sky, if one looked with a knowing eye, one could see the passion of life sintered in the red colors floating atop the black and one could see the hope of the eternal in the floating blues scattered amongst the reds.
"Life is like that," he said. "When things seem darkest, there is always life's passion and eternal hope."
Julia's finger softly traced the contours of the bottle's glossy surface. That had been so long ago and almost lost in the obscuring veil that the fog of time drapes over the past.
Yes. She had cherished the Persian Cadence. For when she wanted to, she could outwit memory's timekeeper, unstopper the bottle, and let the memories flow out touching the passions she once felt and the idealistic hopes she had once held dear, for it was these that had given her the strength to keep on, keeping on.
Introducing: The Persian Cadence
Stoneware
12" tall
6 ¼" diameter
Holds: 1185 ml fluids
Or
1185 ml of memory teasures
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuscan Sun
The windowledge is wide. So wide objets d'art can rest there safely. The moon is full. A Persian moon close to the earth. It bathes the whole landscape in silvery splendor. And is so large one could lose oneself in it.
Mary is curled up on the couch, her wooly robe snuggled closely around her. Oversized floppy slippers hug her feet. The rest of the room is dark except for the flicker of burning logs in the fireplace.
The Tuscan Sun languishes there, alone on the sill, mantled in the magic light of moonbeams. Mary's eyes trace its contours lovingly. She remembered the moment he had given it to her. The flavor of the pre-mixed margaritas they had shared, poured from its sparkling interior still teased her senses. Remembering.
Remembering the sun's rays so intense the day shined orange; remembering the seawater so vibrantly blue there were no words to describe the color. Some called it azure blue. Others described it as indigo. Yet now, Mary would name the color as the blue of a broken heart.
One white-capped wave rose grandly above the sea that day. It felt as if the wave was reaching for the heavens. That single moment when the wave threw itself with wild abandon into the day's orangy heat touched the depth and breadth of their love, hers and Stephens. It seemed that the Universe was blessing their union with the perfect landscape.
That had been months ago, before Stephen had been called away. Company business. Hush. Hush.
On that last day as they lay entwined in the hot sands of desire, he whispered in her ear, whispered against the tendrils of her hair, whispered along the softness of her neck, whispered of his return. Promising. Promising to return.
Mary curled more snugly into the couch's embrace feeling the pillows cushion her grief. She watched the moon's ascent and watched it grow smaller as it rose high in the night sky. The moonlight playing on the Tuscan Sun was just as silvery as before, but less intense.
The phone was ringing but she made no attempt to answer it. Where would she find the energy? It would be much too exhausting to endure another pointless conversation with friends consoling her for her loss, or worse yet, some telemarketer selling a product she'd never have occasion to use.
Then she heard the answering machine click on.
"Mary, this is Stephen."
Suddenly overflowing with the buoyant vibrancy of emotion, Mary raced for the phone. Catching the receiver from its cradle, she answered, her voice breathless with wonder.
Stephen !
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
Mary is curled up on the couch, her wooly robe snuggled closely around her. Oversized floppy slippers hug her feet. The rest of the room is dark except for the flicker of burning logs in the fireplace.
The Tuscan Sun languishes there, alone on the sill, mantled in the magic light of moonbeams. Mary's eyes trace its contours lovingly. She remembered the moment he had given it to her. The flavor of the pre-mixed margaritas they had shared, poured from its sparkling interior still teased her senses. Remembering.
Remembering the sun's rays so intense the day shined orange; remembering the seawater so vibrantly blue there were no words to describe the color. Some called it azure blue. Others described it as indigo. Yet now, Mary would name the color as the blue of a broken heart.
One white-capped wave rose grandly above the sea that day. It felt as if the wave was reaching for the heavens. That single moment when the wave threw itself with wild abandon into the day's orangy heat touched the depth and breadth of their love, hers and Stephens. It seemed that the Universe was blessing their union with the perfect landscape.
That had been months ago, before Stephen had been called away. Company business. Hush. Hush.
On that last day as they lay entwined in the hot sands of desire, he whispered in her ear, whispered against the tendrils of her hair, whispered along the softness of her neck, whispered of his return. Promising. Promising to return.
Mary curled more snugly into the couch's embrace feeling the pillows cushion her grief. She watched the moon's ascent and watched it grow smaller as it rose high in the night sky. The moonlight playing on the Tuscan Sun was just as silvery as before, but less intense.
The phone was ringing but she made no attempt to answer it. Where would she find the energy? It would be much too exhausting to endure another pointless conversation with friends consoling her for her loss, or worse yet, some telemarketer selling a product she'd never have occasion to use.
Then she heard the answering machine click on.
"Mary, this is Stephen."
Suddenly overflowing with the buoyant vibrancy of emotion, Mary raced for the phone. Catching the receiver from its cradle, she answered, her voice breathless with wonder.
Stephen !
Introducing: The Tuscan Sun
Stoneware
7" tall
4 ¾" diameter
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
Friday, February 26, 2010
Morrocan Coda
Thanksgiving at Aunt Milly's house was enough to give heartburn to the stoutest disposition. The last members of the family to appear at this yearly event were the luckiest, thus everyone came late, often arriving en masse, just one moment before the point of rudeness.
Whisked from the entryway to the oppressively dark dining room, they found themselves in a room sucked clean of oxygen and smelling of the heavy aroma of a meal yet to be endured.
A long somber table occupied the room's center, flanked on either side by enormous raven-black hutches. The base of these hutches stood atop of the knarled claw feet of some indeterminable animal whose brass talons gripped and shredded the carpet. It was easy to imagine a dragon swooping out of the gloom to devour unwitting family members.
Aunt Milly was a stickler for propriety. Showing up at her table in jeans which sported holes in the knees was simply not allowed. Silky dresses and stockings were the expected mode of attire. Which wouldn't have been so bad except for the horsehair chairs. Outdated relics of a comfortless century, these seats were designed by a masochist whose plain intent was to torture unlucky guests. Sharp bristles on the overstuffed cushions needled through clothing, causing one to squirm like a mexican jumping bean and earning "one of those looks" from Aunt Milly.
Conversation in such an environment is naturally stilted. Silence usually dominated the entire meal.
Austerity exemplified these occasions.
There was one year though that the whole affair was immensely entertaining. The year of the Morrocan Coda.
Aunt Milly's sister, Jessie, who had been traveling a lot that year, suggested that she bring along a keepsake from one of her trips. A morrocan styled teapot. Now Jessie knew full well that Milly wouldn't drink tea. Never touched a drop. So Jessie offered to bring the Morrocan Coda filled and ready to serve the ensemble.
Even though I was thirteen that Thanksgiving, the teapot, as it made it's way around the table, passed me by. It passed by all the other children, too. But I noticed nearly every adult poured a dollop of the beverage into the tiny demitasse cups Jessie had thoughtfully provided.
And I noted too, that suddenly there were twitters that sounded a lot like muffled giggles. A bit later, witty conversation flowed freely and soon, there was outright laughter. Uncle Henri danced with Jessie. Maud and Laura, two maiden aunts, enacted a poor imitation of the Charleston and Grandmother Sarah lost her false teeth under the table.
Ah yes, the year of the Morrocan Coda. It was the best Thanksgiving our family ever had.
Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
Whisked from the entryway to the oppressively dark dining room, they found themselves in a room sucked clean of oxygen and smelling of the heavy aroma of a meal yet to be endured.
A long somber table occupied the room's center, flanked on either side by enormous raven-black hutches. The base of these hutches stood atop of the knarled claw feet of some indeterminable animal whose brass talons gripped and shredded the carpet. It was easy to imagine a dragon swooping out of the gloom to devour unwitting family members.
Aunt Milly was a stickler for propriety. Showing up at her table in jeans which sported holes in the knees was simply not allowed. Silky dresses and stockings were the expected mode of attire. Which wouldn't have been so bad except for the horsehair chairs. Outdated relics of a comfortless century, these seats were designed by a masochist whose plain intent was to torture unlucky guests. Sharp bristles on the overstuffed cushions needled through clothing, causing one to squirm like a mexican jumping bean and earning "one of those looks" from Aunt Milly.
Conversation in such an environment is naturally stilted. Silence usually dominated the entire meal.
Austerity exemplified these occasions.
There was one year though that the whole affair was immensely entertaining. The year of the Morrocan Coda.
Aunt Milly's sister, Jessie, who had been traveling a lot that year, suggested that she bring along a keepsake from one of her trips. A morrocan styled teapot. Now Jessie knew full well that Milly wouldn't drink tea. Never touched a drop. So Jessie offered to bring the Morrocan Coda filled and ready to serve the ensemble.
Even though I was thirteen that Thanksgiving, the teapot, as it made it's way around the table, passed me by. It passed by all the other children, too. But I noticed nearly every adult poured a dollop of the beverage into the tiny demitasse cups Jessie had thoughtfully provided.
And I noted too, that suddenly there were twitters that sounded a lot like muffled giggles. A bit later, witty conversation flowed freely and soon, there was outright laughter. Uncle Henri danced with Jessie. Maud and Laura, two maiden aunts, enacted a poor imitation of the Charleston and Grandmother Sarah lost her false teeth under the table.
Ah yes, the year of the Morrocan Coda. It was the best Thanksgiving our family ever had.
Presenting: The Morrocan Coda
Stoneware
7" tall
7 ½" diameter
Holds: 1 liter fluids
Or
259 drams strong liquor
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422
x
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