The Long and the Short of It: Short Stories, Novellas, Novelettes, and Shorts

By Peter Anthony Barbieri

What does it mean to have a personality that is slightly skewed?
I am not speaking of a personality that throughout its earthly tenure exhibits qualities of excess, be they psychosomatic, psychotic, delusional, or narcissistic; I am speaking of a personality that on occasion, given the depth of emotional entrapment, takes matters to the edge of predictable behavior and beyond, thus shedding light on the darkness lurking within. Although these qualities might, at times, apply to some or all of the main characters here, they primarily serve as the necessary, yet impure, ingredients for the alchemists journey; as such, they point out the twists and turns of hints and allusions, the oddness of the plots, and, of course, the suggestion of larger, more intangible issues.
In The Long and the Short of It, character impuritiesand our rigorous attempt to sublimate and repress themare subtle reminders of the cosmic hoop through which we jump to keep our world ordered and sane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532040177

Peter Anthony Barbieri

Peter Barbieri received his masters and doctorate in Music Composition from the University of Colorado, Boulder. His diverse creative talents have led to careers in the field of music: composer of classical works for orchestra, small ensembles, and solo instruments; jazz pianist, composer, and arranger; and educator. Currently, Dr. Barbieri teaches jazz piano and improvisation at his home in Longmont, Colorado. Peter Anthony Barbieris first published literary work, Tales From the Soft Underbelly of Confusion, iUniverse, 2007, is a collection of short stories; these stories are contained in the present volume. Three subsequent works (a trilogy) followed: Tree of Dreams, iUniverse, 2009; The Purple Sky Part One, iUniverse, 2011; The Purple SkyPart Two, iUniverse, 2016. Dr. Barbieri has long been interested in fiction writing as a natural extension of his interest in music composition. Photograph by: Judith Glyde.

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Copyright © 2018 Peter Anthony Barbieri.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-4016-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4017-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/09/2018

To the Vidyadhara, Venerable Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche

Author’s Preface

I have always thought that music and prose are inseparable: Prose sings; Music speaks. From early childhood, I enjoyed flipping through pages of the various books that my parents kept on shelves in our home’s foyer; though I have to admit that initially I simply scribbled with pencil or crayon on the blank pages.

From time to time during my undergraduate years and years in the United States Navy, I attempted to write a short story or two and actually kept one of them, The Box, which later became the foundation for my first novel, Tree Of Dreams.

It was during my undergraduate years that I took a course taught by a woman whose husband was an acclaimed writer. She and I became friends, and during our coffee conversations, I asked her if she would mind asking her husband if he would look over a short story that I had written. She did ask him, and he consented. I gave her the manuscript. A week or two later I called him to set up an appointment. We met in his university office.

I sat down in the chair facing him, and for one-half hour he advised me: pointing out the incorrect grammar; the lack of sub-text; the lack of character modeling; and many other lacks thereof. He had, of course, stated what I later admitted to be the obvious truth, but it would be almost thirty years before I was able to summon the courage to write again.

When the urge to write a novel gained prominence, I thought it best to write a number of short stories beforehand; that process would help me define the characters—language, voice, idiosyncrasies, etc. In fact, my first book, published by iUniverse in 2007, was a collection of short stories entitled, Tales From The Soft Underbelly Of Confusion, written between 1996 and 2004. These stories are included in this present edition. I began writing the novel, Tree Of Dreams—the first in the trilogy—in 2003; it was published by iUniverse in 2009.

In Gratitude

My heartfelt thanks to Tim Lyons and Hobart Bell

Contents

Nutstar-Vermilion-Nine

Captain Marvel And The Bicycle Chain

The Looking Glass

Emile Le Roque

The Question

Waiting In The Adam And Eve Room

Destined For Greatness

The Wedding Song

Whatever Happened To Places Like Sally’s?

The Nut-Farm

Glim: The Sleeping Giant

Heaven On Earth

Raskilian-Bottled Babylon

log enoufg to take a hike and a holiday

Countdown

Shadow-Time Alley

The Novellas

Still

Confessions

The Novelettes

Moonlight On Water

The King’sPrerogative

The Shorts

Have you ever seen a lamb coiffed?

Poised, standing on the edge of redoubt,

if i were a crayon i’d color the sky with bright, orange suns,

Spare me! O Black and Tan.

Within a moment dwells,

Dear Heart:

In endless echoing curves,

Nutstar-Vermilion-Nine

No, no, that’s OK. I’m glad you asked, I’d be more than happy to talk about it. We all come from different systems, I’m curious about yours as well.

Nutstar-Vermilion-Nine was the name given to me just after I entered the Underground City; it is considered good fortune to have the designation star in the first part of your name.

I entered the Underground City in this current go-round a little more than fifty years ago and worked my way up to Ground-Level-One. It took me fifty years to work my way up, but that’s the approximate time frame for a Vermilion-Nine. I did it more quickly than most, about a year ahead of schedule. Our time in each go-round is one hundred years, so I now have fifty years to try to get to Sky-Level-One before I’m reconstituted and enter the Underground City again; all of us begin each go-round in the Underground City. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll get to Sky-Level-One in fifty years, but it’s been done before, so you never know. Reaching ever-greater Sky-Levels reduces the amount of time one must spend in the Underground City, consequently making it more possible to reach higher Sky-Levels—there are ten Sky-Levels. One has to reach Sky-Level-Ten before one’s number can change. Here’s how it works:

As you know, there are three parts to my name. The first part, Nutstar, is the designation for one’s potential. In my case, star is the highest potential rating given to someone entering the Underground City; though the Nut part means that one will be extremely resistant in terms of working towards one’s objective. The second part, Vermilion, has to do with one’s level of maturation. Maturation levels are designated by the colors of the rainbow—dark to light, lowest level to highest level—white being the culminating composition of all others. The third name-part is a subgroup of the second, designating with numbers from one to ten—ten being the most superior—one’s rating within that subgroup. After achieving a ten rating, one’s color designation—the second name-part—progresses to the subsequent color. There are one hundred color aspects and ten levels within each aspect.

It is said that it takes innumerable go-rounds to move from one color aspect to the next, but here’s the neat thing: one is not aware when entering the Underground City what name one will receive; the memory of each previous go-round is not recountable. So it’s possible, when one awakens in the Underground City, for one’s color designation to be Diamond—the highest level of color—or even Diamond-Ten—the highest of the highest.

Our names are given to us by a panel composed of four Diamond-Tens; that’s the only work they do in the Underground City. By the time one reaches the level of Diamond-Ten, it is said that one can see all three worlds—past, present, and future—as one, so it’s relatively easy for Diamond-Tens to assess where each of us is in terms of our level of potential and maturation.

The name-giving ceremony is quite an auspicious occasion. Everyone is seated in the Great Hall waiting for a number to be called out; we are each given a number as we file in. When a number is called, the one who has that number stands up and comes forward, taking a spot in front of the Diamond-Tens. The panel of Diamond-Tens scrutinizes the standee, takes a few minutes to confer, writes the name designation on a piece of paper, and passes the paper to the scribe. The scribe then copies the name onto an official piece of parchment, sends the parchment to the Diamond-Tens, and they, in turn, sign it. All this time, you’re just standing there waiting, hoping that you’re not going to be humiliated by some gray-tone designation.

I say that the name-giving ceremony is an auspicious occasion, and it is, but the waiting is almost intolerable. In the first place, everyone, well, speaking for myself, I sat there daring to hope for a Diamond-Ten designation. I’m quite sure everyone was wishing the same for his- or herself, even though in the back of my mind I knew that I wouldn’t be too disappointed if I didn’t get it.

Out of the twenty-two hundred and fifty-three new arrivals, I was number twenty-two hundred and fifty-one. Each number was called and each name designated; no one in our group received a Diamond-Ten rating. So, naturally, I thought my chances were pretty good; I was told later that chance has nothing to do with it. I feel myself pretty fortunate, though. I mean there were two designations—Moldstone-Old-Maplebark-One and Cakeworm-Burntash-One—that if I had received one of those names, I don’t know what I would have done. Talk about deep, dark, and singular. You’ve got to feel sorry for those two souls. Overall, my designation, Vermilion-Nine, is about halfway along, well, maybe a bit more than halfway. So you see, I’m no bottom-grabber.

The funny thing is, though, when I approached the panel of Diamond-Tens to receive my parchment, each Ten gave me a stern look—their eyebrows all scrunched together—whereas, they gave loving smiles to the recipients of Moldstone-Old-Maplebark-One and Cakeworm-Burntash-One. I didn’t know what to make of all that. On the other hand, which burden would you rather carry?

You must be getting dizzy just thinking about the numerous levels that we are required to attain. Well, there’s even more to it.

In the Underground City, three distinct plateaus must be reached before one is permitted to ascend to Ground-Level. Actually, permitted is not a good word choice here; advancement is a process, one advances when the level of maturity is reached—automatically.

Station One is simply an awareness of containment, that is, one is aware of oneself as a separate entity. This may seem odd to a being such as yourself, but in our world, at the very beginning stage of development, we do not view ourselves as separate from our environment. Once the first station is achieved, we then possess the basic tools that allow us to function within one’s environment. Station Two is reached when one learns how to function as a separate entity within one’s environment. The learning process for Station Three culminates when the entity re-fuses with the environment; this station is similar to the one existing at the very beginning—prior to Station One—except that at Station Three the entity has gained the knowledge, insight, and awareness that was unbeknownst during that earlier stage of development.

Passing through these UG Stations—Underground Stations, that is—is integral to preparing oneself for life at Ground-Level-One. Without this preparation, our kind would not know how to cope with the various challenges germane to this Ground-Level environment.

As I’ve already stated, we are not conscious of previous go-rounds, so by right I can only report with authenticity my current experience in the UG City. However, the entire journey, from one’s initial entry into UG City until one reaches the level of Diamond-Ten, is documented in the Handbook of Heightening Perception written long ago by the first Diamond-Ten, Alluce-Diamond-Ten.

Perhaps a word or two about the Underground City: The atmosphere in UG City is not very congenial, at least not during the time it takes to attain Station One and Station Two. There’s a lot of in-fighting, backstabbing, and self-righteousness—all part of the process, you understand, but still, not a very pleasant experience. You see, the trouble is when you think you have a handle on things and you know something that: 1) only you know; and 2) everybody else needs to know—and needs to be told by you for their own good—well, this kind of attitude is problematic, isn’t it.

Even after one attains Station Three or Ground-Level, or even Sky-Level, there remains a residue of this attitude that is said to linger right up until one attains the level of Diamond-Ten. Of course it diminishes in its ability to control one’s behavior, or, perhaps it is more correct to say that the way in which attitudes control one’s behavior becomes more subtle, more unrecognizable. Actually, that’s another reason why Diamond-Tens keep returning to the various levels; aside from encouraging and teaching us by example, they point out our deficiencies. This sort of benevolence and kindness of heart is especially helpful when one reaches the higher levels where, as I’ve stated, the behavioral irregularities become very subtle indeed.

At first, I used to wonder why Diamond-Tens kept coming back to the lower levels; after all, they’ve completed whatever training is necessary, and it’s obvious, at least to me—and as you know, I’ve been through my fair share of training—that they’ve developed into higher life forms. And then one day, while reading through the Handbook of Heightening Perception—the HHP explains everything—I came across section 342-15a, page 16. I memorized it. It states: Diamond-Tens choose, of their own volition, to return to the physical world in order to assist others on their journey. From that day forward, I wanted to be a D-T.

Page 17 of the HHP goes on to explain that there is a special place—kind of like a cosmic kingdom—where D-Ts go after they’ve reached the Ultimate Top: the UT—down in the UG, we called D-Ts, Pen-UTs. When they reach the UT they’re not referred to as D-Ts any longer, and it takes a disaster of sorts for them to return to the physical levels … I really didn’t understand that part …

My goodness, how I’ve been rambling on.

I hope I’ve not bored you silly with all the details of my designation. I’m curious as to the significance of yours … Bob, isn’t it?

Captain Marvel And The Bicycle Chain

Larry is my best friend. He is a few months older than me. I was born in May and he was born in December. Right now we’re even: He’s eleven and I’m eleven. Half the time he’s one year older than me, and the other half the time we’re the same age. The best time is when we’re the same age, ’cause then he can’t brag that he’s a year older than me.

I have other friends on the block, but Larry is my best friend. Most of the time we call Larry, Larr. Sometimes we call him Carrot Top. I don’t know why we call him Carrot Top; his hair is black as tar. You’d think that a person’s hair would be red or green if he was called Carrot Top.

Larry has a sister named Sherrie. She’s fast. I thought I was fast, but yesterday she beat me in a race down the block. It don’t feel too good being beaten by a girl; and she’s two years younger than me.

Me and Larry go everywhere together. We go to Kresgee’s to get stamps. I have a stamp collection. Larry is the blocker, and I’m the one who steals the stamps from the rack on the counter. Larry says he should be the blocker ’cause he’s older than me. But I know the real reason: He’s the blocker ’cause he’s fat. Nobody can see around Larry.

On Saturdays, me and Larry go to the matinee at the Dixwell Theatre on Dixwell Avenue. I love to go to the movies. My dad gives me a quarter: twenty cents for the movies and five cents to buy candy. The show always starts with a few cartoons, then a serial like Hopalong Cassidy or the Lone Ranger, and then comes the two movies.

The Dixwell Theater is one block away from the line that divides Hamden from New Haven. We live in the Hamden part. Sometimes I dream about Larr and me going and standing on the line that separates Hamden from New Haven: Larr standing on the New Haven side, and me standing on the Hamden side. It’s fun.

Every once in a while, Mr. Cohen, he’s the owner of the Dixwell Theater, has a pie-eating contest up on stage before the movie starts. Sometimes I get chosen to be in the contest. It’s really Larry that should be chosen, ’cause Larry can eat more pie than anybody in the world. Maybe that’s why Mr. Cohen never chooses Larry.

Anyways, last Saturday Mr. Cohen asked me if I wanted to stay after the movies and help put the seats back up. Mr. Cohen gives me a free pass each time I help. Sure, I said. Not only do I get into the movies free, but I also get a chance to find wallets. People lose wallets all the time at the movies. They just fall out of their back pockets onto the floor. I find at least one wallet every time I help put the seats up.

I asked Mr. Cohen if Larry could help me, being that me and Larr go everywhere together. Mr. Cohen knows that, so it was okay with him. After the movies was over and all the people had left, me and Larr started putting the seats up. Mr. Cohen told us that if we found a seat that was ripped, that we should go and find him and tell him. He says the same thing every time we help with the seats. Well, you know there’s gonna be ripped seats, ’cause kids always rip seats. That’s what some kids do when they go to the movies on Saturday afternoons; they bring a pocketknife and they rip seats.

Larr had this great idea. Larry said, When we find a ripped seat, you go and tell Conehead, that’s what we call Mr. Cohen, and while I show him the ripped seat, you go into his office and take a couple of half-dollars out of the cigar box that Conehead keeps the money in that he gets from selling tickets. So that’s what happened. I wanted to take more than two half-dollars, but I got scared and only took the two.

After we finished putting up the seats, Mr. Cohen gave us each a free pass and told us how grateful he was that we stayed and helped out. Me and Larr was grateful too, ’cause it meant that with the money that I stole, we could take the bus up to Felix’s Five and Dime and look around for something that we wanted. Felix’s has stamps too.

Yesterday, me and Larr and the rest of the kids on the block went over to Dorman’s Lot to play baseball. Usually we play in the Dixwell Theater parking lot, but yesterday was a holiday and the parking lot was full of cars. Usually the parking lot is full of cars only at night. That’s when a lot of old people go to the movies; they don’t have their moms and dads telling them that they have to go to bed when it gets dark out.

Sometimes me and Larr sneak out of the house after supper, before it gets real dark, and go over to the parking lot and steal reflectors off of car mud flaps. I have a collection of reflectors.

I have a collection of baseball cards, too. My favorite card is of this guy with the Yankees, Mickey Mantle. I like the New York Yankees; Larr likes the Red Sox. We’re always fighting over who’s the best team. My dad took me and Larr to Yankee Stadium last summer to see the Yankees and the Red Sox play. The Yankees lost. They didn’t lose many games last year, but they lost that one. They even won the World Series. I hate it when Larr wins; he never stops talking about it.

So we went to Dorman’s Lot to play baseball. It seems like it’s always a problem finding a ball. We’ve got three or four bats, but getting someone to use their ball is always a problem. I told the rest of the kids that Larry has a brand new ball that my father brought him when we went to Yankee Stadium last year. Larry never likes using any of his stuff. We always have to beg him and give him things before he lets us use his stuff. It was the same this time. Someone, I think it was Angelo, had to give Larr a baseball card of somebody on the Red Sox.

Me and Larry are always on different sides. I like that ’cause he ain’t a very good player. I’m a good player and I hate to lose. It’s a better chance to win If Larr is on the other side. Larry’s team was up first and I was playing centerfield. On the very first pitch, the ball was hit foul over in the trees near the right field line. That’s the worst place to hit a ball ’cause there’s this hill going down to all these bushes, and it’s hard to find anything in those bushes. Everybody watched the ball go flying over there, then everyone ran to try to find it.

After about ten minutes, I saw the ball. It was right out in the open. When I saw it my heart started beating a hunert miles a hour. I looked around to make sure that no one was watching, then I kicked it with my foot into the bushes, and then I looked just to make sure that it couldn’t be seen. We searched for another half an hour and then we left and went home. Larry was really pissed. I don’t blame him, I’d be really pissed too if my new ball was lost, and on the very first pitch. Later yesterday afternoon, Larry came over and blamed me for the lost ball.

You found it and hid it.

He’s always blaming me for everything, so it really didn’t matter about the ball. Anyway, after supper, I went back to Dorman’s Lot, found the ball right where I had kicked it, and put it in the way back of my closet. I knew it would be a long time before I could take it out and play with it, but it didn’t matter; I had the ball.

This morning, me and Larr we went to the dump. In the summer, we go to the dump about once a week, usually on Mondays. We go on Mondays ’cause on the weekends is when most people bring stuff to the dump. We always go through this hole in the fence at the back of the lot, ’cause the guy at the gate won’t never let us in. We have to be on the lookout all the time for this guy, but there is only one of him, so it ain’t much of a problem.

The reason I like going to the dump is ’cause I look for bicycle parts. Once in a great while I find a whole bike, maybe missing just a rim or a seat, but mostly I find just parts. Now I’m working on putting together another bike and the only thing I need is a chain. For some reason, chains is the hardest thing to find at the dump. Besides, it has to be the right size chain; not all bikes are the same size. Sometimes I could go almost a whole summer without finding a chain, or if I find one it’s rusty and I have to soak it in a pail of gas and oil for a week.

The first thing we saw at the dump was these huge cardboard boxes, like the ones you see in the back yard of Goggle’s Appliance store on Dixwell Avenue. The ones that refrigerators come in. There were about six of them lined up in a row: like they fell off the back of a speedy freight train.

That reminds me of the time last summer, before it got really dark, when we all went to the Goggle’s back lot after supper and cut the ends out of the big boxes and put them back-to-back to form tunnels. Then we went home and found some candles. Then we came back and lit the candles so that we could see; it was dark inside the boxes. Someone kicked over one of the candles, it wasn’t me, and started a fire.

It was a good thing that Mrs. Miller saw the fire when it was just beginning. The back of her yard butts up against the back of the appliance yard, and she was out by the fence picking blackberries. So Mrs. Miller called the fire department. It didn’t take them long to come; they were there in a few minutes. It was great: the sirens and shiny red trucks, and all the firemen in their yellow jackets. Everybody on the block came out to see it. All us kids were sitting in the theatre parking lot, watching the men put out the fire. It was the most exciting thing that happened last summer.

Of course, the firemen knew that we had done it; they found the candles. You’d think that candles would be the first thing that would disappear in a fire, not these candles. They must’ve been made out of some fireproof chemicals. The next day one of the firemen, dressed in a dark suit and a fire cap—it had this really neat gold emblem on it—visited all our houses and told our parents what they had found. Then my parents called the other parents and all us kids were grounded for a week. Some of the kids told me that they got the strap, too. It was worth it though, and I didn’t get the strap, not that time.

Anyways, me and Larr found these huge boxes at the dump this morning, and inside was all this candy. Some of it was burned and melted, but a lot of it didn’t have anything wrong with it. Larry said it probably came from a store that caught on fire. He said that the police probably wouldn’t let the store sell the candy after the fire, so they had to bring it all to the dump. I didn’t really care about the candy, I only had a few pieces, but Larr was in pig heaven.

Right after we finished eating the candy, I found the chain. I was so excited ’cause it wasn’t even rusted, and I’d be able to put it on my bike and ride my bike today. I told Larry that I didn’t care if he wanted to stay and eat more candy, but I was going home to put the chain on my bike.

We left, and when we got home Larry went to his house—he lives right across the street from me—and I went right to my bike that was in my back yard sitting upside-down on its handlebars and seat. I put the chain around the back wheel sprocket, then around the pedal sprocket, then I pulled the two ends together.

Oh shit, the chain’s too short.

I was pissed ’cause I thought that I’d be riding it this afternoon.

I called up Larry and told him the bad news.

I’ve got a chain, he said.

All this time, he knows I’m looking for a chain, and he doesn’t say a thing to me. What a friend. So he told me to come over in about an hour and he’d give me the chain. Of course Larry wanted something for it, Larr never, ever gives anything away, not even to me, he being my best friend.

What do you want for it? I asked.

What do you got?

I’ve got that Mickey Mantle card, I was really wanting that chain.

Nah, I don’t care about him.

Well what do you want then? I asked.

You know that Captain Marvel that your father just bought you?

I haven’t even read it yet, I said, besides, you know I collect Captain Marvel comic books.

Well, that’s what I want, said Carrot Top.

Shit!

Okay, I’ll be right over.

Come over in an hour; my mom wants me to clean my room.

I was so excited, I couldn’t hardly wait. I tried reading the comic book, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. Finally, after fifty minutes I couldn’t wait no longer, so I grabbed the Captain Marvel and went over to Larr’s. He lives on the second floor, so I rang the doorbell and his mother yelled out the window that Larry was around back. I walked around back and there was Larr taking the chain out of a pail of oil. Great, I thought. I won’t have to mess with it. He wiped the chain off with a rag and handed it to me. I gave him the comic book and ran home, holding the chain out in front of me so’s I wouldn’t get any oil on my clothes. My mom would kill me if I showed up for supper with oil on my clothes. She’d probably take away my bike, like she did the last time.

I go to the bike, put the chain around the sprockets and put the ends together.

Shit!

The chain was too short, exactly like the other one … Where was the other one?

Shit. God damn that Larry, Shit.

The Looking Glass

Ding … ding … ding … ding … ding … ding …

Confounded chimes. It’s six o’clock in the morning … Ah, no matter, Princess is here. I’m relieved of this internal boredom.

She stands before me. My frame is the type that inspires her to think that she is looking into a landscape; a landscape, I can assure you, that is both enlivened by her elegance and enhanced by her beauty. I ripple with the thought of it. Heaven knows her standing here doesn’t appear often enough for me.

I am hanging from an iron hook on a cold, stone wall. My surface is somewhat less than perfect—my makers are to blame for that—the resulting image not being entirely true, not to mention how it affects my view. Consequently, from the beginning, I have been consigned to this inner corridor where no one hesitates or stops on their way through. No one, that is, except My Princess.

I have been hanging here for centuries. You can’t imagine how wearisome that can become. I haven’t been dusted or cleaned in ages … well, except for a downpour every now and then. And talk about a change of scenery; the weather is the only thing that changes around here. Come to think of it, the last time they swept the floor was in Becket’s day. Poor fellow, head-of-church extraordinaire … no, no, it’s too painful.

What about the floor? The floor … oh yes, the floor. You know, even the most exquisite fleur de lys pattern can become dreadfully boring—J’ai les nerfs à fleur de peau. There are dead leaves, branches, and bird droppings everywhere. I ask you, is this any way to maintain a castle?

I have seen generation upon generation come and go. (A sorrowful, dull-witted stock, that.) The stories I could tell; we mirrors see it all. We have been privy to the best-kept secrets of state, intrigue and assassination, rape and pillage. Ask yourself this question: What serious gathering of the nobility would be without a mirror to enhance the ambiance? Think about this for a moment: How differently would the history of the world read, if mirrors could tell it? If I could only make myself heard, heads would roll, marriage would be a less than honorable institution. ’Tis better I don’t elucidate.

Nowadays, seasons pass before I am able to cast my reflection upon anything other than that crumbling wall across the way. Stone and mortar doesn’t do a thing for me. How would you like to take in the same view for days on end? Months? Years? And those pestering chimes, they ding all the day long. Haven’t they anything better to do?

Compare that abysmal setting to a view in the park, for example. Ever so long ago, I was fortunate to have been driven through the park on my way here. Now there’s a thoroughfare worth more than a passing glance—people and animals darting to and fro, trees foliating in the wind. I didn’t even mind the rapidly changing scenery, even though the speed at which we were traveling made it impossible for me to focus. Have you ever noticed? Horses are always in a hurry to get somewhere.

Still, what an enjoyable memory that is. So much so that I resist going there. But, alas, I revisit it often. It is certainly more interesting than my memory of the people who have lived here; especially those morally deprived, ugly scoundrels back in the thirteenth century who clanked about dressed in chainmail and armoire. That presumptuous lot drew swords and proceeded to play thrust and parry in front of me. As if I cared. How plebeian. And in the fourteenth century, there was this craggy old witch who had a nose that hooked down and touched her protruding upper lip. How can one sip soup properly with an excessively prominent proboscis?

The fifteenth century was a marvel of art and ingenuity, if for no other reason than the Italian renaissance. L’Italia, com’ è bella. I spent some time there, you know, a gift to the Medici family. Michelangelo, Botticelli, Leonardo … shall I go on?. . . Ah, DaVinci! His female figures remind me of My Princess.

Ding …

Strikes the quarter-hour. What took you so long? …

Ah yes, Princess is here, playfully dancing in front of me.

She comes to visit in the mornings and late afternoons. I can’t see a damn thing during the rest of the time; Mister Sun spoils my view