Ma Nishtana

PIECE OF PIE ANYONE?

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 02:22:00 +0000

How I turned a piece of pie until a hotel room

Enough already. Each time I called, the lovely Rose Inn I was assured that no reservation was required and that they had a room for me... And of course…they had no room for me. There was even a line at the door. Across the street was a $300/night Mariott and a “We’ll leave the light on for ya” Motel 6.

I figured I had the best chance at the place with the light on…not to mention $300 being out of the question. But no, they were sold out. "We’re full, but you can call after six to see if someone didn’t arrive for their reservation” said Susie Rez my Client Service Rep. I looked at her and then at the wall clock behind her.

"It’s ten to six right?"
“Oh” said Susie.
“So can I call at 6:05?”
“Give me until 6:15”

Just as I was about to leave it occurred to me that I didn’t know how many reservations were unfilled. “How many chances do I have?” The manager, smiling lovely girl of approximately 400 lbs said:

“depends on what kind of mood I’m in!”
“What if I brought you a piece of “pi-ahe” from Margies?” I drawled

Don’t know why I had the impulse to say pie with a southern accent. It did work however because the cheerful manager grinned and said “now we’re talking”. She made no promises though, so I went off to dinner at Margie’s.

I set my watch next to my salad and at 6:15 I gave the ladies at Motel 6 a call.

“Pie delivery, Margie’s Diner calling!” I announced. That got nothing.
“It’s Pam, did I get my room please?” then she started laughing at my joke and then (whew) said she did have a room for me.

“What kind of pie would you like?”
“Banana Crème” she said without hesitation.
“Uh, they only have apple, cherry or peach, just the fruits basically”.
“Oh I was just pulling your leg, since you were pulling mine”. We laughed.
“Seriously, I’m bringing Apple, okay?” So it was settled.

Ten minutes later I was there checking in (no sense giving anyone a chance to bring in, say, a pie a la mode!) During the check-in three groups came in to see if there was a room. No dice.

I slunk quietly to my room. Not pushing my luck.

WHEN DARKNESS FALLS FROM THE WINGS OF NIGHT

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 03:33:00 +0000

The Day is Done, and the Darkness
Falls from the Wings of Night[1]

Esalen, 9/5/07

The air smells like honey and cinnamon (and also a little bit like rotting kelp). There is so much natural beauty and even that is accentuated with a subtle but sure hand. This morning a path of scattered red, yellow and pink rose petals led me to a Buddha statue. It makes you smile, these little unexpected things, here today and gone tomorrow. One day, succulent rosettes trace the edges of a redwood stump, another day, five browning eucalyptus leaves arranged in a pinwheel. You never know at Esalen.

Masks appear in an old oak tree, their faces twisted into shapes of old wizened tree men straight out of the Wizard of Oz. They're wise but not necessarily friendly. Keep you're eye on them.

Then there are statues and original art throughout the property. Some are fixtures, constants over the years, others new or temporary installments. Discovering these, placed here and there, can startle or amuse or bring such a joy that you feel your face spread into a large and sometimes gooney smile.

So it was that yesterday as I walked through the garden, as I had many times in the last few days, that through a bush, a glimpse of white plaster caught my eye. There at the base of the plant was the stark white figure of a headless woman’s torso.

This torso also had no arms; no arms attached that is. The two forearms (also shattered), were buried in the dirt (at the wrist with no visible hands).

Upon seeing the detached forearms a blast of adrenaline shot through me. The white plaster was the color of sun bleached bones. The way those limbs and head were broken off and the arms planted and head missing…said serial killer...said something wicked this way comes[2].

I stood before her with the expectation of delight, but there at the neckline it looked broken instead of designed. Art can be made to unsettle, part with convention, inspire or startle. It can make a statement, be a statement. This statement chilled me; made me think...maybe this wasn't part of the show.

Esalen is…oceanic bliss, bees and butterflies, flowered garlands and stained glass goddesses. It's lantern lined walking paths turn into bucolic evening invitations....a true land of fairies. But tonight, as a dusk turned into darkness, as I walked alone into the sunflowered gardens, I walked a little faster.

[1] Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, poem, “The Day is Done”

[2] “Something Wicked This Way Comes”, novel by Ray Bradbury, 1998

LOBSTERS AND BUNNIES

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Mon, 14 May 2007 02:10:00 +0000

I am a relative/friend of a patient accessing my email and using the internet for entertainment.

I have been at this hospital too long. I am becoming one with it. The hospital has a hum. I called it “the hotel” when I talked to my sister. “You just said “Hotel”’, she said. I didn’t respond. As far as I know only a hotel has room service and that hum.

This morning I put drops in my Dad’s eyes. His eyebrows curved down and out so far they almost grazed the surface of his eye. “Better trim those eyebrows” I advised. “I piss out of those” he said. I didn’t respond. As far as I know my Dad has always been this way. Or maybe it’s the Alzheimers. After a moment of silence he added “that’s how lobsters urinate you know, through their eyebrows”. “I’m never eating a lobster again Pop”.

Back at “the hotel” I went downstairs and picked up the times and a coffee. I bought my mom a pink bunny. “Why did you waste your money” she said. “I didn’t buy it, it just hopped over Ma”. “I hate liars” she said. “I can’t help it if he hopped on over” I said with a straight face. She frowned. I frowned. Then she laughed and said “no seriously, where—did—you—get—that, at the gift shop?” “I got it at Starbucks” I told her. “I don’t believe you” she said. I didn’t respond. I did, however, take the bunny over so that it could give her a kiss on the forehead”. She frowned and then giggled, “You’re crazy to waste your money”.

DO NOT DISTURB

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Mon, 14 May 2007 02:07:00 +0000

The room was clean. Two twin beds with matching bed spreads, two end tables, one with a reading lamp, the other, an old clock radio with red glowing numbers. Nothing else but a lonely octagonal mirror, the silvering fading at the edges, adorns the walls.

Compelled by some primitive instinct, I walked in and slowly paced the perimeter of the room, sensing for safety and boundaries. As I walked around I looked down at the night stand and there, by the clock, was a small gold tone sign which read “Do Not Disturb; I’m disturbed enough already.”

On that note, I climbed under the covers, switched off the reading lamp and for a moment thoughts of sitting in my airplane seat flickered through my mind.

THE GOLDEN LADY

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 19:36:00 +0000

"and lo! an American goddess stood forth, with golden hair, clothed in shimmering draperies and by night a halo of stars around her head.
Chester French"

Golden Lady replica of the Statue of The Republic at the 1893 Columbian Exposition.

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 14:22:00 +0000

CITY OF THE BROAD SHOULDERS

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 03:55:00 +0000

Kosher Coke Anyone?

MY KIND OF TOWN CHICAGO IS

noreply@blogger.com (P. Ashlund) — Fri, 23 Mar 2007 20:33:00 +0000

photo credit: p. ashlund