Words cannot describe how thankful we are … people we don’t know are donating to the Maxwell Bodenheim Kickstarter campaign, and the other day, we just had a HUGE donation!
BUT we still have $843 left to go before our goal is met, AND we have 20 days left.
Everyone, this is more than money … Paul and I are also trying to spread the word about this brilliant Jazz Age novelist and poet who lived most of his life in Greenwich Village (New York City) and used to be famous from the 1920s-1930s, but sadly left this planet at the hands of a killer, in desolation and obscurity.
Check out the full story on Bodenheim if I have successfully piqued your interest …
Love with her was pure irrationality and perfection in one sweeping, sudden fury.
The lancia boat I was lying inside on my back teetered side-to-side, creaking like trees moving by the wind’s hand. I felt the ancient splinters vying for my salt-dried skin. The sea splashed over the side of the boat, tickling my limbs, reminding me with each tongue of water that I was amongst the rawness of the sea, which could take me at any moment in one swipe. The sea reminding me of my immortality instigated the memory of Valentina. I closed my eyes, seeing her petal silk lips whispering if love, if love, if love, over, and over again until our lips were inches apart, almost kissing. Almost. It almost happened. Then I saw her hands dousing creamy white lotion onto my skin. Her hands pined for my skin. But she had already faded into a memory, as if what happened between us occurred many years ago, when it was only days ago. There was still more of her I had yet to experience; I feared this, and yet it thrilled me at the same time. She lingered, waiting for me to take the next step. One part of me wanted her to disappear, but never too far away from reach.
Harper and August cruise down Ocean Blvd strip.
Car lights flash, clap, flash.
The two roll down their windows. Harper looks over briefly at August whose head hangs out the window.
Harper smiles. The first.
The honking riffraff bursts the sensual ocean whisper and salt breeze.
Get. Some. Lotus. In. Your. Life.
A fire romps within the dwellings of a kept creature, I, a lost girl influenced by the masses, a timeless roaring rage to keep purity alive all in the name of doing what is right. Life seems long when the years trickle into a puddle, merging with otherness into sameness. It’s the acceptance of hiding which makes life normal. Sameness, hiding, long, acceptance.
I felt, I thought, I ceased. Time decayed after her.
The word lust is too sturdy and clear; whatever it was, it felt fragile and hazy in my bones and mind, as if for the past month I wandered lost in a foreign nightclub.
Emerson said in Nature, “A man is a God in ruins.”
I am a broken statue— Donatello’s muse project gone wrong— mind chipped and irreparable.
But I come back to her, if even just in memory, and then I am whole.
I awaited during the lazy morning for this isolation. While all the others padded the stone courtyard musing upon their fresh pressed orange juice and tales of the crinkly-faced sun villagers who adore old lawless Virgil, I paced in a total wreck of a mood to get out.
The asters and carnations blooming near the eating table angered me for their sweet beauty that lived just for the sake of living and nothing else. The sun, always the sun out and about, irritated me, as the pits of my white shirt were already soaked through. Trickling water from the gold fiori water spout pulled at my chest as the water made its way to an idle, content state in the lilypad pond. My breathing became aware of me. I couldn’t swallow the grapefruit topped with sugar. The orange juice tasted dull.
Mother what is it?
My tongue pressed the backs of the front teeth in detest of… mater, mētēr, madre, mother. They contemplated me as if I were crazy or sick. Well, perhaps I am both.
I part her name with my heart.
I stare at her star eyes beneath my eyelids.
I unhook the stiff parte superiore del costume da bagno
“You’ll kill me if you stop.” -André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name
Do you remember a time when a tan sun speckled mound– barely high to you and I but a pyramid to them– stuck to the heat griddle sidewalk of mid-August and caught your eye? And when you kneeled to the ground without a care for your scarred kneecaps hitting the radiating heat, a line or maybe just a few black garden ants carried on with their duties, oblivious to you and your wondering eyes. Perhaps you let them be, or maybe you covered the hole that led to their queen, and later wondered, and then cried about how you could do such a thing to these creatures whom had no care as to whether you watched their duties or not.
You rode bikes, perhaps with a friend known from birth or older brothers, down the bumbling grass-filled hills and rolling fertile soil of the local park at deep summer when the sun simmered to a disk in twilight. And joyously running past you feeling the wet grass underneath their potato paw pads were dogs of all kinds: an aging beagle with a tunnel bark, prancing golden retriever pups, the neighborhood american bulldog with a single patch around its eye, and a lost but newly found terrier mix. You may have made up a story in your head about journeying in perilous Mayan jungles with guardian lion canines galloping alongside to freedom. The sounds of the penetrating caty-bugs zip-zip-zipping guided you home. The caty-bugs stuck their thrumming bodies to the screen door to let you in.
The same friend known from birth swore her stuffed animals came to life when she left the room. You believed her naturally, so you set Snowy the snow leopard on the kitchen counter top next to a bowl of water. You left for a few hours to play dolls and cars with the friend. Later on in the lazy heated afternoon when tossing back and forth Nips the beanie baby, you realized the stuffed animal was still alone. Both of you raced through the hallway and stopped abruptly before the kitchen. You peered around the corner to catch the first glimpse of real magic. Snowy’s face was dunked in the cool water. The rest of her long body rested still on the counter top.
You accidentally threw your dog’s favorite tennis ball over the white brick wall that seemed taller than the Great Wall of China. It landed, to your dismay, in the elusive neighbor’s backyard. The ball landed in that particular backyard because the universe has a knack to stir random acts into sorrowful, happy ends. Your dog must have penetrated you with the same adoring eyes from day one of her rescue, questioning where her most absolutely adored ball went. It is behind your back. Surely it is! She pleaded with her eyes. No. It was not behind your back, nor was it slyly resting in one of your palms. You considered jumping the wall, which was standard protocol back in the rough-n-tumble days. It seemed different then. As you grew up, the world appeared more daunting and regulated, thus influencing your decisions. So you told your dog you’d be right back, and sprinted out the front door. You slowed to a walking pace to not appear… odd… You approached the front porch step of the elusive neighbor, telling yourself it was worth it in the name of your dog’s most favorite tennis ball. He answered in his robe and hair pulled back in a pony tail. “Yes?” I said, “Hello, I accidentally threw my dog’s tennis ball in your backyard. Would you please get it for me?” He said, “Yeah, yeah.” and slammed the door. Your dog never got her most favorite tennis ball back.
Prose autore, poet of the Modernist Era, womanizer, lifelong starving Bohemian artist in Greenwich Village, and deemed “too beat” by Ginsberg: Maxwell Bodenheim.