Bronte Can't Swim!

(Dear Readers,
Remember that this entry is a couple of days old because of the Hurricane and subsequent power outage. As you'll see, this entry is about the Power OutRage!)





Sitting here in the candlelight, utterly alone at the Mary Anderson Center, PP thinks this must be one of the weirdest experiences of her life. And it’s self-imposed! She’d come here to write, be alone, and have quiet, but going on day 2 of no electricity isn’t really what she bargained for.

Where to even start? (She wonders how long this battery on the little laptop will hold out too…so she’s gonna type fast!)

Imagine hurricane force winds of 73 miles per hour! Yes, Ike made a dramatic WINDY appearance in Southern Indiana if you can believe that! PP had noticed the Wretched Wind, of course, but had been playing her lovely fantasy baby grand and so improvs on Debussy’s prelude XI had taken most of her attention! After the wind died down, in the early evening, CM and PP had gone for a walk to survey the damage- --it was intense—gigantic fallen trees blocking entire paths and smashing sweet little bridges, piles of leaves, branches and debris from buildings strewn about the previously idyllic grounds; an attic window completely blown out of the Mary Anderson House—the damage was considerable. PP dreaded the coming symphony of chain saws in her future, but had no idea that this would be the least of her problems.





It had been several hours later after the power (7? 8?) had been knocked out, during a friendly dinner with the friars (where PP got the distinct impression that the whole no swimming without a friar was a big joke after talking to African Traveling Friar—“No swimming without Friar Chicken! No swimming without Friar Eggs…."), that PP and CM ‘roughed it’ with candles and flashlights. CM had had to ‘buck up’ to pack by candlelight, but hell, what else could she do? The plane left in the morning and she had to get all her art supplies out of the studio and packed up for shipping and then pack her own suitcase. She did it, swearing only a little bit when she bumped into a random piece of hallway furniture, as PP lay on her bed reading What Happened to Anna K till midnight. PP was impressed with her stamina and calmness. But then there had been much to be impressed by with CM—PP was gonna miss her sorely, esp. later on!

So last night had been a lark, but tonight? Well, PP is a bit distressed to find herself alone in this big house with no electricity and no support staff and no ice cream! (See what happens when the fridge stops?)

She’s trying to be very Bronte about it with all the candles and literary repast, but it just feels creepy and weird. Maybe cuz her swimming day was a total fiasco too.




Okay, so here’s the deal if you can even believe it. PP had scheduled to rent a car this week expressly for the purpose of swimming. Round 11 in the morning, the nice young woman from Enterprise with her sister’s name, Laura, picks her up, (waiting outside the Loftus house cuz none of the phones work. Fortunately PP heard her and came running down.) So.... Now PP has a car. Cool... there’s no electricity here, but the Y is in Jeffersonville. She thinks maybe they’ll have juice, yes?

Wrong.

PP drives on all the weird freeways –they are all just numbers which freeways are, but these numbers were unfamiliar and going in all the wrong directions -- East and West and 150 to 64 to 265—they had no number logic! in Indiana and even Kentucky. (PP didn’t mean to veer off into Kentucky, but alas, her Midwestern Freeway direction was pitiful! So of course, PP gets lost going over the goddamn Ohio River and turns around in the slums of Louisville. Oh. Here are the people of color. Yes, like every city in America, they are in the slums.





Nice.

So, PP crawls past Lou Ann’s hair salon, the broken down JC store, completely disoriented and lost, and decides to stop at an obviously closed gas station to ask directions, where 2 round women with IQ’s of 30 shake their heads at her through a closed glass door, making noises through the cracked barrier that they have no clue where Mt St Francis is.

They holler back into the store, and a stately southern gentleman emerges, his drawl matching the deep wrinkles on his face, and tells PP how to get back on the freeway, “You see that hospital sign there…” he points, languid and serious. “You make a left hand turn there…then you make another left hand turn at the next then you make another left….”





Trying to pay attention, it’s hard! PP is distressed by now since this is after she’s discovered that the Y was closed. She’d found it, but no one was there except a Pudgy Woman who says she works there and her obnoxious child, screaming at the top of his lungs, “MOMMY CAN I HELP?” PP thinks, hell yeah, you could shut up, but decides against saying this aloud, and just asks if she can look at the pool. “Sure…. I guess that’d be all right.”





Like PP is gonna take no for an answer if this woman had declined. But PP thinks that no one really comes out and says “No,” around here, it’s all just in circles. (It certainly would be nice if someone would say NO to the goddamn obnoxious kid!)


Sighing, why is she doing this she wonders, torturing herself with looking at a closed pool, but she can’t help it. And of course, it’s a cute little 3-lane lap pool. Completely empty cuz the Y is really closed but brazen mermaid that PP is just walked in anyway cuz the door was open and hell, this is making no sense! PP has lost her usual narrative flow.




Damn.

See what happens when you’re forced to be Bronte and you don’t get to swim?

All literary clarity evaporates!

Double Damn! Or as Heathcliff would say, D_________d!!!

So anyway, the pool was sweet, but exasperatingly closed. ” When do you think you’ll be open again?” PP had asked PW—“I’m not sure. Maybe tomorrow….”
Damn damn damn damn!

Can you even believe this?

So PP decides that HELL, she’s just gonna go back to the MAC and jump in the forbidden lake, but by the time she weaves thro the slums of Louisville, she’s so distressed and headachy that she just flops down on her bed and tries not to cry….

Was this the Plan?

NOT!

So, PP is here, in the dark, the computer battery is holding up so far. Ardis Fucking Moonlight is a stupid flake to leave her here by herself (PP is not even gonna change her name to protect her identity. She doesn’t deserve the cover of anonymity! ) And so tomorrow, if she gets thro the spooky lonely night, PP is at least gonna get a swim in somehow. Either in the lake or at the Y or hell, why not both?

Yeah, she’s earned 2 swims at the very least for being such a Writing Swimming Deprived Trooper.

Shit, she’s not really a trooper, she just doesn’t know what else to do……
It is all just too damn weird…..but it’s a good story, right? Yeah, maybe, if the goddamn electricity comes back on before she leaves!





What would Heathcliff do?
Hurl Ardis Fucking Moonlight into the dark and scary lake full of snakes! And then stalk off into the moonlit night, clenching his fist toward the sky and yelling, “Where’s a Friar when ye need one? D__________d to ye all!!!”

And to all a good night!

Lewis and Clark

Alas, PP has been without power for the last 3 days--hurricane Ike's tail end hit Indiana if you can believe it! So, this story is the calm before the storm; there's another story of being 'powerless' which may or may not make it into the blog....depending on whether or not PP flies away from all things snake and black!

So, enjoy this blog and watch out for what Mother Nature can let leash--snakes, hurricanes, and mermaids?




“I love the colors on the lake at this time of day. Black and white!” CM exclaimed as she paddled the canoe out to the middle of Mount St. Francis Lake. Yes, PP has finally come ON the lake, not IN the lake. Though she has a plan now about that, black snake not withstanding. All the friars are busy with Sunday mass from 10 to 11, so this would be the ideal time to ‘sneak’ into the lake. “Use God as a Diversion,” Poet Owen cleverly noted when PP told him about her idea.


But last night, the CM canoe ride ON the lake was splendid. The black and white of course having to be explained to PP’s non-artistic brain. She saw the black of course, the lake an inky darkness in the setting dusk, like a slick oil sheen that they paddled through. But the white? What was this? she asked CM.

“It’s the reflection on the water,” she laughed. Oh those visual artists, they see the world in such a complex way, all the layers upon layers of images and light. So, yes, now PP could see that the clouds were reflected as white puffs in the black inkiness, but somehow she thought that CM wasn’t really talking about such a literal image. The White was more ethereal. More sublime than these simple cloud reflections.

“There’s the sculpture. Have you seen it?” CM pointed to The Angel of the Lake, lovely in the green glow of the late afternoon light, her arm raised high to the lake. What a different view of her from ON the lake instead of standing next to her or beside her. She really was the keeper of the lake, majestic and magical this calm evening. (It had been windy all day, but the gusts had died down for their canoe ride. Though today, the WIND is back, and more ferocious than anything PP has ever seen in California. They have weather here in the Midwest, that’s for sure. A tree branch cracked off next to the residency house, dangling in splinters. The frame holding the fantasy grand piano’s donor's card, blown over as PP played Debussy, shattering the glass. Now back in her little room, trying to recall last night’s calm lake canoeing, the hurricane is approaching, or so it seems to her.



Really, it can’t be, can it?

But, back to the Angel of the Lake, PP is certain she’s fine today. She’s so strong and still. Guarding the lake through all weather!

“Did you see that?” CM pointed out, a loud splash to the side of the canoe, PP glanced around, uneasy.
“No.”
“Maybe it was the SNAKE!” CM laughed. She’s from the Midwest even though she now lives, teaches and paints in Arizona.
PP shuddered, “Nah…..it was over on the other side of the lake, near all that grass,” PP points to the far side of the lake, where a lone fishing boat floats lazily.
“Okay, let’s head over there!” CM teased.
“Sure…” PP agreed, but really she’d be happy not to see the snake again. CM had lots of snake stories. She’d stepped on a rattlesnake on a walk with her husband in the suburbs of Tucson, and she’d seen lots of lake snakes swimming in lakes in Missouri. She thought that the one PP had spied was a Water Moccasin.
“Are they poisonous?” PP had asked her as they rowed over toward the grassy shore.
“Oh, yeah, their quite venomous,” CM assured her as they took a detour down a little inlet. “Let’s check this out first, the hermitage is in here. Whatdya think?”

”Sure,” PP agreed, paddling spastically. Anything to avoid seeing the Black Lake Snake again! Esp. now that she knew from an Artist Snake Authority that they were ‘quite venomous! Eeegads! Maybe no swimming in the lake for her after all. Or maybe that’s why you need a Friar—they can throw some godly curse at the poisonous water vipers and voila—the lake will be snake free for a friar supervised swim!

“Wonder if there’s friar in the little hermitage and I can get him to watch me swim,” PP joked. “Or hey, how about we can just rip all of our clothes off and go skinny dipping when we get to his little house!”
CM chuckled, “You know, I’m not so keen about swimming in the lake as you are, but it’d almost be worth it. You really are a mermaid aren’t you?”
“Yup.”






“My family crest is a Mermaid with a book,” she announced, pleased as she pulled up to the hermitage.
‘Wow, how cool. I should be in your family,” PP cooed, “That’s me". A writing, reading Mermaid. What’s your name?” It’s so strange that PP didn’t even know her last name and now discovers that she’s Irish and has Mermaid Literary Ancestors. Is that what a crest is even? Whatever. It’s no wonder she gets along with CM so well!

”Here, hold the canoe here at the dock for a minute, I wanna see if anyone is in there? I’m such a bad girl!” CM chuckled wickedly. She was definitely one of those Catholic School girls that hadn’t been to Church in 30 years, but still wanted to fuck with the Authority. Climbing up onto the dock, she peered into the hermitage. “There’re some lights on. I think someone’s in there!”
PP thought about stripping off her clothes and diving right in then and there, but then spied a HUGE orange fish flash beneath the canoe. Damn! It wasn’t a snake, but it was still alive. CM spied it too as she climbed back into the canoe.


“You still wanna go swimming with those big fish down there? What if one of those nibbled on your little toes?” she giggled as PP shook her head, reconsidering her skinny dippy plan.





Rowing now toward the Snake part of the Lake, PP gazed behind her as a full moon was rising in the misty clouds. “Look behind you, C!” she called out.
“Wow! How cool is that? Wonder if I can get a picture?” CM had already tried to get a photo of a little turtle they’d spied on a log. It didn’t really come out, but it was still cute. Now the camera wanted to flash with the moon, which was just not right, so CM gave up and they drifted along. 3 laughing fishermen scooted past them and PP hollered over to them, “What’re you fishing for?” wondering if they were gonna fry up any of the mighty goldfish.
“Bluetail and Gab” one of them yelled back. PP was sure she’d heard this last fish name wrong, but it started with a G. You get the idea though; they really were fishing for real fish in the lake.
“Looks like we got ourselves Lewis and Clark over here!” another of them hollered at PP and CM, laughing loudly.




“Lewis and Clark!” CM grinned. “I wanna be the most adventurous one!”
“I think they both were,” PP guessed, not ever really thinking of them before as two individuals at all.
Paddling back along the grassy slope, PP glanced down into the inky depths. No snake thank God. But maybe he was lurking down there; it was just too Black in the Black and White light to spy him. Shuddering, PP turned to watch the fishermen drift off, laughing when a loud SLUUURPPPP!!!! rang out on the lake’s surface. Of course, she shrieked—high pitched and loudly, cracking CM up. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.....but I think the Snake is down there,” PP pointed.

CM stopped paddling and peered down into the inky depths. “I don’t see anything. Maybe it’s just your imagination. You writers! Hey did I tell you I did a painting of Snake in the Lake thanks to you?”



“Really?” PP asked, but still nervous about the slurping sound. Maybe it had just been her imagination tonight. But the other day, it definitely was not. She definitely had heard and seen that huge, black slinking SNAKE IN THE LAKE!!!!

CM resumed paddling softly, the full moon now lighting their way back, the conference of picnicking Catholics gone now. (I had no idea that Catholics were so loud,” PP had commented when they’d first paddled out. CM had laughed as they discussed the Catholic Aspect of the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts. “I hear some very interesting conversations at lunch. Thinks like, ‘I’m gonna go check out that Crucifix this afternoon. Things like that.”





PP had nodded. She didn’t really get the crucifix thing. It just seemed so twisted and gory. Those Catholics really seemed to be into some sort of ethereal S&M. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret....really it’s all about Mary,” CM had confided seriously, as they drifted along the water’s surface.

Mary. Snakes. Angels. Goldfish. Catholics. Mermaids. Books. Turtles. Moonlight.

What else did the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts hold for PP in the next few weeks?

Bumping into the dock, CM and PP giggled as they heaved themselves out of the canoe, gazing up at the moon.
“Will you look at that?” CM murmured.
And PP did, look at that. And so much more….

The Creature from the Murky Shallows!

PP heard It before she saw it. A loud, splashy squishy sound rustling into the lake’s murkiness. But she’d been hearing such liquidy sounds all morning on her walk around the lake. Last night’s thunderstorm had created a moist and vibrant life on the narrow muddy path. Sprightly tree frogs hopping out from under her footstep barely missed being squashed. (That would be so horrible, she thought to herself if she stepped on a little frogie. Not to mention messy and…..okay, she didn’t want to go there, but took extra care with every step.)

But the splashing sounds she heard whenever she was near the water’s edge she’d just thought were the cute shy Indiana turtles, spying her before she them and diving into the lake’s sanctuary. So imagine her surprise when near the end of her walk, the sun beginning to emerge from under the puffy thunderheads, her head spinning from a myriad of ideas about her new work in progress: What would Lizzie do next? How would Trollop and Beatrice help her? Whatever had happened to the Eustace Diamonds after all?



When again, she heard the giant splashing slurp and glancing down she saw It---
Yes, she hated to admit it, but this was exactly was what her mother had been warning her about when she’d been bemoaning the frustrating restriction to her swimming in the lake because of the damn friar rule. “You know, there are all sorts of creepy crawlies in lakes, PP. You don’t know what’s down there. There could be monsters and killer fish and scary snakes and well…..maybe you don’t want to swim in the lake. Maybe those friars have a reason they don’t want you to swim down there…”

But yet, PP remembered the Lovely I’s wistful exclamation when first she’d seen the picture on the Internet of the Mount St. Francis Lake where PP would be. “You get to swim in THAT lake? Oh, how marvelous. I’m so jealous.” Which PP had thought was pretty funny. The Lovely I was jealous of her lake swimming possibility and not her art making opportunity. But then the Lovely I had been on several artists’ residencies herself and so the Lake swimming understandably may have had more appeal than the creative work—she being a lake swimmer aficionado.




Unlike PP, who had to admit she shared her mother’s suspicions about the unknown creatures hidden in the murkiness of lakes. Lakes had always kinda creeped her out, with their still non-moving water and unseen bottoms covered with fallen trees and greeny slimy plant life. PP had always been an ocean swimmer, not a lake swimmer.

Plus those signs all around the lake, “Please do not introduce any Invasive Species into the lake unless it has come out of the lake.” (Okay, a bit of redundancy here, but signage seemed to be uniquely strange here at the Mt St. Francis Lake.)

Yet this warning creeped PP out. Invasive Species? What could this be? It sounded so Sci Fi, like there were UFO pod creatures making themselves at home at the bottom of the lake just waiting to wake up and snag some unsuspecting writer who only wanted to cool off after a muggy hike round the sanctuary.

Now nearing the end of her hike, PP heard it again. The loud splashing rustle (can water rustle?): “Sluurrrrpppp! Splllaaaasshhhh!!!” PP glanced down and watched in horror as It wriggled away. It was none other than a huge black water snake slinking away in boneless flight in rapid squiggles.





She didn’t shriek amazingly enough. (She was quite impressed by this, but maybe she was just in shock) She’d never seen anything like this Lake Snake. It musta been 6 feet long and 3 inches round at the widest point at its middle. It slithered atop the water for a moment, its blackness dimmed by the murky lake, before disappearing into the muddy ooze.


Shuddering, PP quickened her step, wondering if it were poisonous or simply a harmless serpent more scared of her than she of It? But she couldn’t shake the idea that maybe the friars knew the lake was full of these horrid creatures that would slither up and poison swimmers with their potent venom. PP could just imagine swimming along the lake’s surface, happy to be in the warm water’s embrace and then all of a sudden feeling something below her. A subtle movement that brushed against her leg and then……



ARRRGGGGG!!!!

Does she dare take up the Lovely I's challenge to practice the artform of illegal lake swimmming tempting as it may be? (PP's 'naughty girl' list has, alas, been woefully neglected as of late, but...what about the snake? Would the Lovely I still venture into the waters with such a vermin lurking in its depths? PP thinks that, yes, she would, being the practiced lake swimmer and courageous adventurer that she is. Yet PP is not quite so brave, at least not today....)

And so this morning, immediately after her stunning snake sighting, she hurried up the grassy hill to her room and immediately got on the phone to the local YMCA where a helpful young woman named Paula, (her middle sister’s name—PP thought this a good omen) gave her directions, lap swim hours and even said PP could swim for free 5 times as a member of the Y in Oakland. Armed with this safe and sure swimming info, PP next called the Enterprise Rental Car Co. and spoke with another helpful Midwesterner named, Laura (her other sister’s name—no she’s not making this up! Her sisters are here in Indiana to rescue her from the Horror of Mount St. Francis Black Lake Snakes!) to reserve a car for the next week. So, now she would drive to the YMCA in Jeffs next week. No lake swimming for her. Thank you very much!

Though tomorrow, CM, the plucky visual artist, (what is it about visual artists that make them so brave about lakes? Well, except for PP's mother, but she's not a swimmer, so that doesn't count!) has promised to take PP on a canoe ride. Perhaps with CM by her side as both witness to a swim and protection from the vermin, PP may finally summon up the courage to take the plunge.

Lake Torture

What the hell is PP gonna do? Still no Franciscan Friar in sight to accompany her on a swim in the Mount St. Francis Lake. Shit. It’s so stupid. There’s the lake. Right there. 100 yards from her sweet room at the Mary Anderson Center, but yet she’s not supposed to swim in it cuz Friar Bill is busy?

What’s up with that? Doesn’t he realize that his schedule must be changed to accommodate her swimming in the Lake?

And if he can’t adjust his schedule for her, well, then, she’s just gonna hafta go swimming without him, right?

Right.

PP had bemoaned her sorry swimming frustration to fellow resident artist this morning, who nodded seriously when PP joked about swimming anyway sign or no sign.
"I don't think it's a joke," she'd murmured over coffee. "I think they really mean you can't swim unless you have a friar with you."
PP shook her head, "That is so stupid!"
She agreed, "Yeah, I see your point. But I don't know what to tell you...."

But PP could tell she really didn't get her point. And who could blame her? Unless you're swimming obsessed, you're not going to 'get it'--you're gonna think, What's the Big Deal? Go for a walk. Write your novel. Revel in the Peace of the chain saws felling the sweet trees in front of the church. (This could be another blog, but PP is gonna wait for now....)

Sighing, PP finished her coffee as she made her way back upstairs to get ready for a walk round the lake, still fuming about the absurdity of her plight.

Again, what the hell is gonna happen? Will the heavens open up and strike her down for her ungodly transgression? Somehow, she doesn’t believe this.






Oh, to be a turtle instead! These little sweethearts did give PP hope. She so loves the turtles at the pond at Woo Woo U, so to discover Indiana Turtles, well, imagine her excitement. Though when she called out to the one big one languishing in sunny turtle lassitude on a fallen in the lake tree trunk, he scurried into the murky water before she could make eye contact.


Can you make eye contact with a turtle?

Maybe not, but PP does so want to give it a try. From IN the lake, not on its shore!

So, tomorrow, she’s gonna go fetch her a friar. She’s just gonna march right over there past the goddamn statue of St. Francis of Assisi (Who, by the way, is supposed to be this super benevolent lover of all animals and such, right? Doesn't a swimming writer fit into this category of 'love' and 'blessings'?) and into the goddamn quaint red bricked church and find one of those friars to accompany her to the lake.



Or is this just a fantasy? Does PP really have this sorta religious fuck it chutzpah?

We’ll see. It’s day 3 without a swim and you all know how LONG that is!

(And yes, she knows she's supposed to be 'writing' here at the MAC, but how can she focus on her writing when she's so damn dry! It's impossible!)

Watch out Friar Bill, PP is coming after you. And nothing is scarier than a PP who has been denied her swim when it's right in front of her nose. Torture! that's what it is. (Hey aren't those Catholics known for their Torturous inclinations? Like weren't they the ones who were in charge of the Spanish Inquisition? Damn. No wonder PP can't get one to take her for a swim. He's probably gettin off on not letting any of the artists cool off in the goddamn Midwestern heat!)





Whew. Now that PP has figured out why she can't swim it's only a matter of how she'll get around the 'Rule'--and she can get around the rules, but she better be careful and keep the Angel of the Lake close by her side; otherwise, she may end up in a dark and dank basement below the Friary, screaming piteously for help but no one will hear her through the sound proof cement walls.

Is it worth the risk?
Hell, yeah! God may save some poor souls, but for PP, swimming is her only Saviour!

The Angel of the Lake

Tromping down to the lake the first morning at the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts, PP spies the large calm expanse of blue gray water. A single fishing boat floats in the middle of the lake. (She’d passed the “Fishing Club Only” signage or should she say trespassed it? There were applications available in the wooden informational box at the gate to join said fishing club. PP opted not to join. At least not today.)

An amazing thunder and lightening rainstorm had hit the place early that morning, waking PP up with boomings she’d never heard the like of before. The flashing glowing clouds illuminated the sky when she opened the blinds. Hell. She wasn’t in Oakland anymore! She’d heard of thunderstorms in the Midwest, but hadn’t really understood their power and drama.




That morning, the path round the lake now muddy and slippery from the storm, PP picked her way, making her way out onto a little dock, kneeling and sticking her hand in the calm still water.


Damn! It was WARM!!! She wanted to jump in right at that moment, but the intimidating, legendary signage of “NO SWIMMING IN THE LAKE WITHOUT A FRANCISCAN FRIAR” kept her at bay.

She glanced around. Only the two fishermen in the distance—they obviously didn’t give a damn about her. Why not?

But she hadn’t brought her suit, and the sky was threatening again, the gray clouds dense and moist. What if she jumped in and another lightening storm blew in? Wasn’t that just asking for it? Especially with the Franciscans watching over the lake. She could feel them.



At the same time, PP wasn't a religious person, let alone Catholic. So why the hell was she gonna let the feeling of the Franciscans keep her from swimming? What were they gonna do to her?

Banish her from the Lake?

Heaven forbid!

Yet, still she felt a little trepidation on this first day out. So she opted to skip the swim this first day and instead took a dappling walk around the lake’s muddy perimeter, making a detour into a “Excuse Our Mess: New Prairie in Progress.” Stopping to admire the round little meadow full of tall green grasses, she thought how she’d never really seen a prairie before, let alone one in progress. Damn. The Midwest was just as weird as she thought it would be.

But the lake beckoned her back to its shore, as she plunged back down through the prairie and round the edge of the lake to come upon….

Her…..





The Angel of the Lake.
PP stopped in wondrous awe as she approached the 5 foot marble statue, her whiteness slightly mildewed, her left wing broken off, but her hand held a marble torch high in blessing of the Lake. Her soft curls, stilled by the marble as PP stroked her round cool head.

She was the Guardian of the Lake. And she would be her inspiration. To swim. To write. To fool those damn friars.

Hell, she wasn't gonna let a stupid sign keep her out of the lake! Lord knows, she was no Angel!




Till tomorrow, she thought as she waved goodbye to the Angel of the Lake, making her way back up to the Loftus House where AR waited to take her to the Jay-C store for decidedly nonspiritual provisions.

Only Round Pools?

You know how when you fly over LA, you see all of these backyard blue squares, rectangles and kidneys from the plane? All those pools!

Today, flying over the Chicago Suburbs before landing at Midway Airport, PP gazed out the window at the dreary gray rain and rows of suburban homes with only Round Pools!

What does it mean?

That the Chicago-ites only swim in circles? And the LA-ites swim in boxes?
That the Midwest is all about connections and roundness while the West is all about rigidity and squares?

Or now that PP looks up round pools on google, it's all those 'above ground' portable pools. The ones that are like large blow up pools but not.




So, it's a class thing then? The working class families of Chicago splash about in these 'above ground' pools, while the upper middle class LA families build their own cement rectangular ones? Or is it a space thing? LA just has bigger backyards, cuz it's that West Largeness, while the Midwest is packed tighter.

But do round pools take up less space than rectangular ones?

Okay, maybe it's just PP's memory. Of the bulldozer in the backyard at Hacienda Heights, digging the giant hole for the pool. Then the cement mixer pouring the bottom. And finally the day that they put all the garden hoses into the new pool and waited and waited and waited, PP and her sisters, lying flat on the newly poured deck, the heat and scratchiness of it, watching with so much impatience as the water level rose ever so slowly.....







It must all mean something, but PP is way too tired to figure it out. Yet it is something to ponder, esp in a weary sleep deprived haze to the tune of a 10,000 Cicadas here at the enchanting Mary Anderson Center for the Arts.

Subtexts in the Butt

"Ohmygod, PP! You’re not gonna believe what I just saw!!!”

Emerging from the potty, PP grinned. So much excitement and she’d just gotten here!
DL leaned into her as they headed out of the locker room and upstairs to the ‘ball room’, whispering into her ear, “I saw a woman with a 3rd Butt!”
”What????”
“Yeah, she had 3 butts!”
“But…..how….? PP’s voice trailed off, damn! She missed so much by peeing all the time. She’d never seen 3 butts and frankly maybe she didn’t want to. But still, it must have been astonishing!
“There was her regular butt,” DL continued, trying to describe through the giggles, “and then there was this 3rd butt on top of the regular butt…..and…..”

They’d made it up the stairs to the ballroom to stretch, where DL broke down into uncontrollable giggles. PP slouched down with her, the big green ball rolling away.
“I still can’t quite wrap my mind around the concept….” PP murmured between giggle gasps.
“Hey! Too much laughing. No laughing allowed!” Some Weirdo Guy of course had picked up on their nonathletic mirth.
“It’s actually very…..” DL tried to explain but then started laughing again.
“Aerobic?” he interjected.
“Yeah,” PP laughed, holding her sides, as she went to retrieve the green ball to begin her knee bends.

Later, back in Utopia, PP tried to see if the 3 butted woman was around, but no luck. It was all the usual suspects. Diabetes Woman showing DL how to do 'Africa Dance'. “You move your neck like this,” she demonstrated with snaky Egyptian movements. DL gave it the ol’ Utopian Try, and it looked pretty good to PP who can’t dance at all, but PP could tell that it didn’t really have that African Flavor.

Oh, Utopia! Why couldn’t they all just stay there all the time! It was so amusing and entertaining and relaxing. PP voiced this desire, and Dyed Blonde African American Pudding Princess sighed deeply, rolling over on her side, “I always had this idea that if I ever got married again, I’d have my wedding party at the YMCA!”

“What a cool idea!” PP jumped on this one. A wedding at the Y! How perfect would that be. All the wedding party could do their separate workouts that they enjoyed after the ceremony was held in the Pool of course. Those that wanted to do the torture machines could head upstairs. Those that wanted to run the track could jog in their high heels. Those that wanted to just hang out in Utopia, drinking Champagne and downing wedding cake could do just that!







“But I just don’t know if that’s in the cards for me again,” DBAAW sighed again, wistful. “I already got married once. In Reno. It was a mistake. Well, I shouldn’t actually say it like that. I mean I did get my daughter out of it. But ….”
“A daughter?” PP interrupted, “that’s a good thing, yes?”
“Most the time…..”
“How old is she?
”13
“That’s a fun age!
DAAW laughed loudly.
“You can tell I’m not a mom, just an auntie!” PP grinned.
“Oh, yeah, you just give them all those noisy toys and then leave them to us!” DBAAW waved her aside.
“Yeah, my sister must really hate me for spoiling my niece with all those goddamn stuffed dogs from Sweet Dreams.”
”I bet!”
“Oh, am I in the way?" PP asked as Breast Pumping Woman slid elegantly into Utopia, settling in on the row above PP, her eyes shinning, her breasts at the ready.
“No. no, you are fine…," she smiled shyly at PP, as she shifted on her towel.

Glancing over at PP, she couldn't stop staring at the top of PP's head, her eyes lighting on PP’s hair, which because the pool was closed for the stupid annual cleaning was clipped into a spastic golden spray of curls atop her hair.
“Your hair…..” BPPW finally murmured. “It is very beautiful. The color….it is very beautiful.....”




”Oh, yeah,” PP giggled, “that’s right. You don’t usually see it dry. I’m usually all wet from the pool."
“It is very beautiful….” BPW murmured again, staring transfixed at the golden mass of locks piled high.

Later, when DL and PP were walking back to the Geo, processing the 3rd butt woman among other things, DL glanced over at PP, her eyes shining with that wicked Lesbian Lust. “She likes you!” she nodded, referring to BBW.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s all coming together for me now. Whenever I go to Utopia and you’re not there, she always asks me, ‘Where is your friend?’ and I’d never put it together before but tonight with your hair. Did you see her blush?”

Damn! PP is so stupid and clueless when it comes to Lesbian Lust. And BPW is so cute! To think that someone that young and cute could have a crush on her! Why it seemed impossible!

“Really? Wow! I’m so flattered!” It was PP’s turn to blush now.




“Yeah, there’s a Subtext!” DL announced as they climbed into the Geo.
A subtext? Damn. PP is so goddamn stupid about subtexts. She’s all about the Text itself. So superficial of her she knows, and hell, she misses out on lots of Lesbian Lust this way, but what to do?

She just needs to broaden her perspective. Read beneath the surface. See people at more than face value. Everyone had their own perspective subtexts:

There was the Lesbian Italian Subtext.
The Asian Girl desire for Blondness Subtext.
The 3rd Butt Subtext for the 1st and 2nd butt.
The YMCA wedding subtext of really not wanting to workout, but just party and fuck.

But did asking about PP's hair, really demonstrate this subtext of lesbian lust as DL claimed? PP is still dubious about this one. She thinks it might just be that Asian Fascination with the Blondness. Or DL's Lesbian Italian Personal Subtext of everyone is a lesbian and everyone wants to have sex!

Though this could be a Subtext of something too?

Couldn't it?
Nah. Now PP is going the opposite extreme and reading TOO much into it.
Time to turn the page, and head on home before those texts come back to bite her.
In the butt!

Piano Pool Privilege

“Where’ve you been?” Miss W exclaimed when PP finally emerged from the caverns of the Montclair swim club locker room to take shelter under a shady umbrella on deck of the piano pool.
“Sorry,” PP shrugged, sighing. “I just take so long to get from place to place. I think I have Transitional Resistance Disorder. Otherwise known as TRD. I'm sure it's listed in the DSM.”






Miss W nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, but listen, you’re not gonna believe what I just saw. See that guy over there,” she nodded toward a lanky tanned guy in baggy black Speedos.
“Yeah, what about him?” PP thought he looked kinda yucky in that most guys shouldn’t wear Speedos way even though when she appraised him objectively, he really wasn’t that bad.
Miss W leaned over and whispered loudly in PP’s ear, “He was flossing his teeth!”
“You’re kidding? Disgusting!”





Miss W nodded in disapproving agreement. “Yeah, can you believe that? I was just sitting here waiting for you, kinda spacing out watching all the action in the pool when outta the corner of my eye I catch him just sitting there, plain as can be flossing his teeth right here for everyone to see! Can you believe that?” she repeated.
“No….” PP’s voice trailed off as she glanced over at Flossing Man again. ‘But then again, yeah……I’m sorry I missed it!’
“Yeah you are! I need a Witness!”
“Oh I believe you. People are so free about what they do in public, esp. at the pool….”
”That’s true.”
“Maybe he just had something stuck in one of his teeth?” PP asked.
“No,” Miss W shook her head, “he was doing the full-on floss. It really was Something!” Miss W leaned back in her chair, giggling.
PP joined in, musing on what it is about some people that they have absolutely no inhibitions about performing their personal hygiene rituals on the pool deck. She’d seen hair brushing, of course. This she kinda got. After all, one’s hair was a big part of the swimming experience. The stuffing of it in the cap. The combing out of the tangles. In fact as PP was thinking about this, Miss W interrupted her for a moment to offer her some super duper hair detangler conditioner to rub in her tangled tresses before putting her cap on.




“My hairdresser recommended doing this,” she took a gob and combed it through her fun sporty short locks.
“It smells good,” PP commented as she tried to comb the goo through her hair, but it somehow wasn’t working as well. Her fingers stopping mid strand in a giant tangle. Oh well, whatever, it couldn’t hurt.
So, with the Floss Guy, what’s the difference? Are teeth that much different than hair?
PP glanced over at him again, as he rose and stretched before strolling off toward the snack bar. His situation was impressive. The beach mat with the towel on top. A pillow. An ipod plug in thingee left so blatantly out for anyone to nab.





But at Montclair, who would think of stealing such a thing? See, you can tell that PP has been swimming at the Oakland Y for too long, where the signage all over the locker room warns members of locks being cut and thefts being rampant.

Did this ease of invulnerability to theft have a connection to the inhibition regarding oral hygiene?

PP wondered. Maybe so. If he could floss his teeth with no thought of repercussions, social or otherwise, why then maybe this led to his lackadaisical disregard for the possibility of thievery around his personal possessions left so blatantly unguarded?

Ummm….it’s the Freedom of the Wealthy. They can floss their teeth. They can leave their expensive audio equipment lying about. They can flaunt their saggy Speedos.

Hell, they can do anything, right? Just like in the Woody Allen movie where the two girls who spend the summer in Barcelona can do whatever the hell they want with no worries about jobs, or money or consequences around their summer exploits with passionate crazed Spanish Artists and subsequent ménage a troise!






Oh, to be rich.
PP sighs as she tries to get her wrong tangled hair bunched correctly under her cap.
She’d give it a try for a summer.

In Montclair.
In Oakland,
But esp. in Barcelona.
(She knows there’s an Olympic Pool there! Ole!)

Berkeley Y: Colder, Stranger, Harder!

It is such a tragedy! The week before PP goes on her big adventure to Indiana, (she’s been invited to partake of a writer’s residency at the Mary Anderson Center for the Arts—how cool is that?) the Oakland Y decides that this week before she leaves would be the perfect time to close the pool for the annual cleaning.

NOT!

Now, PP considered talking to Management about postponing this pool closure till the following week when she’ll be in Indiana and so won’t miss the pool, but then thought, yeah right. Like they’re gonna listen to her. Even though the pool and its schedule should totally revolve around HER Life, she didn’t think the folks at the Oakland Y would really be amenable to this.

So.

She has the option to go to the Berkeley Y during this week and today she did just that.




It was so weird!

First off, this isn’t the first time she’s been to the Berkeley Y—-she used to visit with her Ex, the illustrious Owen Hill, as a guest when it rained at Mills and he was a member. This was so many years ago, she can barely remember, but one thing she did remember was that the pool was COLD!!!





And today, she’d forgotten this till she stuck her finned foot in and OUCH!!! The water was freezing! Glancing over at the temps posted on the wall, 80 for the pool, 102 for the spa, PP was too lately reminded that she was gonna freeze during her swim. (How many times has she explained that while 80 degrees sounds warm and toasty, in the water, it’s definitely NOT, esp. when the pool is indoors and there’s no warmth of the sun to offset the frigidity of the water!)

Plus the pool was crammed with crowds of Sunday afternoon swimmers. Damn. This was what always made it hard. The goddamn circle swimming! And the coldness wasn’t just in the water temp, there’s a certain frostiness to the members at the Berkeley Y too. What is it about Berkeley? Too many intellectuals in one spot? They’re all competing for that piece of the University Pie and so when they get to the YMCA they can’t let it go for even an afternoon swim?

It’s hard to explain. When PP stuck her fin in, she gave a cheery “Hi” to the Scrawny White Woman already sharing a lane with a Young Shaggy Haired Guy.
“We are already swimming circles!” she’d snarled at PP.

Okay then. PP shakes her head as she watched SWW flail back down the lane. Her toothpick arms ghostly pale slapping on the blue surface of the water. (This is one nice thing about the Berkeley Pool—it’s blue. Why isn’t the Oakland Pool blue? It’s gray. Why is that? Is Berkeley a bluer place than Oakland? You wouldn’t think so, but poolwise, it’s so.)

PP jumps in after SWW, and plows speedily down the lane, almost running her over, she’s so damn poky. Of course, she doesn’t wait at the wall for PP to pass. No this is Berkeley. She just turns around at the wall, oblivious and smug in her scrawny Berkeley bubble.

Damn.
PP zooms past her on the way back down, narrowly missing kicking her in the face. (Just kidding, but it was kinda close.)

But mission accomplished. SWW moves to another lane, allowing PP and the Shaggy Haired Guy to split the lane. Fine. This works for her and so she finishes her frigid swim with only the minor irritant of the cold steadily hurting her neck.

Thank goodness there is a Hot Tub here.

But here is where the Real Weirdness starts as PP basks in the warm bubbles, her neck finally beginning to de-tense.




A bouncing boy (here’s another reason that makes Berkeley hard—kids are allowed in the hot tub. What a stupid idea that is! PP won’t go into all the reasons why as it’s self-evident and Masterpiece Theater is on in 20 minutes) This kid gets in and starts jumping around spastically in the tub, not exactly shivering, but this is what occurs to PP. He’s been in the goddamn freezing pool for the last hour and so he’s jumping up and down to get warm. This makes sense, right?

So PP asks him, “Are you cold?”
He gives her an impish grin and says, “IT’s Symbol!”
Uh? It’s symbol? Is that really what he said? Did PP hear that right? What the hell could that mean? It’s a Symbol of what exactly? And what does the “it” refer to? The cold? The hot tub? PP’s query? And then what is the Symbol? The jumping? It’s a symbol of what? Obnoxiousness?



This is the best PP can come up with as the Symbol Kid’s dad? (He seems to be in charge of the kid, but they look nothing alike. The kid is dark, handsome, bronze Indian looking. The dad is an old shriveled Berkeley radical white guy with a gray braid trailing down his emaciated back.) But when Symbol Kid makes his proclamation to PP, Braid Man smiles beatifically over at PP like he’s sorry the kid is symbolic?

Hell, PP doesn’t know. All she knows is that it’s weird. And no one else in the Hot tub seems to even notice, let alone be the object of this kid’s goofball paradigm except for PP. (The tub is full of the usual Berkeley suspects. This means, 4 or 5 middle aged white guys with spectacles and paunches. Damn. PP missed Utopia mightily!)

Oh and this is the last thing that is so truly weird. When PP does find Utopia in the women’s locker room, it’s completely empty and after the crammed pool and Symbol Kid, this is okay. It’s peaceful and relaxing, taking the final edge off her neck pain.

But as she leaves the sauna, she pauses to read the list of rules posted on the door (there’s tons of rules posted everywhere at the Berkeley Y and she thinks this is true of Oakland too, but she’s just used to them now.) Yet there aren’t any posted on the Oakland Utopia, esp. this one: “Please refrain from conversation while using the sauna”

WHAT?





PP stood there for a moment in utter disbelief.... Can you even imagine such a rule at Oakland’s Utopia? Why she’d have nothing to write about! Not to mention the strangely draconian aspect to such a restriction.

Berkeley.
All PP can say is she hopes the YMCA in Indiana is a little less strange.

Or at least the Symbols presented in the hot tub are a little less obnoxious!