Beneath The Ivory Tower by Warren Adler - Considering the Vetting of Men for High-Level Positions

 

He could actually mark in his memory the approximate moment when he finally put to rest both the torment and temptation of his infidelity. That was the moment when he knew in his soul that he had exorcised the devil inside of him, that his secret life was over, that his vow was irreversible. Was it the ambience of Venice? Was it the recognition that the absolute constancy, loyalty, and undying affection of his wife demanded a similar response from him? How had she conceived of the idea of this place being the perfect setting for the cure? The memory of Ellen, with all its anguish and depression, disappeared like an erasure on a chalkboard. The slate was wiped clean. His affairs with Rebecca and Gloria were relegated to barely a wisp of memory. It was a miracle, an epiphany. He was being granted a sense of renewal, a new beginning, a conversion. From that moment on, he knew he would be faithful to his marriage vows. He felt he had been forgiven. They had been sitting at a table in the first row of a café in the Piazza San Marco. The Venetian dusk was leisurely descending, blurring the contrast between the pink-and-white marble of the Doge’s Palace directly across the promenade. He could see the last gasp of the faltering light play on the bronze hide of the four horses over the central doorway of the basilica, the clock tower, and the boat traffic on the Grand Canal. Across the canal, the waning light caressed the Cathedral of San Giorgio and, of course, the most compelling exhibit of all, the human throng. Behind them, on a bandstand, a quartet of musicians in tuxedos played familiar lushly romantic selections from Mozart and Beethoven. As the people passed, some stopped to listen, their faces lit by smiles stimulated by the exquisitely joyful and mesmerizing ambience of this place. Had Alice imagined this effect when she conceived this anniversary vacation? In front of them, without embarrassment, couples kissed, squeezed, and hugged each other. Glee seemed catching here. Everyone was happy, he noted, filled with the contagion of the sensation. Alice squeezed his hand, and they leaned across the table and kissed. “Feeling better, baby?” she asked. Up to then, he had taken refuge in simulating a light case of flu, inventing just enough symptoms to maintain a kind of emotional and physical isolation. He had gone through the motions of touring the Doge’s Palace and other famous landmarks, offering only a modicum of vague interest. “What is it, Allen?” Alice had asked. “Something coming on,” he had replied, knowing where his indisposition lay. With genuine effort, he tried to shake it off but to no avail. “I hope I’m not spoiling things for you, Alice.” “You can’t spoil anything for me, Allen. I just want you up to par so you can enjoy the experience of this lovely place.” He was rarely ill, but when he did come down with something, Alice was always there with succor and sympathy. Her solicitousness reminded him again of her devotion and concern. She was sweet and kind and beautiful, and here he was pining for what he defined as a lost love. It was ludicrous. He was drowning in guilt. Then sitting there in San Marco’s square, sipping their Campari and sodas, he had had his epiphany. Looking at Alice in profile, her face showing only the barest hints of aging, he realized that she was in a real sense, his true mate, and his real destiny. As they say, he had come to his senses at last. Those others, all three lumped together now, were simply manifestations of mysterious longings that could hardly compete with the sincere comfort and intimacy of this enduring relationship with his spouse. 

Swans, he thought. Mated for life. At last, he had accepted the premise, her premise. It crossed his mind that she might have sensed his various infractions, his debasement of their marital vows, his cynical disloyalty, his absurd romantic notions, and what he perceived as his gargantuan sexual needs. But her air of innocence and her unflagging wifely devotion made such a possibility remote. He had been scrupulous in holding all suspicion at bay, had taken massive precautions to keep the savage wolf of revelation from her door. It shamed him to think of how far afield he had gone. The methods he had used to keep his secrets embarrassed him now. Good God, how could I, he cried to himself. His eyes welled with tears. Yes, he had escaped unscathed, and he was back forever where he belonged. He had polluted and defiled. He had given in to dark and destructive urges. He had betrayed someone whose unflagging loyalty and devotion were steady and pure. And he had come within a hair of soiling his nest beyond repair. By some miracle, he had avoided accountability, had been reprieved. Thank you, Lord, he told himself. 

“I’m ready,” he said suddenly turning to observe her expression, studying her air of mystified concern. “Ready for what?” she asked. “Renewal,” he said, caressing her thigh under the table. “It’s you who put the idea in my head.” “Did I? I don’t really need renewal, Allen. Nothing has changed for us.” “Why would you think otherwise?” “Even if one swan’s wings are clipped, they stay together,” she said smiling. “You’re my permanent cob.” “A what?” She giggled girlishly. “A male swan. And I’m called a pen, a female. And we have two cygnets. You see. I’ve done my research. Only when a cob or a pen dies do they look for another mate.” Talk of death seemed incongruous to the moment. But he let it pass. They ordered another two Campari and sodas. When the drinks came, they clinked glasses. “To another twenty-two,” he said, feeling suddenly that a great weight had been lifted from his psyche. “Four-four. For the dice rollers, that’s boxcars.” “Then let’s roll ’em.” They sipped their drinks and watched the lights of the vaporettos flicker as they plied their way along the darkened canal. “Has it been mostly happy for you?” he asked. Did this epiphany call for confession? He felt on the verge of it, wanting to unburden himself further. Clearing his throat, he started to speak but he could not form the words. “What is it, Allen?” “I just want to say…” He paused. “Yes?” She gazed into his eyes, waiting for him to speak. “Have I been a good husband?” he asked. “Do you have to ask that question? Of course, you have.” “Have you ever doubted my devotion?” “Don’t be silly.” “Or my loyalty?” “No way.” She shook her head, smiled and patted the hand that was caressing her thigh. Moving toward him, they kissed again deeply, their tongues touching. Then she disengaged. He watched her grow thoughtful. Again, he cleared his throat wanting to reveal everything. Second thoughts intervened. What was the point? There was no need for that, no need to inject pain into her life. It was over now. The curtain had descended on that other life. “Have I been a good wife, Allen?” she asked. It was a totally unexpected question. “Now, who’s silly?” he said. “I haven’t been a world-beater. Have I bored you ever?” “Never,” he said. Boredom hadn’t chased him into his secret life. Something else, something far outside her orbit, something inside him, something too powerful to resist. “I’ve done my best,” she said. “My world is my husband and my children.” “And my world is my wife and our children.” He was conscious of the lie but had established the rationale. Another person inside of him, like those Russian dolls that fitted one inside the other, had been the dissembler, the adulterer. He had finally dispatched this other person to oblivion, removed him from the sequence, beyond history and existence. There was a long pause as he felt the sense of renewal charge through him. Their gaze met. He noted that she was becoming reflective, as if searching for something inside of her to emerge. 

“Horas non numero nisi serenas,” she said haltingly, stumbling slightly. “I memorized that waiting for just this moment.” “What does it mean?” “I count only the happy hours.” He wondered about her intent. Did it mean she had had unhappy hours? He let it pass unnoticed. Nothing must mar the moment. They kissed again. She brought her hand down to his crotch. “I told you I was ready,” he said. She hunched her shoulders and laughed. “Let’s pretend we’re lovers having a secret affair.” He felt the blood drain from his face. “What?” He heard a distinct tremor in his voice, and his lips trembled. A knot formed in his stomach. “Why not? It will add some spice. Young lovers on a tear.” “Hardly young,” he said searching for a response that would calm him. “Not according to this,” she said, squeezing him there. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “Believe it. I think we should find a gondola,” she giggled. “You’re serious?” “Absolutely.” He paid for the drinks, and they walked arm in arm, through the narrow calles, searching for some off-the-beaten-path fondamento where the gondolas were moored. Finding one, he negotiated a price while she lounged in the gondola and waited, stretching out on the soft pillows, and partially covering herself with a light blanket. “Two hundred thousand lire,” he said, smiling as he got in beside her. 

“What are you smiling about?” “For what we have in mind, it’s double.” “How did he know what we had in mind? After all, we’re not exactly kids.” “Not by a long shot.” “Then how did he know?” “He’s a lascivious bastard. He winked to prove it.” “Good for him.” The gondolier pushed off, and the boat glided away from its mooring. “I like this,” she whispered, nestling close to him, looking up at patches of sky visible through the dark cliffs made by the villas that lined the rios. The gondolier moved the craft softly through the water away from the tourist routes, and soon they could hear only the lapping of the water against the stone siding. She had slipped off her panty hose, and he had pulled down his pants to midthigh. Taking it slow, they caressed each other. Nearby, people walked along the calles, talking softly, laughing. “This will gives us a memory for a lifetime,” she whispered. “A lifetime,” he repeated in agreement. “We’re twenty-two years into it,” she said, giggling again. “We’ll come back in twenty-two and do it again.” “You and me, kiddo,” she said, sliding under him, helping him enter her. Their change in position shifted the balance of the flat-bottomed boat. The gondolier deftly compensated for the changes. “Are we being illicit?” she asked. “Very.” “Good. I want to see how it feels.” The blanket partially hid their lower bodies as they maneuvered themselves into the missionary position. As they moved in tandem, he watched her expression, visible now that his eyes had grown used to the darkness. It did not take long. They held each other tightly, letting the pleasure roll over them in a simultaneous spasm. “That one hit the gong,” she said, when she had cooled. “Illicit works.” “Better yet. We gonged together.” “One big gong,” she said, giggling. He took the mutuality as a further sign of their renewal, their bonding. Tonight, he told himself, is the beginning of our new life together. The blanket had slipped revealing their nakedness. He heard nearby voices and the grunt of the gondolier as he tried to slow his craft’s course. Still, Alice held him in a tight embrace. Then just above them, on the higher elevation of the stone walk, she saw two faces peering down at them. They seemed colorless, almost ashen. An older couple, Italian faces. “Buon giorno,” she said aloud, slapping him on his exposed rump. Under them, they felt the surge of the gondolier’s thrust as his oar moved the boat swiftly out of range. Laughing, Harris scrambled to her side, and they both quickly rearranged their clothes, none too soon, because around the bend they could see the festooned lights of the Rialto Bridge. The gondolier docked the craft smoothly. “For good measure,” Harris said handing the gondolier additional lire as he stepped onto the fondamento. He saw Alice wink and the gondolier’s playful gesture of kissing his fingers and raising them to the sky. “Well worth it, my man,” Harris had said. They had crossed the bridge and got a canal-side table at a trattoria, where they toasted themselves with Valpolicella and ordered baccalà and anchovies and cicala di mare. It was part of the miracle, this recall of the smallest detail of those moments. Nothing escaped memory, the smell of the night air mingled with the aroma of cooking coming from the restaurants, the taste of the food and the wine. Every detail of that evening and their glorious time afterward in Venice was etched in his mind. When they returned after a week, he slipped easily into his regular routine. He no longer felt the pull of outside attachments. He was liberated. Not a stir of memory of his infidelities ruffled his thoughts. The image of Ellen Benton and the others quietly slipped out of sight. That part of his life had been laid to rest. Or so he believed. Until now.

~~~

Allen Harris provided legal counsel to a university when they were in the midst of a scandal which they hoped to keep within the authority of the Board. His negotiations were so effective that he gained the respective not only of the Board, but of the president who was asked to leave his position. Vetting of all potential employees or those to hold high-level positions had become even more important in this world of electronic mail, cell phones, et.al. And the board of trustees' members were extremely anxious to ensure that they thoroughly investigated the past for each of those who would be considered for the position of president. To do this, they hired a major security company to conduct the vetting process.

However, even at the beginning, the name of the lawyer, Allen Harris, was identified as one who should be considered, given his reputation and the fine work he had just done on behalf of the university.

Harris, of course, was gratified that he was even being considered and actually saw it as a perfect step out of the legal arena. His wife was thrilled and promised to become the perfect wife of the president. Only thing was, Harris had also participated in the same type of sexual scandal for which the past president was just fired--even if his indiscretions were in the past, the last one being about five years earlier.

When I was on campus and a question arose regarding a national politician's involvement, the Political Science Chair and I got into a discussion about what it meant for a politician. For him, he felt that anybody who had chosen to lead the country, giving up much of his own personal freedom, then the individual had an obligation to ensure he never crossed a line related to ethics or moral behavior. 

Harris was not too concerned, since he felt he had done an exceptional job in "hiding" his affairs. At least he was until he met the security investigator who would be vetting...HIM!  I diligently read about Harris' actions--how each meeting occurred and how he went about connecting with the woman with whom he was interested. Note that two were early in his career and he had not as much to lose professionally by being identified.

Bottom line, Allen Harris began to panic! Should he even say he was interested in the presidency? Should he feel secure that his early efforts for concealment were sufficient to prevent any discovery? Or, worse, what if, in its being announced that he was being considered for the president position, that one of his past lovers would see it as a way to get money or even to get back at him for being unwilling to divorce and marry that individual. By the way, there were three, the last affair having been at least 5 years ago.

Harris decided that the only way that he could consider actually accepting the position if he were chosen, was to feel totally secure that all three of the women would not reveal his past... So he set about hunting down each of his former paramours, hoping, by meeting them face to face to ensure he felt he could believe what they told him...

The majority of this book covers his searches, his internal memories of each woman, and the actual results of his searches... Frankly, I enjoyed reading how the man feels about this type of relationship. From that standpoint, ladies, this may be a very informative book for all of you.

And readers are so involved in his personal life, that when he learns that one of his lovers was now dead--and that another death occurred as well, then, just as I did, Allen's investigative juices started flowing and he started backtracking--adding up one clue versus another as to exactly what was going on...

Have to say, I personally didn't like how the book ended, although by that time I wasn't surprised. I prefer a happy ending, albeit, admittedly whatever I feel personally would make a happy ending...LOL

Still, Warren Adler was a brilliant writer who died at 91, in 2019. This book as will others, I am sure, will routinely be brought back for new readers who missed the book during earlier publications...

Some of you may remember one of Adler's more famous books, which received awards and was made into a movie... This book reminded me that I also didn't really like The War of the Roses... And yet, as I got past my personal issues* and sat back to really read and enjoy the book, I was surprised at just how "aware" Warren Adler is about people! In fact, in Beneath The Ivory Tower, his POV is by the main character, the lawyer who finds himself being considered for the presidency of a respected university. We watch as he moves through such a wide range of emotions that we almost feel like we are his friend and working with him to "clear his name..."

At the end, I was once again considering the culture of America...Sex meets us in music, on the television, in movies, even in advertisements... Allen never figures out what made him...stray...Perhaps it is all the sexy situations that surround most of us daily? No wonder, I wonder...Is Sex All That? Can a professional career be tarnished for some brief escapade, agreed upon by both individuals? Or do we have a right to blame all of those actions on writers, readers, and more that keeps sex on our minds, sometimes, most of the day?

This is an excellent book on which to ponder your thoughts and decide! Don't be surprised though if this is not an easy read, given the nature of the topic... You choose!

GABixlerReviews

*Having nearly 40 years on a university campus, as well as watching over the years of political sexual misconduct of one form or another, I've found that it is very difficult to deal with interpersonal relationships in today's world--where everybody is watching... And if they wonder about your success, for instance, they are quite willing to hypothesize that "she must have slept her way up..." as justification when a female peer gets promoted when they do not. I'm not saying that sexual activities do not occur. What I am saying is that, many times, reputations are affected where sexual affairs as described via gossip,  are actually, merely having lunch with your boss to discuss your next assignment... More at a later time... Re Open Memoir Sub-Title.

Wendy Parciak Presents Requiem for Locusts - An Extraordinary Look at Fearful Lives

 

“Do you see the little pale yellow flowers at the tips of the branches? Hanging in long clusters?” “Flower child. I always thought it of her. Perfect, perfect child, covered with roses. Yellow and gold and pink,” the voice answered, promptly this time. It was easiest to assume that this response was a yes. Step 4: Answer subject, and continue in this manner until you or subject is tired of topic. 

“Those are called catkins,” Dr. Norton said. “They hold the male flowers on this tree, and if you look—” “Yes, kitty kitty. You’re fluffy, and you’re a girl, not a boy, aren’t you?” “What?” Dr. Norton had momentum now and hated to stop. “She’s a sweet thing, and she’s my friend, isn’t she?” “Well...,” Dr. Norton hesitated, sensing that his finely-engineered conversation on oak trees was crumbling. He had never gone past Step 4, but he could see that would be necessary now. Step 5: Subject is tired of topic. Change topic to subject’s choice. “Isn’t she?” the voice persevered. 

Dr. Norton sighed. “Yes,” he said, abandoning the oak flowers. Perhaps another time... “You really think so?” “I do.” Dr. Norton was amazed. This person actually cared about his opinion, and it had nothing to do with demyelination of the nervous system, perivascular inflammation in the brain or progressive-relapsing multiple sclerosis. His opinion about a cat! He gave a small, shy smile to the shadowed trunk of the oak tree. “I know she’s happy because she’s purring, and she must be purring because she likes you.” Dr. Norton paused, feeling the trembling bark beneath his hands. “She’s not an easy lady to please,” he added. His cheeks warmed at the boldness of this remark. “She isn’t?” the voice sounded doubtful. “No...she’s often annoyed with me these days. Even though she’s been with me for thirteen years. That’s why I was so delighted to discover her purring here.” “Yes, you’re a happy girl, happy girl, friendly girl,” the voice crooned to his cat. “Such a friendly girl, friendly friend...” Dr. Norton waited. “She likes to have her back rubbed, right above the base of her tail,” he volunteered. “Oh yes, I know what Princess likes, I do,” the voice chuckled. 

“Princess is...a good name,” Dr. Norton said, trying to be agreeable. “I call her Mathilde.” “Ma-thilde. Like Matilda?” “Yes, very similar to that.” “Matilda. Almost like me. Do you know the song?” And before Dr. Norton could respond, the song came drifting down from the top of the tree,  “Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong, Under the shade of the Kulibar tree, And he sang as he watched and he waited ‘till his billy boiled: “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me....” 

Dr. Norton pressed his hands into the bark, furrowed imprints in his palms. The singing was wistful, translucent. Each note descended and tingled on his face, along with the rounded raindrops, perfectly on pitch, glasslike. He stared at his hands, or where they would be if he could see anymore on this spring night. As the melody swirled around his hands, his head, he thought of himself as a young child, skipping and singing in a preschool class.  “Up rode the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred, Down came the troopers, one, two, three, Whose that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag? “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me....” 

He tried to remember what the song meant, but all he could recall was that it was odd. Something to do with sheep shearers wandering around Australia carrying blankets to keep themselves warm. Was Matilda the blanket? “Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the billabong, “You’ll never catch me alive, said he. And his ghost can be heard as you pass by that billabong: “You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.And he sang as he watched and he waited ‘till his billy boiled:“You’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me.”

A heavy stillness settled out of the air. Dr. Norton didn’t move. He had no idea what to do now. How could conversation follow a song such as that? Step 6: End conversation? “What are you thinking?” asked the voice, startling Dr. Norton out of his thoughts. “Oh,” he said. “Uh...,” relevant thoughts, relevant thoughts, Roland. “I was thinking...what a lovely song that was. I mean, not the song, but the singing,” he hurried to explain, his cheeks on fire again. “Although the song itself is quite nice, too. Perhaps I should go inside now,” he added. He removed his hands from the tree.

“Wait, Mr. White Oak Man,” said the voice. “Miss Matilda will come with you now.” Mathilde. Once again, he had forgotten about her. “Mathilde?” he called up the tree trunk. “Mrrow.” Here she was, slithering down the tree and into his arms. “Mathilde. I’m glad you didn’t get stuck up there,” he said, with his nose buried in her wet fluffy neck. “It’s time for us to go do some reading.” Holding Mathilde, he began to step cautiously away from the close blackness of the tree. At the edge of the canopy, he hesitated. “Goodnight,” he called upwards. “And...thank you. Mathilde has had a fine evening.” Excellent resolution. The tree breathed a shower of mist in response. Dr. Norton waited, wanting to ask the voice if it was indeed real, and if so, why it should choose to spend a damp evening in the top of his oak tree. But that might precipitate another conversation, and he was worn out. Or he might find that he had had an imaginary dialogue with one of his plants. Best to end on a good note, he decided, and ask no more questions. He shut the screen door, latched the back door, and carried Mathilde to the kitchen.

“Look at you, Tilly, you must feel terrible when you’re all wet like that.” He rubbed a towel over her thick fur. She sat without making a sound, looking pleased with herself. He used a corner of the towel to rub the short fur on her head. She twitched her tail to show that her patience was wearing thin, and he hooked a finger under her collar to keep her still. “What’s this?” he asked her. Her collar felt unusually lumpy. He parted the fur on her neck and instead of the black of her collar saw gloppy dirty white, no...pale greenish yellow. Soggy smashed petals, hundreds of tiny petals connected in catkins. Catkins intertwined, around and around her collar. “Did you get tangled in the oak flowers, Mathilde?” He pulled some strands off and held them up, sniffed them. They had little fragrance, but they smelled faintly of growth and crushed earth...

~~~

Breathtaking

Compelling!

Page-Turner

Informative - Love Thy Neighbor 

 

Normally I would read the short summary for a possible book, but having connected with the author, after trying to rebuild twitter connections after its takeover, I just bought the book and began to read...

It was interesting to try to get into a book cold turkey, so I was soon enthralled as each new character was brought forth. Certainly this book is character-driven, in an unique and extraordinary manner! You see, if you happen to have moved into town, purchased a home on Locust Street, you may quickly begin to wonder one thing...

Does anybody else live on the street? In fact, the author sets up the book for us, her readers, in a Prologue. She talks about the houses, the walks, the grass, which apparently is required to be kept in a certain way... Still, nothing about who lives on the street... except to point out it could be you, me, or even a psycho... But does it really matter, she challenges...

And so the book began. And there I was, Willow Stokes. I am a single older woman, living alone, and somewhat physically fragile... Ms Stokes differs in one way from me. She has nobody to depend upon or to help her. Miss Stokes was quite self sufficient, until noises and voices started beyond her home, she knew that she wouldn't be able to settle until she learned what was happening. She crept out carefully, wearing her special glasses to see better. At first what she saw scared her--but then she looked again and saw it was a large painted bus that took up most of the street. She escaped this major disturbance with earplugs as she shuffled off to bed...But she worried about what was going on...

Clarence and Janice St. Couer might be considered the elite of the street. And, like some who get into higher paying jobs are those who are hungry for more and more power, while looking down on those who do not meet their status... It was Janice who immediately, when seeing the bus, decided to call the police, and even made a sign and placed it on the window of the bus to warn them. Unfortunately, it rained and the sign could not be read. They have a two-year-old little girl who they think rules the world, being the smartest, and bound to be able to do anything they wanted her to do.

Miss Stokes comes back into the story, thus introducing our new character, Dr. Norton. Miss Stokes has fallen outside and her neighbor Dr. Norton hears her...

Dr. Norton is a neurologist and reminded me of my nephew who had Asperger's Syndrome. Dr. Norton is a good man and has a wonderful professional career, but had come to realize that he is totally unprepared to meet...people. Yep, Dr. Norton and I were also in sync. With guidance, Dr. Norton had learned a set of steps which could guide him through conversation which required what most people call "small talk." So each time he was involved, he would struggle how to deal with the situation. At least, finally, Dr. Norton was able to handle the situation to get Miss Stokes to the hospital. And, to do this, he had sought help from the newest resident--the owner of the bus!

Stopping there, I wanted to spotlight just how the author has garnered so much attention from her readers. In reading many books, I don't think I have ever read a writer who was so prolific in weaving each and every character through not only the physical descriptions so that we feel like we can imagine the individual, as well as how that person speaks as a part of his or her personality. Picture for yourself, just how you might think through your day--moving from thought to thought, idea to idea, backward and forward until you are able to decide just how and what you want to say or do... 

Now, think about your friends, your family members...how they differ from you...and what that means in your own ability to interact with them. I could go on and on, but I must say that Parciak's character development, especially in, this, her first book, is qualifiedly well beyond  any in my memory of thousands of books.

Back to the story...for before long--two young women slowly invade each life on the street in some way... as the Circus has come to Town!

Eugenia is one of the main characters. She is 13 and lives with her father. One day, one of her neighbors called; she had never met the woman so was surprised when she explained that her babysitter had to be away for a week and hoped that Eugenia would be able to take care of their daughter, Alicia, during that time period. Eugenia was thrilled--finally a way to make a little money...

But she had no idea what she was getting into! For one, the child, age two, never went anywhere outside of her home except in a car, being driven. This tragedy soon became the first problem to solve since Eugenia of course was not old enough to drive...

The home of the couple who had hired Eugenia was certainly reflective of the personalities of the two parents who both worked. But only as we read do we begin to see the obsessive-compulsion of the father while at the same time, the insecurity and trauma of the past that has held the mother for many years. Watching how Eugenia handles each task within an extremely structured environment, well, was just plain fun. 

Eugenia may not be brilliant, but she sure came across as an extremely self-sufficient and intelligent young girl. What she did in order to take care of the child was creative, and indicative of a child who, having faced bad times in the past, was quite able to stand on her own two feet to handle a new situation. And while she faces each new experience, she begins to create a "scene" in her mind in which she works to solve the problem... These little stories flow easily through the entire novel...

Eugenia Walch, an observant girl on Locust Street, gives us the following eyewitness account of a break-and-enter robbery by a sociopathic homophobe.... Or...Eugenia Walch describes in terrifying detail how she outwitted a pack of feral Dobermans, which were about to consume one of her neighbors....

One of the surprising times was when Eugenia had decided to take Alicia into the back yard and, upon seeing what was a very carefully created sand pond was seen by Eugenia and Alicia as, simply a sand box! (And even stranger when her father comes across this ruined scene!) And, it was at that sand box that Eugenia and Alicia first met the second young woman.

Infantile French lesson versus her first big break as a journalist? No contest. She scudded back across the street to the St. Coeur’s yard, yanked her roller blades off and threw them under the bush, and tiptoed in her socks to the backyard shrub-wall. She pressed her ear against prickly branches, inhaling the pungency of sap and fleshy blue juniper cones. Nothing. 

She pushed her hand into the branchy mire. “Ow.” She pulled her hand back. How did the St. Coeurs get into their backyard? Not from here, evidently. The neighbor’s yard had a rather hostile-looking gate, so she climbed up on the porch, unlocked the heavy doors and went inside, remembering just in time to de-activate the security system before the alarm went off. She trotted to the large glass doors in the sun room, where shades kept all but a hint of the sun from entering. She slid the doors open and stepped out onto the deck. 

The yard below was large and bare. No grass. Round rocks stretched in an orderly fashion in all directions to the boundary hedge. Here and there a small tightly-pruned juniper stuck out. In the middle of the yard, plastic edging bordered a kidney-shaped area that was filled with sand. Not an errant leaf or a weed in sight. No crickets chirping, either. 

Eugenia didn’t see any criminals, wild Dobermans or anything else exciting, so she descended to the yard and pulled off the car seat. “Look, a sand box.” Eugenia deposited Alicia in the middle of the kidney, so that her bottom made a nice round imprint in the carefully swirled, rake-crafted ridges of sand. Alicia looked up. Her mouth formed into an “O.” Uh-oh, fish gasping for air, watch out. 

“It’s fun. Every child plays in the sand,” Eugenia assured her. “Here, I’ll show you.” She picked up the cow hoof, which had fallen into Alicia’s lap. “Gross, it’s all soggy,” she said, nearly dropping the stinky thing in disgust, but she forced herself to show Alicia how to scoop up sand with it and deposit it elsewhere. “Problem is, you need water to build a proper sand castle. Tell you what, you play with that while I go get you some.”  Eugenia detoured to the side of the yard to see if she could see where the screaming person had come or gone. Much like the front side, the inside of the hedge appeared impenetrable. She walked the length of it, trailing her hand along the flat, scaly foliage. Wait. Here was a skinny branch that had freed itself from the pruned conformity of its partners. It angled into the yard a short ways, soaking up sun. She poked her hand behind it. “OW!” She yanked her hand out. Scratched again, worse this time. 

But wait a minute, she thought, that wasn’t the resistance of millions of tiny interlaced branchlets. Those were prongs. Sharp ones. Broken-off branches. She peered into the dusty darkness, and saw tens, maybe hundreds of white tips. Woody limbs that had been snapped and exposed, lighting a path from one side of the shrub to the other. Incontrovertible evidence that a large body, or maybe a small but fast-moving body, had come through here. 

For the first time, Eugenia felt a chill. If the body belonged to the screaming person, then where was he? Or she? Or it? The first alien to land on earth had an unsavory encounter with the thick-witted residents of Locust Street and fled back to the Andromeda Galaxy with hateful tales of the cruelness, greed and ignorance of the human race. This caused the Intergalactic Council to place a ban on further contact of any sort with Earth. And from that day onward the blue-green planet was left alone, to fight her own internal wars, and to assume that the life within her was indeed unique in the universe.... 

Eugenia wandered in the direction of the house without seeing any more clues. Of course, a bulldozer was about the only thing that would leave a trace in this yard, with the exception of the hedge and maybe the sand pond. She climbed the deck stairs and went inside, trying to remember why she had come. Oh yes, water. 

She looked up. After the basement, the sun felt like a wall of brightness and warmth. What was she doing? Water. Alicia. Eugenia squinted into the yard and breathed a sigh of relief. Alicia was still there. But...no. That was not Alicia, unless she had grown and sprouted an abundance of dark hair. Without thinking, Eugenia ran towards the threatening intruder, towards the sandbox where her feeble little charge had been playing. 

“Don’t!” she yelled in a voice hoarse with fright, and the silver disc sailed out of her hand, spinning and glinting in the sun, arcing up and then down, down, down until it plunged headfirst into the sand, a foot shy of the black-haired maniac. Darn it, a piss-poor throw, Eugenia thought as she ran behind it. So much for being heroic. She stopped short at the sandbox, chest heaving. Alicia was sitting where Eugenia had deposited her, eating sand. She was paying no attention to the stranger sitting in front of her. “...think you’re telling the truth,” the stranger was whispering to Alicia. “You don’t like Carrie or Leon or Jessica either. Perhaps together we...” The stranger looked up, suddenly aware of Eugenia’s presence. Eugenia found herself staring at a pale, open face with dark eyes that were wide-open and trusting. “You’re...just a girl!” Eugenia said. For once, she was at a loss for words. The stranger was small, thin and looked as though she was only a few years older than Eugenia. Eugenia felt weak in the knees now that she knew she wasn’t dealing with an alien being, or some big, hairy convict from the city jail. As soon as Eugenia had spoken, a change came over the girl’s eyes. They darkened to an inky black, a blackness that soaked up the sun’s energy and wrung it out somewhere deep inside.

“No!” screamed the girl, jumping up. “I am not a boy! You can’t make me be one! Make Carrie be one instead!” She was clutching a shiny plastic bag into which she plunged her hand and threw a handful of something yellow at Eugenia. Eugenia dove to the ground to avoid being hit. She found herself face-to-face with one of the small yellow missiles. It was a corn chip. What a freak! She almost laughed out loud. 

“Wait,” she said, ducking her head to avoid another shower of chips. “Didn’t you hear me? I agree with you. You’re very definitely a girl. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw you. Truly.” The girl retreated to the far end of the sand pond, clutching the bag of chips, which looked strikingly similar to the bag Eugenia had opened for Alicia’s breakfast. She glowered and spoke in a voice so low Eugenia could hardly make out the words. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you? ...know better...with Princess Carrie and her knives and tigers...not trustworthy... all fire and light...thought she was a golden child and Leon loved her....know better...it’s me that’s supposed to be the one....know better, I do....”  

“What the heck?” Eugenia interrupted. She was confused and somewhat irritated. Was this complete gibberish or was it a personal attack? And who was Princess Carrie, an evil member of a royal family?

~~~

And Ruining through the remainder of the book is this song...

With unexplainable results since we never learn all of the words...

Well, I was curious enough to find them so they are at the bottom of this article...Latin to English

But it is not really the words that are sought

But rather how the song came into the story...

I was about 40% of the way through the book when I started noticing something... Each of the homes had very high fences or trees, so much so that an individual could not go from one home to another through their back yards. In fact, it quickly became clear that there was little involvement with their neighbors, which is not altogether unusual, except, we sense that most of the individuals are dealing with some personal fear that caused them to withdraw into their home, seeking the security that could not be found out in the world...even on their own street, in their own town... Even one of the newcomers, who presents as an extremely friendly outgoing man, has a terrible burden that he only allows to come forth with those who are caring enough to listen... 

Readers, I was one of those who carefully listened to all those who came to live on Locust Street... I invite you into the most complex book you may ever read... Yet, in many ways, the most touching tale that can only be read as a whole... Because if you don't, you will truly miss the treasure to be found...beyond...the end of this book! How Exciting to say that! I wanted a different ending...but it would have to have been a  lengthy novel that would merely elaborate on the ending we "experience..." Still, I must say that I would love to see a follow up book featuring the two young women, perhaps working together to continue to spotlight the crux of the storyline in Requiem. Don't miss this literary gem!

O fortune

O Fortuna

Like the moon

Velut luna

Changeable

Statu variabilis

Ever growing

Semper crescis

Or you decrease

Aut decrescis

Hateful life

Vita detestabilis

Now it's hard

Nunc obdurat

And then soothes

Et tunc curat

I play the game of the mind

Ludo mentis aciem,

Poverty,

Egestatem,

Power

Potestatem

Like ice.

Dissolvit ut glaciem.

Fate

Sors immanis

And empty

Et inanis,

You are a rolling wheel

Rota tu volubilis

Bad status

Status malus

Vain salvation

Vana salus

Always disintegrating

Semper dissolubilis

Overshadowed

Obumbrata

And veiled

Et velata

You are also looking for me

Michi quoque niteris

Now through the game

Nunc per ludum

Back bare

Dorsum nudum

I will bear your crime.

Fero tui sceleris.

The fate of salvation

Sors salutis

And of virtue

Et virtutis

against me now,

Michi nunc contraria,

It is an emotion

Est affectus

And failure

Et defectus

Always on duty.

Semper in angaria.

In this hour

Hac in hora

Without delay

Sine mora

Touch the heartbeat

Corde pulsum tangite

That by lot

Quod per sortem

It spreads strong

Sternit fortem

All mourn with me

Mecum omnes plangite

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Carl Orff

GABixlerReviews

Manny Monolin Moreno, Poet and Author, Ongoing Contributor, Shares His Life - So Much Like Ours?

 

Good evening

I hope at this time everyone here is in a good space and place.
I have had the strangest things coming at me these past days. To where my nerves have been tested in various unwanted or uncalled-for issues, with hackers and the tweaker neighbors. And other things.
Right now I am lying back, trying to focus on my art and writing, while waiting anxiously for news on the grant awards, May 15th.

I could stay angry at the neighbors, the hackers, the people in traffic, the con artists and so on, but I will not allow all that to knock me down. This anxiety can take me into depression, so I smudge, give thanks and fight back. With prayer. It is all I have of any value.
It is not easy living in this trailer village. I have to watch my back because of evil people. I stay to myself. And when they try to test me, young fools, I turn and walk. I don't give them any power to take a chance and try to hurt me.

Distractions come when things seem to be going okay. Some people out of envy for how I live and the privacy I keep, create drama to throw at me. 13 years here now, I have kept mostly to myself.

The answer for me to overcome these challenges, is to get on my knees and pray.

I guess, in a way, my life is like a sundance.

Have a good evening everyone that are here. Blessings to you. 
Manny

Manny is a man of peace... He is an Elder of his people... I've been thinking about Manny a lot recently as he is struggling with crap from those who can't help but mess with other people's lives...just for fun... Manny's site was hacked...Facebook put the responsibility on the individual hacked instead of dealing with the mess they made in allowing people from other sites to come on Facebook and "pretend" to be people we are already connected to... It happens OFTEN... TOO OFTEN... It's a shame because Facebook is and has been pushing their members away because of this lack of control... Manny is my friend, my adopted brother... When he is frustrated, I am. When he is sad, I am... So, I just wanted to support him by sharing his words today... 

We all need to feel that somebody is listening just as God is... The early American Christians did so much damage.  We need to speak out on behalf of the Indigenous Natives...

Crossing Over - From The Elder

Morning was cold and windy and the rain was pouring hard. It seemed like the spirits were everywhere.

Running late, Craig and his wife Jenny picked me up in Livingston. Jenny drove racing down Highway 99 through the storm, getting us to Stockton on time at the mortuary, before the burial of Harry Jack.

We walked in through the front where many people had gathered and greeted them. Some held sad faces, others smiles.

Whatever ill feelings anyone had toward each other were held back. For we had all gathered there for the same reason--to pay respects to our beloved Harry Jack, a revered community Elder. I made my way inside while others were seated on the benches and sat alone towards the back. There were people I hadn't seen in years and people I had known as children, now grownup with their own children seated with them.  The big viewing room was quiet except for the cries of a baby and the voices of men up front before the casket taking turns saying a few words.

I waited awhile and walked up front to see Harry. He didn't appear to be dead, just asleep. He seemed to smile at me as I stood there looking at him, wrapped in his Black Wolf Gourd blanket, his eagle fan in his hands crossed on his chest. I wanted to say, "Get up Harry, we gotta go pow-wow. But reality didn't let me.

I stood there a few minutes and said a silent prayer, asking Grandfather to welcome his spirit. As I turned around to return to my seat, I saw a few men sitting around a drum. Cloud, Freddie and Ray. I walked over to them, they stood to shake my hand--no words were spoken.

Back at the bench, Mark a member of the Black Wolf Gourd Clan came and sat down beside me. He was holding something wrapped in red cloth. When Harry's stepson, Gilbert walked up front and began singing a Mi-Wuk song. Mark unwrapped the red cloth, pulled out a white spotted eagle feather, handed it to me and said, "The Black Wolf wants to thank you for all that you did for Harry... Read more from The Elder...

Found this while browsing...the oldest video, it claims... Enjoy!

Give A Boy A Gun - Twentieth Anniversary of Book by Todd Strasser - A Must Read for All Parents and Those Who Care About Children

The presence of a gun in the home increases the risk of suicide fivefold.

“By state or region … for every age, for both genders, where there are more guns, there are more total suicides.”

Facts and Quotes

“The … cliques that rule American high schools are every bit as murderous as Harris and Klebold, only their damage is done in slow motion, over a period of many years, and fails to draw the attention of parents or teachers.” —a posting on the Internet 

“ ‘Every day being teased and picked on, pushed up against lockers—just the general feeling of fear in the school. And you either respond to a fear by having fear, or you take action and have hate.’ ” —Brooks Brown, a student at Columbine High who knew both Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, Rolling Stone, 6/10/99 

Several news organizations pointed out that the ratio of students to counselors at Kipland Kinkel’s high school was roughly 700 to 1.“Like most students, I lived in fear of the small slights and public humiliations used to reinforce the rigid high school caste system: Poor girls were sluts, soft boys were fags. And at each of my schools, there were students who lived in daily fear of physical violence.” —a posting on the Internet after Columbine 

“Outcasts loathed Columbine. With equal venom, they detested popular kids and an administration that in their minds kowtowed to the popular kids.” —Rolling Stone, 6/10/99 

“How many kids ostracized, humiliated, and assaulted in American high schools, like the survivors of Columbine High, are left scarred for life? How many commit suicide every year? So long as some kids go out of their way to make high school hell for others, there are going to be kids who crack, and not all of the kids who crack are going to quietly off themselves.” —a posting on the Internet

More than 50 percent of male youths say it would be easy to obtain a gun. 

“I went to three [high schools], and in none of [them] did I for a moment feel safe. High school was terrifying, and it was the casual cruelty of the popular kids that made it hell.” —a posting on the Internet

 “Most of the attackers in the recent cases had shown signs of clinical depression or other psychological problems. But schools, strapped for mental health counselors, are less likely to pick up on such behavior or to have the available help.” —New York Times, 6/14/98 

In 2016 the United States led all high-income countries in firearm deaths among its youth. The rate in the US was 36.5 times higher than in a dozen comparable countries. —CNN

“The hallways erupted in screaming, terror- stricken pandemonium as students realized this was … another, increasingly familiar scene: a student with a gun.” —USA TODAY, 5/21/99

In today's world, we can easily guess what a book will be about with a title like, Give A Boy A Gun. But 20 years ago, when Todd Strasser first published the book, I was fascinated by the fact that assignments were made to create book trailers for the story! I was pleased to see them and picked out a few to include with this article. To me, it is quite telling. What about you?

In an interview for the Velshi Banned Book Club, the author points out that, yes there were some concerns about guns, but that most of the time, it was caused by students who were actually attending that school. And caused by student bullying. While since then, there is no such connection for school shooting. There is simply a mass shooting epidemic that has sometimes had no connection to the location where the shooting occurs!

Still, Give A Boy A Gun, is an excellent story based upon just how some students become dominant, many times this group is made up of athletes or other students active in social events. The key question, though, is why do those dominant, or popular, students decide to bully classmates?

The book moves from excerpts of the associated suicide notes and the interviews with students related to the two individuals who came to school with guns--and more! Both the 8th and 9th grades were reviewed.

More of Eighth Grade: I thought I knew Gary better. We sort of went together on and off for nearly two years. It’s obvious now that I didn’t know him. Not really. I knew he had that whole other thing with Brendan. Sometimes it almost felt like they had their own language. They each just seemed to know what the other was thinking. But now it’s obvious he hid a lot. Not just from me, but from everyone except Brendan. —Allison Findley  

Until Gary came into the picture, I think I was Brendan’s closest friend. I can’t say I was really sorry when that changed. By then I’d gotten to know some other girls who were like me—quote, unquote “outcasts”—and we were trying to have a life in spite of all that cliquey weirdness at school. I don’t know why, but Brendan couldn’t get past the weirdness. He was more fixated on it. It was almost all he would talk about. I was trying to get away from it. He just wanted to keep looking at it under a microscope.—Emily Kirsch. 

 Gary and I got into my mom’s car one day. It was parked in the driveway, facing the garage. Gary sat behind the wheel, and I was next to him. He put his arm around my shoulder, and we just pretended we were driving somewhere. We were staring at the garage door with big flakes of white paint peeling off it, but in our minds we were going through the desert. Gary had done that once, so he was talking about cactus and sun-bleached bones and jackrabbits and hot sun. I leaned my head on his shoulder, and I could see it all in my mind. The two of us, all alone, driving through the desert, a million miles away from everything. Just sagebrush and creosote bushes and burned reddish cliffs. A trail of dust flying up behind us. Gary pulled me close and kissed my hair, and it was one of those really happy moments. I guess it was about as close as we ever got to blissful puppy love. Ha, ha! Then Gary stopped. I looked up and saw that he was staring into the rearview mirror. I turned around, and Deirdre Bunson and Sam Flach and a bunch of other kids were in the street, pointing at us and laughing. I wanted to die. Gary did too. He couldn’t even turn around. He just slumped down in the seat and stared at that stupid garage door and the peeling paint. It was like they’d just stuck a knife in his heart. Sometimes Gary and I could escape into that world where no one bothered us or laughed or made fun. But it never lasted long, and then it was like waking up from a dream and facing the cold, bald truth that it wasn’t real and never would be. For the popular kids the dream was real. They lived it. They never had to be afraid of waking up. —Allison Findley

Ninth Grade: It started to change at the beginning of ninth grade. I went away with my parents for two weeks in August, and Brendan and Gary stayed home and just hung with each other. When I got back, it was different. I can’t exactly explain how, but I felt it. There was something dark in Brendan. I don’t know where it came from. Whether it had always been inside him, or whether it just started to grow because of the way people treated him in school. —Allison Findley 

Gary wasn’t always like that. When we were in eighth grade and some big jock would body-slam us into a chalkboard or rip the pocket off our shirt, we’d be pissed, and we’d grumble about how we’d like to kill this guy and kick his face in. The thing was it was all sort of make-believe wishful thinking...

In many ways, the book is written as if it was a police file of what happened. Readers get to know the characters through their own notes or through the response to questions from classmates. Frankly, it is not an easy book to read. In fiction form, we would be able to separate our lives as well as the involved students from the actual reality of the events. In the book, Give A Boy A Gun, the stark reality of the shooting is so real--in one way, even more real than seeing the hundreds of news videos that show us what was occurring. Knowing students' named, their thoughts, feelings...and pain, forces us to absorb the lives of those who are no longer living into our minds...and hearts...

No matter how you feel about the Second Amendment, in my mind after seeing so many killed through the use of a gun...and, if I remember right...all of them were just boys... Boys that had no real awareness of what he or she might have caused through their bullying... Or, because guns had become some type of symbol for them that led it to be available at such an early age, that even their minds have not yet matured enough to know and understand... and... control their thoughts... and actions! This book needs to be shared with teens--boys and girls. And, NOT banned by those that are using guns as a political issue rather than an epidemic caused by manipulation of our children... Just my personal opinion, of course!

Read this book... Share this book... Vote for Gun Control to keep guns out of the hands of our children... and to keep all of our children safe!

GABixlerReviews