the-shepherdess, acts-1 (editing)

8/3/2019 The-Shepherdess, Acts-1 (Editing)

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TheShepherdess,Acts-1

The copyrights office beingedited

Hooshang Danesh


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Copyrights 2010, Hooshang Danesh

The copyrights to all my works: songs, words, music,paintings are protected by Thr3e--my will lies doubly

therein. All earnings for the poor-and their education-work-

One Tree Press

To: Pamela Jean Dexter

REGISTRATION NUMBER: SRu 1-017-597JANUARY 10- 2011EMPIRES OF THE RAY- 10-CD-SET

Library of congress-The Chronicles, Poems-1 Registered on: 11-1-20111-680689181claim ID: 1-B99j59


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1-The Shepherdess

First Chapter: Bye People

I drove. She would push her head out of the

passenger sides' window and shout: "Bye

People.' Then recollect herself inside the car,

giggle to herself, and say: "shit"

wearily, slightly as though she had been up to no

good, and punishment might have

been fore coming. The people she shouted at

were mostly the bus riders at bus

stations. Hispanics who would look at her

puzzled, and in wonderment, for her

flashing head of red hair and her unrehearsed

language: cause almost no one spoke

English on these streets. From time to time, she

would shout: "Hi people," in a differenttone, this one more friendly, conciliatory, and

still leave the look of confusion on the foreheads

of the bus riders who saw the big sweeping

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Cadillac, and the shouting head as just another

strange break in their daily ennui. I would drive

the big ship-like Cadillac, grayish-colored and

with good measures of dust and dirt on it,

looking neglected as an untamed horse, shootingstraight on the road, for my apartment, ripping

through the air like a minor storm, leaving

behind a constant vacuum, that sucked the dirty,

smoggy air in, pushing the car onward. And I

would laugh uncontrollably, and consider her

shouting: bye people a funny departure from

every days routines: a distinct feature of her

Autism. Or a sign of enthusiasm for me. Apart

from this and a few more eccentricities -she had

no other signs of "developmental disability" or

"retardation"- schizophrenia-or half other

labels she could have been called by.

The group home she lived at was a two-story

stucco building in the middle of

practically no where, in an industrial suburb of

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Los Angeles. There were semi-trucks

parked parallel and neat, around dusty old

hotels with signs that must have been

inviting to truck drivers. Signs like: Adult Cable,

Jacuzzi, privacy.These tall signs littered the view of the

mountains in the north of the city. Where you

could still see some white caps of snow, thumbing

their dirtied noses at the rag city spread below.

There was a large shopping mall hidden from

the main road like a bruise, minutes away from

the group home, where the 100 or so residents of

the home could go for walks or window-

shopping. There was a Payless shoes, a Walmart,

a Ross and a few more generic stores.

There wasn't much real shopping done by those

residents , cause they were all on Social Security

Disability, and almost all of their benefits were

directly deposited in the pockets of the group

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home owners. An amount around 900 dollars or

so, each, for a bed in a two-beds to a room

hotel-like room, and three meals a day; meals

which tasted like hospital food, dry, stale, and as

though produced in some cardboard kitchen tastes each and everyone knew. For almost every

one of them had been in a mental hospital at

some point in their lives.

They were Bipolars, Schizophrenics, or on rare

occasions, high-functioning Autistics like my girl,

Pamela. Her housemates were all restless, shrill,

and by turns idle or hyper-active, and they

argued over cigarettes and money for soda, and

candy, in colorful dispensing machines which

occupied shrine-like postures in the dinning-

room area. According to Pamela, there were all

sorts of drama going on all the time; dramas, she

claimed being far above of, in a diva-like

posture. Something that wasnt exactly true. But

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at the time, she really looked forwards to the

times when I picked her up. She longed to get

away from the group home, she was the onlyAutistic there, she said, which was true, and no-

one really understood her, which was true

enough then as now.

But there weren't much else she could have had

in terms of living arrangements. Apartments are

too expensive, for people on disability, unless

you have been homeless like myself for many

years, and qualify for section eight, which is

subsidized housing. This scarcity of affordable

housing-- made the group-homes the only real,

viable form of shelter--and these are usually (not

always) run by shady characters who make

money out of the disabled--and out of the

general, national disregard, over how to best

take care of the needy.

Government seems to pay the disabled no heed,

but give us a meager check every month,

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which barely paid for shelter and food, and

washed its hands off them, like we were lepers,

or FDR had tricked the entire country into

taking care of us by some sorcery!Perhaps that explains Pams fits of: "Bye

People" out of the cars' windows. May be I was

right to think of them as a sort of exuberance for

a temporary release from some mental prison or

injury.

She had been introduced by a friend of mine,

who liked to fix me up with her friends for no

good reason, but to arrange or control things.

She liked to project a sort of normalcy around

her, as though this portrayal of normalcy could

save her from this generalized panic everyone

seemed to feel. And my aloneness was a thorn in

her world that spelled normalcy

with a curious must, yearning: for pairing and

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matching of all sort of things: silk blouses to the

color of ones car, and her friends and

acquaintances fit together, assorted in a vase. It

was as though I couldn't convince her of my

adequacy, unless I hooked up with one of her

friends.

And so she bullied me, as though aloneness bredsedition and rowdiness. She'd tried to

introduce some of her suspect young yuppies,

but I had found flaws from just

her reports on any one of them. These were

women Id heard about from stories and films,

women said to live lives dedicated to greed or

cruelty, women: who stole love from you, when

all you had was love. But when she called me

from her cell phone, I detected a sense of

triumph in her voice, like shed been to a spa or

just walked out of spring sales at Macys.

You can never say no to this one.

No. I snapped jokingly. It was as good an idea

to take her not too-seriously. It also encouraged,

and pleased her to no ends: just the thought of

having to re-assert herself over and over again.

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"But she is a high functioning Autistic." With

clear emphasis on the word Autistic. Shed

probably just looked it up, and was delighted

with her mental notes on it.

" Do you even know what Autism is?"I wanted to irritate her.

"Listen: she has finished high school, and some

college, but has been raised in group

homes most her life." And then she added,

remembering her mental notes.

Isnt that like completely unique for Autistics?

" Since when you're an authority on Autism?" I

asked a bit nervously.

"Don't get prissy on me, you know what I

mean." She snapped back.

"She is a loner like you, doesn't that whet your

appetite."

A high-functioning Autistic? I thought to

myself. That would be a rare bird.

High-functioning enough to date?

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Yes, she has had long-term relationshipsvery

attractive. She is really one of the prettiest, best-

dressed girls Ive come across.Really! I said in disbelief.

Yes reallyyou dont believe me?

Its just that I dont know?-look: how do you

know she wants to go out with me?

I showed her the pictures youve posted- she

liked them, she thinks perhaps youd be able to

understand her!

Pause.

You see? With soft encouragement.

So, this all, makes sense to her, on some level?

Yes.

How do you know her?

I know her brother-their entire family are

computer nerds, she is very good with

computers too-in fact she is the one who looked

you up.

Vow-thats impressive!

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And in the profile says you used to work withAutistic children.

The kids I worked with werent even verbal!!

Well Pam is very verbal.

Anyways I just took her shopping, she loves

clothes, but never has any money we just got

back, and she wants to meet you.

When?

Wait, let me ask her.

The excited murmur of voices.

Today.

I looked at the clock its already 1 in the

afternoon and on a Saturday.

She doesnt drive, and I can drive her to a

meeting place today-thats the thing , she doesnt

drive at all.

Thats not unusual-you have to be mad to drive

in this city.

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See, you do understand her already.

By the time we hang up-we have a date to meet

at a restaurant called Spires, about 20 minutes

drive from my apartment. I had a few hours towaste. This wasnt at all disagreeable turn of

events.

Id been sitting around trying to think of

something to do, something clever and personal,

like writing a song or a story. But there hadnt

been anything deep to be sounded.

It seemed that something always went missing in

between feelings and words.

The heat had been pressing its wings across the

city. Its been this way for long. Each year seems

warmer than the previous, and the suffering

makes you ineffectual. The afternoons are worst.

The heat rises up from the ground as if the very

earth is tired, and burnt out.

I live on the second floor of a Spanish style

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building. The apartment is surrounded by

windows. From the east windows I have a view

of downtowns spirals. And the southern

windows look on the house next door.Outside that window, the neighbor was busy

pouring cement, over the back yard. He had dug

the brownish, starved lawn out, and hauled it out

in violent bursts of activity. Now standing over

this scene, and with DIY gadgets in both hands,

he looked like he was contemplating a crime. He

was a cable- technician by the look of the large

van parked inside the garage. Two ladders of

different height sat on top of the van, and

various wires and what not were stuffed in the

back. I used to snoop on their activities with a

yearning for social things-- and watch their

happiness not so secretly.

He had a flock of kids, all ages, at least five of

them. The grassy back yard used to look lush

and the kids would run all over it, yelling in both

Spanish and English. Confidence in two

languages, brought something more assured out

of them.

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But the draught had made water more and more

expensive- and he was making the best of it.

With the swiftness of a big western city dweller,an immigrant- hed dug the lawn out within

hours, and was standing over the scarred

ground, with a look of inspired determination. I

knew before sunsetthe concrete would cover

the old landscape like a new shell. And nothing

will matter to anyone. The draught-inflamed

grass had become like a picture no one notices on

the wall anymore.

But it made me want to grief-for each day of

reduced existence. I thought, I could wither, if I

stood there silent and still. That something

funereal would take over my dreams that night-

and he passing of greenery everywhere had a

secret cost. And that you cant really fill

emptiness with emptiness. Void with void.

It was nice then, I thought, I had somewhere to

go--an escape was made available like a shade. A

new bornings almost.

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I wore whatever I wore. Clothes have become

uniforms- indifferent things to me,

I have 2, 3 cheap copies of same. I buythem according to this general formula: they

ought to fit in any neighborhood anywhere,

anytime, inconspicuous, safe, confessing: Im

neither a prey nor a predator. Not stand-offish,

but distanced, clean, observant-always

a witness.

I ran downstairs, locked the door three times

ritualistically, checked it again compulsively, and

stepped out into the great wide open.

The air outside was warmer than in.

The heat felt stifling, man-made. It sucked you

dry, quick- sharp with its immediacy.

The car was parked just across the street. I ran

to it, the air-condition still worked back then.

The engine started with the first turnand it

started down the street-heavy,

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more like a ship setting sail. Its ancient velocity

passing wired fences, a tobacco shop on the left,

a taco stand, two police cars, the fast foods. And

the Spanish music blasting out of every other

car on any stop-sign, -onto the freewayand the

instant hum of friction on the freeway-its

constant hum. Something leaves you, in its

depth--something mixed with consciousness.

And these lanes drive you in their absent-

streams, removed- and can somehow awaken

you, when you are there. Its like the phone-

ring in the middle of a dream. Who and what

force been driving the car here? Its almost like

the freeway has a collective unconsciousness,

things become autocratic, empty of willfulness.

Look.

Its me calling back to me. Its my exit.

I find the address right away by an accident, I

usually

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cant find my way anywhere- even if my life

depended on it.

The restaurant is really not one. Its a short-order-cook round space. Surrounded by a half-

moon-shaped parking lot. Its large windows are

tainted dark, ominous and everything about the

parking space directs you to the entrance walk.

The parked cars are mostly trucks, and old-

dinosaurs like mineI feel everything inside too

will murmur of nostalgia: the universal flavor of:

awful-things-ahead.

They girls cant possibly be here yet-Im an

hour early- spinning the day on its head

lengthening time.

Inside, the place looks like a polished pit.

Smooth shiny surfaces smile with readiness and

agedness. The air is packed with scents of

saturated fats. And the atmosphere has a

nakedness to it.

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like you can fill it with your own substance.

There are framed posters of someones art-work.

I dont remember his name. But he is the chief of

nostalgia. Everyone is supple and blue in the

pictures. Standing erect by barnyards, and Ice

cream parlors that dont exist anymore.

I drop myself on a booth that looks out on the

parking lot. The heat outside the window bends

the light- elongated and oblique, like its been

hammered. Still, there is a geometric beauty to

all this unfolded movement. Even though, there

are no shades to be seen outside-- the light gives

the impression It can move forever in its own

frozen threads.

The waitress comes by almost instantlyshe is

very agile for all her weight.

Ill just have coffee-Im expecting friends.

Im fond of saying: Im expecting friends,- like

I belong.

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She squeezes a tiny smile out of her eyes-I know

thats why I like heavy-set people. Their weight

reminds me of spaces that carve light, into inner

spaces, and make immense inner sadness-ripe

with a yearning, a desire to turn it aroundspinthe dark in its axis.

She pours the coffee with the steadiest hands.

They are soft and chubby, like a childs. Full of

restrained mischief.

Well, holler at me if you need something!

Helpful, jubilant.

Will do!

Returning the same pitched favoritism!.

The hour flies-and mainly through: my

examining everything over and over againIm

like an archeologist-digging in the dirt. The

Formica walls, the invariable patrons, the

posters on the walls, the flat-bed trucks in the

distance.

And then I see them coming.

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Chapter Two: Invisible Wealth.

I see my friend first--the way she struts-waves in

and out of her own fragmented shadows. She is

in a floral dress, summery and light--its

reflection is like a ray of water at a distance. Her

shoes are straps white, with three inches heels-

she moves in them well though. And she must

have seen my car in the parking lot-because her

face moves in the thin silence of that

consciousness. She knows she is being watched.

She draws the attention to her left-like shes

sensed approval of her own arrival, and wants

the same for her friend. Pam: is in a pair of

black flat shoes, and skinny jeans. And a simple

pretty top that matches everything at once. Her

head is bowed in abstracted attention, a shortmop of reddish hair. Beautiful. And she looks

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younger than Id imagined, lively, sunny-

expectant.

When they enter, I turn around so they can find

me, and instantly Pams eyes fall on me, and

mine search for something definitive in hers.And we smile, unhesitant, and Im content! They

walk to the booth and sit down.

I knew we find you, I saw your dinosaur parked

outside! Our friend is excited.

Now, I can tell from both your smiles that you

are happy, right!

Pam takes something out of her skinny jeans

pockets and lays them on the table. Its a pack of

cigarettes, Menthol, and a red lighter. She is

bashful about them, and protective- like sharing

a deep secret about herself right away.

How long youve been here.

About an hour.

Vow, you hear that Pam, hes been waiting

for us for an hour, what do you think of

that?

Pam flips the plastic menu, but she clearly

thinks it a complement. Her nose wrinkles!

Her eyes brighten.

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Everything is transparent on her face, like its

been polished by a secret gentle wind.

I look at her hands, they are small, and pale.

Quick and sharp. They crimp the warm air-and stay close to the pack of cigarettes, caressing

their space.

She is tanned. A light brown, layered on freckles

and paleness. The space around her is gold-

brown. And up close her hair is more auburn

than red, its really a color I havent seen on

anyone, I know they sell colors like it in drug-

stores, but never seen them occur naturally.

There is something unique about her looks: like

something from an entirely different river.

Still, she is clearly beautiful-and unaware of it.

Down to the inward stare of her round brown

eyes. And the far-away look in them--

detachable, as if she can absent herself at will

with a subtle rebellion in the corners, like waving

flames, or a flag, luring you.

What are you thinking about?

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