the-shepherdess, acts-1 (editing)
TRANSCRIPT
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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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