EKPHRASIS : Art Describing Art : 2015
California Writers Club, Mendocino Branch : A Collaboration : Artists Co-Op of Mendocino
Writers Providing Works for Visual Artists Responses
Robyn Koski “Sympathy for the Devil”
Provided work for the responding visual artist,
Karen Cahill “Get Off My Cloud”
"Sympathy for the Devil" by Robyn Koski
The man stood in the middle of his diving board, turned away from the pool, and gazed at the vista below. Four cypresses he planted eight years ago rose twenty-five feet framing the view. California’s San Fernando Valley, his birthplace, glittered in the sunset. He watched it grow from pasture to city in his fifty years, a birthday celebrated today by family and friends.
Earlier in the afternoon, after drinks and a feast prepared by his luscious Italian wife and his seven comely daughters, he watched the young women. Along with his lone and thoughtful son, they joined, hands on hips, and snaked around the yard woo-wooing with Mick Jagger to the blare of “Sympathy for the Devil.” Their exuberant gyrations filled him with pride and melancholy as he watched his fledglings ready to fly off into the world.
He knew about the devil. Who doesn’t have sympathy for him? The devil of drink took his father down his dark hole, and the devil of sexuality lead weaker men than he down to the depths of depravity, damaging the lives of daughters. He knew these temptations and battled the devils daily.
The devil of time crept up on his wife, roasting her to dryness now, leaving her passionless in the bedroom. She burst with rage, and hurled dark words at her wild and willful daughters. She watched them flounce off to their uncertain destinies. His wife’s sudden powerlessness evoked pity and love in him, even as he suffered the effects at night, tossing sleepless with no sexual release or safety of dreams. He cursed this menopausal phase and prayed, “Good God, let it pass.”
His childhood chums were in attendance today. Dubbed “Hapless Plodder” by the writer of the group, he felt it an unflattering and unfair name, since life was daily and had a habit of pulling one along. His mother, a quiet and gentle woman, suffered the revelry, but when he jumped on the diving board she turned and rushed into the house, afraid to witness the coming scene.
Everyone else’s eyes were on him. He turned back to the pool weighing his options. A jackknife was far too muscled a dive for his age; a back flip was iffy after so many gin and tonics; a cannonball was tempting, but artless and crass; a swan dive, languid and beautiful, too refined. He took a step forward, bent down, grasped the end of the board with his hands, and kicked up into a handstand. He waited four seconds, bent his arms and sprang up and off the board in what he hoped was a perfect dive. Deep in the blue he suffered the fleeting wish to stay for eternity, then, pushed up and out onto his back. Floating slowly down to the shallow end, in quiet, he opened his eyes, looked up at his daughters, jumping and clapping, breasts bobbing in bikinis. His friends raised their glasses aloft in salute. His son nodded with a thumbs up, and his wife blew a kiss. At the shallow end he watched his mother rush to the edge. Her brimming blue eyes smiled down at him, reminding him of his first day, fifty years ago.
The man stood in the middle of his diving board, turned away from the pool, and gazed at the vista below. Four cypresses he planted eight years ago rose twenty-five feet framing the view. California’s San Fernando Valley, his birthplace, glittered in the sunset. He watched it grow from pasture to city in his fifty years, a birthday celebrated today by family and friends.
Earlier in the afternoon, after drinks and a feast prepared by his luscious Italian wife and his seven comely daughters, he watched the young women. Along with his lone and thoughtful son, they joined, hands on hips, and snaked around the yard woo-wooing with Mick Jagger to the blare of “Sympathy for the Devil.” Their exuberant gyrations filled him with pride and melancholy as he watched his fledglings ready to fly off into the world.
He knew about the devil. Who doesn’t have sympathy for him? The devil of drink took his father down his dark hole, and the devil of sexuality lead weaker men than he down to the depths of depravity, damaging the lives of daughters. He knew these temptations and battled the devils daily.
The devil of time crept up on his wife, roasting her to dryness now, leaving her passionless in the bedroom. She burst with rage, and hurled dark words at her wild and willful daughters. She watched them flounce off to their uncertain destinies. His wife’s sudden powerlessness evoked pity and love in him, even as he suffered the effects at night, tossing sleepless with no sexual release or safety of dreams. He cursed this menopausal phase and prayed, “Good God, let it pass.”
His childhood chums were in attendance today. Dubbed “Hapless Plodder” by the writer of the group, he felt it an unflattering and unfair name, since life was daily and had a habit of pulling one along. His mother, a quiet and gentle woman, suffered the revelry, but when he jumped on the diving board she turned and rushed into the house, afraid to witness the coming scene.
Everyone else’s eyes were on him. He turned back to the pool weighing his options. A jackknife was far too muscled a dive for his age; a back flip was iffy after so many gin and tonics; a cannonball was tempting, but artless and crass; a swan dive, languid and beautiful, too refined. He took a step forward, bent down, grasped the end of the board with his hands, and kicked up into a handstand. He waited four seconds, bent his arms and sprang up and off the board in what he hoped was a perfect dive. Deep in the blue he suffered the fleeting wish to stay for eternity, then, pushed up and out onto his back. Floating slowly down to the shallow end, in quiet, he opened his eyes, looked up at his daughters, jumping and clapping, breasts bobbing in bikinis. His friends raised their glasses aloft in salute. His son nodded with a thumbs up, and his wife blew a kiss. At the shallow end he watched his mother rush to the edge. Her brimming blue eyes smiled down at him, reminding him of his first day, fifty years ago.
