Copyright. LIP SERVICE 12/31/09
“Read my lips” said the President Bush (the good one). “No more taxes”. It was a catchy slogan even it meant very little. His supporters of course all paid lip service to it. It always got a good laugh at the convention, like “Where’s the beef?” Don’t give me any of your lip, a dad might say to a sassy child. The easy girl in UNDER MILK WOOD sells her lips for a penny. Poor tragic Marie Antoinette, dead at 38, was not a real beauty having inherited the Hapsburg upper lip making her mouth rather small and her chin rather large. One reads in novels of people staring at his or lips. Lips, hands, feet are often focuses of lustful attention. We talk of the lip of the crater of a volcano as if it were a woman. Lips feature in fashion magazines, often deep red accompanied by dark exotic thick shiny hair. Lucky Angelina Jolie or Sophia Loren or Julia Roberts all of whom sell their talent and their luscious lips. Even Mick Jagger who’s still around, has huge lips. Joan Rivers quipped they could give Rhode Island a hickey. Othello was put down by the appellation Thick Lips.But lips in proportion are grand I think and invite kisses sweeter than wine.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
DECORATION
Copyright. 12/31/09
DECORATION.
The light hum of discreet conversation from the elegant crowd diminished and then stopped as the old soldiers came into view, at the main door of the cathedral. Their uniforms were old-fashioned, their out-of-style caps threadbare and battered, their boots down at heel but all had a polished shine to them. On the men’s chests were their decorations, glittering medals awarded for bravery, endurance, courage, loyalty, fortitude and strength. These men were no longer strong. They were old and some were frail but all walked resolutely heads high to the front of the magnificent church. They had given up their youth to defend our country; they had seen things young men should never have to see; they had witnessed cruelty and anger and endured vicissitudes of bitter cold, unbearable heat, drenching rain, rats and viruses, bacteria and filth and yet here they all still were coming up the aisle as we all turned, silent and regarded them. Three cheers for our soldiers said a loud voice and we raised our voices to the echoing vaults of the church till we were satisfied that we were heard. It was our way, our country’s way, of saying thank you. It wasn’t enough of course. More money should have been appropriated, better medical care provided, respect even but we gave what we could. We looked around piously at each other, smiling briefly, acknowledging the situation. Then we applauded again, vigorously. We added our decorous decoration to their chests, to their stooping frames clad in uniform. And then, we went on with our lives.
DECORATION.
The light hum of discreet conversation from the elegant crowd diminished and then stopped as the old soldiers came into view, at the main door of the cathedral. Their uniforms were old-fashioned, their out-of-style caps threadbare and battered, their boots down at heel but all had a polished shine to them. On the men’s chests were their decorations, glittering medals awarded for bravery, endurance, courage, loyalty, fortitude and strength. These men were no longer strong. They were old and some were frail but all walked resolutely heads high to the front of the magnificent church. They had given up their youth to defend our country; they had seen things young men should never have to see; they had witnessed cruelty and anger and endured vicissitudes of bitter cold, unbearable heat, drenching rain, rats and viruses, bacteria and filth and yet here they all still were coming up the aisle as we all turned, silent and regarded them. Three cheers for our soldiers said a loud voice and we raised our voices to the echoing vaults of the church till we were satisfied that we were heard. It was our way, our country’s way, of saying thank you. It wasn’t enough of course. More money should have been appropriated, better medical care provided, respect even but we gave what we could. We looked around piously at each other, smiling briefly, acknowledging the situation. Then we applauded again, vigorously. We added our decorous decoration to their chests, to their stooping frames clad in uniform. And then, we went on with our lives.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The word heard was BEER
Copyright. The word was BEER. 12/30/09
No, no, not the beer you drink but bier, a sort of frame or platform on which the coffin of a notable rests.
.
The word brings to mind an incident tinged with farce involving the state funeral of the late Major-General Sir Eldrick St. Cyr. The bier was covered by a large piece of lace that Andrea said had covered the body of Sir Eldrick’s maternal grandmother, Lady Agatha Casanova. The family as everyone knew hailed originally from Calabria. This precious handmade lace was draped carefully to the four points of the compass indicating Sir Eldrick’s many military campaigns. The coffin, as tradition in their family required, was half open. The Major General’s scarcely gray hair, thick and wavy, together with his color, doubtless enhanced by the morticians, gave him a most peaceful yet imposing appearance as if he were asleep like King Arthur waiting for the call to restore us all to Camelot. Some sobs were heard from the fashionable and prayerful crowd sitting all round the bier. His broad virile chest was clad in a scarlet uniform with polished gold epaulets, and decorated with rows of honors and medals.
Enhanced by four large flickering candles on the four sides of the coffin, the light filtering through the stained glass of the cathedral gave an almost mystical appearance to the scene.
The noise of someone entering the church caused people to look up from their reverie and they recognized Sir Eldrick’s only son Benedict who was clad too in full military attire, red coat, tricorn hat with feathers and large spurs attached to his imposing black polished leather boots. He marched round the bier and saluted, stepped back smartly, gave a sob and turned with military precision. Somehow or other, as witnesses said, one of his spurs must have caught in the folds of the delicate but strong lace covering. Being a big man he pitched sideways giving a loud yelp and grabbed for something to steady him finding only the lace cloth. As in a dream, others said, he somehow caused the coffin to be dragged forward so it tilted off on its end onto the tiles of the center of the cathedral and Sir Eldrick literally flew from the coffin, one arm raised as though in a salute and fell heavily to the floor where everyone could see that he was not wearing any trousers.
No, no, not the beer you drink but bier, a sort of frame or platform on which the coffin of a notable rests.
.
The word brings to mind an incident tinged with farce involving the state funeral of the late Major-General Sir Eldrick St. Cyr. The bier was covered by a large piece of lace that Andrea said had covered the body of Sir Eldrick’s maternal grandmother, Lady Agatha Casanova. The family as everyone knew hailed originally from Calabria. This precious handmade lace was draped carefully to the four points of the compass indicating Sir Eldrick’s many military campaigns. The coffin, as tradition in their family required, was half open. The Major General’s scarcely gray hair, thick and wavy, together with his color, doubtless enhanced by the morticians, gave him a most peaceful yet imposing appearance as if he were asleep like King Arthur waiting for the call to restore us all to Camelot. Some sobs were heard from the fashionable and prayerful crowd sitting all round the bier. His broad virile chest was clad in a scarlet uniform with polished gold epaulets, and decorated with rows of honors and medals.
Enhanced by four large flickering candles on the four sides of the coffin, the light filtering through the stained glass of the cathedral gave an almost mystical appearance to the scene.
The noise of someone entering the church caused people to look up from their reverie and they recognized Sir Eldrick’s only son Benedict who was clad too in full military attire, red coat, tricorn hat with feathers and large spurs attached to his imposing black polished leather boots. He marched round the bier and saluted, stepped back smartly, gave a sob and turned with military precision. Somehow or other, as witnesses said, one of his spurs must have caught in the folds of the delicate but strong lace covering. Being a big man he pitched sideways giving a loud yelp and grabbed for something to steady him finding only the lace cloth. As in a dream, others said, he somehow caused the coffin to be dragged forward so it tilted off on its end onto the tiles of the center of the cathedral and Sir Eldrick literally flew from the coffin, one arm raised as though in a salute and fell heavily to the floor where everyone could see that he was not wearing any trousers.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Christmas & New Year greetings from the Holmeses...
Christmas Greetings from the Holmeses…..January 1 2010
Hello, hello, hello! Please forgive this general letter but I know you have been panting to know what happened last year to the Holmeses, especially after the earthquake & the shake up all round it gave to the family. What a literal jolt it was.
Luckily, well I don't mean luckily, since Great Aunt Mabel was crushed to death in her Bel Air mansion. However as a result of that unfortunate passing, we all inherited a legacy which paid for our new house as ours too had been totally demolished, but what is most important, it paid for our move to Hell’s Kitchen in glittering New York City. Well, we said, when one door closes, another opens. And cousin Margaret said that it was not as if we were waiting. As she said, a watched pot never boils. She is very direct and shocks some people but maybe she hit the nail on the head, not that any hitting was involved though we were all questioned about the blow to the back of Great Aunt Mabel's skull which may or may not have been caused by a falling piece of concrete during the many tremors of the earthquake. I do admit but just to you that several members of our family could not account for their whereabouts on that fateful night.
Nonetheless, sister Carrie was indefatigable at getting us some extra governmental help for the move. Indeed she seemed on quite familiar terms with the governor and our senators, some said too familiar but I say whatever works, works and one has to use the tools one has. Carrie has the tools in spades, having won several beauty pageants with her lustrous blond hair and stunning model figure. Maybe the Governor and the senators were a teensy-weensy bit fed up with all the letters and emails and faxes and texts as well as the late-night calls and of course those compromising photos which would be dispatched to the press not to mention various family members including already irate wives if the governor and senators didn't' acquiesce to her demands.
Result: we were on the road to the Big Apple. After everything has been settled we were able to get Mother out of rehab. Again. She had a bad lapse slipping back into the booze after discovering that Father was having an affair with Janet. The funny thing is we all love Janet who swam into our ken when she visited us as a social worker. Mark you, she is definitely more social than worker if you understand me. She makes Jennifer Anniston look like a nun. But we love her nonetheless because she is such fun. She told us the deacon in her church made a pass at her and she slapped his wrist. Not that she attends church much nowadays as she is so busy partying and having weekends with Dad.
Billy, my brother who is gay and we all love him for that met divine Ralph from Germany. Ralph is an acoustics expert and working day and night on the restoration of the Alice Tully concert hall. Billy has just said to me that Ralph is not working every night! Oh that Billy!
Beryl (like the semi precious stone she always likes to say) who as you remember is into dance, won a scholarship to study in Moscow and performed in front of Mrs. Putin. Talkative Beryl may have blotted her copybook as she apparently told Mrs. Putin that her gay brother Billy was president of the Mr. Putin fan club. This, she said, did not go down too well and for a while, she was followed about by some sort of Stasi women types. How much power does Mrs. Putin have? I hope she's not like Mrs. Thatcher. But so far Beryl is still in Moscow and not in Siberia.
I of course continue writing my little screeds and give this advice to you all. It’s not what you ought to do but what you want to do that will make you happy and wean you off the anti-depressants. Till next year, keep the flags flying and think of England.
Hello, hello, hello! Please forgive this general letter but I know you have been panting to know what happened last year to the Holmeses, especially after the earthquake & the shake up all round it gave to the family. What a literal jolt it was.
Luckily, well I don't mean luckily, since Great Aunt Mabel was crushed to death in her Bel Air mansion. However as a result of that unfortunate passing, we all inherited a legacy which paid for our new house as ours too had been totally demolished, but what is most important, it paid for our move to Hell’s Kitchen in glittering New York City. Well, we said, when one door closes, another opens. And cousin Margaret said that it was not as if we were waiting. As she said, a watched pot never boils. She is very direct and shocks some people but maybe she hit the nail on the head, not that any hitting was involved though we were all questioned about the blow to the back of Great Aunt Mabel's skull which may or may not have been caused by a falling piece of concrete during the many tremors of the earthquake. I do admit but just to you that several members of our family could not account for their whereabouts on that fateful night.
Nonetheless, sister Carrie was indefatigable at getting us some extra governmental help for the move. Indeed she seemed on quite familiar terms with the governor and our senators, some said too familiar but I say whatever works, works and one has to use the tools one has. Carrie has the tools in spades, having won several beauty pageants with her lustrous blond hair and stunning model figure. Maybe the Governor and the senators were a teensy-weensy bit fed up with all the letters and emails and faxes and texts as well as the late-night calls and of course those compromising photos which would be dispatched to the press not to mention various family members including already irate wives if the governor and senators didn't' acquiesce to her demands.
Result: we were on the road to the Big Apple. After everything has been settled we were able to get Mother out of rehab. Again. She had a bad lapse slipping back into the booze after discovering that Father was having an affair with Janet. The funny thing is we all love Janet who swam into our ken when she visited us as a social worker. Mark you, she is definitely more social than worker if you understand me. She makes Jennifer Anniston look like a nun. But we love her nonetheless because she is such fun. She told us the deacon in her church made a pass at her and she slapped his wrist. Not that she attends church much nowadays as she is so busy partying and having weekends with Dad.
Billy, my brother who is gay and we all love him for that met divine Ralph from Germany. Ralph is an acoustics expert and working day and night on the restoration of the Alice Tully concert hall. Billy has just said to me that Ralph is not working every night! Oh that Billy!
Beryl (like the semi precious stone she always likes to say) who as you remember is into dance, won a scholarship to study in Moscow and performed in front of Mrs. Putin. Talkative Beryl may have blotted her copybook as she apparently told Mrs. Putin that her gay brother Billy was president of the Mr. Putin fan club. This, she said, did not go down too well and for a while, she was followed about by some sort of Stasi women types. How much power does Mrs. Putin have? I hope she's not like Mrs. Thatcher. But so far Beryl is still in Moscow and not in Siberia.
I of course continue writing my little screeds and give this advice to you all. It’s not what you ought to do but what you want to do that will make you happy and wean you off the anti-depressants. Till next year, keep the flags flying and think of England.
FLOWERY
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Copyright: George Holmes 5/10/09
FLOWERY
When I read her prose, lavish with lists, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions bristling everywhere, subordinate clauses running amok, I think it overdone. After all, less is more. But she thinks more is more. Flowery I say to someone rather sententiously; ornate, overdone. And yet somehow I am seduced by it. She loves rich colors, has done her research; she likes fashion, fanciful clothes, beautiful people. She loves dreams. She makes others dream, forget their slogging jobs, their drab lives, their shoes down at heel, their shabby coats. She likes luxury hotels, fluffy white towels, massages. Her haute couture sparkles with pearls and diamonds; her feet comfortable and very stylish in handmade Manolo Blahniks.
I want those things too. If only I could have her discipline. Ah, the life or non-life residing in those two little words: if only. She is at her desk by 7 every morning writing till noon. After a brief lunch a secretary types up the neatly written pages. She re-reads the pages again, changing little and then emails the agreed amount to her publisher. She is a clock. She produces. Her neat writing becomes neat typing. Her editor scarcely ever amends her product. Like Mozart, the words tumble perfectly formed out from her pen. But unlike Mozart, she is sent a large check for her efforts. She earns her living by writing, by giving people what they yearn for. She is a writer. She is flowery. I am envious.
Copyright: George Holmes 5/10/09
FLOWERY
When I read her prose, lavish with lists, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions bristling everywhere, subordinate clauses running amok, I think it overdone. After all, less is more. But she thinks more is more. Flowery I say to someone rather sententiously; ornate, overdone. And yet somehow I am seduced by it. She loves rich colors, has done her research; she likes fashion, fanciful clothes, beautiful people. She loves dreams. She makes others dream, forget their slogging jobs, their drab lives, their shoes down at heel, their shabby coats. She likes luxury hotels, fluffy white towels, massages. Her haute couture sparkles with pearls and diamonds; her feet comfortable and very stylish in handmade Manolo Blahniks.
I want those things too. If only I could have her discipline. Ah, the life or non-life residing in those two little words: if only. She is at her desk by 7 every morning writing till noon. After a brief lunch a secretary types up the neatly written pages. She re-reads the pages again, changing little and then emails the agreed amount to her publisher. She is a clock. She produces. Her neat writing becomes neat typing. Her editor scarcely ever amends her product. Like Mozart, the words tumble perfectly formed out from her pen. But unlike Mozart, she is sent a large check for her efforts. She earns her living by writing, by giving people what they yearn for. She is a writer. She is flowery. I am envious.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
POET copyright 12-2-09
When I met him at that art gallery reception, the encounter was like the song, across a crowded room. He made his way over to me and said: You’re very handsome. May I see you again? I looked at him with his dark swarthy face, chiseled profile and strong teeth, a Turk I thought or maybe Greek. I smiled and said that would be quite possible. Do you like music? Yes, I do, he said, his eyes lighting up at the question. Well, next Monday I shall attend a musical soiree where we also read poetry. Your own poetry he asked. Sometimes I said, or maybe Homer, Ovid, maybe Ashberry the American. Whatever. Does that interest you? Yes, he said, it does indeed. What music do you like he asked? Light rock, the Beatles, a good tune, Latin tangos but I prefer music for the harp. The harp he exclaimed. Yes, I smiled, I play the harp. He looked at me: this is the first time I have met an angel. What a great country this is.
He did come to the soiree and astonished me by reading his own poetry translated from the Greek. He was a wonderful man and we were companions for two years until he was killed in a car crash. I treasure the translation he gave me of Constantin Cavafy’s poems. When I read them I think of him.
When I met him at that art gallery reception, the encounter was like the song, across a crowded room. He made his way over to me and said: You’re very handsome. May I see you again? I looked at him with his dark swarthy face, chiseled profile and strong teeth, a Turk I thought or maybe Greek. I smiled and said that would be quite possible. Do you like music? Yes, I do, he said, his eyes lighting up at the question. Well, next Monday I shall attend a musical soiree where we also read poetry. Your own poetry he asked. Sometimes I said, or maybe Homer, Ovid, maybe Ashberry the American. Whatever. Does that interest you? Yes, he said, it does indeed. What music do you like he asked? Light rock, the Beatles, a good tune, Latin tangos but I prefer music for the harp. The harp he exclaimed. Yes, I smiled, I play the harp. He looked at me: this is the first time I have met an angel. What a great country this is.
He did come to the soiree and astonished me by reading his own poetry translated from the Greek. He was a wonderful man and we were companions for two years until he was killed in a car crash. I treasure the translation he gave me of Constantin Cavafy’s poems. When I read them I think of him.
OXYGEN (Copyright) 12.2.09
Looking at her in the hospital bed, her image from twenty years ago flashed flashed across his mind. Then she was full of life, brimming over with it, but now, seeing her gasp for breath, the oxygen tank always at the ready, she was full of death. It’s not fair he thought, it’s not just but his rational mind knew that life was never impartial. And death was certainly partial, often capricious, even malicious. At the age of 41 cancer had struck her like being hit with a plank of wood, thwack, right across the chops as she said when she first knew.
Her once luxuriant hair now lay sparse, dull and pulled back from her face where new angles had appeared like a landscape as she lost weight. The once rosy cheeks now blotched and red; her sparkling eyes gleaming feverishly like a hunted deer watching the circling predatory wolf that would never let give up the hunt. Her lips were stretched thin and taut as occasionally she babbled o’ green fields, her nose as sharp as a pen. How odd to be thinking of Falstaff. He had been faithful to her, in his fashion. She accepted that. At least she didn’t whisper, I know thee not old man. His heart broke for Falstaff but now it shattered into pieces forever for his beloved Joanie. She lay there immobile. Her last breath has just been taken.
Looking at her in the hospital bed, her image from twenty years ago flashed flashed across his mind. Then she was full of life, brimming over with it, but now, seeing her gasp for breath, the oxygen tank always at the ready, she was full of death. It’s not fair he thought, it’s not just but his rational mind knew that life was never impartial. And death was certainly partial, often capricious, even malicious. At the age of 41 cancer had struck her like being hit with a plank of wood, thwack, right across the chops as she said when she first knew.
Her once luxuriant hair now lay sparse, dull and pulled back from her face where new angles had appeared like a landscape as she lost weight. The once rosy cheeks now blotched and red; her sparkling eyes gleaming feverishly like a hunted deer watching the circling predatory wolf that would never let give up the hunt. Her lips were stretched thin and taut as occasionally she babbled o’ green fields, her nose as sharp as a pen. How odd to be thinking of Falstaff. He had been faithful to her, in his fashion. She accepted that. At least she didn’t whisper, I know thee not old man. His heart broke for Falstaff but now it shattered into pieces forever for his beloved Joanie. She lay there immobile. Her last breath has just been taken.
Monday, November 30, 2009
SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE
SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE
BY
George Holmes /COPYRIGHT
“Have you seen that new movie, Slumdog Millionaire?” said Harold.
“I have” said Berenice grimly.
“Oh,” said Harold, “you didn’t like it then?”
“ I did not” replied Berenice, smoothing down her Yeagar skirt rather vigorously. “The government of Bombay-now they call it Mumbai-. I mean have you ever heard of Mumbai gin? Anyway, the government of Bombay should be ashamed of those slums. Blinding children to make them beggars.” She looked disgusted.
Harold said, “ Oh I heard about that before. It’s been going on for centuries. You remember those cripples in Cairo, those mothers with naked babies in Hong Kong. If we hadn’t given them cash we’d have been in the harbor. Do you remember that Tai Pak restaurant when we shared a table with that Chinese family? Oh, that fish was superb and cost us nothing.”
“Don’t digress, Harold, you wander off. And the film ended with a song and dance as if all in the garden were lovely. Well, it wasn’t lovely in my estimation,” she huffed.
Harold replied, “On don’t worry about it. It’s only a movie. Anyway they don’t blind the children completely, just one eye. Otherwise how would they see to get to the begging place?”
Berenice looked at him coldly.”Sometimes Harold, you appall me. How cynical can you get? I don’t want talk about it anymore. Fix me a large Campari and soda.”
Harold complied smiling to himself. A round to me he thought.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
New Blog - ROOM TO WRITE.
I have changed to a new blog from THIS AND THAT. The new one is THIS AND THAT2. Its the same person writing. This one however is from my writing group: ROOM TO WRITE. Once a week a small group of faithfuls assemble for two hours, equipped with pens, paper or ipods. Someone volunteers a word or phrase. We then all write for ten minutes on that word.
We read out what we have written offering only positive comments. It is NOT a writing class. Then, on to the next word. In two hours with a group of six one can do five words. It's a great way to get rid of procrastination as we MUST WRITE.
I shall publish here any pieces I have honed from the meetings.
Hope someone reads them. Thanks, Giraldus
We read out what we have written offering only positive comments. It is NOT a writing class. Then, on to the next word. In two hours with a group of six one can do five words. It's a great way to get rid of procrastination as we MUST WRITE.
I shall publish here any pieces I have honed from the meetings.
Hope someone reads them. Thanks, Giraldus
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