good read? or no! new with wheelchair

[Deleted]

a rough first draft for a section in my new book - fallen fruit

Profusions of flowers became an expectation rather than a surprise, generous displays an everyday extravagance in our adopted city of soft sea breezes. Great baskets of flowers hang from storefronts, they spill out into the streets from corner vendor stalls at busy intersections, and crowd jardinieres standing sentry at entryways of smart buildings downtown all through the winter. Even the pedestrian population is perma-peppered with bouquets in arms, the faithful carrying their floral finds home, like precious light from the church on Greek Easter.

This ever blooming culture permeated our residence and our relationship in equal measure. A shared tradition of fresh flowers came to grace our home and our bond together; from farmers market growers bunches of snap dragons and lupine to urban sophisticate juxtapositions of Japanese iris and tulips. and such Every week a new floral tribute was presented to me to complete the ritual by arranging the new flowers in a vase and placing them on view. This weekly flower renewal cycle was a steady heartbeat in our union for many many years.

But then, suddenly there were no flowers Just as suddenly there were no words. Which went first? The flowers? Or was it the other way around? No matter, it came to the same end. There were no flowers and there were no words.

Well, there were no longer enough words to string together into something resembling conversation. The modicum of transactional utterances now afforded failed to reach the threshold of real human interaction. That was over. My status as a person had been revoked and I was reduced to a task, and a rather unpleasant task at that.
All relational components of interaction were obliterated, dead and buried.

The only remaining cache of words remaining for me were words as weapons. He could find the words to threaten, intimate, and demean. For abandonment anxiety, “I'm just about done with you.” Eroding self image and confidence salvo , “You contribute nothing to this relationship.” The mantra of abuse had to be, ”I hate my life,'' with the inescapable implication that it was not his own charmed existence he hated; but mine. A masterfully veiled death threat, made terrifying by frequency of repetition. These word assault arrows would be drawn from the abuse quiver and delivered with force of tone whenever context offered maximum injury to my vital organs of domestic security, self-valuing, and even survival.

[Ath]

I want to know why there are no flowers...

I like it but oh so many complicated words! I cant glance trough it but have to really concentrate

[Deleted]

thanks for comments
it is out of context
28yr yr relationship
m.s. put me in wheelchair
ab bf becomes abusive last 2yrs
will post back cover book description

[Deleted]

“fallen fruit” reveals powerful personal truths. The dream was strong; lived well and lived long. But that made the harsh demise of the relationship almost too painful to believe. Each page discloses another layer of compelling experiences innovatively expressed through prose-reflections paired with contemporaneous-poetry. This book is more than one person's purge. It is a clarion call. May all survivors of mental, emotional, and physical abuse find the courage of voice to write the wrongs suffered at the hands of those they adored.

[Deleted]

thanks to the people who took a look
thanks for the thumbs up
especially thanks for the comments  

[Deleted]

posting here made me aware of the chair - that it needed more prominent inclusion - so here is a re do with wheelchair in the book description and this excerpt -


“fallen fruit” reveals powerful personal truths. The dream was strong; lived well and lived long. But a disabling degenerative disease and a wheelchair led to a harsh demise of the relationship. Each page discloses another layer of compelling experiences innovatively expressed through prose-reflections paired with contemporaneous-poetry. This book is more than one person's purge. It is a clarion call. May all survivors of mental, emotional, and physical abuse find the courage of voice to write the wrongs suffered at the hands of those they adored.



loud silence
 
Profusions of flowers became an expectation in our adopted city of soft sea breezes. Great baskets of flowers hang from storefronts; they spill out into the streets from corner vendor stalls at busy intersections. Large pots of flowers stand sentry at smart buildings downtown. Even the pedestrian population is garnished with bouquets in arms; the faithful carrying their floral finds home, like precious light from the church on Greek Easter.

An everyday extravagance of fresh flowers came to grace our home and our bond together. Farmers market grower’s bunches of snapdragons and lupine gave way, over the years, to urbane arrangements of Japanese iris and tulips. Every week a new floral tribute was presented to me. This weekly flower renewal ritual was a steady heartbeat in our union for many, many years.

But then, suddenly there were no flowers. Just as, suddenly, there were no words. Which were uprooted first? The flowers? Or was it the other way around? No matter. It came to the same end. There were no flowers and there were no words.

A once healthy ecosystem of communication, with easy dialog and quick banter, perished in a rapid climate change of abuse. Words withered on the vine. There were no longer enough words to blossom into something resembling conversation. The spare modicum of transactional utterances now afforded me failed to reach the threshold of real human interaction. That was over. My status as a person had been revoked and I was reduced to a mere task in a wheelchair. All relational components of interchange were obliterated, dead and buried.

The remaining cache of words directed at me were words as weapons. He whetted the words to threaten, intimidate, and demean. For heightening abandonment anxiety: “I'm just about done with you.” His salvo for eroding self-image and confidence: “You contribute nothing to this relationship.” His new, venomous, mantra: “I hate my life,” carried the inescapable implication that it was not his own charmed existence he hated, but my already disability-diminished life that was despised for its drain on him. These word-assault-arrows were drawn from the abuse quiver and delivered with thorny force of tone whenever context offered maximum injury to my vital organs of domestic security, self-valuing, and, even, survival.

The silence loomed louder and louder, amplified by a lens of social isolation. Gathering with friends for casual dinner parties lapsed. Inevitably, invitations from others dwindled and then stopped. I was deemed a detriment to his image at office parties or celebrations and award events. The wheelchair would stand in stark contrast to the silhouettes of the able-bodied. Even my usual birthday dinners “out” were hijacked by mundane home deliveries to hide me from the public view. Eventually, extreme low visibility was achieved. Everything made as if I were not here at all. Would it even matter if I were'nt?

[RyooT]

I like this second draft much better than the first - it engages me more emotionally. I guess that's why I didn't respond the first time around; I liked the first version in it's starkness, like I may like a solitary rose in a completely empty space, but it's analytic detachedness left me cold. Funny how that is sometimes.

I think the same is true for the back cover piece - I find it too aloof. It sounds like it is written by a critical reviewer ABOUT the story. IMHO, it does not read like an introduction to the story designed to engage the reader and entice him or her to follow you on this journey.

These are just my observations...

[Deleted]

Jun 20, 2013 12:40:56 GMT -5 RyooT said:

I like this second draft much better than the first - it engages me more emotionally. I guess that's why I didn't respond the first time around; I liked the first version in it's starkness, like I may like a solitary rose in a completely empty space, but it's analytic detachedness left me cold. Funny how that is sometimes.

I think the same is true for the back cover piece - I find it too aloof. It sounds like it is written by a critical reviewer ABOUT the story. IMHO, it does not read like an introduction to the story designed to engage the reader and entice him or her to follow you on this journey.

These are just my observations...

valuable input - thanks
the book description is to the formula of publishing house
good to know that it doesn't work now
think a brief literary review may be better  
stop back to see the poem that l will pair with this prose

[Deleted]

here is the companion poem
(I was a swimmer before `a wheeler )


swimming in silence

easy exertion
tight twist
and a kick
 
propel smooth
slice across
deep water
 
it just comes
like meditation
swimming

 I know well
practiced skills
staying afloat  

but crawl stroke
fails me now
sink or swim
 
in your pool
of silence
for me
 
swimmer's sole
a stone
upon this water
 
 
 
 
 

[Deleted]

English is not my first language so yes, the words are a bit heavy for me but everyone has different reading preferences and I am sure there is someone who can understand it all...for me it just feels so sad...

[Deleted]

dani
your English is fine
in a word - sad
you got it

and the good things
publishing those sad words
helps me get over being sad
and $ will go to overcome abuse

[Max]

Curran, your writing skills are fine, but would you perhaps consider using capitals and punctuation marks? It's a bit hard to read the way it is now.
Other than that, keep writing

[Deleted]

hey max
sorry
secondary progressive m s
leaves me only limited use of left hand
(I am r h )
takes extraordinary effort to get out what I do
get help from others to clean up stuff for publishing
hope you will bare with me
thanks

[Max]

Ah, I understand. Don't worry, I will bare with you

[Deleted]

for dani & max
not so sad
caps / punctuation

this is an earlier excerpt of fallen fruit - pre wheelchair and abuse
companion poem follows

Some say this island isn't warm even when it's warm.  But not today.  Today the full force of August washed my face with the luxury of warmth. And so it was for the two of us, basking in our good fortune to be together in this rustic island enclave. Our bright clear love shone hot as the morning sun on my face. Today everything conspired in the fiction that this is how things are and how they will always be.

I found myself more restless than rested in the white rope hammock, a gift to commemorate our tieing the knot. The impulse for repose was genuine, just short lived. Actually, it was kind of a trick mounting the hammock without doing a 360 and ending up dumped out, ass on the grass. It seems that even rest was work at Sea Cliff Farm. Once managed, I stretched out for a moment and contemplated the ripening apples overhead; King Luscious, an ancestor of the modern day Red Delicious, or so I was told. Before I fully settled into the hammock, the large expanse of open meadow toward the pond summoned me. Time to start mowing. Where attention strayed, feet soon followed. It took a lot of work to create such a convincing illusion of leisure.

Truth be told, my comfort zone was probably more closely aligned to riding that mower with a French sounding name, rather than lounging in the hammock. The grass was a bit more manageable now that the rains had stopped for the summer. But even so, mowing the whole four acres was a real chore. Reframing the task as a mowing meditation helped numb me to the monotony. Strange how mowing this piece of ground gave me a sense of domain somehow, carving this patch of civilization from the surrounding timbered twenty five acres. At least while I sat high in the saddle of that Poulan.

These were the days of radiance. I was lucky to have had two great loves in my life; t߾the man and this property. How lucky I was. How extremely lucky.



the breath of summer

the breath of summer fills the house
french doors - arms open wide
welcoming light and warmth

pear trees brilliant with white blooms
each one a bridal bouquet
the meadow a study in white
crisp white sheets on the line
vestments of summer

the grass already shorn like spring sheep
bursting buds on apple trees ache with promise
of the pink profusion to come
legions of foxglove plants edge the drive
exponential daily growth will create
waves of wild flowers
to usher visitors up to the house
within the month