altheabashar

Arnold

2008-06-05T05:03:13Z

I saw him again

pushing his metal walker

with twisted leg

and plodding step

down the manicured sidewalk

his right shoe dragging against the concrete

like a bundle of forgotten letters

and a screeching, jangling sound

wailed somewhere in the wheels

as if to remind him

of his fetters

and I imagined his lot

not as if it were mine

but just what it would be like to be him

for a second

half-paralyzed and lonely

the rickety metal following you

wherever you go;

and in summer,

when we are preening ourselves

him tottering forth on screeching wheels

stoop-shouldered, asking our names

the metal walker lurks past perfect lawns,

Arnold stands by the open road

wincing at cars;

one more time

he looks enviously upon the world

Narciso and his Mother

2008-05-19T03:37:18Z

Every night before bed Narciso dreamed of the kingdom of the land of children. His curly head rested on his pillow and he looked up at his ceiling which was full of glowing stars. Between the constellations he saw himself and the future of his realm of children. He saw himself with a crown on his head and thousands of boys and girls surrounding him, waving colorful banners, carrying him on their shoulders, and shouting his praises. And then he would fall asleep.

His dreams were nothing like his daydreams. His dreams were populated by evil giants, sea creatures, and deformed creatures he read about in his fairy books. One night, Narciso cried for his mother . . .

"Mother, mother, tell me why my dreams are filled with demons, evil giants and sea monsters? I'm afraid. I'm afraid one morning I won't wake up. I'm afraid they'll eat me."

"No sweetie," Narciso's mother said. "Those ghouls won't eat you, they're not real. They don't have real teeth and once you get close to them they just disappear. Like smoke."

"Can I sleep in your room tonight Mommy?"

"Yes, but only for one night."

That night Narciso laid up in bed, on his mother's pillow, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you looking at Narciso?"

"I'm looking at the kingdom of the land of children. They're carrying me on their shoulders. They're praising me, Mommy."

Narciso's mother knitted her brows in concern. "I don't see anyone up there, sweetie."

"Yes Mommy. They're there. The land of children. With all the boys and girls. And I rule over them. I'm their ruler. They need me."

"What are you talking about sweetie? It's late. Let's go to bed."

"But I'm afraid of the monsters Mommy."

"There won't be any monsters sweetie. No monsters tonight. Mommy is here."

The Unknown Sculptor

2008-04-03T17:52:53Z

Raphael had never seen such a house before. He knew that there were houses like this on the coast, but he’d only imagined them from the movies he’d seen. His studio apartment was about the size of her foyer. The columned porches that flanked the front and back of the house reminded him of the house in the movie, The Godfather. The decorative façade along the top of the front doorway had a distinctly neoclassical style. Georgia ushered him inside, carefully holding back her own feelings of excitement and pleasure at having a special guest. Part of Raphael’s charm was the innocence and humility that radiated from his dazzled face.

“Do you live here?” He asked incredulously.

“Of course I live here,” she answered with soft, bubbling laughter, “I’m the artist.”

“Are these all of your sculptures?”

“Except for the Roman bust in the front hallway, yes, they’re all mine.”

There were exactly forty-nine sculptures in Georgia’s house, all of them nudes and all of them male. Each year she produced about four and she’d been working indefatigably for almost eighteen years. What the average person noticed about these sculptures, other than the thick granular plaster applied in multiple layers, was that the men of these sculptures were more like gods. They were taller and stronger and more beautiful than human males. They held themselves in triumphant postures, in warrior poses, in serene meditations. Everything about these sculptures possessed the heightened, exalted visions of the artist herself. She was clearly striving for something unavailable on earth. Heaven was her model.

Therefore it came as a surprise to Raphael to think that she would want him to pose for her. In his opinion, he didn’t have anywhere near the physique that was represented in these figures. He’d only put “body-builder” on his resume because he wanted to make himself sound more like a professional model, which he wasn’t. Although these doubts came into his mind, he didn’t say anything. The two of them went from room to room, looking at the sculptures. Astonished by the extensive collection of nudes, the young model burst into rapturous praise about Georgia’s work. He was hoping she would choose him for her next sculpture.

Raphael’s awe of the house and the sculptures produced a strain of giddiness and delight in Georgia. She was taken off guard by the short, black man’s natural charisma and abandoned herself to their idle conversation. Rapheal told her about his job as a waiter in the city and his aspirations to get a degree in computers.

“Computers,” she said, “Why would you want to do a thing like that? Why you would confine yourself to a dull and boring technical career?”

“But I’ve always loved computers,” he said. “Ever since I was a child.”

“I’m sorry Raphael but I don’t see how a computer can be imaginative. What about the human body? What about the face? Have you ever looked at a person’s face? I mean really looked at their face?”

Raphael didn’t have an answer.

“Well, if you’ve ever considered a person’s face and the structure of their face and the unique mold, then you’ll agree with me that Nature, God, or whatever you want to call it, has endowed us with supreme beauty, complex beauty. The Divine is far greater than our own powers of invention and we can only strive in our limited ways to imitate the creativity of the Source, God, or whatever you want to call it.”

“This is true. Yes. This is true.” Raphael said.

When they arrived in the kitchen from their tour of the house, Doyan had poured two glasses of freshly-squeezed lemonade and left them on a serving platter on the counter. Raphael introduced himself to Doyan and asked her what country she was from. She said she was from the Caribbean.

Doyan was twenty-eight years old. She had big, almond-shaped eyes, a rounded face and tough-looking feminine features. She leaned over the counter and pretended to put away some dishes, ignoring Raphael’s natural exuberance but listening to him anyways. He posed a bunch of questions to her about how long she’d been living here and whether she wanted to go back home or not. The maid gave curt, smiling responses. Georgia watched their interaction with pleasure, as if she could see something going on between them that they could not see themselves. She pulled a chair to sit down.

Doyan showed some embarrassment, “Excuse me but I have to check the laundry.”

She proceeded down the long hallway, her uniform sashaying on her hips. Raphael looked at Georgia and smiled in languorous amusement at the maid’s hardened disposition. Then, carrying their lemonades outside, they walked under the shade of a couple lime trees and went toward the pool. The ocean gurgled in the rocks and hissed in the distance.

To read more of the author's work
Visit these sites:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
http://www.escapeintolife.com

The Unknown Sculptor

2008-04-03T00:53:54Z

The models came to Georgia’s house one after another. She found herself especially dissatisfied with them. They became restless while waiting for her to make a decision and wandered to the edge of the terrace which overlooked the ocean. The ocean was transparent green at this hour and it made a gushing sound as it leapt into the rocks and flooded the crevices. It was midmorning and uncomfortably warm. The sun’s rays baked the open patios surrounding the house. Doyan was making her rounds, watering the potted plants and the small beds of irises and tulips. Six or seven handsome models paced the terrace irresolutely, their bare backs covered in Chinese robes. Like bunch of errant hens, they stared down at the ground, bumped into each other, grunted and kept pacing.

Without a tinge of remorse, Georgia called out their names, and dismissed them one by one. Many of them thought that she was being cold and unsympathetic. They hung their heads, exchanged their clothing, and left. She didn’t feel sorry for them. Over the years she learned to rely on a bold, intuitive sense that told her yes or no. When she ran an advertisement in a local newspaper, a deluge of calls came in, models with credentials, models with experience. They were handsome, respectable men. They had muscular, athletic bodies. But something was missing and she had to dismiss them.

In her twenty-odd years of sculpting nude males, Georgia believed that there was an indissoluble net which wrapped around the human body. She couldn’t give an exact medical definition of this net but she could discern the net instantaneously and it served as her touchstone. The net represented a unity. If the unity was absent in a model, she dismissed them. It did not matter whether this “net” existed or not. She was neither a surgeon, nor a scientist; she was a sculptor and she relied on the powers of intuition.

Yesterday a model came to her house named Raphael. She had him stand on the moving platform in her studio and she pressed a button which rotated the platform 360 degrees. Raphael went around the room, surprised by the automated whirligig. Georgia studied him intently from the corner of the room. He had a bald, cannon ball-shaped head and a thick goatee. As he went around the room, he smiled a lot, revealing two perfect rows of teeth. Georgia pressed the button to stop the platform. She dropped her arms to her sides and fell down into a tangerine papasan with faded cushions. Deep in thought, she gazed into the middle of the room, breaking her concentration only once or twice to glance back at him. He waited for her to announce his merits or lack of merits as a model when she abruptly removed a cigarette from her breast pocket.

For the first time in her life she was unable to make a simple judgment—“Yes” or “No”.

He didn’t have the conventional build. His height fell under the usual requirements, and he lacked the tall, noble stature of the models you see in California style magazines. But at the same time, his body was lively and energetic. His muscles stretched across his shoulders and upper back like a well-fitted garment. Before making a hasty decision however Georgia recalled the mysterious, elusive net, her touchstone. Was it there? She waited a few minutes for an answer (from the gods?), and took out another cigarette. The chalky smoke filled up the glass studio, and Raphael was secretly disgusted by her careless smoking.

Raphael came to the United States only six months ago. There was a small population of Nigerians in the city, and when he first arrived, he moved in with four friends. They lived in an antiquated apartment building with boarded windows next to a dry-cleaning factory. He worked two shifts as a waiter in a gentrified part of the city, and saved up money so he could go to college at a technical institute. Modeling was one of the many jobs he picked up to survive. This was only his third time.

Raphael’s confidence seemed to make Georgia’s decision more difficult. He had an endearing quality to him, a very affecting personal charm. He spoke English in a heavy Francophone accent and repeated over and over again the phrase, “This is true. This is true.” These qualities made him seem like a good listener. People naturally felt comfortable in Raphael’s presence, and they would tell him things, about their families and their private lives. He listened because he was a good listener, but once in awhile he wanted to tell people about himself and they seemed too self-involved to care. He wasn’t bitter or anything; it just made him think.

“But does he have the sacred unity?” Georgia mused.

Again she pressed the button to the revolving platform; Raphael awoke from his reverie, and went around the room like a sleek mannequin in a shop window. He smiled tirelessly as Georgia studied his body.

She asked him to put his clothes back on and invited him into the house, which was not her usual routine. Usually she told her models to walk around the back of the house, through the pool area. Her husband, however, was out for a stroll today with his nurse, and Georgia decided to have Raphael come inside the house and see the kind of work she did.

to read more work by this author, visit:
http://www.lethebashar.wordpress.com
http://www.lethebashar.blogspot.com
www.escapeintolife.com