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About james

hoyden will follow the free tendencies of desire hoyden is a pill dropped in a glass of water hoyden is an illusion on a surface of memory hoyden is a finger resting on the controls of a broken machine hoyden turns as she pleases toward all horizons hoyden is perfect sadism, at least as a method hoyden is a beautiful chimera hoyden crouches to intercept shadows hoyden is not in the habit of saluting the dead hoyden will always find buyers hoyden is at most a thinking reed hoyden writes sad and ardent love letters hoyden is a door someone opened hoyden is a dark intention hoyden never waits for itself hoyden leaves an exquisite corpse

The Puppet Who Did

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My dad wrote me this story many years ago. It’s sort of a variation on Pinocchio.

The Puppet Who Did
by Terry Roberts

Once upon a time about two hundred years ago in a place called Italy, lived an old puppeteer named Guido. Much more famous than the old puppeteer was his puppet, Punch.

Punch was a much loved puppet in Italy, particularly among the children. Punch would sing and dance, tell stories, play comedy or drama. When Punch was funny, waves of laughter would sweep across an audience. When Punch was sad, the earth would be muddy with tears. People loved and believed in Punch.

Guido and Punch would travel the length and breadth of Italy. They would perform in fields or in barns, wherever there was an audience. Guido would set up a little stage and the back-drop behind which he hid, pull the strings and Punch would spring to life. The show would begin.

In each town and village people would wait with joy for the arrival of Punch, their beloved puppet who could perform so well. For Punch did perform well, he danced with grace and sang like a bird. He seemed to be able to express more feeling than any one human being.

Each year there was a large and wondrous festival in Naples. The highlight of the festival was, of course, Punch. People would travel to Naples from all over Italy just to see and enjoy Punch. For as Punch came alive, he brought them alive with laughter, and tears, and joy.

The evening before the festival a terrible thing happened. Guido had set up the stage, and curtains and back-drop and placed Punch on stage. Just as Guido finished working, he felt a terrible pain and tears streamed down his cheek. He came to his old companion to talk, “Punch, I am very, very old and it is my time to go, and I cannot take you with me. Now I must return to the mountains, to my people, to where I was born. It is my great sorrow that I shall miss the festival and that there may be no show for the children. I have watched you perform your magic at the end of my strings for many years and I have come to believe in you. Maybe it is asking the impossible, but a dying man has the right to believe as he chooses. Maybe, my friend, you could do a little something for the children tomorrow. After all they have always loved and believed in you. Goodbye my friend.” and Guido cut the strings that had always held Punch. Guido turned from Punch and walked toward the mountains. Had he turned a little less quickly he would not have missed seeing the tear that trickled down Punch’s cheek.

The next morning the fairgrounds were alive with people. And already people were seating themselves in front of the Punch stage. Children always sat in the front.

Punch lay behind the curtains deep in thought. “I’ve always performed at the end of Guido’s strings. A string would go up and so a foot or arm. It was Guido’s voice that sang, not mine.” And he thought some more, “But I have done the singing and dancing and acting for so long and all these people in me. They believe in me, Punch. I can do it, I can do it, if I can think and I can care, which I do, then I can stand, I can perform, I can do it…”

At first Punch tried to stand, but really he was just waiting for the familiar pull of the strings, but there were no longer any strings. So he tried to pretend that there were strings, but still no movement.

Suddenly Punch yelled out, “I don’t need no strings!” and at the sound of his own voice he leaped up and the curtain parted. Punch sang to the audience, “Do you believe in me?” And both children and grown-ups yelled back “YES!” And Punch said, “Well, I believe in me too!” and the people laughed with joy and Punch went on to perform the most wondrous show of his career, for without being attached to strings, there was even more he could do.

From there Punch went on to become one of the best and most loved Commedia performers of all of Italy. (Commedia de’llarte was a kind of theater performed in Italy then).

Every once in a while someone would notice little pieces of string hanging from Punch and ask about them. Punch would reply, “At one time I was very hung up, but that was a long time ago.” And if the questioner didn’t turn away too fast, he would notice a tear trickle down Punch’s cheek.

The End.

under the stars

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It’s 10:30 on Christmas Eve. I keep trying not to dwell on the fact that this is now the sixth Christmas without my dad. It seems ridiculous that I should feel more sad today than on some random day like August 16th but holidays are time markers and thus have added meaning to events.

We catalog the passage of time in many ways. Birthdays, holidays, scars, reunions, anniversaries, monthly dinner gatherings, etc. Instead of just letting time march on quietly, we seem to need to mark it, note it, solidify it.

It’s more difficult to feel time passing in places like Phoenix and Oakland. The weather doesn’t change much – there is no winter-foretelling chill in the air come September leading into a complete change of wardrobe over the following few months. There is no bundling up to go out, and shaking off of snow before entering a home-made cozy against the frozen outdoors. There is no excitement when the icicles begin to melt and the glistening wetness drip drops off the roof for the first time in four months. It’s one long late spring here. The temperature changes, yes, but not enough to really demarcate the seasons.

Christmas shouldn’t even be a big deal to me. I’m Jewish, raised Unitarian by Agnostics.

And yet, my grandma and grandpa had a big tree each year which we ritualistically decorated at the direction of my mom. We went caroling with our neighbors and then sang songs next to the lit tree before snuggling into bed. I got a stocking, which to my young amazement, was always full by 4am with finger puppets and an orange. We had holly and white lights and ceramic angels on the mantle. We had wonder and excitement and imagination and the anticipation of opening packages which were wrapped around secrets and secured under a sweet smelling evergreen.

I rarely celebrated Christmas with my dad. When I would go to visit him, there was no tree. If we were at his folks’ house, we celebrated Hanukkah if it was late that year, otherwise, December 25th came and went with little notice except that I would return to my mom with a suitcase full of presents.

But the few occasions I do remember sharing this holiday with my pop were great. One year, when I was about 10 we were in New York with my grandparents. I missed having a tree, so my dad and I draped a green blanket over grandpa’s rocking chair, crafted some ornaments out of aluminum foil, placed some presents on the floor in front of it, and called it our tree. It was a wonderful tree.

Another year when I was 16 years old, we were in Oakland, California. Again, we had no tree and we didn’t have a green blanket or a rocking chair. It was a beautiful clear California night, around 50F. We decided to go out and see if we could see Santa flying around the stars, so we went and sat in the outdoor hot tub around eleven Christmas Eve. We didn’t see Santa, but it was a great way to spend the evening.

When someone you love dies, people keep telling you to remember the good times. But often, remembering anything related to them is painful. I suppose these are the kind of memories to which they are referring. It makes me sad to think about him, but I am so glad to have had those experiences. Not every kid gets to have a blanket tree.

I think I’m going to go try to find Santa Claus in the stars.

mobile

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One of the somewhat disconcerting things about cell phones is the lack of knowing the location of the person on the other end of the line. Back in land-line era… when you called your friend you usually had a picture of them sitting at the kitchen table, or in their bedroom, or in the front room, while you talked with them. That image gave the person on the other end of the line a location, somewhere concrete to place them while you talked. Perhaps it gave the conversation a little more solidity because it was that much closer to having a solid foundation on which to converse if not in person.

Now, with cell phones – both calling and text messaging – you have no idea where the other person is unless they tell you or you know beforehand. I send a friend a text message out into the ether and he replies. He could be in a truck stop in Utah, in a hotel, at a grocery store, wandering the streets of a city, at home, in a restaurant, etc.

I often feel the need to locate a person when I converse with them. “Where are you?”
I think other people feel a need to locate themselves to the other person, because often they will offer up their whereabouts even before asked.

Does this mobile phenomena make us feel less connected because of a lack of grounding and inability to knowing the location of the other person, even while we are more available than ever?