Lovely Summer Smoke Deluged by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 10

Posie remained at the edge and performed visual surveillance. She took one last look at the lovely woodland behind them and guided Kale into the field. Their lack of sunglasses necessitated initial squinting, which quickly led to completely shut eyes and an impromptu, flat out breather. The glow permeated their eyelids, still registering with their optic nerves, strongly suggesting to them that the full-strength sun might be very unobjectionable with fitting preparation. As they nattily nuanced natural needs they braved broadened beholdings of the blazing ball and found their eyes sheltered by their soul mates shielding smile.

They rose and continued through the center of the uneven field. Kale said; “Have you read any good books lately?”

Posie laughed as she watched her footing.

He continued; “Some people are doing good science fiction in pulp-like magazines. Of course, also there’s Vonnegut.”

“Rocket ships don’t do it for me.”

“No, it’s different now. The surface story is just used as a vehicle to make social commentary for the perceptive.”

“Oh, like the pod people actually being a metaphor for the commies coming to get us and make us all the same with no feelings?”

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Somewhat dejectedly Kale answered; “Yeah, sort of. Except they’re no longer worried about the commies.”

“Who are they worried about now?”

“Repressive inner demons. Deliberate misinformation.

Sophisticated stuff.”

“Kafka is spacesuits?”

Kale laughed and said; “I guess.”

“I’ve tried Mailer, but not for long.”

“Why?”

“Little guy trying to be Hemingway. Worships the fight. I’m sticking with the originals; Hardy, Mann, Twain.”

“Twain? I can’t stand Twain. Makes a big deal out of people acting differently in the wild and in civilization. Like, no shit Sherlock.”

“Your parlance leaves something to be desired. If Mom and Dad heard you, you would be in serious trouble.”

“Afraid to deal with the substance, my little parliamentarian?”

“You know better than that. On the level of substance Twain stands out. Too much time has passed since his writing days for the humor to be appreciated by the rabble.”

“I beg the princess’ pardon. Rabble?”

Posie shrugged.

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Kale pouted and hopped over a mound, slightly stumbling as he hooked his left foot on the edge.

Posie asked; “Well, how about Hardy?”

“I like him. He was a hit and then wrote ‘Jude the Obscure.’ Everyone was horrified at what a horrible thing it was to tell the truth. So, he said; ‘Fuck you,’ and never wrote another.”

“Did he really say fuck you?”

“Probably in private, but only in essence publicly.”

“Smart man.”

Mom advised the children that dinner would be a formal affair. After thinking; “Yuck,” Posie assessed her possessions in an effort to appear compliant, but not deferential. After all, she was a competent, experienced woman on the short side of 20. As she went through her drawers, she muttered; “Tube top

.......... out. Cut off blue jeans .......... out. Hmmnn. ......

Good little girls wear frilly dresses. Here’s one.” She held it in front of her and admired the frills. She thought; “Very conservative. ....... I won’t wear panties. They wouldn’t dare check.”

Kale faced a decision which required no tiring brainwork, as he was under the impression that when living in the “country”

formal meant that the blue jeans worn did not evidence prior

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usage in the fields or with the pigs. He complemented the pants with his favorite blue, button-up shirt; a modern day “Blue Boy.” When he got to the dining room Posie was chatting with Arthur and Amber. He briefly sniffed her neck and sat next to Posie.

He heard Amber say; “I couldn’t have a bigger disagreement.

Impressionism always struck me as something anyone can do, as it takes little refinement or skill to paint an unreal tree.”

Arthur retorted; “The classicists demonstrate no thought.

They see a tree and paint that same tree. The invention of the camera made them completely irrelevant.”

Posie said; “A photograph has no texture, nothing to feel.”

Arthur was annoyed with the “correction,” and asked; “So, I suppose you prefer the inept, subjective approach.”

In a tired voice, as if she was barely tolerating abject idiocy, Posie replied; “Define inept and put it in the context of modern abstraction.”

Arthur hesitated.

Kale said; “Regardless of approach, an artist is one able to convey feeling or thought.”

Arthur said; “I agree! The classicists had their time, but that is not today. Artistically they are as valuable as a family photo album. Monetarily, the museums will buy whatever they can get, and then let it collect more dust.”

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Posie deadpanned; “Texture.”

As Hi and Bee entered the room, Arthur displayed frustration, saying; “Like you and Kale, I suppose.”

Hi sat, looked toward Posie and Kale and devoid of any expressionism said; “Rough edges?”

Posie flushed and Kale removed his intemperate digital brush from her texture.

Amber, who seemed to be responsible for the discussion, before dropping out “accidentally” rubbed her bare leg against Posie’s.

Feeling that she had been confronted on many fronts, Posie excused herself and darted from the room.

Amber heaved a sigh which displeased the white ruffles at the crown of her light blue, low cut dress. Kale appeared academically pensive as he positioned his fingers on his lips.

Arthur was comforted with the restoration of order. Hi was contented with grinning and patiently waiting for some response.

Bee felt uncomfortable with the stasis and over-politely asked;

“Did we interrupt anything?”

Kale said; “Not really. We were just having a typical, every-day sibling dialogue. It can be re-started anytime.”

Hi questioned; “How about now? I hate to feel left out.”

Amber said; “It had too much context to reconstruct now.”

Arthur sarcastically added; “And texture.”

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Otis and Tory entered and sat. In the silent room Otis was compelled to ask; “Did we miss anything?” receiving a smorgasbord of stifled smirks, tight-lipped grimaces, curious eyes and questioning ones, which revolved from person to person, much like a sign bordered by circling light bulbs, which can’t decide whether it is light brown or deep yellow, set to its lowest rate of rotation.

Again, Posie flushed, and cautiously returned to her seat, unsure whether it was proper or im, too late wondering if she should have curtseyed before sitting. Though it was done unconsciously,(still possible for someone with the birth name of Conciesse), her upper body leaned toward Kale and away from Amber, who couldn’t have been more conscious of the inclination, and thereby felt slighted.

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