Moles
When I was in my early, early twenties I volunteered at Bellevue Hospital in New York City. I can't even remember what my duties were. What I do remember was that I was taken into a room by a nurse to where a man lay in bed. He was beautiful. His head lolled to the right. He was perhaps no older than 25. His eyes were brown, clear, glassy and failed to focus. You could say he was handsome too. He had no muscle tone; no chest or arm muscle definition. In reality he was a blob. He had a lipstick circumference sized mole on his chest just below his left nipple. The nurse pointed to the mole and said: That is why he is here. I said: I don't understand. She said: His parents thought his mole was ugly and needed to be removed. He got too much/too little anesthesia during surgery and has been brain dead and in this bed for 7 years. I stared at the mole and wondered what light it had been seen under that made that risk worthwhile.
We are all beautiful as we are. That mole, that sag, that blemish… Someone would do anything to see it again.
Hellfire
Back in the 80's R asked me if I would accompany him to the various sex clubs available in New York City. Most of them required a woman to accompany a man for entry. After much eye rolling and pledges made on bibles I agreed to go as long as he didn't leave me somewhere alone. I had notions that these places were filled with hard dicks at the door gearing up to chase me around. Most of the clubs were tame until we entered Hellfire a club in the meat packing district below 14th street. The name of the club describes it all. It was like a fucked up Bosch painting, you know the one I am referring to: The place was filthy and smelled worse. People in swings getting fisted while others stood around gawking. People in filthy bathtubs with a circle of people pissing on them. Crappy clear shower curtains on rods shielding off private cubicles for one to do God knows what behind. But the thing that fizzled my brain the most and which I remember most clearly is that there were about 40 male Hasidim, in full black and dangling payot, lined up all along the walls just watching. It was like they were on a field trip. I said: Jesus Christ! R, an Israeli, said: They are all a bunch of hypocrites. We left for Chinese food in Chinatown.
My Three Scars
I have a scar on my chin where it once split open. I was rushing to bathe so that I could watch the yearly showing of The Wizard of Oz on television. I slipped in the soapy bathtub and landed on my chin. I never got to watch The Wizard of Oz as I had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I was wee when it happened but the scar remains.
There is a scar on my left knee. It's shiny and shaped like a football but only about an inch long. I was playing outside in the grass and suddenly my knee was gushing blood. I ran upstairs to my mother and she went downstairs to see what had cut me. We never found the culprit. This scar required stitches too, but while at the hospital, after the stitches were in place, the doctor sealed it all with something called a butterfly-closure. This name struck me as funny and wonderful and to this day whenever I look at this scar, I say aloud: Butterfly Closure and smile.
There is a barely noticeable round scar on my right foot at the joint of my big toe. This scar came about in a very odd way. I was attempting to go out the back door of our summer cottage and as I was opening the door a scissor shear, by my own doing, entered my toe and slid into the top of my foot. The scissors, the handle grasping part were on one side of the door and the pointy cutting part were on the other. My opening the door sent them into my foot. Does anyone have a reasonable explanation as to how those scissors got there? When I look at this scar all I see is the blade entering my foot again.
Midnight Cooking In The Bronx
She always seemed to like cheesecake at midnight once the snow had begun to fall. At midnight and made in cast iron skillets. She cooked lovely things without fanfare. There was always a run to the A&P for cream cheese and sour cream earlier in the evening with all the ingredients left on the table to soften. On the light switch plate in the kitchen was written: Outen The Light The Sun Shines Bright, a phrase I have never seen since. She mixed and stirred pouring the creamy liquid into the skillet, taking it to the oven for a quick bake. We eagerly waited outside the oven for the perfect time to remove the cake for it went somewhere special after its removal. We placed it on the back porch in the snow for a quick cooling and only when the squirrels had left their dainty lace-like footprints did we know it was ready to eat.
Kitten and Cat Faces
When I was wee I thought the faces of cats were incredible, wonderful and soft. When I watched a cat groom itself I thought I would enjoy the task too. I can't tell you how many times I saw a cat face and opened my mouth and put the cats face into my mouth. The sensation for me was soft. I could feel the whiskers and the fur and it seemed a perfectly normal place to have a cat's head. I can't say what the cat thought.
The Evening I Learned I Was Not White
Once again I was wee. Wee and still moist from a recent bath. The time before bed for wee ones is a silly, wild time spent packing the last remnants of the day with mischievousness. My life thus far had been spent gazing up at the beloved blonde one called mother. Mirrors up until then had not made a connection in my wee head as to being a reflection of me or my surroundings. I climbed up on an old sewing machine where a mirror sat above and looked in to see myself. It was then that it all clicked and I realized I was not white like that woman I called mother. Most startling that evening was my hair. It was curly and brown, short too. I found myself stunned that it was not waist length and blonde like that woman I called mother. On the upside I was quite taken in by the brown of my skin.
When I was in my early, early twenties I volunteered at Bellevue Hospital in New York City. I can't even remember what my duties were. What I do remember was that I was taken into a room by a nurse to where a man lay in bed. He was beautiful. His head lolled to the right. He was perhaps no older than 25. His eyes were brown, clear, glassy and failed to focus. You could say he was handsome too. He had no muscle tone; no chest or arm muscle definition. In reality he was a blob. He had a lipstick circumference sized mole on his chest just below his left nipple. The nurse pointed to the mole and said: That is why he is here. I said: I don't understand. She said: His parents thought his mole was ugly and needed to be removed. He got too much/too little anesthesia during surgery and has been brain dead and in this bed for 7 years. I stared at the mole and wondered what light it had been seen under that made that risk worthwhile.
We are all beautiful as we are. That mole, that sag, that blemish… Someone would do anything to see it again.
Hellfire
Back in the 80's R asked me if I would accompany him to the various sex clubs available in New York City. Most of them required a woman to accompany a man for entry. After much eye rolling and pledges made on bibles I agreed to go as long as he didn't leave me somewhere alone. I had notions that these places were filled with hard dicks at the door gearing up to chase me around. Most of the clubs were tame until we entered Hellfire a club in the meat packing district below 14th street. The name of the club describes it all. It was like a fucked up Bosch painting, you know the one I am referring to: The place was filthy and smelled worse. People in swings getting fisted while others stood around gawking. People in filthy bathtubs with a circle of people pissing on them. Crappy clear shower curtains on rods shielding off private cubicles for one to do God knows what behind. But the thing that fizzled my brain the most and which I remember most clearly is that there were about 40 male Hasidim, in full black and dangling payot, lined up all along the walls just watching. It was like they were on a field trip. I said: Jesus Christ! R, an Israeli, said: They are all a bunch of hypocrites. We left for Chinese food in Chinatown.
My Three Scars
I have a scar on my chin where it once split open. I was rushing to bathe so that I could watch the yearly showing of The Wizard of Oz on television. I slipped in the soapy bathtub and landed on my chin. I never got to watch The Wizard of Oz as I had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I was wee when it happened but the scar remains.
There is a scar on my left knee. It's shiny and shaped like a football but only about an inch long. I was playing outside in the grass and suddenly my knee was gushing blood. I ran upstairs to my mother and she went downstairs to see what had cut me. We never found the culprit. This scar required stitches too, but while at the hospital, after the stitches were in place, the doctor sealed it all with something called a butterfly-closure. This name struck me as funny and wonderful and to this day whenever I look at this scar, I say aloud: Butterfly Closure and smile.
There is a barely noticeable round scar on my right foot at the joint of my big toe. This scar came about in a very odd way. I was attempting to go out the back door of our summer cottage and as I was opening the door a scissor shear, by my own doing, entered my toe and slid into the top of my foot. The scissors, the handle grasping part were on one side of the door and the pointy cutting part were on the other. My opening the door sent them into my foot. Does anyone have a reasonable explanation as to how those scissors got there? When I look at this scar all I see is the blade entering my foot again.
Midnight Cooking In The Bronx
She always seemed to like cheesecake at midnight once the snow had begun to fall. At midnight and made in cast iron skillets. She cooked lovely things without fanfare. There was always a run to the A&P for cream cheese and sour cream earlier in the evening with all the ingredients left on the table to soften. On the light switch plate in the kitchen was written: Outen The Light The Sun Shines Bright, a phrase I have never seen since. She mixed and stirred pouring the creamy liquid into the skillet, taking it to the oven for a quick bake. We eagerly waited outside the oven for the perfect time to remove the cake for it went somewhere special after its removal. We placed it on the back porch in the snow for a quick cooling and only when the squirrels had left their dainty lace-like footprints did we know it was ready to eat.
Kitten and Cat Faces
When I was wee I thought the faces of cats were incredible, wonderful and soft. When I watched a cat groom itself I thought I would enjoy the task too. I can't tell you how many times I saw a cat face and opened my mouth and put the cats face into my mouth. The sensation for me was soft. I could feel the whiskers and the fur and it seemed a perfectly normal place to have a cat's head. I can't say what the cat thought.
The Evening I Learned I Was Not White
Once again I was wee. Wee and still moist from a recent bath. The time before bed for wee ones is a silly, wild time spent packing the last remnants of the day with mischievousness. My life thus far had been spent gazing up at the beloved blonde one called mother. Mirrors up until then had not made a connection in my wee head as to being a reflection of me or my surroundings. I climbed up on an old sewing machine where a mirror sat above and looked in to see myself. It was then that it all clicked and I realized I was not white like that woman I called mother. Most startling that evening was my hair. It was curly and brown, short too. I found myself stunned that it was not waist length and blonde like that woman I called mother. On the upside I was quite taken in by the brown of my skin.
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