The Journey We Take Alone: Part Eight

By Alexander "Sandy" Prisant

By age 20 I had already been married two years. I was at the university and working in journalism. All full-time. Why was I cramming in so much, so fast? From the beginning had my subconscious been telling me “you don’t know how much time you have?”

For decades, the importance of the kidney was wildly underrated. The National Kidney Foundation used to have a campaign theme: “It’s Not Just Another Disease. It’s the Fourth Major Cause of Death in the United States.” Over the years, medicine had found that the organ handled scores of functions, many of them life critical: from tirelessly filtering poisons out of our blood to promoting red blood cell generation. The kidney even impacts our physical growth. Having only 40% kidney function from birth produced a body, in my case, that was not quite right—sturdy legs supporting a frail torso. That left me chronically short of natural muscle, causing the usual problems for any schoolboy. Nonetheless, Dr. Swick would have been shocked to see me playing varsity soccer and baseball.

My adolescence had been fairly uneventful. For a while, the family and I almost believed I was becoming normal. Then at 16, I got my first kidney infection. There was some fever and a little discomfort. It was easily treated by a nephrologist who concluded his examination with an almost offhand remark: “you’ll probably need an operation when you’re about 50.” Somehow this man was seeing 33 years into the future. He was talking about an operation that did not yet exist—a kidney transplant. And he turned out to be right.

But that one incident was quickly forgotten as I moved through my teens. With work, university and a loving wife, sleep for me was as optional as for any 20-year-old. The crushing fatigue of advanced kidney disease can take decades to develop. But the consequences of chronic renal failure were already appearing. Before I could vote, I’d already developed high blood pressure—a quarter century sooner than most people did, but a common situation for kidney kids.

At first I was on three or four pills a day. That grew to more than a dozen; it’s been an evolving pharmaceutical cornucopia everyday since, as new symptoms appeared and new frontline drugs came along to counter them. “Everyday since” now comes to almost 17,000 days and counting.

Poor kidney function means all your organs are trying to survive and work with poor body chemistry. Every day. The effects can range from coronary artery disease to diabetes to stroke.

One afternoon when I was nearing 30, my mother was passing by a bathroom at the family home that was a magnet for all four of us--as boys, then men. I had carelessly left my pill bag open on the bathroom counter. She looked at the bottles and blister packs and slumped onto the toilet seat. My mother was a loving person, but she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve. I can only remember her crying twice; once when she phoned me, in shock, to bemoan the slaughter of Martin Luther King. The second time was when she sat in that powder room, looking at the mountain of meds keeping me going.

Now I’m up to 18 pills a day, but it’s like anything you do every day; it becomes as routine as pulling on your socks. I’ve learned that these things often seem more horrific to observers than patients. As I’m tossing a dozen pills down with a single gulp of water, I’m thinking about sports, business or dinner. Mostly, it’s loved ones, not patients, who are left in tears.

Because there has never been any other life but this one, uncertainty and mortality have always been too close to be feared. But with few overt symptoms and no pain for decades (making kidney disease more insidious), I’ve still had all the normal ambitions; to ponder what I could achieve and what adventures might lie before me. I’ve been fortunate to work for governments and the Vatican and to tackle challenging projects on four continents.

And possibly more easily than some, the medical reality deep inside has helped me to do what all of us are always urged to do—to live in the present. To feel the moment. Every day.

Writer Sandy Prisant is a survivor. His story, "The Journey We Take Alone," which began on MyStoryLives in March, tells the tale of a person who has lived with a serious kidney disease all his life. Part Seven appeared on May 31, 2011, and there are links in that post to all previous installments. At this moment, Sandy is waiting for a heart and kidney transplant, and he is in good spirits!

Costa Rica Suits This Writer Well!!

Note to readers: Artist Jan Hart grew up in southern California, and later lived in New Mexico. I "met" her when trying to rent a house in the Santa Fe area -- she was pulling up roots and moving to Costa Rica, where she now lives in a gloriously beautiful retreat. She describes herself as "writer, teacher, artist, adventurer," and teaches art classes. Judging by her blog, Jan's Front Row Seats, she has her later years all figured out. The view from her lounge chairs is astonishing! An inspiring woman, to be sure! Here is an except from her blog, in which she talks about dealing with aging:

"We who have grown up in the United States are fixated on a continually upward trajectory that appears not to have an end. Everything worth having is Better or Faster or Smoother! We are fed a continual smorgasbord of technological wonders and new breakthroughs that make us feel behind if we still have last year’s model. The economy has to be growing to make us feel happy with our lives and confident in our leaders. Many of us begin our days with a cup of coffee in front of the financial news from Bloomberg on cable – and the market direction dictates our state of mind. Up is up. Down is down. Given that we are a nation of Viagra and Prozac it seems that we also have a fixation on rising body parts and moods. We get face ‘lifts’ and breast ‘enhancements’ and ‘body augmentations’ while we tune up, fix up and dress up. Any mention of a “downward spiral” thrusts in our mind’s eye an image of a plane crashing to earth."

"Needled"

By Claudia Ricci

At the worst moments of the chemo, after she throws up into the basin, and forces herself to eat some cherry jello and maybe a few bites of banana, Anna plays the flamenco, drifting perhaps into a soleares, a sweet lament that starts slow and then pulls up tempo. And when the soleares stops working, and no longer transports her, she shifts to a tango or even, a fandango.

And then comes the day that she steps inside the doctor’s office in the black and red satin dress. It rustles as she walks, and the luscious tail of the bata de cola trails behind her. Anna picks up a fistful of ruffles in the train, and enters the examining room. Her nailed shoes, tied at the ankles in ribbons, clatter on the waxed floor. Her black hair is sleek, almost wet looking, pulled tight to her head and knotted at back in a donut. She hugs a black lacy shawl to her shoulders and in her free hand, she is pumping a red flowered fan.

The nurse enters behind her. Oblivious. She opens Anna’s medical file –three inches thick—and asks Anna to step on a scale against the wall.

“Must I?” Anna sneers. The nurse hesitates.

“Must I get the doctor?” the nurse asks.

Anna’s eyes narrow. Still holding the ruffles, she steps on the scale, and the nurse records Anna’s weight.

“Remember to subtract for the dress,” Anna says.

The nurse starts to say something. Stops. She asks Anna to turn around and stand against the wall. Anna sighs, then swivels.

As she steps against the wall, she lifts her head with all the dignity of a Castilian queen.

“Five feet ten and one half with those heels,” the nurse says, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly as she eyes the shoes. Then she turns to Anna’s right arm. “Now, how about the veins today? How are they?”

My veins.” Anna pauses. Sneers. “Are the same as always.”

Thrusting one arm overhead in the manner of the great bailoras, Anna locks herself in the dancer’s stance. She looks as if she could be plucking a ripe Seville orange off a tree. Twisting one wrist, she pulls the imaginary lush globe of fruit tightly to her bosom.

“I am glad you are so limber, Anna.” The nurse crosses her arms. “But would you mind sitting down? This will go a lot faster if you do.”

Anna glares, sits down and arranges the dress around her. Then she thrusts one arm forward, exposing a pale blue vein.

“That one looks like it will work,” the nurse muses, reaching up and snapping one finger against the inside of Anna’s arm.

“Please,” Anna snarls, pulling her arm back. “Please be gentle.”

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says. Her voice softens. “I really am sorry.”

Anna turns away, as if the nurse’s sudden kindness has made it so much worse. “Do you know how many times that my arm has been needled? Do you realize what you do to me every week? And do you realize how important these arms are to my dance?”

The nurse bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes. I know there are days when…when they, when we…have…considerable trouble getting in.”

Anna draws her shawl closer around her shoulders. A single tear dribbles out of one eye. She ignores it and sitting up straighter, she lifts her chin in the manner of the Iberian royals, casting a decidedly unfriendly glance at the nurse. Then she thrusts her arm forward again.

The nurse anchors Anna’s arm on the armrest and prepares the needle. “Here we go,” she whispers. Anna flinches as the needle passes into the crotch of her arm, but the nurse has tight hold of her hand.

At first Anna and her pert red lips turn away, but soon she can’t help herself: she is tipping backward to look, drawn to staring at the syringe, particularly the small butterfly spread of sky blue plastic attached to the needle. Anna brightens. “Ah, you see, my fan has blue butterflies too.” She flicks open her red fan again with her right hand, showing off the intricate design: a red background, swatches of yellow and orange flowers and blue and black butterflies dancing here and there.

The nurse glances at the fan, but is more preoccupied with the needle. She jiggles it. “I think this vein may be blocked.”

Anna blinks. Looks away. As the nurse pokes the needle in further, Anna’s eyes open wider and begin to water. Then she rapidly fans her face. The fan is a hot blooded color, and the blue of the fan’s butterflies is exactly the same blue as the butterfly of the needle, the needle which the nurse is now pushing even deeper into Anna’s skin.

“Oh Dios mío, PLEASE NO!” Anna yelps. Her face is chalky and as sweaty as it is when she dances the farruca.

“I am sorry I am hurting you, Anna, I really am.”

Anna sighs. Keeps fanning. “Yes, I should say so.” Her voice breaks. She fans faster. “How much longer must this go on?” She chews into her lower lip, and her teeth pick up some of the berry-colored lipstick glazing her mouth.

The nurse wiggles the needle ever so slightly. She sighs. Exhales. “It’s just that I have to get a blood return on this one, and I’m not getting it.”

Anna closes her eyes and stops fanning. At moments like these, when it gets particularly difficult, she always resorts to intense mental rehearsal: she goes through the newest alegria in her head. She can count it better than the seguiryas, or even the sevillanas or the malagueña.

She starts counting, but a moment later, is interrupted. The nurse sighs, slides the needle out. “I guess this one won’t work,” she says. “Sorry.” She applies a tiny circle of a bandaid over the hole left behind in Anna’s arm.

“I’m going to have to get some back up. See if someone else can help.”

Anna blinks. “Yes, well, and I think I am going to need my prescription now,” she mumbles, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches into the ruffled bosom of her dress. Inside is a tiny vial of pills. Before the nurse can say anything, Anna has two tiny white pills in her hand and she is popping them under her tongue. “This will help.”

The nurse looks embarrassed. “Look, I am really sorry to put you through this. But I …”

“…But I don’t want to hear it,” Anna says curtly. “I really don’t want to hear it.” She smiles her thinnest, tightest grin. “Just go ahead, please, find someone. Someone who won’t hurt me. And get it over with.” Anna inhales, saying a small prayer that the pills will work their miracles once again.

The nurse leaves and returns almost immediately with another nurse. A young man. Slim and very tall and dark-skinned. He smiles and Anna looks into his eyes and her first thoughts are, he is not at all handsome, but he is very kind. And he would make a suitable partner.

He takes Anna’s hand and for a moment she expects him to kiss it. But he simply rubs his long brown fingers over the surface of her skin. “I hear we are turning you into a pin cushion today,” he says very quietly. The way he says pin: peen. And cushion: cooshun. His accent is…what? Latin? Indian? Iranian? She cannot tell, and well, what does it matter? He grows more handsome by the moment.

He keeps sliding his fingers over the back of her hand. “So how are the veins here?”

Anna closes her eyes, smiles, and gracefully pulls up her hand. Her blood red nails glitter. “My hands…are magnificent,” she whispers, opening her eyes again.

He smiles, bashfully. Anna notices the intense silkiness of his black hair. The giant oily pearls that are his eyes. She sighs. The other nurse, who is standing in the corner of the examining room, arches one eyebrow, then turns and leaves the room, making the door smack shut as she goes.

The young man looks up. Meets Anna’s eyes. Clearing his throat, he takes Anna’s outstretched hand and pulls close to examine it again. “Well, these don’t look as ravaged as the ones in your arm. I see what these treatments have done to torture your poor arm.”

“Ah, and not just my arm,” Anna shoots back. Her voice croaks. The man lifts his eyes and Anna returns the look. In it is an odd combination of fire and ice. Sorrow and fatigue. Fortitude and resignation. Pride and shame and mostly, relief. She watches in silence while he proceeds to wrap a rubber tourniquet around her wrist, making the veins in her hand bulge slightly.

“So, would you mind if I played my CD?” Anna asks, her eyelashes fluttering. Her vision is beginning to swerve. Hard shapes and straight lines are turning to butter.

“Oh, no problem,” the nurse says. “Do you need help?”

“Not a bit,” Anna says. “I have done this all before.” She uses her free hand to reach into a satin bag for a pair of headphones.

One-handed, she slips the headphones over her sleek hairdo. By now there are several stray black hairs at her moist brow.

Anna switches on the CD player and so, when the needle vanishes into a vein in the back of Anna’s left hand this time, she is listening to a cantaor singing a woeful tale of his lost gypsy.

Anna closes her eyes as a bailora joins in, dancing in the background; there, now, she can hear her feet clacking rapidly on wood. Besides that, there is a set of castanets rattling and a clang of the martinetes, the ironsmiths’ metal hammering against metal. The cantaor’s voice rings up to a prolonged trill just as the young man gets his blood return.

“That will do it,” the young man says, filling a small clear tube with Anna’s ruby blood. “Now we just need to put the radioactive tracer into the vein and we’ll be all set to do your scan.”

Anna looks up from her CD, a docile smile on her lips. Her head feels loose, as if it coming unattached from her shoulders, which are now bare of the shawl. The fan sits closed up in her lap. She blinks, sinking ever deeper into the music.

“Did you know, young man, that duende eases all of our pain?” She whispers this, and her words are slightly slurred. He nods.

“Please,” she says. “Please state your name?” He hesitates.

“Arturo.” He pats her hand once more and starts to pull away. Anna wants to hold his hand there, but her grip comes too slow.

He leaves the room, and she goes limp, sinking listlessly into her chair. The pills have taken hold, no doubt, because now she is yawning, and smiling broadly, and dancing on a brightly lit stage that is rising into the air. She laughs. After all this is over she will call her sister, Margarita, and tell her this: that it isn’t hard to dance when you are rising toward heaven, because there you can freely pluck oranges and apples from the Garden of Eden.

And because you are on chemo, and because everyone feels sorry for you--even God—He doesn’t care one bit that you are there stealing His fruit. And eating it right there in the Garden.

Anna laughs. When the tall young man returns with a small lead box, the one that contains the radioactive isotope, she reaches out to take his hand. He puts the box down and staring hard into her eyes, he readily accepts her hand – and his role in the dance.

Anna watches him, a placid smile on her lips. And then the music turns fiery, and the moment comes. The stage clears and he steps into the white circle of light. His elbows lifted to each side, and his narrow hips immobile, he tips his head back proudly and begins pounding his heels in perfect unison with the compas, the rhythm of the music. Ah but what a pair of legs Arturo has, thundering now against the floor. Yes, she thinks: he is more talented than any partner I have had before.

Now it is her turn to spin: the young man reaches out one hand to her. Mustering all of her grace and dignity, she lifts herself off the chair and thrusts her torso forward. Her bosom swells fully into the satin fluff and ruffles. Moving slowly at first, she begins swiveling and tapping, all the while holding one armful of ruffles at her hips. The other arm stands overhead. Her movements quicken, and soon her hips are twisting, and her feet hammering like a sewing machine. And there, there are her wrists and fingers, all bent at odd angles, giving her hands the look of branches, branches on an orange tree, a tree from which she always plucks her imaginary fruit.

She pauses, out of breath. The two of them –- she and her amazing Arturo. They are holding hands, and now, suddenly, they are bowing. Surely it cannot be over already? Together they occupy the stage light. Staring blissfully into the darkness behind her eyes, she feels her heart pump as quickly as her fan, as the young man whispers “Anna, you were just wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she whispers back. And then she waits, patiently, for all the clapping to stop. And for the needle to be withdrawn and for the curtain, finally, to fall on all of this.

Dancing.

"Needled" appeared first in the North Dakota Quarterly.

On the Trail of the Petroglyphs, Look for the Man with the Tatoos!

Note to readers: this is the third in a series of three excerpts from award-winning author Eugene K. Garber's new novel, "O Amazonas Oscuro." Part one of this chapter, called "Freeplay," appeared May 20, 2011,and Part two appeared May 29, 2011. In this section, the visitor "Aloo" is telling anthropologist and ethnographer K a story about the mysterious petroglyphs -- it turns out that the trail to these signs leads to a man covered in tatoos!

“Go to Santarem and from there upriver to Nhamundá. Find a woman named Guaynacha."

“This is very generous and useful, sir. I will come back and tell you what happened."

“No, we will never see each other again. De Mata nodded slowly. I hope you may join him. That was what I wanted to do, but avarice clouded my mind and then a sickness befell me.”

Aloo throws himself aggressively back on the soil of the bank. “That’s it, K. I’m not going into all the shit it took to find Guaynacha or the fucking days and years we have spent climbing cliffs. OK? That’s the story.”

K allows for a suitable silence, then he says, “Have you and Guaynacha found any petroglyphs?”

“A few.”

“When you find one, can Guaynacha read it?”

“What I figured. You did not dig the slips, K. Or you would know you do not read the petroglyphs. They open your mind toward the space of Freeplay, where Xo Moxo operates. They lead on. Otherwise you get stuck in logocentric metaphysics all over again.”

Aloo emits an angry burst of laughter. “It ain’t in your anthropology, K, because you got this pattern-assed view. Everything fits into a fucking ethno system—little shit-bits of behavior, codes, value systems, myths, rituals, gods, totemic animals, cosmology, the whole fucking magilla tied up like a gook prisoner.” Aloo leans over, his face close to K’s. “But I can tell you this. Guaynacha can tell every fucking time if a petroglyph is of Freeplay or if it’s just little disguised pics—manioc ovens, arrows, spears, cunts. Guaynacha knows. Which brings me to our deal, K.”

K has forgotten that he promised Aloo a favor in return for his story. But he nods affably. “A deal is a deal, but I can’t help you with petroglyphs. There aren’t any here.”

“Technically right, K, about the petro part. But the glyphs are here.”

“Where?”

“You already know, K. You just ain’t said it to yourself. They’re on your tattooed man.”

K doesn’t stop to think about whether he has had some premonition of this. “You mean Korakama.”

“Guaynacha needs to get a closer look at him.”

“Korakama is a tough case.”

“Get this, K. From what we saw yesterday this guy’s bod is like a mother lode of Freeplay marks. Xo Moxo signed this son of a bitch and turned him loose for whoever could find him and follow.”

“What if Korakama knows nothing about this? What if he has gone in the wrong direction, away from Freeplay?”

“Focus your logocentric head on the slips, K. In Freeplay there ain’t no direction. For direction you gotta have points around a center. Logocentric. Like the logic of them dickybird compasses they strapped on our wrists in Nam so we could know if our asses were getting shot from the east or the west.” Aloo cocks his head thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, K, Nam was a kind of freeplay Hell. Like maybe war is the opposite face of Freeplay. Anyway, there ain’t no direction. Just bring on the man. That’s the deal.”

K temporizes. “Will you tell me how your reconnaissance in the garden of the Mureka-peo fits in?”

“Sure. I went to their garden and also your guys’ garden to spy out if there were others with the marks of Xo Moxo. There ain’t.”

“I could’ve told you Korakama is the only tattooed man.”

“And I would’ve known you weren’t lying, K, because you are a straight arrow, but I still would’ve had to see for myself.” Aloo pauses. “Now, you’re going fix it so Guaynacha and I get to see Korakama up close, right? Anywhere, any terms. We’re on.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll do it, K, because you know the way with these fucking Indians.”

As K walks slowly back to the woshana, he considers what to do. The logical thing would be to say nothing to Korakama, return to Aloo and report that Korakama refuses to be seen, that the request has made the headman very angry, and that Aloo and Guaynacha must leave immediately. But K resists. Why? His bargain with Aloo? Hardly. A pact with a nut. What then? K justifies going to Korakama on the grounds that the meeting with Aloo and Guaynacha offers an opportunity for unique observations.

K goes to Korakama’s hammock. Korakama is patiently sharpening his machete with a smooth river rock. K says, “The woman of the non-human wants to see you.”

“The woman of the non-human has already seen me.”

“She wants to see you again, closer.”

“I do not want to see her.”

“Are you afraid for her to see you?”

Korakama smiles. “No. Bring her here and I will put myself in her eyes. If I do not like it, I will cut her head off.”

“The non-human will come with the woman.”

“His head too. Then I will give the non-human’s rotten jaguar skin to Gyantúa and the Mureka-peo can dance with Xo Moxo.” Korakama makes a braying laugh. K has never before seen him so pleased with himself. An amused chattering passes down the long curving row of hammocks.

K returns to Aloo, who immediately smiles broadly. “I can see that you fixed it. I knew you could, good buddy.”

“Wait a minute,” says K. “Korakama didn’t say no, but I don’t think it’s safe for you and Guaynacha to go to him.”

“Safe! What kind of shit is that, K? You got any idea how long it’s been since I did anything safe except shit and piss in the river?”

“You sure you want to go to him? He’s unpredictable and can be violent.”

“Fucking A, I want to go to him. Listen, K. This is what Guaynacha knows. Near Freeplay the glyphs get thicker. There’s a last set, a tunnel like. Then Xo Moxo himself, Freeplay itself. You get it?”

“De Mata said you might never find him, because he has already passed into a condition you can’t achieve.”

“Might not, K. Might not. But listen. Where Xo Moxo is, is still the world. That’s the beauty of it, K. These ignorant fucking Indians keep thinking Xo Moxo is in some myth world, but he ain’t. The myth world is this fucker we’re all trapped in. Remember, K. The old god is dead. Oh sure, the fagotty priest is still pretending he’s God, still has his uniforms and his operations like the clowns I fought for in Nam with their comic book maps and diagrams of pincers and probes so us asshole grunts could dress up like soldiers and get killed.”

Aloo shakes his head sadly. “I know what you’re going to do, K. You’re going to write down this story like a trained ethno man. Which means you’re a dead man, K, because all stories lead to death.” Aloo laughs. “When you get to the gates of the Underworld, remember that Aloo offered you the petroglyphs of Freeplay and you decided in favor of death.” Aloo waves his hand. “Take us to your tattooed man.”


The moment the three of them set out for the woshana, K realizes he has made an error. He has talked to Korakama but not to Bowakawo. At the gate he says to Aloo, “Wait here a minute until I announce you.” He goes to Bowakawo. “Korakama has said that the woman and the non-human can see him.”

“I know it,” says Bowakawo, nothing more, his voice flat.

Korakama waits at ease by his hammock, his machete hanging from his hand by a thong attached to the handle. K goes to the gate and ushers Aloo and Guaynacha in. The hour approaches noon, the yard of the woshana shadowless. There has been no rain for three days. Everyone is dry, pale dust coating their skin, hair lusterless. In the shade of the overhang the people appear almost ghostly. Against this flat dullness, Aloo and Guaynacha appear vitally bronze, washed by the river, burnished by the sun.

They walk beside K toward Korakama’s hammock. No one speaks. The silence is disturbed only by distant sounds from the forest and by an almost inaudible rustle, insects gnawing the ragged thatching of the woshana.

K looks down the rank of hammocks and silent people. He is relieved to see that no men are high on ebene. None have taken up spears. At the edge of the shadow of the overhang K stops and says to Korakama, “Will you come out into the sun so that the woman can see you?”

Bowakawo steps nearer. Korakama comes forward. Just before reaching K and the visitors he stops and with the tip of his machete draws in the dirt a wide circle. He positions himself in the center. Aloo stands still. Guaynacha raises her hands to either side of her face, lifts her head, and moves her lips silently. K knows that in many cultures such a gesture would be interpreted as obeisance to a higher power, but he can’t be sure what it will mean here. He turns to tell Aloo to urge her to get on with her examination, but just then she opens her eyes and drops to her knees. She begins to crawl slowly around Korakama, her eyes always on the tattoos that are inscribed on his legs. Her intense examination causes K to register details of the marks he has not noticed before: the serpentine twisting of the black coils that run the length of each lower leg, the large ochre dots on the thighs, a color one might imagine compounded of earth and semen.

Aloo whispers to K, “Tattoos very similar to petroglyphs in Munuamas.”

“No tattoo,” says Korakama in a voice as hard as stone.

Presently Guaynacha completes her circle and rises. K assumes that now she will make another circle, this time walking upright, but she takes no interest in the marks on the upper body—the sunbursts on his chest , the red spiral around his navel. Instead, she turns and walks rapidly across the yard to the gate, where she turns and calls to Aloo. Her calling is unmistakably urgent. Aloo nods but does not immediately follow. He continues to look at Korakama.

K can see Korakama’s body, which had been relatively relaxed during Guaynacha’s examination, tense.

Aloo says, “Some tattoos, K.”

“No tattoo,” says Korakama definitively and moves a step closer to K and Aloo.

K takes Aloo’s arm. “Let’s go now.”

Aloo does not move. “Your man wants us to believe it’s just doodles on his legs, K, but he knows what he is. Look at his eyes.”

Again Guaynacha calls urgently from the gate, but Aloo remains unmoving. “I seen plenty of doodles in Nam, K. Doodles on maps, doodles the VC left around. Hundreds doodled their fucking selves to death. But your man is the real thing and he knows it.”

Bowakawo comes closer. “What does the non-human say?”

“He says he was in a war, but there were no warriors like Korakama.” K sees that his translation is not convincing. He says to Aloo, “OK, Aloo. Move, goddamit.”

“Right.” Aloo looks at Korakama a moment longer and then turns away. Just as they reach the gate, where Guaynacha waits, Korakama, having taken a few steps toward them, shouts across the yard. “Tell the non-human and the woman that I did not make the dirt drink the blood of their heads. But if they find Xo Moxo, it will.” Korakama laughs raucously. Many join his laughter, the celebration of a bitter joke.

Aloo turns back toward Korakama, but K grabs his arm and pulls him away. “Go, now! Go, goddamit.”

Moments later, as they walk rapidly toward the river, Aloo says, “What was that last pleasantry your man gave us?”

“He said that if you and your woman find Xo Moxo your heads will be cut off, which is why he didn’t bother to do it himself.”

Aloo laughs and says, “A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given. Who said that, K?”

“Sounds biblical.”

“Right. Jesus hisself said it. Throwing dust in the eyes of the Pharisee assholes so they would doodle themselves to death. The sign was already given, but they couldn’t see it.”

“But you can.”

“No, but Guaynacha can. And there the sign was, right on your guy’s legs. I knew we’d find the son of a bitch sooner or later.”

“You knew there was a tattooed man?”

“Shit yes, K, we heard of this dude as far down as Marajo.” Aloo turns and speaks to Guaynacha, who answers briefly. “She says that it was all glyphs on his legs, but the stuff on his chest was just doodles.” Aloo laughs. “Clever, ain’t it, K—mixing the real and the unreal. Which is life.”

“I can tell you one thing that was real. You almost got your head cut off.”

Aloo nods seriously. “Probably not, K. I didn’t spend all them balmy days in Nam learning how to stay alive just to forget it here in the Amazon. But I admit he is one tough-looking specimen. I’m glad we didn’t have to go at it.” Aloo nods again, more emphatically. “But see, K, the dude knows he is marked. But denies it. However, some fine day somebody is going to get right up in his face and say Xo Moxo and he will have to decide whether to kill them or admit the marks. Which way would you bet, K?”

K shakes his head.

“You, on the other hand, K, will not face the same quandary.”

“Me?”

“You, K, with the little thingy on your forehead. Looks recent. Lemme guess. Gift of Korakama’s blade.”

K is taken back. Aloo laughs. “Relax, K. Nobody is going to Xo Moxo you, but I tell you, you hang around that fucking Korakama and you will see some action.”

“You didn’t tell me you’re a prophet.”

“Well, we were going over some other things, K, but in fact I am a fucking clairvoyant. And other identities. A colorful character all around. I could of made it big with the film fucker down in Santarem and not no bit part either, but I’m on a different trek, as I said.”

K starts to ask Aloo if he actually spoke to the filmmaker, but just then Bowakawo appears on the berm with a half dozen spearmen.

K calls to them, “The non-human and the woman are leaving.”

“Good. Non-humans bring bad things.”

The canoe is loaded. Aloo pushes off and jumps into the bow. Guaynacha back-paddles out from the bank. Aloo takes up his paddle. Slowly they make their way against the current, until they find some tail water that sweeps them upstream, out of sight.

Writer Eugene K. Garber, a Distinguished Teaching Professor Emeritus of English at the University at Albany, SUNY, is the recipient of numerous awards for his fiction. His 1981 collection, Metaphysical Tales received the Associated Writing Programs Award for Short Fiction. His collection, The Historian(1995), received the William Goyen Prize of the national literary magazine,TriQuarterly. Garber’s fiction has been anthologized in the Norton Anthology of Contemporary Fiction, Best American Short Stories, and the Paris Review Anthology, among other compilations. On June 15, 2011, at 7 p.m. at the Arts Center for the Capital Region in Troy, New York, Garber will be reading from his new book, O Amazona Escuro, from which this excerpt is taken.

The Journey We Take Together, Part One

Note to Readers: For many weeks now, writer Alexander "Sandy" Prisant has been writing an incredibly moving series, "The Journey We Take Alone," about his lifelong struggle with illness. But Sandy and his wife, Susan, want readers to know that no one should feel sorry for the two of them. They have lived an extraordinarily full and rewarding life together for the last 47 years, and feel very blessed. In this first part of a new series, "The Journey We Take Together," Susan writes about how she and Sandy eloped when they were still kids, barely 18 years old. What a pair!

By Susan Prisant

Sandy picked me up and dropped me off every day. My mother fed him as she did all my friends. And he let me drive his Baby Blue Thunderbird.

Six weeks later we declared our everlasting love for one another. Desperate, he went off to his freshman year at the University of Wisconsin. I stayed at Design School in New York, a thousand miles away. That distance turned the exciting beginning of adulthood into mutual and deep depression.


I baked cookies, knitted a sweater and declared my love daily through the mail. It wasn’t enough.

In less than a month, he was flunking out of school. His mother flew out to Wisconsin to try to help resolve her firstborn’s problems. There was just one: he had to see me for Homecoming Weekend. My own mother had brought up her daughter in white gloves and prim hats. She was aghast at this suggestion and refused. It was Sandy’s mother, a thoughtful type more comfortable in a library than in an ethical dilemma, who came to the rescue.

Against all odds, she persuaded my mother to put me all alone on a plane, white gloves and all, for a weekend that has now lasted over 47 years.

Our accommodation was unique. We had nowhere to go but the men’s dorm—a new building with a 4-story glass staircase.

Girls flowed up and down that staircase as if they were shopping at Macy’s. The eccentric overseer of all these hormones was the housemother, aptly named Mrs. Blemish. Limited in her vision, unsteady on her feet and profoundly deaf.

Those elements created a blissful weekend that came to an end only too quickly. Driving back to the airport Sunday night in a taxi, the driver swerved when he heard this from the back seat: “Will you marry me?” Sandy directed the taxi driver to pull up at the airport entrance; he leapt out and ran to the ticket counter, leaving his Bewildered Beloved sitting in the back seat with no explanation.

Had he changed is mind that quickly? NO! He had simply done the sensible New York thing, cashing in my return ticket and yelling: ”We’re $55 ahead and we’re not even married yet.” She was bewildered no longer. She was sure she’d picked the right man.

Writer Susan Prisant has created interactive reading and writing programs for children, writing eight children's books to use with these programs. The courses she led were sanctioned by the State of California and later, she taught them on the East Coast and also, in the American School in Israel.

Andalucía Comes to Lenox, MA!!

LENOX BOOKSTORE TO FEATURE FLAMENCO BOOK/GUITAR PARTY

JUNE 6, 2011 -- The Bookstore in Lenox will bring a taste of romantic Andalucía to the Berkshires on Sunday, June 26th when a local author will be joined by two local flamenco guitarists. Novelist Claudia Ricci will read from Seeing Red, a novel of love and self-discovery set in the Berkshires and Southern Spain.

Ricci, a student of flamenco guitar for 12 years, will be joined by two area flamenco guitarists, Jose Miralles and Lee Rausch. The Pittsfield visual artist who created the powerful cover art for Seeing Red, Kellie Meisl, will also join the celebration of art and culture that takes the reader from the slopes of Mt. Greylock to the deep gorges of Andalucía.

As one reader wrote about Seeing Red’s heroine, “Readers follow Ronda through Spain on her journey of love and self-discovery as she explores her marriage, motherhood, infidelity, and loss, all the while nurturing a once-forgotten passion for dance that transforms and empowers her.”

Seeing Red will remind you of that trip you took to Spain or it will inspire you to visit for the first time. As another reader wrote, “I finished Seeing Red yesterday and it is a page turner! It made me think of the summer I spent in Spain 22 years ago. There were so many things in your book I could relate to, the location, the culture, even the food -- Spanish tortilla and paella are so good!”

The Seeing Red reading and book party are part of a new series of book events that Matt Tannenbaum is holding at his new wine bar, “Get Lit,” which adjoins the Lenox Bookstore. “I am excited about giving Berkshire County residents a chance to enjoy great literature, music and a glass of wine as a wonderful cap to a summer Sunday afternoon,” Tannebaum said. “Ricci’s prose – both powerful and poetic – will move her listeners and transport them for a few moments to sunny Spain.”

The reading and flamenco will be held from 4:00 to 6:00 p.m. on Sunday, June 26th at The Lenox Bookhouse’s Get Lit wine bar, 11 Housatonic Street, Lenox Massacusetts. For directions or more information call (413) 637-3390 or visit the bookstore’s website at http://bookstoreinlenox.com.

A Body of Evidence

By Al Stumph

Whenever I shower, I pass before a full-length mirror. Startled at what's reflected there, I ask, “Body, what the heck are you doing? Why do you want to look like that?"

My body has rearranged itself over the years so that I hardly recognize it as my own, except it looks a lot like my father’s did when he also was in his late 60s. Maybe that's why, more than twenty years ago, it discarded what I thought was very handsome hair. I don’t recall my father ever being anything but bald.

For some reason, my body has chosen to increase the size of its nose and ears. Perhaps its intention is to enhance the senses of smelling and hearing but if so, it has failed. These senses are rapidly going the way of the hair.

I am most annoyed at my body for greatly increasing the size of its stomach. The only purpose I can assign to this change is the body’s desire to protect the head. If the stomach protrudes forward enough, it should bump into walls and the like well in advance of the head. Concussions more seriously affect the mind than the digestion.

I'm beginning to believe that I may have pampered my body too much, perhaps even spoiled it. It’s become very demanding.

“Don’t forget my pills.”

“Be careful. I don’t want to fall.”

“Don’t feed me caffeine.“

“Forget about running.”

It’s reverting to the behaviors of a two-year-old.

I do a lot of things, including exercise and consuming pills, just to keep my body working well. You’d think it would thank me for these kindnesses but on the contrary it is stiff every morning and evening. It has acquired pains in joints and muscles. It tires early in the day.

I think my body is out to annoy me.

I have to take some responsibility for my body’s current demands. For years, I fed it pretty much whatever and how much it wanted. On the other hand, I have sometimes been demanding of it. In fact, long bike rides and hikes, some attempts at athleticism, and my youthful tendency to ignore its desire for sleep, may have been my way of disciplining it. But I confess, I also may have occasionally worked it overly hard.

Actually I’m relieved that there is no Society For the Prevention of Cruelty to Bodies.

I’m glad the Roman Catholic Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body includes the notion that the resurrected human body will be a “glorified body.” I understand that to mean that all of the body’s imperfections will be put aside.

Does that mean I will look like I did at 28? That may have been my best year.

But there was also that time in my late 40s when my body developed a resemblance to that of the actor Sean Connery, aka James Bond. It was December 18, 1989 when he appeared on the cover of People magazine, having been voted "The Sexiest Man Alive." One of the highpoints of my life occurred at a hotel bar in Buffalo soon thereafter. As I took my place on a stool, the bartender looked at me and asked, "Martini, shaken, not stirred. Right, Mr. Bond?" His large tip was well deserved.

Do I get a choice about how my glorified body will look? If so, would I choose myself at 28? or 49? I was also a very cute two-year old.

At this year's annual physical with Dr. Billy my body weighed in at 194 pounds and stood short at five foot, six and three quarters inches. That's a loss in height from five foot nine inches and a gain in weight from 170 pounds. Because those last figures are from forty years ago - when I was 28 - and the full-length mirror does not lie, I mention them only to remind my body that, in this poet's words, "Things shore ain't what they used to be."

Writer Al Stumph, a former priest, had a long career in social services before retiring. He lives in Chatham, New York, with his wife Kathy.

Treat Yourself: Art in Columbia County, New York

If you live within driving distance of New York's beautiful Hudson Valley, you really ought to treat yourself to a wonderful summer art show. Three Columbia-County painters, Leslie Gabosh, Patricia Gravett and Barbara Willner, have a bounty of beautiful paintings and drawings on display in a delightful venue, the Old Chatham Country Store.


Nestled in the village square of Old Chatham, the store is surrounded by the gorgeous rolling green countryside of Columbia County -- horse country -- with miles of white pasture fencing.
The store is itself a landmark worth seeing. It stocks a few groceries, but its real claim to fame is fine food. (We ate an amazing meal there last night.) If you're planning a trip, be sure to call ahead for reservations, especially on the weekends, as the charming little cafe fills up fast on summer evenings.

The art show, which includes a host of magnificent still life paintings, as well as landscapes, opened this week for the month of June. A formal reception is planned for Sunday, June 12th, 3 - 5 p.m.

Reacting to Sandy Prisant's Story

Note to Readers: In this post, Brooklyn-based psychologist and writer Dr. Mel Waldman responds to writer Sandy Prisant's on-going series, "The Journey We Take Alone," part seven of which appeared here on May 31st.

Dear Sandy Prisant:

The doctors say “It’s all normal.” What do these words mean? My dictionary states that normal means “conforming with or constituting an accepted standard, model, or pattern; especially corresponding to the median or average of a large group in type, appearance, achievement, function, development, etc.; natural; standard; regular.”

Well, suffering is normal for human beings. Chronic pain is normal for senior citizens. Violence is normal for the human race. And lack of empathy is normal for medical doctors. Medical school doesn’t teach compassion and empathy. In graduate school, we psychologists explored the idea of teaching MDs how to relate and communicate with their patients. Some primary care physicians relate well to their patients. Most do not, in my opinion. And surgeons have even more difficulty communicating with their patients and relating to them emotionally.

Often, they have a highly developed sense of control and do not wish to express their emotions or understand the emotional chaos the patient experiences. One surgeon told me: “I don’t need to be compassionate. I need to perform well.” A lot of things are normal but quite painful. The depression that may accompany life-threatening and chronic illnesses is normal but often devastating. Death is normal and inevitable for human beings. Yet most of us deny it, repress it, and keep our heads buried in the sand so we don’t have to face it. Sandy, you and your wife are experiencing a lot of emotional pain.

Once again, you trudge along a life-threatening landscape marked with uncertainty and despair. The doctors seem motivated to keep you alive and do whatever is necessary except revealing any deep emotions. Yes, the “doctors remain stone-faced” because they can’t deal with genuine feelings. That’s their problem. But remember, they’re damned good surgeons and you need the best.

Now, it’s time to tell you about Sam, my late brother-in-law and my sister Gloria. As a result of surgery on a pinched nerve gone awry, Sam’s kidneys were destroyed. Sam was a lawyer but he never mentioned suing the doctors who destroyed his kidneys. He talked about going on dialysis and the adjustments he and my sister had to make. As I recall, he was on dialysis for more than a decade. I can’t recall the exact number of years. Sam was strong emotionally and appeared stoic. He suffered heart failure and kidney failure and sometimes, even this tough man became depressed. His body was a wasteland of horrific bruises, grotesque discolorations and sometimes, I looked at him and I saw a Holocaust victim/survivor. He hadn’t been in the death camps. But he was emaciated and shriveled up and years of kidney dialysis had taken its toll. Yet my sister didn’t see the ugly marks or a crippled leper. She saw the handsome and beautiful man she fell madly in love with and married. When love is deep and real, it sees only beauty. At his worst, Sam remained the perfect man, Gloria’s beloved husband. Sam died a year after 9/11. He fought a great fight and had numerous surgeries. He had a strong will to live and powerful reasons to stay alive. In the end, his final operation was successful. But there were complications and he passed away. Yet love kept him going for many years.

Love’s a beautiful reason for living. Yes, Sandy, love’s a magnificent reason for living. And I believe you’re blessed with a cornucopia of love. You’re going through Hell and that’s the truth. But Heaven’s just a few feet away. Just look into your wife’s eyes.

No Wonder the Mormons Settled in Utah

To me, heaven might look something like this valley in Utah.

My son, Noah Kirsch, a recent college graduate, is on a grand adventure. Yesterday he sent this photo from his campsite near Zion National Park in Utah.

It seems as though he and his buddy Robbie arrived at Zion looking to camp in the park and alas, there wasn't a single site available. They were so disappointed and weren't sure what they were going to do.

That's when a park ranger decided to be very, very kind. He took them aside and told them about this very special remote campground in the national forest outside the park.

They drove miles down this dirt road and ended up in the campsite from heaven.

The mountain in the distance is Mount Kinesava, elevation 7,276 feet. Up close, the mountain has sheer sides, a perfect challenge for the most daring rock climbers.

Having a son like Noah -- who turns 22 in four days -- is such a blessing. Part of the reason he called yesterday was to say that he was recalling all the times we'd gone hiking together as a family when he was a little boy. He wondered if, later this summer, we would meet him out in Utah, to do ... a little more hiking.