In a Tub

I received a book in the mail today from Andre. He is the closest thing to a 1 in 6 billion that I have. And so, when he sends me something I take it very seriously.

In wonderment, and anticipation (I don't get random gifts hidden in packaging these days. I usually know exactly what something is and expect it.) I opened up the package to find The Collected Stories by Amy Hempel. Short stories, a perfect start for anyone interested in fictional writing. I'll never get there.

Apparantly we spoke about her, though I can't remember anything. Particularly something called "burnt tongue" that he brought up to me. I don't recall this. I must have spent that conversation wondering why we even spoke anymore. My loss.

So, I opened the book and began to read. The introduction was rather boring but served its purpose. And then it was onto the first story "In a Tub".

Not counting the title, the story is 405 words typed over a page and a half. I've read it several times and still can't get passed it. I read and re-read as though the meaning of life is somewhere inside of it.

What strikes me most is that it is prose that resembles poetry in terms of its value. So few words, rather originally arranged and used. Just the idea of passing two churches and stopping at the third because no one was there. Or waiting for your next heartbeat.

In fact, it wasn't until the third read that I put together the connection between her escapades onto the lake in a concrete-mixing tub and the bathtub. I felt stupid. But then, deep writing requires you to look and make connections.

It is a lonely task to do so on your own. Perhaps sharing creativity, whether you originate it or borrow from someone else, is something better done with others. That moment of understanding where something that transcends feeling and thought are conveyed in some image and converted back to that transcendence is something you want to share. Like harnessing fire. You're excited, now go, find, tell.

Everyone I know prefers to watch television.

"In a Tub"

My heart---I thought it stopped. So I got in my car and headed for God. I passed two churches with cars parked in front. Then I stopped at the third because no one else had. It was early afternoon, the middle of the week.

I chose a pew in the center of the rows. Episcopal or Methodist, it didn’t make any difference. It was as quiet as a church.

I thought abut the feeling of the long missed beat, and the tumble of the next ones as they rushed to fill the space. I sat there---in the high brace of quiet and stained glass---and I listened.

At the back of my house I can stand in the light from the sliding glass door and look out onto the deck. The deck is planted with marguerites and succulents in red clay pots. One of the pots is empty. It is shallow and broad, and filled with water like a birdbath.

My cat takes naps in the window box. Her gray chin is powdered with the iridescent dust from butterfly wings. If I tap on the glass, the cat will not look up.

The sound that I make is not food.

When I was a girl I sneaked out at night. I pressed myself to hedges and fitted the shadows of trees. I went to a construction site near the lake. I took a concrete-mixing tub, slid it to the shore, and sat down inside it like a saucer. I would push off from the sand with one stolen oar and float, hearing nothing, for hours.

The birdbath is shaped like that tub.

I look at my nails in the harsh bathroom light. The scare will appear as a ripple at the base. It will take a couple of weeks to see.

I lock the door and run a tub of water.

Most of the time you don't really hear it. a pulse is a thing that you feel. Even if you are somewhat quiet. Sometimes you hear it through the pillow at night. But I know that there is a place where you can hear it even better than that.

Here is what you do. you ease yourself into a tub of water, you ease yourself down. You lie back and wait for the ripples to smooth away. Then you take a deep breath, and slide your head under, and listen for the playfulness of your heart.