Natalie

She had an eastern European accent;

I could have listened to her read the phone book--

All those hard R's.

It was like being under the influence of something...

She made me want to wait in a bread line, or watch some awful art film with my head on her shoulder and my hand,

Like an afternoon cloud,

Drifting under her skirt.



Surely I should join an Order,

Forget what I have seen and felt.

Pigeons mock me--

They teem everywhere I go,

Like pick-pockets speaking Romany.

I am in a bare room,

Questioned in a language I do not understand,

But the answers are as clear as the water in a town-square fountain in Belgrade in the spring...



-- her eyes, dark as crow's wings.

--her fingers, with rings of every precious metal.

--her words, faintly obscene.

--her name, Natalie, like a loaf of bread on a wooden table.



I knew her several years ago.

She had hair like an approaching storm.

I don't know where she is now,

But I think of her

Whenever I see pigeons on the sidewalk

Outside the old bakery door on Verlaine Street.

_______

Note: yes, there was a real Natalie. She was from California, lol.

written for One Shot Wednesday

Old Postcard Wednesday (on Tuesday): Evelyn Nesbit

Hello, my friends! Today I am participating in a new feature! It is called Old Postcard Wednesday and is the brainchild of my friend Lydia. If you haven't been to visit Lydia's blog, Writerquake, then I'd like to know why ever not? Well? I'm waiting. God, I love me when I'm bitchy! Anyways, Old Postcard Wednesday consists of Lydia, and me, and...Lydia...and...me...well, you get the idea. It's always a good thing to get in on the ground floor of these things. Okay okay...thanks to Lydia for letting me horn in. You're a sweetheart. Now stop twisting my ear.

Now, on to the star of the show, the Old Postcard! This postcard is from someone named Elise, who is promising her friend Frieda (in Newark NJ) that she will be home on Saturday. I wonder if she made it? I wonder who these two ladies were? I have loved old post cards nearly all of my life, and I always wonder who the people were who chose them, wrote their little messages and mailed them to someone, so long ago. The truth is, I am drawn to anything from the 1890s through the 1920's. Silent stars, gangsters, gilded age financiers, all of it. It tugs at me. Part of me has its heart there, and I can't explain it.

This postcard is of Evelyn Nesbit, and her story is absolutely fascinating. She would be on my short list of famous people I would love to meet somehow. If I could do lunch with Evelyn and Marlene Dietrich, that would be it. I could just keel over after dessert with a huge smile on my face.

When I was a library rat wayyyy back in high school, I discovered a series of coffee table books put out by Time-Life, about each decade of the 20th century. (thanks, Daddy, for making me love history) In one of them, as I leafed through, I saw such a remarkable face staring back at me through the years. I thought, "who IS this?" There was such a soulful, beautiful, heartbroken quality to her. I became fascinated with her, and fascinated I have stayed. That incredible face belonged to Evelyn Nesbit.

She was just a girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Pittsburgh, when she was noticed by an artist, who paid her to pose for him. She was only fourteen. Soon, she was in demand as an artist's model, though she hated having to stay still for long periods. It brought in money, and a little bit of independence from her mother, and so she posed away.

In time, she found herself in New York, and in less than a year, at the age of sixteen, she was essentially America's first supermodel. You can see her face in hundreds of vintage advertisements, for everything from soap to magazines. She was, in fact, the inspiration for Dana's famous "Gibson Girl." She was supporting her mother and brother and working non-stop. (I have found that many famous women of the era were the breadwinners for their families at a very young age, Mary Pickford and Mabel Normand among them). 

Evelyn's mother wanted to marry her off to a millionaire. Any millionaire. And indeed, she did marry an unstable millionaire named Harry K. Thaw. But the most important man in her life was the celebrated architect Stanford White, designer of Madison Square Garden and numerous other New York landmarks of the day. Before she married Thaw, the much older White had a secret hideaway just for Evelyn and him to meet. (White was a married man). It was in this apartment that White had a giant swing suspended from the ceiling for Evelyn to swing on, nude. Yes, she was the famous "girl on a swing." But despite all of her bewitching beauty, and success as a model, when White found her she was still a virgin, just a teenage girl from Pittsburgh. That all ended the night he spiked her drink and, as Evelyn lay groggy and helpless, had his way with her. Why he did this, who knows? It broke my heart for her when I read about it. In any case, in that era, Evelyn considered herself damaged goods after that and so began a long affair with White. 

One of the things that endears Evelyn to me, is that she loved to eat good food. She was so different from today's starvled stars, and White had the means and the inclination to provide spreads of things that she not only loved, but had never even tasted before. Also, Evelyn took a childish delight in any kind of mechanical toy, and any time White spotted one, he would buy it for her. I share that with her, too, I adore the old toys from that time. 

In time, as she got older, she grew restless, and made demands of White that he would never satisfy. And so she married Harry Thaw. She told Harry about the way Stanford White had raped her, and he became obsessed with it. In the end, in a public place in front of dozens of witnesses, Thaw fatally shot the great architect. So ensued the first "trial of the century" at which Evelyn had to endure days of painful and embarrassing testimony. She handled it with grace, for which I admire her tremendously.

Harry went to prison and Evelyn divorced him, but her life was never the same. She was forever the "girl in the swing", the temptress who had driven one wealthy man to murder another in spectacular fashion.

Evelyn for many years became an out of control drunk, getting into physical fights in saloons and getting arrested. But she pulled herself up from that, and died, decades later, a sober woman.

Her story tugs at my heart. She had singular beauty and allure, and yet, men much older than herself, and her parasitic mother, controlled her life all through her young womanhood. Her beauty was her blessing and her curse. I don't think that anyone really could see past it, and see her. One of the most poignant stories from her life, to me, is this one: Stanford White arranged a photo shoot in the apartment they used, with a well-known photographer White had engaged for the day. Many of her most famous photographs were taken that day. Evelyn grew tired and wanted to stop, but the session went on and on. Finally, the shoot seemed to be over, and Evelyn put on a kimono. White and the photographer found her so beautiful in it, that they had her pose for a few more shots on a bearskin rug that had been used as a prop that day. Evelyn, exhausted, fell asleep on it. The photographer took one more shot. 

Evelyn Nesbit never did find genuine love in her life, except from the pet dogs she adored. Now she is gone but her photographs survive, looking out hauntingly across a century. They still fascinate me today.

_________

Night Blooms

Dear Readers,

Please come over here, into the shadows. That sound? Oh, I'm sure it's nothing. Just the sound of me making my heretofore private short story blog Night Blooms public. I expect the decline of western civilization within the hour.

But wait! It is not for everyone. If the idea of vampires, succubi, ghosts, horror of every stripe, or girls holding hands makes you nervous, then by all means, stay here in the Garden. 

To borrow a phrase, unpleasant dreams my darlings! See you after midnight.

________ 

Art Appreciation With Stacy

Note: this is the result of a prompt "I could have told you, Vincent", which has something to do with Echostains, who I don't know, and Adam Dustus, who I do. I'm not clear on the progression. I'm probably supposed to link and sign something and bow to the east, but you know how I get. I'm exhausted already. Can I just post the poem? Thanks. Gawd. The things a girl has got to go through.

Vince, hi.

Um...

What? Oh, I'm fine. You're sweet to ask.

So...

What up?

"Dawg". Ha ha.

Are you, like, still doing drawings and stuff?

Yeah? You're pretty good. Seriously, dude.

You should, like, maybe take a class or something.

Have you ever signed up for an art class? No?

I think the community college offers them.

I took, I don't know, some computer thing there once...it was okay, I guess.

I met Rick there.

Yeah, Rick, this guy I'm seeing, or like, we're hanging out and that.

Look, Vince, I need to tell you,

You're a nice guy and all. Some girl is out there for you.

No kidding, a lot of girls really like beards. For real!

My friend, she's totally all about dudes who look like these mountain men or something.

Hey, I didn't mean...

It looks good. No lie.

But, Vince,

I'm not really into art or that, and Rick, he's kind of into the whole surfer, keg party thing.

Well, what I mean is,

Um...

Here's your ear.

I wrapped it in, I don't know, this napkin from Chicken Shack.

I didn't, like, use it at all, it's clean.

Maybe they can re-attach it?

But dude, seriously,

Don't, like, send me the other one or anything, you know?

It's gross, I have to be honest with you.

Really thoughtful,

But,

Gross. As hell.

What were you thinking?

Oh, c'mon,

Don't go all crumpled looking,

My dog does that and I can't deal.

He's at my mom's now...

Well, I know, like you care, right? I just ramble, whatever.

Sorry.

So, check out those art classes.

Maybe you could even sell one of your paintings?

Use the money to buy a new jacket or something.

Good luck, Vince.

I gotta run, Rick hates it if I keep him waiting.

Peace, out.

And no more ears!

Later, dude!



(walk

walk

walk

keys

car door slamming

engine starting

lipstick adjustment in rearview mirror)

*sigh*

What a fucking nut case!

_______

For My Friend

Pssst, you...

Yes, you with the strong mother-vibe, like chocolate batter off a spoon...

C'mere.

You with the smart mouth and the warm heart,

You're like

The circus to a gypsy

The sea to a Selkie

And I,

Oh I,

Just want to sneak into your circle for a minute

And dry the rain off my wings.



Listen, I can

Crack wise,

Stir the soup,

Keep your secrets,

Other stuff,

Just as long as I can have you close.

I could move in, just down Charmingly Fucked Up Street from you,

And I would be there

Like slanting light at the end of afternoon

That you could have now

Or save for later,

Lady's choice.



Pssst, woman...

You're stuck with me, I think,

And this poem

Is the cup of sugar you came to borrow;

Come back any time,

(you'll see my familiar in the window)

And I'll be here

The next time

And any time

You come knocking.

________

Ode To A Straight Girl

Yes Darling,

I have no doubt...

A bite of apple is enough to sustain you.

Set it there,

On the five dollar mag you feign reading.

You're such a pretentious bitch,

And no one looks more fetching in vintage white than you.

Let the church call,

I'll tell them the apple can't be had at any price;

Since the perfection of your lips,

The touch of your teeth,

It has been rattling off the most enchanting gibberish

Like a saint in extremity

Backwards and in French.



La-de-da, Your Highness.

Let me light you another reeking cigarette

Until you are nothing but a gorgeous, noxious cloud

With a different Moses for every day of the week, worshipping at your tapping feet.

It's only the speed.

Who, darling, enables you the way I do?

Who listens to your fantastic bullshit until dawn?

Who kicks the men out when you tire of them?

Who stalls the devil, downstairs in the vestibule?

I am your apple,

My poisonous beauty;

Until you bite my flushed skin

Absently sucking until I tremble and flutter,

Not strong enough to deny you

Even as you throw away the core.

_________

for Magpie 30

__________

Blue September

September has always had it in for me.

It lays for me.

When I was young,

The other girls came back to school more beautiful than the year before,

Wearing whatever was the newest style.

Me,

I disappeared down paths nobody knew,

Alone,

Unable to explain myself to anybody,

Unable to explain myself to myself.



September is a bastard,

Neither summer nor yet autumn.

My last drink was in September,

And I want one every year.

The usual dull ache of loneliness

Grows teeth in September

And I can't bear it.



When I have found love,

It has nearly always been in October or November, in the crisp, good heart of fall;

Sometimes in the spring,

But never in high summer.

Never in September.

The ninth month would kill me if it could--

Nine the number of endings.

Nine the number I never want to see again.



My favorite aunt died in September.

9 / 29 / 85

The last time I took a drink.

I go down by the graveyard

The way I did the day they laid her there,

When I was still young,

When I still couldn't shake the gorilla on my back.

I go down there, and I think,

If a devil came out of the ground at my feet,

And I knew she would hurt my heart bad, but make me feel better today,

Would I fall into her arms,

Kiss her on the mouth,

Let her take me down in the dry grass?

Damn right I would.

In a heartbeat I would.



But then,

A crow flies above my head,

The breeze stirs,

And I hear my aunt's big laugh--

The one I loved.

I feel her protection

From September

From emptiness

From my own despair

And I think, devils be damned,

I'll make it through to another October somehow,

Just the way I always have

For twenty-five years and counting.

______