Tomasino Blog

Lemonberry Shantyball. The nonsense words creep back into his head, sticking this way and that like a burr on his jacket. Sometimes they form into a shape or an idea. Other times the syllables knock around against each other, driven to a pulp of legato chortles; a languid, sonorous goulash. Goulash is a good word too. It makes a lot of wonderful shapes in your mouth. You can almost taste the word. It tastes nothing like a goulash, though. Surprising.

His mouth moves silently, stretching over the playful shapes and hiding a hint of smile. A bit of dust from the road kicks up until he can taste it on his tongue. It’s sour. The smile turns to a grimace but his legs don’t stop. The march continues.

Damp air reminds him of the river nearby, and to be watchful for slick rocks. Slowly, like a great behemoth set into motion after eons of corroded stillness, his eyes drift up from his feet and see his trail. He’s seen it before—rocks, trees, flora and insects—maybe not here exactly, but it’s all the same. The sun sprays its light across the verdant sea, callously optimistic in its glimmer, indifferent to precision or purpose, all-encompassing and definitive. A frame of trees—spruce or pine or some such weald—envelops a painting brought to life. Colors fall out of the sky and pour across the ground, highlighting every shrub and brush as if it were a quotation to be noted and studied. The vale is completely still but for the fluttering of the tiniest wings, flashes of bright yellow over indigo and violet. Pristine silence pounds the earth in altitonal crescendos, as if Peace were trying to punch him in the face. He’s seen it all before.

Eyes are spared a moments energy then fall back to rest in their place. The march continues. Lemonberry Shantyball wraps its delicate phonemes in transcendent colors as it wiggles its way back into his head.

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A morbid haze drifted vapidly through the park impregnating the space below the old oaks. Spanish moss stretched its fingers forth trying to grasp at the wet earth below like some bygone lover just out of reach. Lamplight moiled and mashed its way futilely against the mists, giving each small spark the eerie quality of melting into darkness, serving only to heighten awareness of the deepness of the night.

Somewhere nearby a heart beat steadily with silent rhythm. Each percussive throb felt infinitesimally through the deep currents of air that linked them by blood, its sweet cadence calling to him.

Blood, vilely profane and alluring in its concupiscent vivacity. Blood, tantalizing, forbidden, safeguarded beneath lusciously corpulent flesh. But no, not a delicacy cured in spices, the salty taste is just diaphoretic nervousness, human and natural. A nervousness deserved. A nervousness earned by nights like this.

In the mists light doesn’t touch the flesh, doesn’t reflect off turgid irises or the enamel of teeth. The light knows to keep to itself and haunt its own corner of the world. The mists belong to something else.

The palpitations grew stronger as passing zephyrs carried with them the hint of iron and danger. Disgust filled his throat with bile even while the temptation grew hot in his eyes. Covet, want, need, thirst; and the seductiveness was everything. Understanding fell away and with it the revulsion. At last, minacity had met moment in lustful surrender.

Somewhere in the mists, lips parted for a lovers embrace while far overhead, a full moon smoldered.

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When I lived in Indiana, one semester at IUPUI I had a four hour break between classes on Tuesdays. Back then, the Indianapolis Museum of Art was free, so I would spend my afternoons there with a pencil and a Moleskine. I would sit for a few hours in front of one of the paintings and let my mind wander in it for a while. Then I would take my notebook and write a quick story, scene, narrative, or stream-of-consciousness from deep inside. This is one of those journals.

Childe Hassam – Cliff Rock – Appledore, 1903

There was no landing here. The river was wild and the rocks sharp. To leave the safety of the captain’s narrow path would mean death for all of them. It wasn’t the cliffs jutting up high into the air on either side that they were watching with such fearful vigilance. No, the river ran wide with plenty of room to maneuver. The real worry was the shallow rocks lurking just below, invisible, like diamonds in a pool; they were scattered pins dropped in a carpet, threatening to prick from the quiet, murky depths.

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When I lived in Indiana, one semester at IUPUI I had a four hour break between classes on Tuesdays. Back then, the Indianapolis Museum of Art was free, so I would spend my afternoons there with a pencil and a Moleskine. I would sit for a few hours in front of one of the paintings and let my mind wander in it for a while. Then I would take my notebook and write a quick story, scene, narrative, or stream-of-consciousness from deep inside. This is one of those journals.

Mary Shepard Greene Blumenschein – Louisa Fletcher, 1912

She stepped back against the curtained wall for added support. Her hands were trembling slightly still from the excitement of it all. He was handsome, yes, but he was something more. He engaged her. He was direct. She was an equal.

His eyes spoke of a hidden power, like a wild lion buried under his gentlemen demure. She wanted him, that was no doubt, but she wanted more. She wanted him to release that power on her, to be controlled or uncontrolled, to be an animal.

Thoughts came rushing in such a torrent of feeling that her breath began to tremble. She beamed wild eyes across the room at the back of his head, begging in her mind that he would turn around and acknowledge her once again. Her hand slid along the curtain behind her and a sensual smile crept to her lips. She would catch him. It was one predator to another.

As he slowly turned to look once more in her direction, her heart sighed through her eyes with romance and suspense. She would have him.

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This little book, by Ron Hansen, is a story of a small community of cloistered nuns during the early 1900s who are about to face their greatest challenge. Their typically quiet, simple lives are turned upside down when a young novice, Mariette, joins them and claims to have had a vision of Jesus. To some she seems a saint growing before their eyes, to others she is a deceitful flirt who takes pleasure in the attention her holiness garners. Which side of her do you see as you read the story? That is the question the author leaves his readers.

I first heard about this book when I read a blog post on A Nun’s Life about a local theater group who performed the book as a play. It sounded interesting, so I jumped on Amazon immediately to buy a copy. I was a little upset they had no Kindle version, but I made due with the paperback. Besides, now I have a book to give away to someone else who wants to read it. Maybe Kenn.

Now before I begin critiquing the book, let me first say that it was a wonderful story. The characters had a life to them and there was an element of truth to both points of view. Mr. Hansen seems to have a wonderful writing talent and some of his imagery was almost poignant. All-in-all, the book was a great success, and I’m glad I read it.

There were, however, a few things that bothered me a great deal. The first is a general complaint about a lot of modern writers I’ve read recently. Several times throughout this book, Mr. Hansen chose to describe a scene and create a sense of emotion by the way his sentences were displayed rather than with their content. I accept that sentence structure can play an important role in the pacing of the story, but taken to this extreme it reminded me of a similar practice in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. With the sentences written in near bullet-points, the stacatto rhythm was meant to convey a sense of silence, tranquility, and serenity, but with an undercurrent of tension. It does accomplish its task, but the cost to me as a reader is huge. The writing style also serves to take me completely out of the story, becoming more aware of the words on the page and less aware of the scene as a whole. It leaves me wondering why these authors, who are incredibly talented and can write amazing descriptive scenery, are flocking towards tricks of formatting. More than anything, I feel as if the style robbed me of a great wealth of description. Even now, after having read the book, while i can picture a few main characters and a room or two, I’m at a general loss for what the rest of the world looks like. While the moral and religious conflicts may stick with me for a time, I’m certain that I will have soon forgotten any imagery herein.

Finally, I must protest about the ending. Perhaps it is the American in me, but I wanted more resolution. I understand that the book had to keep things up in the air, and I’m fine with that, but the way the ending played out seemed less to bring the tension to a head than it did to deflate it and fizzle away. I’ll leave my complaint on this point with that statement. Anything more may spoil the reading experience for others.

So, in closing, I would recommend this book to anyone interested in the subject matter. If you’re not enticed by the wonders of cloistered life or the mystery of a religious calling, or if you think a story about a nun who may or may not have had a visitation from Christ is not very interesting, you’ll want to pass this one by. Enjoy!

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