Ecosystems

Late Notes On June

Could there be a better metaphor than the reflecting pool fiasco? First just the fact that we have a huge narcissist who can’t leave a reflection pool alone.

The deep problem is to not understand that there are ecosystems everywhere, and that means there are consequences to the most benign actions.

He wanted the reflecting pool to be blue, so he had it painted. Now it was too light to reflect. Worse, there was an algae bloom in response to the change in water temperature, which made the whole thing green. They poured in chemicals to kill the algae, and these were corrosive enough to peel the paint off the bottom of the pool, so big chunks of it float to the surface.

And it reflects him. Swamp thing.

I don’t watch a lot of basketball, but I thought it would be fun to watch the game the night that turned out to be one of the most exciting games in history, where the Knicks came back from 29 point behind and won in the final minutes. The ball had bounced away from the basket and a hand reached up and tapped it and somehow, it went in. The crowd went insane. The celebrities made faces of amazement, reflecting our amazement at home. Outside the window the city honked and shouted and someone set off fireworks, and on the news the city went wild. A tiny tap with colossal consequences. Very satisfying.

Then for the final game we had tickets to a burlesque show at the Coney Island Side Show, friends were in it. It was a comedy show and was hilarious and wonderful, and it let out in time for us to watch the end of the game with a bunch of people, still in the Coney Island Side Show, on someone’s iPad. It was fun to be with friends and strangers when the Knicks came through. We added our hollers to the general eruption.

Another story of mine came out, Working Dogs. It’s flash fiction and is in Flash Fiction Magazine. I love flash fiction, often defined as under a thousand words, and not just because like most people, my attention span has shrunk. I also like it because it is close to poetry. Close to poetry, but fiction. So, usually, a story. Closer to poetry the shorter you go, but still, fiction.

Happiness studies show over and over that what matters is the quality of your relationships. I think it’s also true for fiction. I like plot, but insight into the quality of imagined relationships is also great fiction. People are strange and if you invent one, they have to be strange in their own, yet believable, way. Once invented, you discover what they want and the story is about how they try to get it.

My Working Dogs story is about a woman finding a dog abandoned at the dog park. She takes him home. He’s restless, so she sings to him and he relaxes. When she sings one of her mother’s songs, the dog magically falls asleep. It works the next night too.

She turns out to be the daughter of a rock star mother who never quite made it big. She had one hit and her daughter sang on it, and so was famous at eleven, a tiny thing with a mop of blond curls. That’s the song the dog falls asleep to. In therapy what she talks about is the unlived life of her mother. The dog makes her think about her past, but she’s no longer alone; he makes her happy.

At the very end of the story, another working dog shows up. Friends visiting are so impressed by the dog that they want one too. One of these friends happens to have accidentally killed another kid, when he was a kid. He still feels guilt and shame over it and tells anyone who he talks to for very long. To everyone, he’s the guy who shot a kid when he was a kid. He gets a Great Dane and becomes the guy with the huge dog.

The four of us went to the Pride parade as we have done for many years running now. We hoot and holler for the people as they march by. Bowen Yang rolled by in a decorated car. He waved and we went, “Wooo!” Major contingents of the gays of various banks marched by and we gave them love. We wore buttons and waved flags. Then we ate. Then we walked over to the Pride street fair, a symphony of rainbows. Then John went to the movies and the three of us who felt like going home, went home.

My Alexa says the temperature is 95, feels like 110! John just came in with the dog and says it’s fine out, not that bad, there’s even a breeze, not a cool breeze, but not a hot breeze either.

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The Five Points issue with my story came out too. Mine is not online, but it’s a great issue, if you get a chance to read it.

Journals have personalities and they’re usually hard to describe, you just have to read them and get a feel for it. If you want a shortcut, try Amy Holman’s What Where: Literary Journals, most recently on Ploughshares.

If you want to see some writing about me, check out this piece by poet Linda Stern on poet David M. Katz’s substack.

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Okay cats and cowboys, as always, I’m touched that you came by. Stay cool and I shall return to encourage us again.

love,

Jennifer