The Way along the Wall

This is an early poem, first drafted when I was a novice, revised a couple of years later. The little sketch was done during one of my many solitary strolls through the monastery grounds. There was a short path along one of the "arms" of the enclosure wall that I particularly loved and called "The Avenue." I wanted to memorialize it in this poem and sketch.

 

The Way along the Wall

"The Avenue" is dapple-most
on ochre afternoons.
Along this path the breezes murmur
their most wistful tunes,
the only sound
save the dry-leafed ground

beneath my feet.  I watch the light
play shyly on the wall,
the longed-for boundary that nestles
those who heed the call
in arms of stone
to be God's own.

I savor this way of wood and wall
that lies so straight, serene,
between the here, the now, the chosen,
and what once had been.
Still—I know that yesterday
is but a dappled wall away.

Poem and sketch © Leticia Austria 2009

Niles Crane's Greatest Lines: Season Seven

All quotes were taken directly from the DVDs and have been checked thoroughly for accuracy.

"Momma Mia"

NILES:  That's not graffiti, Dad; that's a Latin pun: "Semper ubi, sub ubi "—"Always where under where."

"Father of the Bride"

NILES:  Last night after dinner, I dropped her home with nothing more than a courtly kiss on the wrist. Tonight may proceed to hand holding, and if all goes well, in two weeks I shall storm the citadel of her womanhood.

++++++++

FRASIER:  Niles, it's about Sabrina. (beat) She's a prostitute.
NILES: Frasier, I don't like lawyers anymore than you do.

++++++++

FRASIER:  Does Sabrina laugh at everything you say? Is she fascinated  by everything about you—even your collections?
NILES:  Well, yes. Actually, I even showed her my rarely seen collection of eighteenth-century Portuguese bud vases.
FRASIER:  And how did she react?
NILES:  Well, if you must know, she was rather aroused. She said she loved a man who collected porcelain and, oh, my God, I'm dating a whore.

"Radio Wars"

DAPHNE:  Dr. Crane, how do you know it's time to have your crèpe pans seasoned, anyway?
NILES:  It can be confusing, but this may help: "Saucepans in summer, crèpe pans in fall, when winter's upon us, there's food for us all."

++++++++

NILES:  Why didn't you hold the elevator? Didn't you hear me shouting?
FRASIER: That was you? I'm sorry Niles. I was afraid you were trying to get a picture of my butt.
NILES: (beat) How exciting to be present at the birth of a new phobia.

++++++++

MARTIN:  Great. That's fine. Admire him if you want, but did you have to run through the neighborhood in bowler hats? I mean, you were just begging  to get beat up.
FRASIER:  Come to think of it, it was rather a rough summer that year, wasn't it?
NILES: I remember getting a chin strap so the bowler wouldn't fall off when I ran.

"Everyone's a Critic"

NILES:  The pretentious fop who had the job before me was there, too, spouting sheer drivel about Leonard Bernstein. Being polite, I kept my tongue sheathed, until he referred to Bernstein's conducting as "overrated."
FRASIER:  I assume you pounced.
NILES: Like a ninja!

++++++++

NILES:  Well, I wish you had lent her your Tennessee Williams biography. She wouldn't have kept forgetting his name and calling him Indiana Jones.

"The Late Dr. Crane"

FRASIER:  Carbuncle?  You mean that miniscule mole of yours?
NILES:  Well, to you.  I've always been self-conscious about it. I-I've made many a hasty wine selection because I felt the sommelier staring down.

"The Apparent Trap"

FRASIER:  (to NILES and LILITH ) You're willing to throw all that away because of one ill-considered night of passion? It happened! Take from it what you can learn. Move on.
NILES:  Well—I learned if you kiss her too fast, you get an ice-cream headache.

++++++++

DAPHNE:  Beautiful job carving that turkey, Dr. Crane.
NILES:  Well, I picked up a thing or two in medical school. In case you're wondering, this bird appears to have died of a massive head trauma.

++++++++

NILES:  What's this about?
LILITH:  Well, it's about an attraction that I thought was over, and now I'm beginning to think maybe it's not.
NILES:  Usually, in my dreams, this is where I try to run and can't.

"The Fight before Christmas"

NILES:  (coming out of the elevator and seeing ROZ and DAPHNE standing together in the hall ) Well, there's a Christmas tableau: Naughty and Nice.

++++++++

NILES:  It seems our old gardener has passed away unexpectedly.
FRASIER:  Oh, not Yoshi. Gosh, that's too bad.
NILES:  Yeah. He had a heart attack when he was out trimming Maris' elaborate hedge maze. The paramedics never had a chance.

++++++++

NILES:  Maris and Yoshi were very close. In fact, I remember he once made a topiary likeness of her, and wept without shame when it developed root rot.

"RDWRER"

MARTIN:  Oh ... you're not good with big cars, Niles. Remember when I tried to teach you to drive my Le Sabre? You kept panicking and pulling on the emergency brake.
NILES:  Well, it's a good thing I did. Those mailboxes weren't even slowing me down.

++++++++

MARTIN:  I wonder if you can still get "sticky shingles" here.
NILES:  One look at the salad bar says yes.

"They're Playing Our Song"

DAPHNE:  You see, this water traps all the dirt particles instead of recycling them back into the air. I got all that just from Dr. Crane's pillow. (indicating the dirty water)
MARTIN:  Eeew!
NILES:  (to FRASIER ) I've been begging  you to switch to a more abrasive loofah.

"Big Crane on Campus"

FRASIER:  I tried to ask her out and I choked. I did get the impression that she was interested in me, though.
NILES:  Well, of course she is. Oh, and the coach called. You're starting the big game on Sunday.

++++++++

NILES:  Cooking a meal for one's mate is a big first step.
FRASIER:  Yes, especially for you. I mean, Maris never let you cook for her.
NILES:  Mm, that's true. The closest I ever got was restocking the pills in her bedside lazy Susan.

"Out with Dad"

NILES:  May your opera box be full of cellophane crinklers, and the stage swarming with standbys!

"Whine Club"

FRASIER:  Well, Niles, it's the moment of truth. Don't choke.
NILES:  Please. Prepare to be stomped like a late-harvest Gewurtztraminer.

"Hot Pursuit"

MARTIN:  (opening his thermos) This is clam chowder!
NILES:  Well, what did you expect?
MARTIN:  Irish whiskey! Your mother always filled it with coffee and Irish whiskey. We just called it "clam chowder" in front of you kids.
NILES:  Is that why you got so mad that day I crumbled oyster crackers in your thermos?

"Morning Becomes Entertainment"

BEBE:  (taking out a cigarette) May I?
FRASIER:  On the balcony, if you don't mind.
BEBE:  Mind? I don't want a single puff tearing up the baby blues of TV's newest sensation! By this time next week—
NILES:  You heard him; if you're going to blow smoke, do it on the balcony.

"The Three Faces of Frasier"

FRASIER: You know, if I were you, I would be careful about bandying about the word "vain," Mr. Two-Hundred-and-Fifty-Dollar Haircut.
NILES: I have problem follicles.

++++++++

FRASIER:  Now, you'd better finish your lasagna. You don't want to offend Stefano.
NILES:  Offend him? So far tonight, I have had the prosciutto di Parma, the pesto Genovese, and the Venetian sea bass. One more bite, and we'll conclude our little tour of Italy with my impression of Pompeii.

"Something Borrowed, Someone Blue"

DAPHNE:  So, you brought me something, Roz?
ROZ:  Well, yeah, I figured you can't get married without wearing something borrowed. (hands DAPHNE a gift box)
DAPHNE:  (opening the box) Oh, what a beautiful garter! Look at all the lovely detail.
NILES:  I especially like the little odometer.

++++++++

ROZ:  Is there no place I can go without running into some guy I've dated?
NILES:  I was reading about a Trappist monastery in the Amazon that they somehow built into the treetops.

++++++++

NILES:  Daphne—take it from someone who knows. You don't want to spend half your life thinking about a chance you didn't take.

Plaisir d'amour

     For some reason which I can't remember now, I spent an hour on YouTube last night, listening to different renditions of that famous love song, "Plaisir d'amour." (For those who have only heard the Elvis Presley version, the original was written in 1784 by Jean-Paul-Égide Martini.) Ignoring Nana Mouskouri (not a fan at all) and Joan Baez (am a fan, but not when she sings this song), I sought out classical/opera singers' interpretations and narrowed my favorites down to a handful. (For the text in French and English, click here.)

     Of course, I love Janet Baker's sumptuous sound in everything she does, and "Plaisir d'amour is no exception.

    

     Victoria de los Angeles is another famous interpreter of the song. Though her earlier studio recording is beautiful and vocally fresh, I prefer this later, live performance, taped when she was just past her glorious prime. So soulful.  I wept when I first listened to it.

    

     I also succumbed to the charms of Yvonne Printemps' recording, sung with harpsichord. Printemps, who began her career in operetta before moving on to straight theater and film, brings theatricality and a touch of musical eccentricity to the piece. I find it particularly hard to resist the gut-grinding scoop with which she sings the second syllable of "chagrin" everytime she sings it.

     After listening to a number of male opera singers (Schipa, Gigli, Bruson, even Bastianini), I was won over by Fritz Wunderlich's clean, simple, yet heartfelt singing.

Revisiting My Very First Sonnet

     What formalist can forget the first sonnet he or she ever wrote? Mine came as an assignment for senior English. I can't remember the name of my teacher (as I recall, she wasn't that great a teacher), but I clearly recall that she only required we stick to either the Shakespearean or the Petrarchan rhyme scheme, but she didn't expect meter (much more difficult than rhyme). The day we handed our sonnets in, our teacher perched on her desk and read them all out loud, but without revealing their authors. They were, one after another, half-hearted, jokey, disrespectful attempts, and I could see her becoming both discouraged and angry with each poem. Finally, she came to mine. She began reading it in a weary voice, expecting it to be yet another jokey attempt. At the end of the fourth line, she paused in surprise and looked at the class with a relieved smile. When she finished, she asked, "Did you all understand what the poem was saying?" Then she read it again.

     I think that was the moment my childhood desire to write was cemented.

     Incredibly, after all these years, I still remember that sonnet word for word, even though all written copies of it are long lost. A few years ago, I revised it, primarily giving it meter and polishing up the language. I also changed the rhyme scheme from Petrarchan to Shakespearean. Many of my friends have read both versions; some actually prefer the original for its simplicity and youthful voice.

Small Talk (1977)

As we weave our web of words, staring,
Gazing out the window with private dreams
Locked in our minds, how strange it seems
That here we are, speaking, but not really sharing.
Too tired to listen, not in the least caring
What the other says, we think of schemes
To escape this farce of masks and screens,
To rid ourselves of the frozen smiles we're wearing.
Instead, we go on with our pointless chat,
Fidgeting uncomfortably with each prolonged pause,
While searching desperately for some silly sentence.
What would it be like if we simply sat,
Without feeling so obliged to the dubious cause
Of prim convention and social eloquence?


The Art of Conversation (2010)

We weave a silken thread while private dreams
unfurl behind the diptych of our eyes
and cool façades of polished smiles; we scheme
to flee this habitat where broidered lies
and glib embellishments of fact reside.
Instead, we chatter on. Our platitudes
will serve to mask the homeliness inside.
But as the thread winds round the attitudes
we have so deftly wrought, beneath the pause
inevitably born, we ponder what
would come about if—artlessly—we sat,
unburdened from our duty to the cause
of weaving (for convention's dubious sake)
a thread that only truth could ever break.

© Leticia Austria

The Coziness of Delusion

     Recently, I had a reunion with a person who has known me for over half my life. In fact, we were in love, or something like it, for many years. But all that ended a long time ago, and both of us have changed—in my case, pretty radically. During our recent reunion chatting over coffee, I realized that we now have very little in common. The interests we shared years ago are no longer a viable part of my life, and the things that now absorb my time and mind are not a viable part of his. Still, there are friendships that can exist and even flourish despite big differences in interests and philosophies. It was this hope that prompted me to ask him if he ever reads this blog. Though I certainly don't tell the whole truth in these posts, I tell a lot of the truth, and if anyone cared to know who I am now and how I got to be who I am now, this blog is a great place to start. His answer saddened me.

     "No, I haven't read it. And I really don't think I ever will. Because that  'you' has nothing to do with me, and I want to remember you the way I knew you." A second passed before he added, "I know that isn't real."

     And I know now that he and I can never be complete friends. We can only be nostalgic friends. Like the "love" we once had, it's only friendship of a sort; there are too many things missing, essential things.

     A few years ago, I wrote a sonnet about this sort of delusion and how we cling to it. It wasn't written with this particular person in mind; it was written for someone else, of whom I myself had, admittedly, created a certain image, an image that is idealized—though I have, since writing the sonnet, come to know him better and more realistically.

Simulacrum

I couldn't bear it if the photograph
I took of you so long ago should fade.
Inside my journal, like an epitaph,
between the last two pages, it is laid
with care. From time to time I take it out,
to see if all the colors are still true,
make certain that the sentiment I wrote
is still defined, that time has not subdued
the spirit radiating from your eyes.
And if I can preserve it through the years,
perhaps the dream of you will never die
but flourish, ever luminous and clear.
I know you now just as I knew you then.
My captured image brings you back again.

© Leticia Austria 2009
First published in Dreamcatcher  (under the title "The Likeness")

Divided by a Common Literature

     Yesterday I went for my biannual teeth cleaning. Given that, when having your teeth cleaned/examined/otherwise-worked-on, you spend most of your time with your mouth open while gloved fingers grasping various tools muck their way around in it, you can't say an awful lot. You can, however, listen, if your hygienist or dentist is in a chatty mood, as my hygienist was yesterday.

     "Are you a fan of Downton Abbey?" she asked

     "Nng-nng, echh." (That's "Mm-hmm, yes" in teeth-cleaning speak.)

     This prompted a one-sided discussion on social class and snobbery, during which I longed in vain to contribute something other than grunts and whimpers. Even when the tools were withdrawn for a brief moment, it was only so that I could purse my lips around the little suction tube.

     When the cleaning was finally finished and I could speak again, my hygienist had moved on somehow to Persuasion.

     "I tried reading it once," she said, "but I just couldn't finish it. That father! Such a snob!"

     "It's probably my favorite novel of all time," I said, and prattled blithely on to proclaim the book's many merits, Jane Austen's genius, her comical treatment of characters—such as Mr Elliott—who are less than palatable, etc. "It's the kind of novel that's best read when one is older, I think; as opposed to Pride and Prejudice, which easily appeals even at a young age; no, Persuasion is much more autumnal in tone, and her heroine is older and therefore appeals to a more mature reader; I love Anne so much, because she knows very well what her father is, and yet she .... " Blah, blah, blah.

     At one point, I turned into Niles Crane and used the word "milieu"—"Austen portrays her own milieu so well, with such perspicacity, humor, sympathy"—and as soon as the "m" word flew out of my freshly cleaned mouth, even as I continued spouting Persuasion's and Austen's praises, I noticed a certain expression in my hygienist's eyes as they looked down at me over the surgical mask. True, my view of her was upside-down, since I was still prone in the chair, but I clearly saw in her eyes that it was time for me to shut up.

     "Well," she said, rather lamely, "maybe I'll try reading it again."

     I do hope she does. I wonder what we'll discuss at my next teeth cleaning.

    

The Bond of True Friendship

When I left "the world" to enter the cloister, my deepest sorrow was not, as one would think, leaving my family, but leaving my friends. My family, I knew, would always be there for me and I would be always in their hearts, and they would certainly visit as often as was permitted; but how many of my friendships would survive what could have been a lifelong separation? If I had remained in the cloister, taken solemn vows, it was quite possible that I would never again see any of them, unless they made the trip to Lufkin to visit, or to witness my Solemn Profession.

 

I did receive letters from some of my friends, and one of them did come for a brief visit. One, however, wrote to me far more often than the others. Oddly enough, it was a friend I hardly ever saw in person (and still see only rarely). I was so very grateful whenever my novice directress handed me an envelope scrawled with his familiar handwriting! It was during those two and a half years, enclosed in the monastery walls, that I learned how true a friend he was and is.

Forgetting

Forgetting is the thing I fear the most.
I can't forbid the fading of the day,
nor can I draw the curtains of your heart
against the void of predatory night.
The music we have shared, the scattered days,
are feeble beams of light across the sea
of separation, circumstance, and time.
That there may only be what there
has been, I won't regret. The one thing I
could never bear is that you would forget.


Assurance

"How could I forget you? Be sure of my eternal friendship,
     as I am sure of yours." ~ from a letter

There is a passacaglia in my mind
That plays its stately rhythm on those days
When faith becomes a nebulous, gray haze
And all bright hope lies languishing behind.
Its harmonies are simple, yet refined;
Its tune develops at a solemn pace;
There is comfort in its persistent bass,
A steady beat, dependable and kind.
Above all, its composer is most dear,
For it is you, who wrote it for my heart
When cloister walls had once kept me apart
From things familiar, things I held as mine.
It is my talisman against all fear
Of distance, and its thieving ally, time.


Definition of "passacaglia"
© Leticia Austria 2008, 2011