September in Corrales
Paula Hendricks
A collection of poems,
short fiction, essays,
and photographs
Cinnabar Bridge Publishing
San Francisco
~ ~ ~
September
in Corrales
Paula Hendricks
Cinnabar Bridge Publishing
San Francisco, California
Copyright © 2004 Paula Hendricks. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition 2011
ISBN: 978-0-9777805-4-9
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with anothe person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, the please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
First print edition published 2004
"Too Much on My Plate" originally published in Albuquerque Woman magazine, Duval Publishing, Inc.
"The Loneliest Road in America" originally written for Dorothy (Kramer) Gardner for her 90th birthday.
All photographs except author photo by Paula Hendricks
Author Photo: Bill Hawk
~ ~ ~
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you all, every one, whether I’ve named you here or not. In particular, I want to thank my artist friends Joanne Hoover, Diana Stetson, David Leddick, Hershel Weiss, and Bob Shaw – without your friendship, your acceptance, your challenges, and your kind words, I could not have put my art out there. To be part of an artistic community is as important to me as air. My New Mexico art community also includes some groups still active and thriving, including the Corrales Bosque Gallery; and some that were fabulous and are alive now only in memory, including Writers Alive! and the Santa Fe Writers Group.
Without the personal compassion and encouragement of Lavinia Gilbert, Muriel Lass, Dorothy (Kramer) Gardner, Georgia Boyer, and Mio Fredland, I would not have moved to New Mexico nor found ways to think of my snapshots and my scribbling as art. Thank you for believing in me.
A special note of appreciation to Forge Toro who kept pushing me to publish this book and who designed the original print book.
~ ~ ~
Poems, Short Fiction, Essays
9 Years /
Bird /
Adrift /
Iris /
Maevis /
Craig /
The Loneliest Road in America /
Hands /
Photographs /
~ ~ ~
I am nine years in the desert
a land of sere quiet
I live in an ancient village on the
banks of the Rio Grande. My home
is dark and quiet. I have a walled garden
I sit under the old cottonwood
My father’s wind chime
noisy in the morning air
The road runner
prances on the railroad
tie
And lifts himself into the
air
I step out of the garden gate
turning to ensure it latches
behind me
Taking a deep breath
I move off down the road
I can no longer live in my walled
garden
I grow fat on my own
internal gaze
I need hidden resources
recesses
I need some secrets
and mystery
even from myself
My love waits inside
I wear my grandmother’s gold bracelet
~ ~ ~
He was leaning against a white Chevy pickup, dusty from the desert, and his head was turned away from me, looking toward the Sangres, which still had snow. They were teal blue in this light and I knew they’d turn red later, near sunset. Sangre de Cristos. Blood of Christ. His left leg was casually crossed over his right, and I could see his boots, black with silver tips. Worn. In good repair. He was wearing a red bandana, like the one I wear around my hair when I am cleaning. It wasn’t new. It looked soft, faded. A black hat shaded his face. The lines near his mouth were deepened by the shadows and his skin was lightly scarred. I see him blink.
“Hi ya cowboy.” I say.
He turns his head slowly and takes me in. “Well.” He says. “Hi, yourself. Stranger.”
“Rustled any cattle lately?”
I see the lines near his eyes deepen....“No more’n usual,” he says. “Stayin’ long this time?”
“Uh, huh... Maybe forever.” say I.
He looks at me, still and quiet, knowing this will definitely complicate his life.
“Wanted you to know I was here... Back... From me direct... I wanted to tell you, first, in person. No rumors.”
“I’m glad.” He says. And he leans over and kisses me. On my mouth.
What I dared not hope for. Like my friend’s poetry and the Montana of her dreams. And her gray and wild hair. My hair is just like that. Wild and vital and black. Streaks of white, that only I can see, for now. My left eyebrow is more white than anything else. And this man. This tall, funny, lean man with the farseeing eyes and the lack of fear regarding his needs. Like my dog, Britt. She’s a dog. Doesn’t try to be anything but a dog. Doesn’t look around to see who’s watching when she pees. Like his kiss. Direct, warm, lingering, but without grasping, demanding. Doesn’t look to see if anyone’s watching. How could I have left?
“So.” He says. “Where’re your bags?”
“I left them at the Inn.” Do I tell him I plan to stay there?
“Well, we better go get them.” He looks at me. “Hadn’t we?”
“Aren’t you busy?” I say.
“Busy?” He says. “Not that busy.”
He lifts my bag as though it weighs nothing, swings it over the side of the pickup and turns to step up on the porch of the house. That house. His. Ours? Mine? I’m lagging behind, just a step. He opens the screen. It bangs shut behind us. It’s dim in that small hallway and he’s shadowed again. Safe.
“Well.” He says. “Where do you want this?”
My mind begins its ritual journey through the choices, the room I’d moved into, before I left, the pros and cons. I hear my voice, my voice, answering without regard, “Our room... if that’s okay?” My cold hand moves toward his. I see him smile, a small relaxing of his eyes and mouth, releasing the tension in his body.
“If that’s okay.” He says. “Yep. That’s okay... More than okay.”
I’m going to continue. Live. Not think. How I left before. Too much thinking. Too many shoulds. Noh dancing. How the body knows. Release the mind. Let the body move. Relax into this place, this man. He has not left, abandoned me. I am not lost. He has not smothered me or demanded in that typical male way that I “deliver” somehow. Noh dancing. I want dancing in my life. I want to dance with this man.
I follow him into the big room. I cannot, just yet, follow to our room. Our room. I sit in the big chair with the light from the window behind shining into the room, onto the wood floor, burnished, brown and lustrous. It is warm. Here in the sun. I hear a clock ticking and I turn my head toward the mantel to confirm my knowing it’s the one that belonged to his grandmother. The one he never knew. Bronze Greek figures surround a round clock face. I must remember to ask him about the Greek figures.
“Tea?” He says. He’s here, right next to the chair. I’m startled and completely relaxed, reassured, at the same time.
“Don’t know,” say I. My mind leaps to hot chocolate with oozing marshmallows, hot toddies, buttered rum, hot cider. I say “Have any cider? Popcorn?” Soul food. Food of myth. Apples of Eden. Spices, cinnamon from the land of the Pharaohs. Corn. Corn of this dry land and our fertile plains. Butter and salt, of cows and the earth and the sea. Ahh.
I touch his hand, hanging loose out of his black Levi jacket. “Let’s make popcorn and hot cider,” I say. His hand, warm of him, curls around mine and I pull on him as he pulls me up from the chair.
“What a good idea,” he says. And I know I’ve triggered that memory of the good times. Like kids, holding hands, we go to play in the kitchen. I can hear my friend say “Are you in bed yet?” I smile at this thought, no rush, let my mind go blank. Passions. Let my body re-discover the patterns. Noh dancing. Small steps. Surrendering to my body. My body knows. All is not lost. Give me this moment. I will not leave while I’m learning my own Noh dance. But I’m slipping into another space, that place of doubt and fear and pain. I’m not in that window seat, looking out but not seeing. Montana, my Montana. I want the freedom of a blank mind, mine.
I am and want to be in that time and space of walking with my lover, my lover-to-be, my man, to the kitchen, to play. In the kitchen. To that great black stove. I return. The smell of cider boiling away, wafting currents of cloves and cinnamon and essence of apple. I lean over, into the steam and feel its wetness and dream of him tasting this sweetness of my face, my skin. I smell the hot oil and the popcorn and feel the explosions. Little pops at first, singly, and the smell of melting butter, faster now, the lid of the pot rises, emitting more steam, dry hot and wet, individual explosions indistinguishable. And then, it stops.
He pours the butter over the large bowl of popcorn and I salt it. He tosses it and I salt it some more. He pours the hot cider into plain, thick white mugs and I put sticks of cinnamon, fresh ones, in each mug. He sets them on the long plank table. I put the huge bowl of popcorn between them. He lights the fire, already set, in the kiva fireplace in the corner. The sun is hot and warm and red. I lift my mug and offer it to him. He drinks my cider and we lean close, our foreheads touching. I love the feel of his skin. And mine. Melting. Noh dancing.
I feel his shoulders under my palms, substantial, solid, smooth. My fingers conform to their shape and pressure. I feel my head, push into the pillow, and my mouth opens. I hear nothing. My eyes are closed, open, don’t know. But I can see, see clearly. He is, above me, looking down. I am, aware, that without thought, plan, without question, we are in this position. I am receptive. He moves with purpose, with heat. He says “I love...” His hair is gold and reddish brown, thick and wild in this light.
I feel him, inside me. Deep. Hardly moving. I breathe through my mouth. Popcorn, and hot cider. His arms, muscles like cables moving under the skin. Eating and drinking. The land of the Pharaohs. Time, endless time. Burning embers. Pulling. A pulling. Muscle and movement. Deep within. Fire and water. His weight pushing down. Like emotion. No. Not yet. Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t leave. Me. Yet.
“Closer,” he says, “I want to...”
“...be closer,” I whisper. I move my leg ever so slightly, higher, past his shoulder. Closer. I could die here. But I continue. With my eyes, my mind, my legs, and my very soul open to him. I want him. Past the wall, that last barrier.
It’s gone. Gone now. I am, unprotected. I accept him, his love, my self. My mind and all my senses move into him, into the space of his body. All of me. Lose touch, let go, surrender. Noh dancing.
I am aware I’m not moving. Holding my breath. Don’t want to. To break the spell. I can see his hair, right here, on the pillow. Then, Britt’s cold nose on my arm confirms my thought. I open my eyes and sigh as my dream fades and accept I am alone.
~ ~ ~
I spread my wings. I leap and fly out over the basin. I turn, beat my wings, and land on the mesa. My friend laughs, right out loud. “Wow! At last! You’re flying!” he says. “I have to go now, but let’s do this next week. On Thursday at two - I’ll come back. We’ll talk about your journey.”
I wait, feathers aflutter, flying in tentative circles near the mesa. He said he’d be here. My teacher, my friend.
I fly in slow circles. I hover. He said he’d come.
He doesn’t show. I was ready for my performance. To show him my skills. To discuss the journey, the route we’ll take. To confirm his help. To bask in his caring. I keep going, I know he’ll come. I refine my plan. He’ll be proud of me.
He shows up one day at dusk. Calling to me as I soar up to meet my new traveling companions. He’s tired. He wants to fly. With me, with us. Ah, now I’m torn. I’ve committed to them. He was supposed to be here days ago. I’d blocked out time.
He says “What are you doing up there? Come down, come down. I’m here now.” His feet are planted in the earth. He is an ox. He sneers and criticizes my plans. Chastises me for not being at the end of my journey already.
I say “I’ve learned to fly. See? I have traveling companions. Isn’t this great?”
“You know what I hate most about you birds? You flit around. You fly from here to there. You don’t stay put, keep your feet on the ground. And you know what else? What disappoints me about you? You’re acting just like a bird!”
“But, I am a bird,” I say as I swish my wings. My feathers don’t fluff. Now, the journey seems more than hard. He’s withdrawn his care. His goodwill.
I spread my wings, and he yells at me I’m going the wrong way.
There is no wrong way. But then I remember - he’s always wanted me to walk in his footsteps. I used to run fast to stay up with him, on my tiny, wiry little legs, as he snorted and tore up the pasture.
He kept yelling, “You’re flying blind. Get down here, where I can help you. Listen to me. Follow my way. I know what I’m doing.”
I was high above the basin. I could see clearly, for miles.
“I don’t know about you. You don’t even know where you’re going. Are you even sure you can fly?”
“I’m flying now.
“Are you? And how long can you stay up there?”
“But... but...” and my feathers flatten. I lurch, twisting my mind to his pattern. My wings get tangled, I start to fall as he keeps talking, twisting the skeins of words. My body hurtles through air. I’m going to crash.
“There. You see? You’re not ready!”
“No. No!” I say. It’s only a point of view. I am a bird. And he is an ox. I am quicker, swifter, and now I must fly.
A sadness fills my breast as I recover from my fall, and sweep up, out, away from that mesa. I know birds don’t cry, but I swear water drips from my black eyes as I sweep down my wings, rise on the next draft, and soar out over the valley turning green. I am alone now, but I am flying. I am gliding over earth it would take months to walk. I am searching, and will, again, find my flock.
~ ~ ~
My plate is full. And I am on hold. I am isolated and have never felt more connected. Nothing is happening. Yet. Well almost nothing. Ha ha. Except accepting, deeply accepting myself as a woman. I still haven’t done my taxes. Important to do. Add up all those little receipts. All those Kinko’s receipts. Russell, my accountant, is having me re-do them. His way. Not the way I’ve done them for the past twenty years. It’s hard. It’s ant-like. It’s important.
My mother is dying. She’s pulling in. She’s more child-like than ever. And more manipulative. I’m afraid she’s giving up. Mentally if not physically. I’m looking at rentals. I’m being evicted. I’m looking at land. And houses. A place of my own. I’m waiting to hear about two jobs. Hurry up, they say, we can’t wait. I hurry. I comply. It’s been a week. I’m on hold. I kept thinking things would break loose. I’m not writing. If one thing went through. If I get one job. If my mother died. I’m not writing.
My soul is withering. I got a call from my parents’ neighbors. A godsend. They love my parents. My sister hasn’t been to see them in weeks. She lives in the same town. An alarm has been sounded. They’re worried about Dad. And Mom’s pulling in. Mom needs nursing care. A retirement home, maybe. It would be death for Dad. No puttering. No Rube Goldberg projects. Military school. Like when he was a kid, sent away. He sold the farm last week. I helped. The one his father cleared from wilderness. Yuba Farms. Gone. Done. He’s selling their house. I’m helping. He’s selling to Manfred. The Austrian foreign student who lived with us when my brother was a senior in high school. Everyone went to Tucson a couple of weeks ago. My sister. From across town. Me. From New Mexico. My brother. From South Dakota. And his wife and their two kids. I arranged it. I helped. My dad is going to need surgery. Prostate surgery. He wants to do it while Mom is still in the hospital. He won’t ask for more help. He doesn’t really want my help. He can’t even admit I could be helpful. I wonder if I really have been. Now that Mom has seen everyone, is she letting go?
Someone told me I should stay uninvolved. That I should “not act.” That someone else would fill that void. But they don’t know my family. That I should realize it’s their trip. That I can’t fix them. I can’t live their lives. But they’re cashing in. Cashing it in. And I don’t know what to do.
There’s too much on my plate. And I can’t stomach it.
I’ve lost a hubcap. A small one. Probably aluminum. And it says “4x4” on it. If you find it, let me know. Now. My right front tire, the one that had the slow leak, now has bare lug nuts. Grimy and bare. Somehow an invitation to thievery. A sign of things falling apart. A breaking apart.?
John Lee Hooker. And Bonnie Rait. On my tape deck. In the mood. In the mood for love. Driving along the Old Las Vegas Highway. At dusk. The sun sets behind me. Just a hazy bluish twilight with red tinging the mountains. Driving out into the desert. My throat loosens. My eyes water. And I let go. I want it to be just as easy as that. That simple. That soft. That complete. I turn my lights on at the Lamy turn. Debate for a second about stopping at the Legal Tender. But I don’t want a drink. I drive on. Into the night. Over the Railroad bridge. Right, onto 41. And follow the long black road in my headlights further into the desert. I can see the green reflections of my dashboard lights in my rolled up windows. Sometimes they startle me. They’re so green. I thought I was going to be with friends. People I like. In my moment of letting go. But they’re not home. A good thing, really. These are solitary journeys. I turn around in Galisteo. And head back. A dark ride on roads I thought I knew. But I am no longer sure.
After all. Space ships land in that basin.
~ ~ ~
I lived a year in that great city surrounded by water before I took my first lover. I had held myself apart for reasons long forgotten. This man was what I wanted to be. Sensual. Overtly sexual. Ambitious. Talented. Focused. I still wore my hand-made clothes of childhood. Clothes others said looked good on me. He had long slender fingers, this man, my first lover. Long slender fingers and hair curly and dark and as mysterious as a night without stars. He came from a land of music and passion. A land of poverty where those of his religion were tolerated. His father died young, as did his father before him. He did not believe we would grow old together.
He introduced me to passion. Mine as well as his. He was my companion as I opened the gates to these wonders of my self. He wanted me and did something about it. He traveled his own lone path. A sensual male animal in a land of denial. A man who hungered for touch where men took great pride in resistance and sublimation of the senses.
No man, since, has given me what he did. No man has been as comfortable in his own body, his own sexual prowess, his own deep sensuality. I hunger for this. For his touch. On my body. In my soul. I hunger. I thirst.
I have chosen to live in a desert. A stark land of mythic proportions. I choose no compromise. I choose edges and depth.
It is not the inner city I want. The urban metropolis I once had. It is, indeed, the edges. Other people’s edges. But my middle. Perhaps my own inner city. Here, I am at the center of my life.
~ ~ ~
I have been abandoned by my lover. Now, I’m walking and he looks down on me from his great stallion. He yells, shakes his lance, spurs his horse, and leaves in a great cloud of dust. I stand in the woods in my old doeskin dress, wrap my furs around me, pick up my hides and tools, and move on. I know my small smoke signals will not be answered again by this man. I begin to make my way alone. It’s not that I want to be alone. But, I need to draw. I am compelled to put on hides what I see, and to make sense of our language.
I turn away from my lover’s path and move deeper into the woods. I wish I had that mountain lion with me. That someone would help me build my fire each night. That I were settled with children and even grandchildren. But my path is unmarked. There is a strong warrior out there. I don’t know where he is, but I feel it. I’ve always felt it. I will find him only by going deeper into the woods.
I see in my mind my Massai-like warrior as we walk into the camp of the all the tribes. I have my paintings, my words of art, rolled and slung across my back. We walk into the encampment. At first, the presence of all these people, the noise, the children, the dogs... it’s too much. I stand, frightened. My warrior, the one I know but had not met, comes and stands so he is almost touching me. I feel his warm hand on my bare skin. He just stands slightly behind me. To my left. I take a small breath.