Notes on gravity and all things science…or not: when at the end of a long day, there is a bench in the hotel foyer which looks as if it is meant to be sat on…and under the end padded section of the bench, there is actually only air…and one is really tired…and one sits down on padded air…suddenly…wham! The floor is breached with panache and gumption.

The owner of the hotel comes running. The desk clerk comes running. A guest with a large dog comes running. A couple just entering the hotel observes that I am seated on the floor waiting to greet them.

The owner helped me up. The desk clerk, guest with dog, the couple…and others lingering in the area all slowly disappeared.

I’m fine.

Now, I’m going swimming. Wish me luck.

We grew more and more reluctant to leave our home as summer commenced, spending time instead moving slowly around the furniture, looking out the windows, cleaning out cupboard drawers and hidden shelving, folding laundry, or curled up in bed with stacks of books and documentaries about historical events long past.

We hid in the sanctuary of smaller spaces. The world outside loomed large and full of foolishness and malcontent. We had long since tired of it all.

Upon reflection one evening as the shadows moved languidly across the edges of the porch and the quiet energy of the neighborhood folded in on itself in early sleep, he stated it plainly. ‘Well, we tried this year. And we will keep on trying until we are finished. We all tried. We ran and will continue to run head on into the intractable system’.

Mid summer, in the heart of buttery sunshine…watching a neighbor teach his small son to ride a bike while knowing that the bee on the porch will not sting. The fat striped insect is drunk with sun and pollen and July air. He weaves and wobbles around the flowers, buzzing half heartedly.

I hear from the street, ‘Drift and hit the pedals, drift and hit the pedals…wrong driveway!’ The voices fade…

Who is wobbling? The bee? The child? Me?…

Next day…waking to the mournful sounds of geese coasting overhead. Overcast, grey…the mid-summer rains in the latter days of July are gentle and wisping. In these climes, in our northern land at the edge of the lake, winter keeps her finger on the pulse of summer.

Today she leans in with some stirring, a yawn…an eyelash flickers as she watches geese and fat bumblebees flitting and flying…disappearing over soaked ground, heading toward loaded raspberry bushes and the winds of August…

‘Hello there!’ Her voice boomed through the northern end of the phone…reminiscent of an early morning foghorn rolling out over the warm waters of the Currituck Sound. I moved the phone away from my ear. Glory.

‘Hi. I’d like to ask a couple of questions…’ ‘Absolutely, absolutely. I’m going to present all the information…ALL the information so you can be fully informed and it can be delivered to your house by Friday. I would NEVER leave you uninformed’. ‘I’…’I’…I was quickly cut off by the rumbling blast of the foghorn. ‘I’m going to explain it all to you RIGHT now’ she said. ‘And insurance will NOT cover any of this. It is 100% out of pocket. Out. Of. Pocket. You get what you pay for…you know that. You GET what you pay for’.

I placed the phone on the armrest, folded my hands and sat there as the diatribe began. She read from a script. Three times. I angled the phone and tried again…’what is the final cost? The monthly payment?’ She bellowed, ‘okay, I’ll go over it AGAIN…’ ‘No, I already have…’ but she was off…full sails, steaming ahead with great aplomb, determined to make it happen. She started in on the script a fourth time and then thought better of it…’And WHERE are you from?’ ‘I…I’m from New York’. ‘Oh!’ she sang out loudly. ‘I love my New Yorkers. I LOVE my New Yorkers. Upstate or the city?’ She paused for a mili-second and I jumped in. ‘Um, upstate’.

‘Fantastic!’ she roared, and proceeded with a comprehensive list of all the weather possibilities in our area, including hurricanes, but I couldn’t jump fast enough to correct her…for her ship’s bow was headed due north…stiff breezes blowing and there was no room for corrections. Hurricanes don’t appear in upstate, but the mealy truth was sacrificed for speed, zeal, nautical knots.

I noticed the armrest where I had placed the phone, vibrating ever so slightly as she surged forth again. ‘You are a marvelous daughter, an EXCELLENT daughter for calling about this. Did you know 85% of our calls are from daughters, looking out for parents? God bless you…’ ‘Well, I…that’s good…I…’ and she was back at it. Back on script. I looked wistfully at my note pad. I had all this information. I had jotted notes at the speed of sound in order to keep up. I HAD ALL this information but she was circling around again, preparing to dive bomb or perhaps run aground ( my nautical terms were confused by this point).

The sale would be made…it WOULD be made and it WOULD be at my house, at my very front door by Friday…by FRIDAY…for activation and follow through! By FRIDAY!…wasn’t it marvelous? The best! And did I remember I was a fantastic daughter?

I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the clock. 28 minutes. 28 minutes of my life. Gone. Lost at sea. Drowned. I spoke feebly. ‘I need to run this by my…’ the last life preserver was snatched away. ‘Oh no, no…we need to make this happen now…NOW…’

I sat back and looked out at my porch through the window. Dry land. There it was…precious, sacred…quiet dry land. I looked back at my exhausted phone, my eyes landing on the beautiful shiny red button at the southern end of the device. End call. I picked up the phone and stared at the screen…mad sounds roared out through the device…no, she would never stop. She was moving toward the gathering of financial information. Wouldn’t I just help her out by telling her whether or not I was using a debit or credit card? The water rushed in, breakers pulling me under…I was up against her shoals of sound…

I picked up the phone and pressed the blessed red button. In an instant…her ship sank beneath waves of silence…

Back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, with the white tips of the sailboats at the horizon’s edge…heading for Canada. Lake water, sun burnt skin, ice cream and tobacco smells mingle with old carousel wood.

One hundred years the carousel organ grinds out tunes…the nation’s voice soaked in lake brine and rain storms and snow gales…no one wants to be there in the winter as we chat, safely inland over bowls of chili and boxes of Valentine chocolate.

And suddenly, we are back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, and we never did really. Five years old again with melting flip flops and the organ grinds on…playing the national tune in June…playing the national tune while we watch the sky in July…

It fell among the dreams of samba and beach and the eternal sand…between toes, in the bags and the car and clothing. It was the final loosening of the tightly bound year, the edge of not knowing…the news which was always, always bad.

The road wobbled and peeled away…a few days more…and then oblivion and heat…wide swatches of nothing and clarity and salted sun toasted skin…

“Look. Look up there! Look up there at the moon. There’s someone up there, right now…walking on the moon. Can you see him?’

The brilliant orb shone in a gum tar black sky…down onto the small patch of warm cement in front of our home. I danced and hopped in bare feet; avoiding small pebbles and late night bugs. Up and down. Back and forth. Left foot, right foot. Dad held baby brother up on his shoulder, pointing his fat little chin up, upwards toward the sky while he wobbled and nodded, cooing as the moon glinted off his wide open eyes.

Something was different. Late at night; after 10pm, even later. We had already been in bed and now we were gathered outside. I wore a pinafore top; red with white polka dots and yellow straps. The short ruffled pajama pantaloons matched in bright yellow. I pulled on my braids and stared curiously at the darkened yard. Barefoot at night on cooling cement; in pajamas. Peculiar.

‘There’s a man up there, right now…walking around!’ Dad and Mom tried valiantly to describe the marvelous absurdity of the historical moment. ‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon’. I stared up into the darkness until dizzy; my head tipped way back. The moon lady combed out her hair, spreading silver tresses over the cooling land below; or was it the smiling man in the moon laughing at us or was it all just made out of green cheese anyway?

I skipped and stubbed my toes on the dark roughened cement. Baby brother began fussing and wobbling some more. It was later and later and the tired fireflies dotted the front lawn. I squinted and thought I could finally see the man walking on the moonscape and the American flag. ‘I see him, I see him!’ We all laughed and I said it again. ‘He’s walking around up there. I do see him, I do!’

The bugs circled ferociously, seeking thin ankle skin and bare arms and chubby pink baby flesh. The wind settled and it was time to go in. Dad stated quietly, ‘It will be on television. We can watch tomorrow. CBS and Cronkite…’ his voice drifted off. We stepped back into the porch, trooping off to bed. The moon watched silently and silver; resting over the land, the night, the earth…

I asked the three year old what her favorite color was and she responded, ‘Cake!’.

I approve.

Then, there was a can of mushroom soup which landed gently, surprisingly on top of a laundry pile, early in the morning. The baby spent the duration of yesterday in our home, wandering around seeing fit to move a number of canned goods from the pantry to new and more exciting locations.

Actually, who set the standard for the location of canned mushroom soup anyway?

As easily in the cupboard as on a pile of laundry, I say…

I see your figure seated on the edge of my bed in that century old Berlin bedroom in that ancient and violent city…shadowing up against those floor to ceiling windows. I look out through the pane of glass which opens out onto the cobblestone street below…Reichenberger Strasse where jackboots marched decades earlier; this thieving city.

You are an unwelcome guest, after I welcomed you; and yet now you have made yourself at home; sitting too close, far too close to my bowl of scattered, unworn jewelry. As I watch the sinking tired orange rays settle and widen out over the edge of the building across the way…I know it’s gone. It’s all gone. I know it is gone…as I lean up against that ragged door jamb, toes curled in anger…into that old and dusty carpet.

I have no proof, save that which would emerge with sheer physical force and I can not do that.

I see you and you see me and we both know that we both know that you have stolen from me. You have stolen from me. And…I should, I should , and I really should confront you, but I am raised in a certain way and as I stare blatant theft in the face…polite society does not allow me to wring your bloody neck.

And…my rings are gone. That is that then. And I lean up against that old door jamb in that ancient city…

When I get dressed and leave the house, I don’t accomplish much. Or at least, I don’t feel that I do. Everything is ‘in reaction to’ and ‘defense mechanisms on high alert’. When I stay in my pajamas and direct everything from Command Central, also known as my bed…I take on the world and accomplish much.

I have my pens, paper, books, phone, laptop, remote control, flash drive and something to drink and snack on.

I read somewhere that Sir Winston Churchill directed a large portion of World War II from his bed.

This is a man I understand. Carry on…