
##1003056 Granite Dreams . <p> At night , spirits sometimes rises from the river and , spreading their wings , disappear into the desert . When this happens , the nocturnal creatures stop their movement , and all the players in the mystery fall deadly silent . <p> Or so Hortense , the postmistress , had believed for forty years . Ever since that night almost a lifetime ago , when Nathan had disappeared at the river 's edge . She had been witness to the spirits ' capers and had locked their secret deep inside . <p> She was seventeen at the time , and Nathan and she had just been married . It was n't a marriage of love and hope . In her mother 's eyes , and in the eyes of all the other people living in the small town bordering the desert , there was no other remedy . She was pregnant . <p> It had been Nathan 's idea to take horses down the river for a honeymoon trip . " We can follow it out of the mountains and onto the desert @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I 've always wanted to go out there , and I guess this is my last chance . My daddy says there 's good fishing and hunting , and no one 's around . It 'll make a great place to spend a week . " <p> Hortense had always dreamed of going to Paris or London or even Budapest for a honeymoon . She had nurtured the dream since childhood . Though she desperately wanted to see the world outside the desert , she doubted it would ever happen . She had no idea at all what sort of dreams Nathan might have had about life . <p> He gave his horse a kick and started down the trail . Hortense followed with the pack horse . <p> It was early spring , and a shower hand turned the bare desert into a riot of life . For miles , blossoms screamed orange and red . Willows and cottonwood and tamarack grew along the river bank , and creatures were hiding behind the fresh growth . <p> Hortense and Nathan rode on silently . Occasionally , one of them would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ down at the river , but they did little talking . Hortense could already see that their relationship had been defined by the desert and the small town which scraped an existence on its border . The thought did not make her happy . This was not her vision off what life should be and especially what her life should be . <p> She watched Nate riding the horse in front of her , his rifle hanging from its case on the side of the saddle , and she wondered again what had caused her to sell her dreams . <p> Late in the afternoon , after the mountains had faded in the distance and the horizon had ceased to look real , they stopped to rest at the water 's edge . The landscape shimmered in the heat as though it were all part of an immense Monet canvas . A single cloud drifted overhead . <p> Nathan climbed off his horse and stretched his legs . He pointed at a beach alongside the river . " We 'll camp there tonight , " was all he said . <p> @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up the bank was the broad gravel beach . She stared at it for a while and imagined seeing this setting as a picture in a gallery in New York City . <p> " Come on , Tense . Snap out of it . The night will catch us without a camp . " <p> She looked at him and smiled before getting down from her horse . Nate was already taking the gear from the pack horse . " I 'll gather wood while you unpack . " <p> At the river 's edge , she found a large boulder to sit on and carefully took off her boots . The water flowed right under her feet ; she watched its muddy surface for some time , dreaming of another life , before slowly trusting her feet to the water . <p> The sky had turned to a deeper twilight when Nation again called her name . He had his arms full of driftwood and looked around before letting it fall to the ground . " Are you okay ? " he asked . " It 's getting late . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do n't you start the fire . " <p> It was almost dark before she snapped out of it . The water had turned her feet cold . She put her socks and boots back on before returning to camp . Nate must have started the fire because it was burning next to their unpacked gear . The tent was set up but there was no sign of him . He must have gone back into the bush , looking for more wood . He would be back soon . While she waited , Hortense opened the packs and began preparing dinner . <p> Some time later , she heard the first sound . It was somewhere off in the bush . At first , she expected it was Nathan coming back , so she did n't pay it much attention . She continued with her chores . <p> Nathan , however , did n't appear . <p> Hortense turned and listened . In her mind , she had s picture of him crouching behind a bush waiting for her to walk nearby so he could jump out and scare her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ how long it would take him to get bored and make another noise . She counted to fifty , all the time imagining his face out there in the bush . In the corner of her eye she thought she saw something move . She whirled around , expecting to catch Nathan sneaking up on her . <p> Nothing was there . <p> She went back to her cooking , putting the camp pan on the coals and throwing the meat in . Across the river a doe came down to the water 's edge and quietly drank . A breeze filled the air , softly at first , coming up from the river , carrying the smell of an unknown something . She searched the campsite with her eyes and then turned to the brush . She walked across to the horses and looked around There was n't any sign of Nathan . Twilight was filling the sky . <p> She called out his name . Shadows moved across the river and through the camp . With each passing moment , the shadows grew deeper . It seemed that Nate @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . She was n't sure how long he had been gone . She called his name again . <p> The first hint of fear touched her in the silence after her voice finished echoing off the cliff on the far side of the river . The only sounds were those of insects and the flow of the river . <p> She walked down to the river and went along the bank . In the sand were footprints , but it was much too dark to follow them . The trail , if that were what she were on , disappeared in the gloom . All around her the brush was thick and impregnable . <p> Again , she called Nathan 's name and listened . Her voice reverberated from the rock cliff and then echoed back and forth down the river . She called out another time and then another . Still there was only the river and the insects . <p> Scared now , she ran back to the camp . Twilight had turned into night . Long shadows crept out from the fire and danced through the bushes . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of view . In the darkness , she could n't tell whether they were larks or bats . <p> On the way back , she lost her footing . Twice she slipped on the river bank . The second time , she careened down and into the water . The current grabbed at her an tried to pull her away . A branch flashed by and she grabbed hold . Something large like a body brushed against her leg and was gone in the water . <p> She pulled herself up the bank and stood soaking wet before turning and running back to the camp . Sitting down , she tried to steady herself . She did n't cry . Her clothes dripped water and her boots sloshed . She looked around for a sign of Nathan , but he still had n't appeared . <p> But he had been back . At her feet was a fresh load of wood back to camp and then left again . " Nate ! " A chill went down her spine . <p> " Nate ! " Slowly , she got up and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it had n't been there before . <p> The surrounding desert was unusually quiet . For a moment she could n't even hear the eternal sound of the river . For just a moment , she thought to ride back to town . <p> Not something she could see , or even hear , but she felt a sensation she had never felt before . The unknown feeling came from all around , but more than anywhere it seemed to be coming from the other side of the river . She almost thought she could see something standing in the dark on the far bank , watching . <p> She hurriedly picked up another piece of wood for the fire . There was a cry - the cry of a human baby . The sound was distinct . There was no doubt . It was coming from somewhere on the water . A chill again ran down her spine . <p> The cry came again . This time she located the direction as coming from up river . She could hear it clearly , and then there was another cry , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ though it were out in the middle of the river , right in front of her , strapped to a raft . It cried and then there was another cry , this time closer and then another . It sounded as thought it were out in the middle of the river , right in front of her , strapped to a raft . It cried out once more , and then there was silence . She threw the piece of wood on the fire , wishing she had enough wood to light up the entire desert . <p> The baby had passed . The cries were further away , drifting down the river . Retreating . She could n't see it . She could n't see anything . A mist was rising from the river and filling the darkness . Even with the added wood , the fire seemed to put out less light . The shadows approached her from every direction until the firelight seemed only a sickly puddle that hesitated and threatened to disappear . <p> For a moment , she was n't sure where she was . There @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , faded into a general whisper and finally left just the rumbling of the river . <p> While she had been distracted by the crying , something had silently swam across the river . Now , instead of watching from the far bank , it was on her side . She distinctly felt its presence not far from where she stood . Again , She thought of running for the shelter of town . <p> The haze separated for just an instant , and in that space , something short straight up into the air . It moved above her and began to billow out like nothing she had ever seen . She stood , transfixed , as it climbed higher until it towered over her head and leered down at her . <p> She did n't move . She stood and stared , her feet locked to the ground in terror . <p> The mist swirled and formed a huge looming body with dozens of arms waving in all directions . On the ends of the fingers were eyes which blinked and twinkled as they circled her head . It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ anything she had ever imagined . She almost expected it to speak . <p> Instead , it just loomed closer and closer , sending its arms around and around until the desert had disappeared and there were just the eyes . Then , as abruptly as it had risen from the river , it disappeared . She was left alone , standing beside the dimly burning fire , feeling small and insignificant and lost . <p> She turned back to the fire and saw the food had cooked . Very little time had passed , just seconds . Somewhere in the direction of the mountains a coyote called , a signal for the entire desert to come to life again . The air was cooling , and the creatures were moving out of their deep burrows to prowl the desert floor . <p> Another person might have gotten on her horse right then and run for help . She would have called out her missing husbands ' name as she slowly retreated to the horse , and then she would have headed the horse down the trail and left the spot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and staring into the fire . When she was finished eating , she went down to the river and washed the dishes . <p> When she returned to the fire , she noticed the flames had burned down . There was n't much wood left . She sat by the glowing embers and listened . After a while , she got up again and went back to the horses . She checked the three of them and made sure they were fed before leading them down to the river for water . <p> She watched carefully as they drank . Nothing was unusual . The moon had come out over the distant mountains and filled the sky with orange . The river flowed by . Nothing unexpected . When the horses finished drinking , she walked them back up the hill . Before turning back to the fire she took Nathan 's rifle from his saddle . <p> The night had turned chilly . The stars had come alive . She took off her outer clothes and climbed into the bag , the rifle right next to her . <p> Several @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ big going through the brush on the other side of the river . She listened as the sound disappeared , and then went back to sleep . <p> Again , the sound woke her . This time , it came from up the river , right along the shoreline , moving through the brush . It was n't an animal . Animals do n't make that much noise if they can avoid it . The sounds were conscious and deliberate . <p> She sat up slowly . The fire had burned down to only a few coals . The moon had risen in the sky and was now white . A spark shot up from the fire , flared , and disappeared . <p> Whatever was down at the river was making no effort to hide its movements . It was coming steadily toward her . She cradled the rifle in her arms and waited . Down by the river , a branch was torn from a tree . With it came abrupt silence . The thing could not have been more than a hundred paces away when it stopped and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the dark waiting . Another hour passed before she again heard movement . She must have dozed again , when suddenly she jerked awake as something fell into the water . Again , silence . <p> She strained her eyes , but she could n't make out anything in the dark . It must be standing in the same spot where she had watered the horses . It was moving very slowly . she was n't sure if it could see her , but she fumbled with the rifle , nervously putting a round into the chamber . <p> She raised the rifle . She could barely see the outline of something . Then it stood up -- it stood up like a man and it stumbled once and fell to the ground before standing again . She knew it was n't Nate . It stumbled straight toward her . It was something evil , something that ruined lives , something that forced people to swallow their dreams . It took several more steps and then fell and let out a loud , painful cry . <p> She pulled the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a scream that was cut off , and then there was silence . It sprawled there on the ground not moving . When the fire briefly flared up , Hortense could see the blood and its face . <p> She did n't move . She sat still , while the light faded and she was alone in the dark . <p> After a while , the desert animals started stirring again . The insects filled the air , and she could hear the river . It took her a long time to break the trance . All the while she stared at the body , half expecting it to rise into the sky and disappear . <p> Nothing happened . Nothing . <p> Finally , she got up and approached the corpse . She could n't see it very clearly , but all the while she kept the rifle ready , waiting . Nothing moved . The spirit was dead . She could see it was motionless on the ground . <p> She watched it silently for some time before she came to realize what it meant . In the morning @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She tied the lead of Nathan 's horse to her own and headed away from the river and back down the trail . From a rise over the river , where the trail came out on a rocky prominence , she stopped and turned around . <p> There was nothing there . She could barely see the ashes from the campfire . The spirit was longer on the ground . During the night , it had returned to the river . She had dragged it down to the water 's edge and , after wading out into the swift current , let it go . She watched it float down the river and quietly disappear below the surface . <p> She stood up on the hill , examining the scene behind her and thinking about what she would say when she returned home . She could see them coming back out here and looking for Nathan . She could see all the people down there walking along the river bank , searching through the underbrush . she knew that they would be wasting their time . <p> She shook her head @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be nothing left . He was gone . <p> It was n't until then she allowed herself to cry the first tears at the loss and of her new life . She waited until the tears stopped flowing , and as the sun rose higher into the desert air , briefly let her thoughts fly to Paris and London before giving her horse a kick , beginning the long journey before her . <p> Article copyright Governors State University and Helen Hughes . <p> Article copyright Governors State University and Helen Hughes . <p> Illustration ( Horse with rider leaving at slow pace ) <p> 
##1003066 The Moon Over Crete : Part Five <p> The story so far : Eleven-year-old Lily learns that her flute teacher , Mrs. Zinn , can time travel to the past . Lily convinces Mrs. Zinn to take her to ancient Crete , where women and men are true equals ... before invaders destroyed their culture ! Mrs. Zinn warns Lily not to tell about the coming invasion , because it 's too dangerous to change history . But Lily loves Crete , her new friend Mashi , and Mashi 's family so much , she is determined to warn the Queen . <p> Last time , at the start of the Autumn Festival , Mrs. Zinn surprised Lily by saying they would return home to the present the next day . As part Five opens , the Festival is ending and Lily has made up her mind . <p> The sun was in the west as people streamed out of the palace . Finally , among the last trickle of people . Mrs. Zinn wandered out arm-in-arm with Phyra , the head priestess . Lily was almost afraid @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it would be too late . <p> " Mrs. Zinn ! I have to talk to you ! " <p> " Phyra , I 'll talk to you later , " Mrs. Zinn said . She put her arm around Lily and gave her a little squeeze . Lily realized again how nice it was to be taken seriously . Mrs. Zinn would stop talking to Phyra for her ! <p> " Mrs. Zinn , we ca n't leave Crete yet . " <p> " Why not ? We 've been here a long time already . " <p> " Well ... " Lily was n't sure if she should tell Mrs. Zinn the real reason , but she needed Mrs. Zinn 's help . So she decided to tell Mrs. Zinn her plan . <p> " I have to warn of the invasion . They 'd never believe me alone and besides , I ca n't speak Cretan well enough , " Lily pleaded . <p> " Lily , I ca n't do that , " Mrs. Zinn replied sternly . " I 've taken a vow not to do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them we may cause more harm than good . " <p> " Then I do n't want to go home , " Lily said , Looking into Mrs. Zinn 's eyes . " I want to stay . Mashi and her parents said I could live with them . " <p> " But Lily ! " Mrs. Zinn leaned forward and her brow was wrinkled . " Wo n't you miss your parents ? Do n't you miss your friends ? <p> " I guess I 'd miss them for awhile . But I have new friends here . And I can go wherever I want . I can say anything I want . I can be friends with boys and they do n't make fun of me . And I get to do grown-up things , like go dancing . " <p> Mrs. Zinn looked at her quietly . Lily was glad she 'd thought of this solution to her problem . Her heart felt lighter already . <p> The next day , as Mrs. Zinn prepared to leave , she was still telling Lily the disadvantages of staying in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ see a movie , and most of all , she 'd miss her parents . <p> " Here 's what I 'm going to do , " Mrs. Zinn continued . " I 'll take this handful of seeds with me and sprout them . Then I 'll come back when they 've grown . An equal amount of time will have passed here in Crete . Then you can tell me if you want to come home . " <p> Lily ran her finger over the small round seeds . " Are you sure it will work ? What if they do n't sprout ? " <p> " If you 're worried about that , you 'd better come with the now . But I ca n't take you back unless you want to go and you put your mind to it . And yes , there is chance that it wo n't work . <p> Lily thought about this possibility . Was she really sure she wanted to stay ? Mashi was so happy that Lily was staying . But still - what if Lily never saw her parents @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " Lily ask , " what will you do ? ' <p> " If I come back using the green coin we used to get here this time , " Mrs. Zinn explained , " I 'll arrive at the same time as we did before . But because you wo n't be with me , it would be like you were at home with your family . You would never have been in Crete or know about the trip . " <p> This logic was a little confusing to Lily . But she knew she did n't want to lose her memory of Crete . " Then do n't go that , Mrs. Zinn . " <p> " I wo n't . In fact , I plan to leave the coin here . I 'm taking other things from today back home - so I could come back to this particular time - although I suppose you would never want to go home at this time . " <p> Lily thought she understood this too , and nodded . " Mrs. Zinn , ca n't you stay just a few @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it would only be to give you more time to figure out how to tell the Queen what you know . And I want no part of that . " Lily knew she was right . There was no solution but to let Mrs. Zinn go . <p> " I 'll leave now . " Mrs. Zinn stood up . She looked hard at Lily one last time . " Good luck . " Mrs. Zinn said Softly <p> Lily sat straight up in bed and screamed . Mashi jerked awake and rolled over . <p> " What 's wrong ? Lily , wake up ! " <p> Mashi 's parents , Inasha and Edani , ran in . Lily sat up , looking bewildered at the crowd in her bedroom . " What happened ? " <p> Inasha held Lily . " You were screaming . Did you have a dream ? " <p> Lily blinked for several seconds . She took a deep breath . " Yes . A bad dream . " <p> " Tell us what it was , " urged Inasha . " It 's not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Well , " Lily began . " I was down at the dock with Mashi . We were adults . Suddenly , we felt the ground shake . The sky got darker , and I looked out to sea and saw a huge ship . It was so big , it blocked the sun . Its sails looked red - like they were dyed with blood . And there were people on the ship-they huge too , with They had dirty hair and beards , and they were pointing giant swords and arrows at us . <p> " Then suddenly , we were on the ship , in a small dark room . The giant men shouted , " We are going to kill you all and destroy your palace ! Your Goddess ca n't protect you ! ' Mashi and I were crying and calling to the Goddess , and- " <p> Inasha gasped and Lily looked up . Inasha 's eyes were wide , and her face was white . <p> " That 's enough for now , Lily . " Inasha 's voice was shaking . <p> Mashi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mean ? Is that going to happen to us ? " Mashi 's eyes were terrified . Edani was clutching Inasha 's hand . <p> Inasha stood up . " Mashi , I want you to be strong . Fear never solves anything . Help Lily remember her dream . " Inasha and Edani left quietly . <p> The next morning . Inasha took Lily to a quiet orchard to talk . " Lily , " she began , " what you saw in your dream - it was n't just scary for you alone . You received that dream from the Goddess . She is telling us something through your dream . <p> " I do n't want to alarm you , but since you were chosen for this dream , I 'll tell you the whole story . The Goddess has been sending us this message for many years . The priestesses received visions that our palace would be destroyed , that people who did n't care about the Goddess would come and kill us . People do n't know about these visions because the Queen is keeping it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I know-I work in the palace , and I talk to the Priestesses . " <p> Lily was confused and stunned . " Does Mashi know this ? Does Edani ? " <p> " No . I do n't talk about it with anyone . I will wait until the Queen is ready . " <p> Lily had carefully planned her strategy - thinking up what the dream would be about , planning a night to scream . She thought Inasha would believe a dream . That way , Lily would n't have to go into the whole story of how she was a time-traveler and knew about the destruction . Lily was delighted that her plan had worked so well . <p> But now Lily understood why - Inasha knew all along ! Even the Queen knew ! And they still had n't been able to prevent the invasion . Yet , to tell them , Lily had risked never going home again . Her head was spinning . She did n't know what to do . <p> " Come on , before you forget your dream . " Inasha @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " Where are we doing ? " Lily scrambled up after her . <p> " We 're going to tell the Queen . Do n't be scared , " Inasha added when she <p> Map ( Knossos ) <p> 
##1003067 BUSINESS FROM THE heart <p> It 's 3 A.M. There is a soft knock on the front door . A large , pretty thirty-three-year-old woman with dark brown eyes rouses herself from sleep on the couch . She gently wraps a sleeping child in a blanket and carries the child into the arms of her father . <p> " Thanks , Dezirae , " he whispers , " you 're a lifesaver . " The child does n't stir and will wake up in her own bed . <p> The woman is Dezirae Rose -- a wife , mother , and the owner-operator of Rose Day-Care , located in the small town of Bristol , Tennessee . <p> Bristol , nestled in the Great Smoky Mountains , lies on the Tennessee-Virginia border . A quiet town , Bristol has been hard hit by the recession of recent years . A major steel manufacturer was only the first in a series of plant closings and layoffs -- from coal mining equipment to government missile production . In the past seven years , more than five major manufacturing and production @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is run out of the Rose home , a restored one-hundred-year-old Victorian giant located in a quiet Tennessee neighborhood with a gorgeous view of the mountains . Dezirae shares her home with her husband of fifteen years , David , and their two children , eleven-year-old Christopher and seven-year-old Tiffany . <p> " Are 3 A.M. pickups the norm ? " I ask . <p> " Well , " Dezirae smiles , " both her parents were laid off their previous jobs and were lucky just to find work . There was no one to keep their little girl . Someone gave them my name , and I just could n't turn them away . " <p> Not turning anyone away has become Dezirae Rose 's trademark . " This is my business , " she says , brown eyes flashing , " and I 'll run it my way ! " <p> And that way is from her heart . Rose 's dream of starting her own child-care business began after she took a staff job at a large day-care center in Nashville . <p> " I decided that this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ few changes . We the staff were told not to get too personal with the children . Can you believe that ? " She laughs . " How can you not get too personal with children ? My idea of a day-care center is that it 's not just a preschool , not just a baby-sitter , but a place a child enjoys coming to . Another home . Instead of saying I go to day care , ' the children I keep say , I go to Dezirae 's . ' And that feels good . " <p> During the day , the Rose house takes on a festive air as children run along the full-length front porch . As we sit down on the front steps , Rose lifts a toddler onto her lap . " This is home for them as much as their real home with Mom and Dad . Some of these kids spend more time here than at their home . Their parents work hard to make ends meet . If parents do n't have to worry about their children during the day , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could understand that . This is my way of helping out others , others not as fortunate as I am . This is my dream . " <p> Rose took the first steps to forming her business just after the birth of her second child . " It seemed like the perfect time . Christopher was starting school , and when Tiffany was born I just could n't go back to nine-to-five . I wanted to be there when Tiffany learned to walk , and I wanted to be there when Christopher got off the school bus . I started out small , of course , and began by caring for two toddlers . " <p> At the same time , Rose 's husband , David , decided to go back to college . <p> " He gave me even more incentive to make my business work , " says Rose . " I knew it was going to be difficult , timewise and financially . But going back to college was David 's dream -- it was important to both of us . After four years he graduated , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a year of caring for one or two children , Rose applied for her State of Tennessee child-care license . Health department and fire department inspections plus a truckload of paperwork followed . The Rose Day-Care center officially opened in 1987 , with seven children . <p> " It is n't all playtime , " says Rose . She also helps the children learn numbers , letters , and colors in preparation for school . " When my first one left for kindergarten , I cried as much as his mother , " she recalls . <p> Although Rose now has a small staff , during our interview several young voices called out for something only Rose could get , or to kiss a boo-boo , or just to come and get a hug . <p> Janice , one staff member , recalls one child 's joy on returning from a trip to the store with Rose ( a special privilege ) with a new pair of tennis shoes . Rose replies with a shrug of her shoulders . " Single mothers have it so rough . This little boy really @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ little -- great ! " <p> The Rose Day-Care is not the only day-care center in Bristol , but it is one of the few that tries to work with parents and their schedules . <p> " If Mom or Dad is running late , I do n't charge a big extra fee . I try to be flexible . I understand . It 's that understanding that keeps parents from abusing my flexibility . " <p> " But , " I have to ask , " is that any way to run a business ? " <p> Rose just laughs . " Look at those faces ! I 'm in the best business in the world ! " <p> As if her day-care center is n't work enough , Rose is also active in the Foster Relief and Foster Parents Program . Foster Relief provides outside " friends " like Rose to help children and their new foster parents adjust to one another . <p> " My neighbor became a foster parent , and I became her relief worker . When things got tough , she would call me for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ working for Foster Relief , Rose and her husband became foster parents themselves , opening their home to a sixteen-year-old girl . " She is one of the family now . It is one of the most rewarding things I have ever done . " <p> Smart decorating separates the day-care area from the family area of the house . The fenced-in backyard is a child 's paradise with slides , swings , and an assortment of riding toys . <p> Of all the children I see playing on this warm spring afternoon , two look strikingly like their caregiver . They are , of course , Christopher and Tiffany , Rose 's very own children . <p> I ask Christopher what it 's like having so many other children around . " There 's always someone to play with . My room has my private things in it , so that 's off limits to others . It 's fun and Mom 's home when I 'm sick or when I need help with my homework . " <p> " Mom 's always home , " echoes Tiffany . <p> @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ began this whole thing . She just thinks they 're all brothers and sisters . Sometimes we have a squabble or two , but I suppose it 's a lot like having a large family . Except most of these go home in the evenings . David and I like to spend time with our own ' children . They do require some extra attention because of what I do , but we 're pretty much like any other family . " <p> Born in Alabama , Rose describes a happy childhood with three sisters and one brother . " My parents divorced when I was small , but I adored my stepfather . We kids were into everything . My poor mother ! I was a real tomboy ! " <p> The tragic death of Rose 's older sister in an automobile accident pulled the family even closer together . " That was so hard . It hurts to remember . I was young , but I remember everything like it was yesterday . My sister was only sixteen years old . " <p> After she was diagnosed with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ surgery , but she never let that stop her . " My mother had been through so much , I was n't about to let her down . I was up and around in no time . The doctors all said it was a miracle . But when you 're nine , you care more about climbing trees than miracles . " <p> Today Rose is still on the go . The Rose family enjoys camping , biking , and Little League games with son Christopher . Tiffany has just started second grade and gotten involved in her own activities . " It 's gotten so busy around here ! It 's hard to believe that some people think just because you 're large , you 're not active . Believe me , I keep going all day long ! " Even the couple 's evenings out are active : their favorite entertainment is a night of dancing . <p> Rose never feels uncomfortable talking about her size . " Why should I ? David is trim and the children are average size , but weight has never been a cause @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 've had our ups and downs , like any couple . My weight was never the reason . David gets upset only if I talk about cutting my hair ! " <p> Rose 's only complaint is her difficulty in finding attractive , workable clothing . " I have to be comfortable . And even though I may end up playing on the floor with a toddler or rolling in the grass , I still like to look good . We do n't have a shop for large women in town , so most of my shopping is done through catalogs . " <p> A child hops by , and Rose returns to the topic of work . " We do n't make a lot of money , but we 're having fun . The day-care center recently became incorporated , and now has a board of directors and an accountant . It has taken hard work and long hours , but I would n't trade my life for anyone 's . I 'm doing exactly what I want to do . That 's exciting ! " <p> Rising from our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . " You 'll have to excuse me now . One of the children has a birthday soon , and I have a party to plan . " <p> As I walk to my car , a group of waving hands at the door sends me on my way . I wonder which child has a birthday coming up , and I ca n't help but think , Gee , lucky kid ! <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> Photo ( Dezirae Rose ) <p> 
##1003070 MIRROR <p> I hate my body ! From my uncooperative curly locks to those petulant sprouts of hair growing on the tops of my big toes , I find fault after endless fault . <p> My lips are too thin , my chin too elongated , and my nose has the appeal of a circus sideshow . I liked my eyes ... that is , before they mutated from marine blue to green during my high school years . Just on my head alone , one seventh of my total height , I find five serious mistakes to which I fall victim . Shall I go on ? <p> These broad shoulders loom ridiculously past the point considered femine . My wrists shamefully reveal my extra-sturdy bone structure , my long fingers end quickly and bluntly instead of tapering with grace . My fragile fingernails with slenderizing potential offer me no disguise -- they break off despite multiple coats of colored lacquer , hardener , acrylic , and silk . <p> Although you may nod your head in recognition , you may not realize with whom you are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pounds , one might easily understand my savage discontent . But for the most part , I 've given up my laundry list of complaints . The only reason I bring it up now is to share its absurdity : the truth is that I bellowed these lamentations when I was merely 1 fleshy inch from Time magazine 's so-called perfect body . <p> My laundry list continued : In an age when most women felt their breasts needed augmentation , I vainly offered to share my abundance , for I truly believed that as a 36C , I was overstuffed . My 23-inch waist was fine , I thought , but barely fine ; actually I would have preferred 22 . When I stood erect with ankles together , the uppermost part of my thighs also touched -- another sour note in my song . <p> An old high school memory finds me hot with embarrassment when a male classmate shouts rather loudly , " God ! Look at those muscles in her legs ! " Quickly tucking them out of sight , it never occurs to me that his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , those toe hairs . Fortunately , my ever-loving sister brought to my attention their need for frequent inspection and pruning . Imagine that being yodeled over the hilltops ! <p> I learned much later that mine was not a particularly unusual self-concept for a thin woman to develop . And I did not pathologically starve myself as an anorexic , nor binge and purge myself as a bulimic . <p> Women who have been heavy all their lives often erroneously believe that the life of a thin person is carefree , concerned only with , " Which skimpy bikini shall I wear today ? " Yet , owing to a fractured self-esteem , I tortured myself much more back when I had a slender figure than I do now at twice the size . <p> So disturbed was I at the age of twenty by the relatively small bump on the bridge of my nose ( I say this now in retrospect ) , that I succumbed to the plastic surgeon 's knife and had it remodeled . I do n't know if I can say with certainty that it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ -- after all , I picked it myself ( just a little rhinoplasty humor ) . More than anything , though , the surgery simply allowed me to move the focus of discontent from my nose to what I saw as other glaring bodily defects . <p> By age twenty-two I got an inkling that something was amiss when , before breakfast , before getting dressed , and , above all else , before anybody saw me , I raced to the bathroom to remove the smudges of yesterday 's mascara and quickly apply a new layer . Stopping in middash one morning , the unconscious reason for my hasty ritual rose to my awareness : I was extremely uncomfortable with my natural appearance . At that moment I became determined to make peace with my reflection in the mirror . The first step was to do away with makeup for a while . That year I learned to relish the everyday freedom that comes with " the natural look . " I can cry without streaks , sleep without smudges , and , yes , fearlessly face the world every @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the same time , I also recognized how I used the bathroom scale as a mood meter . Often I would wake up feeling great , but after stepping on the scale , my good mood would foul . Throwing the scale away was one of the best things I did on behalf of my sanity . I no longer ride that roller coaster . Now I wake up free to feel the spontaneous happiness of awakening from a good night 's sleep . <p> During my various sizes of thin , however , I made the same diet gyrations countless others have , including the ski team diet ( grapefruit and poached eggs , I believe -- it made me pass out cold one day from anemia ) and Weight Watchers ( I lost 30 pounds and gained 90 -- gee , that worked well ) . <p> Following this dramatic leap in size and the birth of my daughter , I read Diets Do n't Work by Bob Schwartz and began to come to my senses -- but not completely . Three-quarters of the way through the book , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be 1 ) fat and unhappy , 2 ) thin and unhappy , 3 ) fat and happy , or 4 ) thin and happy . " The problem is , the book does not stop there . The focus is geared toward people who opt for the last choice , to be thin and happy . And what sane person would choose any other path , right ? <p> Choosing to be thin and happy , I turned to the final section , " The Thin Life . " But there I was instructed to give myself permission to love myself exactly the way I was . I wondered , How can I con my psyche into believing that I love myself exactly as I am while maintaining my covert desire to be thin ? Nor could I bring myself to say , " I 'm a thin person " while a robust woman stared out at me from my mirror . In spite of this , the book helped reinforce my suspicion that diets were n't the answer for me . <p> During the next year , I ventured @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to be healthier . I read several informative books and abruptly changed my eating habits from traditional American beef-centered fare to tofu , beans , and rice , telling myself all the while , I am not on a temporary weight-loss diet ; I am changing my habits permanently and for the better . Then I asked myself a good question : What is better ? <p> Why , better is more fruits and vegetables , which offer a natural source of vitamins , minerals , and fiber . Better is whole grains combined with legumes , which , I read , offer a more complete amino acid balance with my protein and are cheaper than beef . Better is the lack of cancer-causing additives and preservatives . <p> I could n't , however , avoid the haunting notion that I was trading preservatives in my hot dogs for pesticide residue on my apples . And to buy organically grown foods , I recognized , would have been prohibitively expensive and inconvenient beyond my tolerance . And finally , I admitted to myself , after losing twenty-five pounds , that my @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I gained seventy pounds back . Another rousing success . <p> But would n't you know , right about the time I thought I had given up diets forever , Oprah had been quietly losing weight on Optifast and , with deceptive suddenness , burst on the scene a new woman ! The local news reported that the Optifast program in my area was deluged with new business and had a month-long waiting list . Would I succumb to yet another diet program ? <p> It was n't long before the down side to apparent success rolled in . One report that stuck with me was of a woman who successfully reached her goal weight , only to be told she would need to sustain a ridiculously low calorie intake for the rest of her life to maintain her newfound thinness . You can guess how well that went over . <p> Still , I could n't entirely free myself from the idea that some diet , somewhere , might work . With my last burst of dietetic motivation . I lock-stepped into a Nutri/System clinic and was introduced to a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ filling out the health forms , and giving me a tour of the facility and a taste of a lackluster wafer she called a delicious cookie , we sat in her small cubicle to discuss what really mattered here : money . <p> Apparently I had come just at the right time . A big sale was in progress . Even so , my fawn-eyed counselor quoted a still-too-high fee . When I balked at this amazing , low-low-price , she asked a rather curious question : " Well , just how much can you afford to pay ? " I thought , Where am I , on " Let 's Make a Deal " ? With all the respect I could muster , I politely said , " You sound like a used car salesperson . " <p> Visibly shaken , she replied , " You know , I really hate this part of my job . I am a counselor . I teach the behavior classes . I told them I did n't want to sell ; they said it was n't selling . " Her voice trailed off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hand and told her I needed time to think it over . <p> " You wo n't come back , " she sadly predicted . " Few people who leave without signing up do . " <p> Probably because those people had time to regain their senses , I thought , as I made a hasty exit . <p> In the next few days I asked myself question after question . Is acceptance from society worth the pain I put myself through ? Is the pressure to be thin really coming from society ? What exactly is this " society " that has such a hold over me ? <p> Society , broken down into its separate components , is nothing more than just folks . We 're a collection of individuals with our own sets of opinions and morals , which usually vary from person to person . I know this when I look at the changing patterns of my own personal growth . <p> Women may lament , It 's a man 's world . African-Americans may say , It 's a white world . Fat people may believe @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can see from my two-hundred-plus-pound point of view , we all belong to one minority group or another . <p> When I take responsibility for how I feel , despite the acceptance or rejection of others , " societal pressure " evaporates . Instead , I see that the pressure I feel really comes from within . This is great , because I can learn to change my own thoughts ; I have very little power to change the minds of others . Besides , the " societal acceptance " I should have experienced when I was thin never really made me happy . The truth was that I could n't look directly into my own eyes while standing alone before my mirror . <p> Only once since I turned my back on Nutri/System have I been tempted again to consider the blood-stained path leading to The Thin Life . Watching my husband diet and lose weight , I wondered if I should join him . I worried , Will another woman find my newly slender mate attractive ? Will he leave me ? Will our thirteen-year relationship suffer ? <p> @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ " I love you , " I said , " but I will not diet for you . If there are consequences to this , I will face them . " <p> Feeling stronger now , I turn away from the life of diets and perpetual dissatisfaction . When I stopped perming my hair , I discovered that it grew out in natural and relaxed curls . And my thin lips ? Well , unsullied by collagen injections , my husband says they are a pleasure to kiss . <p> Most important , when I stand before my mirror and look deeply into my soft green eyes , I see a person I can live with . The corners of my mouth are upturned in a pleased expression . <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> 
##1003071 My Mother 's Daughter <p> I turned thirty this past year . At twenty I expected thirty to be the end of fun , vitality , adventure , prettiness , and desirability . <p> As I approached thirty , with two pregnancies behind me , I weighed 230 pounds . But I had finally grown up enough to be comfortable with who I was . At least I thought so . <p> For my thirtieth birthday , my mother offered to pay my enrollment fees and first month 's dues at a prominent national weight-loss chain . For added incentive , she said my thirty-first birthday present would be a new wardrobe . My mother is not wealthy . I knew the diet clinic and shopping spree would be financed by plastic , which meant my mother was willing to make payments on this gift . It was n't something to be offered or taken lightly . And yet the last thing she said to me gave me a jolt . She said , " You do n't want to spend your thirties like you spent your twenties @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have the right to tell me how I should live my life ? It 's true she gave me life , but at some point the responsibility for living it has to be mine . <p> I reflected on her comment , and I became more incensed as the insult became clearer to me . During my twenties , I married a wonderful man , and soon after I gave birth to two perfect little girls . <p> I grew my hair out , stopped biting my nails , paid off a couple of cars , and bought some nice furniture . I read a lot of good books and held down some interesting jobs . It 's true that I meant to finish my formal education and did not . It 's also true that we wanted to buy a home and did n't manage that . But I was rather pleased . At thirty I could see life as a continuous process , not a sprint race . But my mother 's comment made me feel as though none of it really counted , because I was fat . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . Once , a few years ago , I had needed a haircut in a hurry and my regular stylist was unavailable . So I decided to try a new beautician . She was very new and very young , but she did a great job . My hair is my one vanity . It 's thick and shiny and a glorious chestnut color . After my hair was finished and the new stylist was holding the mirror up for me to view all the angles , she asked me if I was on a diet . It was n't quite the rude question it might appear to be . I 'm very outgoing and we had spent the previous hour talking about everything under the sun . So I told her no , not really . Without thinking , she replied , " That 's a shame . You have really gorgeous hair . " <p> Where does this prejudice come from ? Maybe these people have n't thought it out , but at least subconsciously they seem to believe that pretty faces and great hair are wasted on big @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ theme yourself , whether you have perfect nails or violet eyes , or whatever feature is your outstanding feature : " But you 've got such a pretty face .... " <p> I 'm still waiting for someone to say that a size 3 figure is wasted on a woman with acne scars or that perky C-cup breasts are of no use to a woman with alopecia . Of course that would be narrow-minded and mean-spirited . We are all individuals . <p> I shocked a friend recently when I said that I would not trade bodies with a famous celebrity she idolizes , that I would not trade my breasts and hair to have the star 's flat stomach . It 's true that you can buy breasts ( if you 're willing to take the risk ) . But hair ! You can not buy beautiful hair . <p> I wished that my mother would offer to take me shopping at my current size . The morning after our talk , I stood looking forlornly before my open closet door at such a meager wardrobe I did n't want @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and- four-year-old daughters , so our budget was restricted . Also , I did n't need work clothes , only mommy clothes . In fact , I still had a few maternity clothes left for the days I scrubbed floors and bathrooms . <p> It was then that the horrible realization hit me . Every time I went shopping or looked through a catalog , I put off buying myself anything . Or I purchased the minimum I could get by with and still be decently clothed . My mother had taught me well , and I had absorbed her attitude . I put off buying because I wanted to wait until I had dieted down a few sizes ! I was treating myself like a second-class citizen , denigrating myself with the subconscious attitude that pretty clothes would be wasted on me in my current size . <p> Soon I will be thirty-one years old . Every week I go buy something new . Some weeks it is just a few pairs of panties ( sexy ones ! ) or a lacy bra . Sometimes it is a major purchase @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ perfect polo shirt , so I picked out one in every color I like , seven of them ! <p> I 've always enjoyed good health , but lately I find I have extra energy with the release of some emotional baggage . My house sparkles . My children enjoy my involvement with them , as opposed to my supervision of them . Last month I wore my remaining maternity outfit to refinish a dresser and then happily discarded it . <p> Treating myself this way has had a ripple effect , like a stone skipped across the surface of a pond . Because I am well dressed now , I do a more elaborate makeup application . My manicures are more frequent . My husband has been acting like a newlywed . I resized my wedding ring so I could wear it again , which led my husband , in turn , to observe our tenth wedding anniversary with a beautiful row of diamonds for the other hand . <p> Last week at McDonald 's one of the other parents came and sat by me while our children took advantage @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ except that this time it was a father who engaged my conversation . When it became clear that my children had a father in their lives and home , this man told me wistfully that my husband was a very lucky man ! <p> I was surprised and flattered to find that I had sparked someone 's romantic interest without losing a pound . All that time I went without a wedding ring and no one noticed , and now someone was trying to overlook it ! And the only thing that had changed was my attitude . <p> When I left McDonald 's , I felt gorgeous . There 's nothing like flirting to give you a little sizzle . But perhaps the most positive change from my new attitude is in my ( gulp ! ) eating habits . Because I am not " going to go on a diet " someday soon , I am not in a rush to eat all the cheesecake and Oreos I can before they become forbidden . I can have whatever I want . Sometimes what I really want is baked fish @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ will be thirty-one years old . If the next year is only half as good as this past one , I will be ecstatic ! Hurrah for the thirties ! Somehow forty does n't sound so scary lately . And if my mom asks me what I 'd like for my birthday this year -- hmmm , I could use some scintillating perfume . <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> Article copyright Radiance . <p> 
##1003078 WHERE TO START ? Maybe with the sign of the cross or a magic charm . I 'm a superstitious person , and getting more and more so . Only people enjoying prosperity , people on a run of good luck , make fun of superstitions . But the longer one ' s life , the leaner it becomes . Towards the end it gets more and more necessary to knock on wood , spit three times , to make one 's benedictions surreptitiously . <p> And I 'm attempting something here a little absurd . For many years I 've stuck to writing a story -- that powerful chain that can hold together the most wild and wooly words . Whenever I have been carried away by excessive ambition -- and strayed away from stories and started toying around with personal essays or whatever you might call them -- each time I 've ended up in abject defeat . In light of this , with great superstitious dread , I have continued to latch on to plot , to action and drama . The story leads me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writer . <p> But it got boring . It 's as simple as that . It got boring like a monotonous , automatic action carried out for years , so I thought it might be nice to write something from time to time , from whim to whim and chance to chance . And , as bad luck would have it , my little case of boredom came at a time when fellow novelists and other drudges in this toilsome profession -- when hacks everywhere had started to abandon stories on the sly as if they were pushing out ballast no longer of use to anyone , though carried along to who knows where just in case . <p> But it would be even nicer if one could write the truth , the whole truth , about one 's times , one 's contemporaries , one 's self . But this is impossible for many reasons . I do n't know how to write for the drawer . To count on future generations takes either terrible humility or a crazed self-pride . I have no basis whatsoever to think that in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my books , much less want to rummage around in my house , which by then will have burned maybe three times . If I still have some desire or other to write , it 's only the desire to correspond with those of my own age , those whom I know like the back of my hand , those whom I despise and hate and still must love , because after all I know no others . <p> Thus , I can only manage to write about these times of ours in the broadest of terms , about people warily and without name , while to write about myself just is n't worth it , for it is too easy to fall into the trap of a nasty self-preening egotism , in which sturdier literati than I have strangled themselves . My biggest regret is the matter of writing the truth about my contemporaries . I could have had a field day . All these levels of crap we carry around like the layers on an onion . Some even look like old artichokes . Truth is a basic instinct @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ last sip of air , our deathbed absolution . <p> I realize the obligations I have towards my reader , which out of a false sense of pride I am going to call my confidant . I know what people like to read . I know that pages covered with small type , unfestooned with frequent breakages of paragraphs and unembellished with waterfalls of dialogue would scare off the most tenacious . I know that it is boring to wade through a bunch of thoughts when they are not all that golden . And when they are golden , one can still get stuffed , even at times to choke . <p> And so I promise reading both lively and full of surprises . This will be , in spite of everything , a book of spills and chills . I open it here on the first day of a new year . We shall poise in expectation of what the next wave of life will bring us . There are many different things to wait for , and the intuition of this old witch doctor from the Wilno woods murmurs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ myself together like rarely , perhaps like never before in my life . And this life of mine will lay the story line down for this chronicle , position the tracks for these trials and tribulations , extricate this drama that is all the more interesting because it is authentic , concocted right before your very eyes . <p> Already the whole idea seems to me banal , not worthy of further effort . At some point , last summer or maybe later , as with a convict 's hard labor , I trudged my way through wonderful , kindhearted America ; at some point in this previous and already nonexistent year came the invigorating notion , and I grabbed onto it like a drowning man does a straw or the way a man going blind gazes at a lamp . But the following winter , the more I started moving around , or more properly , started creeping around the edges of this abominable white sheet of paper , around my own private gallows , the more my courage weakened and my ambition waned . <p> So here I sit @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mine knocks over a piece of furniture by accident , another hammers at a wall with a hole punch , a throttled wife on another floor shrieks out , and then a short silence , a moment of peace in an overworked city . <p> Something must be done . Fate has entangled me . No , not fate , but a very common occurrence , some social contract or even a sociable one , something tangled me up in this business that I carry out so amateurishly , though I must bear all consequence like a professional . Something must be done . I have to keep on filling with unreadable script one yellowed page after another , since I love to write on the back of others ' old manuscripts . But this is something we both share . Curiosity drives me , too . Maybe not like before , but curiosity nonetheless -- curiosity about what all of this means . What I mean , what you mean , what this ragged ball surrounded by poisoned clouds means , this ball from which each and every second our @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ themselves away for a split second just to plummet back down onto the great big pillar of eternal fire like falling stars on an August night promising the fulfillment of human dreams . <p> From " A Thursday , No More , No Less " ( 1 ) <p> I enter The Spatif ( an actor 's club ; i.e. , a bar ) . It 's a big room , and there 's not much of a crowd , so I stand in the doorway hesitating . Right then a man tears himself away from a window table and cuts across the room towards me with upraised hands . I recognize the silvery hair and dignified face . It 's an important personage of Warsaw high society . Bushy eyebrows worthy of a great royal chancellor ascend high on the noble forehead . He is surprised and delighted by our meeting . I am only startled . He comes up to me ceremoniously , takes me in his arms in the old Polish manner . Curious , a few revelers crane their necks in our direction . A bunch of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at the solemn spectacle . Meanwhile the royal chancellor rocks me in his old man 's arms and kisses me on the mouth in the old Polish manner , calling out in a voice you could hear up and down the Aleje Ujazdowskie . <p> " Oh , I love , love you . Your Kolumbowie(2) was the most beautiful book I have ever read . Ach , I cried and cried , my son . It moved me for life . You 're a wizard , I tell you , a genius . Our greatest writer . Roman , please , allow me to call you by your first name . " <p> " By all means , " I say , keeping my composure . " It would be a pleasure . " <p> " Forgive me , Roman , that I accosted you so abruptly . It 's just that the moment I laid eyes on you I could n't resist . Bravo , my boy ! A man wants to keep on living , reading such prose . " <p> " Thank you very much for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ keep working , " I say , moved just a little . <p> The royal chancellor then wraps his arm around me as if we were bosom buddies . <p> " And what are you working on now , Romie boy ? " <p> " A collection of stories . " <p> " That 's so wonderful . Keep on with your writing , my dear . Will you sit down and join us ? " <p> " Thank you , but I only dropped in for a moment . I 'm looking for someone , " I say will all humility . " Work awaits . " <p> " Yes , write , write . The whole country awaits . " <p> I get kissed on both cheeks again and , like a thief who has stolen more than he can carry , I back out of The Spatif almost on my hands and knees . <p> Another time I 'm lost in thought , climbing up the stairs at the Writers Union to the Warsaw branch . Swooping down on me is Zofia Bystrzycka ( a novelist and member @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ my arm , her fervor quite plain . <p> " It ' s good we have caught you , " she says in a tizzy . " You were n't at the last meeting of the committee . " <p> " I could n't . An illness at home , " I inform her with deep sadness . <p> " There is , you know , that certain matter involving Comrade So-and-So . We need to know your opinion . It 's very important . " <p> " Throw him out , " I interrupt her , brooking no compromise . <p> " How 's that ? " Bystrzycka asks , dumbfounded . " Throw him out ? " <p> Then Zofia Bystrzycka starts to look me over in evident distress . Her bottomless eyes start to grow rounder and rounder . <p> " Oh my , my , " she cries out aghast . " You 're not Comrade Drewnowski ! Oh my , my , I 've made a mistake ! " <p> And she escapes down the stairs , leaving me standing there , lost in bitter revery @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to get an affidavit . I go in the literature department , a little disconcerted by the thing I have to arrange , when almost at once I am greeted with a surprise . The department director , a Mrs. Kowalska , raises her head from her books and instantly lights up . <p> " Welcome , " she says with great feeling . " Everything is in order . It 's ready . " <p> Although no babe in the woods , I fall into a pleasant befuddlement . She must have had a premonition , the dear angel , I would come in today for my affidavit . But from force of habit I have to ask . <p> " What 's ready ? " <p> " The money order , of course . " <p> " But I 'm not here for money . " <p> " How 's that ? Were n't you just in here yesterday asking that I have it ready for today ? " <p> " Uh oh , I see that you 've mixed me up with somebody else . " <p> " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . " Mr. Witold Filler , true ? " <p> " No . My name is Konwicki . " <p> Mrs. Kowalska freezes . I await quietly while she blushes red all over . <p> " I beg your pardon , really I do , " she mumbles under her breath . <p> " But what for ? I 'm pleased that you would confuse me with such a prominent figure -- though not universally liked . " <p> " My God , I beg your pardon . I 'm so sorry , " Mrs. Kowalska mutters , her spirit broken . <p> And I add -- not without boasting : " Not at all . I get mixed up all the time with Andrzej Rumian the satirist , with Mr. Kalisz the film audio engineer , and with a certain Warsaw parish priest . " <p> You 're probably curious how it feels to be a certain fellow about average in height , a little stooped over , neither blond nor brunet , in nondescript glasses , with insipid physiognomy , without good looks , but with no visible infirmities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ there inside such a fellow , how he can bear up under -- or even better , how he can bear around with him -- such a blank surface , which disgusts you sometimes and sometimes evokes a type of fleeting compassion , a blank surface which to your intellect might even look agreeable at some other time . <p> Well , my dear confidant , a person with age gets used to his exterior till in the end he feels responsible , as if once , at the very beginning of time , he carefully and after long deliberation chose it for himself . You , my beloved confidant , reproach your homely neighbors for how they look as well , disliking them for their wrong choice , their bad taste . <p> So how do I feel ? I wear this surface around with me like clothes from a Care package after the last war . I have a distance towards it as if it were a thing obtained by allotment , something somebody gave me one day and one day will take away . It 's my cap @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that is positive . <p> It seems to me that it 's not even mine , that it 's borrowed from somebody else . But at the same time in no way do I disown it ; gladly will I rise up in its defense , even to the very end -- though , in all honesty , I 'm also not all that particular about it . Sometimes I carry it with pride , succumbing to the delusion that to carry it is a more ambitious thing than to carry some other . Sometimes I regard it with malicious satisfaction when someone of importance to me feels repulsed for no apparent reason . Sometimes I am the one who is irritated , and then , just to tick it off , I imagine I am a tall and slender brunet with a captivating smile . <p> In a word , we live with ourselves loyally , but without love , without peaks or ravines , in a resignation-filled symbiosis , with a mutual understanding that these biological and metaphysical necessities are inescapable . <p> From " Saturday , the First @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an actor twenty-four hours a day . Wojtek is always an actor . Wojtek Siemion loves to recite poetry every free moment . He loves to declaim poetry for friends , passersby , even children . <p> When we were making Salto , one evening Siemion was eating supper in the Wroclaw Journalists ' Club . After dinner he mounted the orchestra podium and started declaiming Galczynski . He recited the entire evening . The room slowly emptied . Finally there was left only one group of a dozen or so gathered at some pushed-together tables . Siemion left the podium and approached the party . He was reciting only for them , for them and them alone , like a gypsy violinist , orbiting the pushed-together tables slowly . <p> Around midnight one of the revelers sheepishly turned around to the artist and spoke with an apologetic smile . <p> " We 're Russian . We do n't understand . " <p> From " How Sweet It Is to Be Maciej Slomczynski " -- Maciej Slomczynski , translator of Joyce " <p> I flew over this America like a bird @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ each time a different airline . Sometimes I flew for two hours , sometimes forty-five minutes , from Denver to Cheyenne only a quarter of an hour , and from such a perspective America looked small . A Belgium . At the most -- Poland . And certainly not diverse . Everywhere was the same , everywhere flat single-story homes scattered around the hill of the downtown . The real American America . If it ' s said that the cities of southern Asia are Americanized , what does this say about the cities of America ? <p> So I carried away an overwhelming sense of smallness . Even Manhattan as seen from New Jersey seemed tiny , a cozy little isle . <p> I romped through New York as if it were Lodz . Every few steps I met someone I knew . Never in Warsaw did I meet so many acquaintances in just a few days . <p> But by then I already had in my pocket my return plane ticket . Already I knew that in a determined amount of time I would fly off for home and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , my eyes cold and calculating , so that I would remember and in this remembering I could demonize myself , enlarge and idealize myself . And the perverseness of the lens of memory undoubtedly decreased the images , cheapened them so that there ended up being confiscated any baggage of mental souvenirs , any romanticized contraband for the unknown life that lay ahead . <p> I trudged from one corner of America to the other in order to meet Czeslaw Milosz . I do n't like making the acquaintance of famous people whom I respect and admire . I prefer to know them on my own terms , as if in secret . From books , from the screen , from sound . I am completely satisfied with such acquaintance and friendship . <p> But with Milosz it 's a little bit different . My relationship to him , this illustrious contemporary poet , contains elements of superstition and even a reverence bordering on the sacred . When I frequently gaze upon him through his books , through the barbed-wire entanglements of his poems , in my head are the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the chill of fear at forgetting the bottomless swamps in the middle of the forest which has no beginning and has no end , I have shivers inside me as if at a witch 's coven , but one driven out from among our oak trees and onto a foreign airport runway . <p> At one time I disliked Milosz not even knowing him . I heard the invective and insult hurled at him and lazily believed the slanders . Actually , I did know him a little already , because I did the copyediting for his Zagary reportage in Odrodzenie. ( 3 ) At the time he even fascinated and allured me , though later I forgot . Maybe I forgot on purpose , since he was for me -- though perhaps only for me -- in those essays a bit too squirish , too clever , and immediately I smelled in him a dandy or a teacher 's pet , the kind who have plagued me my entire life <p> And so I draped myself with distaste , and maybe even with contempt I listened with approbation to the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of putting up ideological resistance , I reached for the volume of Milosz 's essays . I read on , doing battle with the book to the very end , a life-and-death struggle . Sweaty , out of breath , my spine cracked opened , I was vanquished but did not surrender . And then afterwards came the poems , and then Native Realm , which I read like the Bible , like my own birth certificate , like my own medical chart , a book I 've read around seven times and know practically by heart but still ca n't repeat to anyone else , but which allows me to understand myself and my own fate -- imperfect , unbegun , unfinished . <p> I went through the throes of love and repulsion with this man , calling as if from that other world . Slowly , even I do n't know when , I adopted myself in his family , bound myself up with a usurped kinship . I started to toot his horn a little , to adopt various poses , to make chummy faces . <p> And @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I die . He 's a dandy and a teacher 's pet . A know-it-all and unpleasant snob . But thank God , thank Dewajtis , thank the devil , that he is at all . Whether he likes it or not , I ' 11 still suck from him the bitterness of our herbal brews , dewyne po trys , ( 4 ) supporting my own feeble life . <p> Across the breadth of America I swept towards him in secret , to kneel to the ground and for a moment to be silent in his presence . I never ceremoniously announced my arrival , I never wrote or called in order not to raise a big fuss . I wanted to meet him in a low-keyed , dignified manner , as on a journey where one expects nothing from a venerable stranger but his greetings . I crept then in agony across this legendary continent to the legendary and already beloved by me San Francisco Bay and its many visions , while on the way I turned over in my mind and acted out all at once a thousand @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In my thoughts a thousand times I offhandedly telephoned Milosz , a thousand times I bashfully approached him in the yards of Berkeley , a thousand times I greeted him in splendid Lithuanian or Belorussian . I imagined all his wisecracks and rejoinders , all the possible ways he could behave . <p> But there 's only one thing I did n't foresee . That he would simply avoid meeting me . It 's probably for the best .... <p> From " Saturday with Pain " <p> I 'm a foreigner in transit . I 'm only passing through . But somewhere else , on any other continent , in any other country , I 'm even more passing through . Here I can bear my own life in transit better than anywhere else . I 've become used to this spot , though I have n't grown down in it . I have n't sunk down roots , I have n't joined the bloodstream , I have n't synchronized my rhythm to the rhythm of the place . <p> Once I worked myself up in order to join in your @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and temperament . For you as well as me I faked pasfaces and gestures , ardor and temperament . For you as well as me I faked passionate commitment and emotional participation . But nothing came out of it . For you , or for me . <p> I 'm on the road . I no longer remember where I come from . I do n't know where I 'm going . But I do n't despise your life , I do n't take lightly your feverish , chaotic , inconstant ideas and moods . I do n't look down with superiority on your persistent struggles and chronic hungers , insanities and apathies . I treat them with respect , although they do n't touch me at all . At times I 've even desired to intervene , to come to your aid , but you did n't want this -- wrongly understanding me , my life , my intentions . But let me assure you . I 'm with you as much as I can be , which in terms of human values constitutes a lot . I 'm with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ may only be a neutron in the vast molecule of truth . I 'm with you when you shed blood , this sprinkling of life-giving matter , and you spill it for a freedom which may mean servitude for others . I 'm with you when you rip apart the shackles of your animal nature , the bonds keeping all your screws from coming loose . <p> Passing through , remaining here in transit , there 's nothing -- note this well -- from you that I require , nor do I set forth any demand . I 'll never even set the record straight about what you may think or say of me . I am , but it 's as if I was n't there . I 'm not about to confiscate your homes , your jobs , your medals , your places in pantheons , your creative material , your faiths , hopes , wives , or lovers . But hold your horses -- I 'm beginning to exaggerate . <p> TRANSLATOR 'S NOTES <p> 1 Most of the remaining part of the section " Thursday . No @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from Kalendarz i klepsydra , translated by Joanna Rostropowicz Clark , can be found in Contemporary Authors . Autobiography Series , ed . Mark Zadrozny , vol. 9 ( Detroit : Gale Research , 1989 ) . 123-35 . <p> 2 Kolumbowie is a book by another Polish author . Roman Bratny . <p> 3 Zagary was the name of a literary review founded in 1931 by a group of young poets and essayists who were students at the University of Wilno . The name later came to designate the group as well . According to Czeslaw Milosz in his The History of Polish Literature ( Berkeley : University of California Press , 1983 ) . the name was " borrowed from the Lithuanian for ' brushwood , ' or , in a more local meaning . for dry twigs half charred in fire but still glowing " ( 412 ) . The journal lasted until 1934 . <p> 4 Dievaitis in Lithuanian means a pagan god , especially a younger one or a helper of god . Lithuanian devyni po tris. or trejos devynerios , refers to a three-herb bitter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 
##1003157 Helen and Frida The Kenyon Review ; Summer 1994 ; 16 , 3 ; Research Library ## ANNE FINGER HELEN AND FRIDA ' M lying on the couch downstairs in the TV room in the house where I grew up , a farmhouse with sloping floors in upstate New York . I 'm nine years old . I 've had surgery , and I 'm home , my leg in a plaster cast . Everyone else is off at work or school . My mother re-covered this couch by hemming a piece of fabric that she bought from a bin at the Woolworth 's in Utica ( " Bargains ! Bargains ! Bargains ! Remnants Priced as Marked " ) and laying it over the torn upholstery . Autumn leaves -- carrot , jaundice , brick -- drift sluggishly across a liver-brown background . I 'm watching the Million Dollar Movie on our black and white television : today it 's Singing in the Rain . These movies always make me think of the world that my mother lived in before I was born , a world where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ padded shoulders as if they were in the army . My mother told me that in The Little Colonel , Shirley Temple had pointed her finger and said , " As red as those roses over there , " and then the roses had turned red and everything in the movie was in color after that . I thought that was how it had been when I was born , everything in the world becoming both more vivid and more ordinary , and the black-and-white world , the world of magic and shadows , disappearing forever in my wake . Now it 's the scene where the men in blue-jean coveralls are wheeling props and sweeping the stage , carpenters shouldering boards , moving behind Gene Kelly as Don Lockwood and Donald O'Connor as Cosmo . Cosmo is about to pull his hat down over his forehead and sing , " Make ' em laugh ... " and hoof across the stage , pulling open doors that open onto brick walls , careening up what appears to be a lengthy marble-floored corridor but is , in fact , a painted backdrop @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : not just from the mottled sofa I 'm lying on , but also from the orange wallpaper that looked so good on the shelf at Streeter 's ( and was only $1.29 a roll ) , the chipped , blue willow plate : everything 's black and silver now . I 'm on a movie set , sitting in the director 's chair . I 'm grown-up suddenly , eighteen or thirty-five . Places , please ! Quiet on the set ! Speed , the soundman calls , and I point my index finger at the camera , the clapper claps the board , and I see that the movie we are making is called " Helen and t 2 THE KENYON REVIEW Frida . " I slice my finger quickly through the air , and the camera rolls slowly forward toward Helen Keller and Frida Kahlo , standing on a veranda , with balustrades that appear to be made of carved stone , but are , in fact , made of plaster . The part of Helen Keller is n't played by Patty Duke this time ; there 's @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one hundred minutes , no grainy film stock , none of that Alabama sun that bleaches out every soft shadow , leaving only harshness , glare . This time Helen is played by Jean Harlow . Do n't laugh : set pictures of the two of them side by side and you 'll see that it 's all there , the fair hair lying in looping curls against both faces , the same broad-cheeked bone structure . Imagine that Helen 's eyebrows are plucked into a thin arch and penciled , lashes mascaraed top and bottom , lips cloisonned vermilion . Put Helen in pale peach mousseline de soie , hand her a white gardenia , bleach her hair from its original honey blond to platinum , like Harlow 's was , recline her on a Bombshell chaise with a white swan gliding in front , a palm fan being waved overhead , while an ardent lover presses sweet nothings into her hand . I play the part of Frida Kahlo . It is n't so hard to imagine that the two of them might meet . They moved , after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ radical : Helen Keller meeting Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford , joining the Wobblies , writing in the New York Times , " I love the red flag ... and if I could I should gladly march it past the offices of the Times and let all the reporters and photographers make the most of the spectacle .... " ; Frida , friend of Henry Ford and Sergy Eisenstein , painting a hammer and sickle on her body cast , leaving her bed in 1954 , a few weeks before her death , to march in her wheelchair with a babushka tied under her chin , protesting the overthrow of the Arbenz regime in Guatemala . Of course , the years are all wrong . But that 's the thing about the Million Dollar Movie . During Frank Sinatra Week , on Monday Frank would be young and handsome in It Happened in Brooklyn ; on Tuesday he 'd have gray temples and crow 's feet , be older than my father ; on Wednesday , be even younger than he had been on Monday . You could pour the different @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quick fold with the smooth edge of a spatula , the way my mother did when she made black-and-white marble cake from two Betty Crocker mixes . It would be 1912 , and Big Bill Haywood would be waving the check Helen had sent over his head at a rally for the Little Falls strikers , and you , Frida , would be in the crowd , not as a five-year-old child , before the polio , before the bus accident , but as a grown woman , cheering along with the strikers . Half an inch away , it would be August 31 , 1932 , and both of you would be standing on the roof of the Detroit Institute of the Arts , along with Diego , Frida looking up through smoked glass at the eclipse of the sun , Helen 's face turned upwards to feel the chill of night descending , to hear the birds greeting the midday dusk . Let 's get one thing straight right away . This is n't going to be one of those movies where they put their words into our mouths @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is n't going to blink back a tear when the doctors tell her they ca n't cure her after all , saying , " and I thought I was going to be able ## to get rid of these , " gesturing with her ridiculous rhinestone-studded , cats-eye dark glasses ( and we think , " Really , Jane , " ) ; she 's not going to tell Rock Hudson she ca n't marry him : " I wo n't have you pitied because of me . I love you too much , " and " I could only be a burden , " and then disappear until the last scene when , lingering on the border between death and cure ( the only two acceptable states ) , Rock saves her life and her sight and they live happily ever after . It 's not going to be A Patch of Blue : when the sterling young Negro hands us the dark glasses and , in answer to our question " But what are they for ? " says , " Never mind , put them on , " @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stone Medusa gaze , grateful for the magic that 's made us a pretty girl . This is n't Johnny Belinda ; we 're not sweetly mute , surrounded by an aura of silence . No , in this movie the blind women have milky eyes that make the sighted uncomfortable . The deaf women drag metal against metal , oblivious to the jarring sound , make odd cries of delight at the sight of the ocean , squawk when we are angry . So now the two female icons of disability have met : Helen , who is nothing but , who swells to fill up the category , sweet Helen with her drooping dresses covering drooping bosom , who is Blind and Deaf , her vocation ; and Frida , who lifts her skirt to reveal the gaping , cunt-like wound on her leg , who rips her body open to reveal her back , a broken column , her back corset with its white canvas straps framing her beautiful breasts , her body stuck with nails : but she ca n't be Disabled , she 's Sexual . @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ midst of a row with Diego , cropped off her jet black hair ( " Now see what you 've made me do ! " ) , and has schlepped herself to the ball in one of his suits . Nothing Dietrichish and coy about this drag : Diego wo n't get to parade his beautiful wife . Now she 's snatched up Helen and walked with her out here onto the veranda . In the other room , drunken Diego lurches , his body rolling forward before his feet manage to shuffle themselves ahead on the marble floor , giving himself more than ever the appearance of being one of those children 's toys , bottom-weighted with sand , that when punched , roll back and then forward , an eternal red grin painted on their rubber faces . His huge belly shakes with laughter , his laughter a gale that blows above the smoke curling up toward the distant , gilded ceiling , gusting above the knots of men in tuxedos and women with marcelled hair , the black of their satin dresses setting off the glitter of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 's drunken roar , will be added later by the Foley artists . Helen 's thirty-six . She 's just come back from Montgomery . Her mother had dragged her down there after she and Peter Fagan took out a marriage license , and the Boston papers got hold of the story . For so many years , men had been telling her that she was beautiful , that they worshiped her , that when Peter declared himself in the parlor at Wrentham , she had at first thought this was just more palaver about his pure love for her soul . But no , this was the real thing : carnal and thrilling and forbidden . How could you , her mother said . How people will laugh at you ! The shame , the shame . Her mother whisked her off to Montgomery , Peter trailing after 4 THE KENYON REVIEW the two of them . There her brother-in-law chased Peter off the porch with a good old southern shotgun . Helen 's written her poem : What earthly consolation is there for one like me Whom fate has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I shall have confidence as always , That my unfilled longings will be gloriously satisfied In a world where eyes never grow dim , nor ears dull . Poor Helen , waiting , waiting to get fucked in heaven . But not Frida . She 's so narcissistic . What a relief to Helen ! None of those interrogations passing for conversation she usually has to endure ( After the standard pile of praise is heaped upon her -- I 've read your book five , ten , twenty times , I 've admired you ever since ... come the questions : Do you mind if I ask you : Is everything black ? Is Mrs. Macy always with you ? ) No , Frida launches right into the tale of Diego 's betrayal , " ... of course , I have my fun , too , but one does n't want to have one 's nose rubbed in the shit ... , " she signs into Helen 's hand . Helen is delighted and shocked . In her circles , Free Love is believed in , spoken of solemnly , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do away with the sordid marketplace of prostitution , bourgeois marriage , where women barter their hymens and throw in their souls to sweeten the deal ; Helen has read Emma , she has read Isadora ; she believes in a holy , golden monogamy , an unfettered , eternal meeting of two souls-in-flesh . And here Frida speaks of the act so casually that Helen , like a timid schoolgirl , stutters : " You really ? I mean , the both of you , you ... ? " Frida throws her magnificent head back and laughs . " Yes , really , " Frida strokes gently into her hand . " He fucks other women and I fuck other men -- and other women . " " F-U-C-K ? " Helen asks . " What is this word ? " Frida explains it to her . " Now I 've shocked you , " Frida says . " Yes , you have .... I suppose it 's your Latin nature .... " I 'm not in the director 's chair anymore . I 'm sitting in the audience of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I 'm twenty-seven . When I was a kid , I thought being grown-up would be like living in the movies , that I 'd be Rosalind Russell in Sister Kenny , riding a horse through the Australian outback or that I 'd dance every night in a sleek satin gown under paper palms at the Coconut Grove . Now I go out to the movies , two , three , four times a week . The film cuts from the two figures on the balcony to the night sky . It 's Technicolor : the pale gold stars against midnight blue . We 're close to the equator now : there 's the Southern Cross , and the Clouds of Magellan , and you feel the press of the stars , the mocking closeness of the heavens as you can feel it only in the tropics . The veranda on which we are now standing is part of a colonial Spanish palace , built in a clearing in a jungle that daily spreads its roots and tendrils closer , closer . A macaw perches atop a broken Mayan statue and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ queen / I am queen . " A few yards into the jungle , a spider monkey shits on the face of a dead god . Wait a minute . What 's going on ? Is that someone out in the lobby talking ? But it 's so loud Dolores del Rio strides into the film , shouting , " Latin nature ! Who wrote this shit ? " She 's wearing black silk pants and a white linen blouse ; she plants her fists on her hips and demands : " Huh ? Who wrote this shit ? " I look to my left , my right , shrug , stand up in the audience and say , " I guess I did . " " Latin nature ! And a white woman ? Playing Frida ? I should be playing Frida . " " You ? " " Listen , honey . " She 's striding down the aisle toward me now . " I know I filmed that Hollywood crap . Six movies in one year : crook reformation romance , romantic Klondike melodrama , California romance , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chicle workers , romantic drama of the Russian revolution . I know David Selznick said : I do n't care what story you use so long as we call it Bird of Paradise and del Rio jumps into a flaming volcano at the finish . ' They could n't tell a Hawaiian from a Mexican from a lesbian . But I loved Frida and she loved me . She painted What the Water Gave Me ' for me . At the end of her life , we were fighting , and she threatened to send me her amputated leg on a silver tray . If that 's not love , I do n't know what is ? " I 'm still twenty-seven , but now it 's the year 2015 . The Castro 's still there , the organ still rises up out of the floor with the organist playing " San Francisco , open your Golden Gate .... " In the lobby now , alongside the photos of the original opening of the Castro in 1927 , are photos in black and white of lounging hustlers and leather queens , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the women 's room a few years later ( " If they can send men to the moon , why do n't they ? " Underneath , in Braille , Spanish , and English : " In the 1960s , the development of the felt-tip pen , combined with a growing philosophy of personal expression caused an explosion of graffiti .... Sadly unappreciated in its day , this portion of a bathroom stall , believed by many experts to have originated in the women 's room right here at the Castro Theatre , sold recently at Sotheby 's for $5 million .... " ) Of course , the Castro 's now totally accessible , not just integrated wheelchair seating , but every film captioned , a voice loop that interprets the action for blind people , over which now come the words : " As Dolores del Rio argues with the actress playing Frida , Helen Keller waits patiently ? " A woman in the audience stands up and shouts , " Patiently ! What the fuck are you talking about , patiently ? You ca n't tell the difference between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The stage is stormed by angry women , one of whom leaps into the screen and begins signing to Helen , " Dolores del Rio 's just come out and ? " " Enough already ! " someone in the audience shouts . " Ca n't we please just get on with the story ! " 6 THE KENYON REVIEW Now that Frida is played by Dolores , she 's long-haired again , wearing one of her white Tehuana skirts with a deep red shawl . She takes Helen 's hand in hers , that hand that has been cradled by so many great men and great women . " Latin nature ? " Frida says , and laughs , " I think perhaps it is rather your cold Yankee nature that causes your reaction .... " And before Helen can object to being called a Yankee , Frida says , " But enough about Diego ... " It 's the hand that fascinates Frida , in its infinite , unpassive receptivity : she prattles on . When she makes the letters z and j in sign , she gets to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . She so likes the sensation that she keeps trying to work words with those letters in them into the conversation . The camera moves in close to Helen 's hand as Frida says , " Here on the edge of the Yucatan jungle , one sometimes sees jaguars , although never jackals . I understand jackals are sometimes seen in Zanzibar . I have never been there , nor have I been to Zagreb nor Japan nor the Zermatt , nor Java . I have seen the Oaxacan mountain Zempoaltepec . Once in a zoo in Zurich I saw a zebu and a zebra . Afterwards , we sat in a small cafe and ate cherries jubilee and zabaglione , washed down with glasses of zinfandel . Or perhaps my memory is confused : perhaps that day we ate jam on zwieback crusts and drank a juniper tea , while an old Jew played a zither .... " " Oh , " says Helen . Frida falls silent . Frida , you painted those endless self-portraits , but you always looked at yourself level , straight on , in full @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is tilted , played over by shadows . In all those self-portraits , you are simultaneously artist and subject , lover and beloved , the bride of yourself . Now , here , in the movies , it 's different : the camera stands in for the eye of the lover . But you 're caught in the unforgiving blank stare of a blind woman . And now , we cut from that face to the face of Helen . Here I do n't put in any soothing music , nothing low and sweet with violins , to make the audience more comfortable as the camera moves in for its close-up . You understand why early audiences were frightened by these looming heads . In all the movies with blind women in them -- or , let 's be real , sighted women playing the role of blind women -- Jane Wyman and Merle Oberon in the different versions of Magnificent Obsession , Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark , Uma Thurman in Jennifer 8 , we 've never seen a blind woman shot this way before : never seen the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way it does here . We gaze at their faces only when bracketed by others , or in moments of terror when beautiful young blind women are being stalked . We 've never seen before this frightening blank inward turning of passion , a face that has never seen itself in the mirror , that does not arrange itself for consumption . Lack = inferiority ? Try it right now . Finish reading this paragraph and then close your eyes , push the flaps of your ears shut , and sit . Not just for a minute : give it five or ten . Not in that meditative state , designed to take you out of your mind , your body . Just the opposite . Feel the press of hand crossed over hand : without any distraction , you feel your body with the same distinctness as a lover 's touch makes you feel yourself . You fold into yourself , you know the rhythm of your ## breathing , the beating of your heart , the odd independent twitch of a muscle : now in a shoulder , now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ patient hunger . We cut back to Frida in close-up . But now Helen 's fingers enter the frame , travel across that face , stroking the downy mustache above Frida 's upper lip , the fleshy nose , the thick-lobed ears . Now , it 's Frida 's turn to be shocked : shocked at the hunger of these hands , at the almost feral sniff , at the freedom with which Helen blurs the line between knowing and needing . " May I kiss you ? " Helen asks . " Yes , " Frida says . Helen 's hands cup themselves around Frida 's face . I 'm not at the Castro anymore . I 'm back home on the fold-out sofa in the slapped-together TV room , watching grainy images flickering on the tiny screen set in the wooden console . I 'm nine years old again , used to Hays-office kisses , two mouths with teeth clenched , lips held rigid , pressing stonily against each other . I 'm not ready for the way that Helen 's tongue probes into Frida 's mouth , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ giving pleasure as in finding an answer in the emptiness of her mouth . I shout , " Cut , " but the two of them keep right on . Now we see Helen 's face , her wide-open eyes that stare at nothing revealing a passion blank and insatiable , a void into which you could plunge and never , never , never touch bottom . Now she begins to make noises , animal mewlings , and cries . I will the screen to turn to snow , the sound to static . I do not want to watch this , hear this . My leg is in a thick plaster cast , inside of which scars are growing like mushrooms , thick and white in the dark damp . I think that I must be a lesbian , a word I have read once in a book , because I know I am not like the women on television , with their high heels and shapely calves and their firm asses swaying inside of satin dresses waiting , waiting for a man , nor am I like the women @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ what else can there be ? I look at the screen and they are merging into each other , Frida and Helen , the dark-haired and the light , the one who will be disabled and nothing more , the other who will be everything but . I ca n't yet imagine a world where these two might meet : the face that does not live under the reign of its own reflection with the face that has spent its life looking in the mirror ; the woman who turns her rapt face up toward others and the woman who exhibits her scars as talismans , the one who is only , only and the one who is everything but . I will the screen to turn to snow . 