The Words Fly Free - #amwriting #lastwords #legacy

"The paper burns, but the words fly free."

- Akiva ben Joseph (c.40-c.135) (at the stake, when the Torah was also burned)

We are all destined for dust. Not exactly a pleasant thought to be contemplating on this rainy Wednesday afternoon, but mortality is a truth that no one can dispute. Sooner or later, we will vanish from the earth. Life will go on without us, presumably; we will, most likely, not be in a position to know.

Of course, death is fundamentally a mystery. Perhaps we simply cease to exist. Perhaps we are reincarnated as someone else - with or without memory of our former lives. Perhaps we're shuffled off to some eternally blissful paradise or agonizing realm of punishment (although I personally view these alternatives as unlikely). Maybe the material world is nothing but a dream that will dissolve when we cross the threshold of death. At that moment we'll understand that we are beings of pure spirit, joined into one Being.

Since the truth is unknowable, mostly when I think about dying I consider what I'll leave behind. No children. None of the great scientific discoveries I expected to produce when I was in my teens. Certainly no riches! No, all I can hope for is a small circle of friends and family who may mourn my passing and remember me fondly. And of course, my writing, which even in this ephemeral digital era may still survive.

I feel a bit sheepish, considering the sum of my oeuvre as some kind of legacy. A dozen smutty novels, a hundred or so naughty stories, a couple of notebooks full of poems: is that really all I'll bequeath to the world at large? I don't harbor any illusions that I'm a Great Author, that my writing has some sort of serious significance or speaks to the Human Condition. At the same time, I do mention my writing in my will. When I die, it will all belong to my brother, who's also a creative type though in a different realm of the arts.

Regardless of its literary value, my writing has made a small difference in the world. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of people outside my personal sphere have read my work and been entertained, challenged, possibly moved. Even if I were to die tomorrow, my words would remain. My erotic visions would endure, living on to enrich the fantasy lives of those who happened to encounter them.

When I sat down to pen this post about famous last words, of course I went to Google first. I found a page with hundreds of quotes (http://www.mapping.com/words.shtml): clever, humorous, ironic, inspiring. The one above struck me as particularly relevant to anyone who is a writer.

Rabbi Akiva was a Jewish scholar and martyr, executed by the Romans for his faith (and according to some accounts, for supporting a Messianic rebellion). He was talking about the Torah and the Talmud, written works of great spiritual and historical meaning. 

I realized, though, that all words have a spiritual dimension. They are more than marks on paper (or bits on a hard drive). Words create realities. Even my sex-drenched novels have that power. Their ability to alter the world transcends their physical form.

Think about your favorite authors, the ones whose reading changed you forever. They may be long gone, crumbled to dust, but their words endure. I'd like to think that when I die, my words, too, will fly free, ready to alight on a reader's shoulder and spark her imagination.

I doubt that I'll manage to be as witty as many famous individuals at the moment of my death. However, I wouldn't mind borrowing my last words from Errol Flynn (1909-1959):

"I've had a hell of a lot of fun and I've enjoyed every minute of it."

When I'm gone, I hope that my readers continue to have fun. I could hardly ask for more.

The Best of My Love

The first few weeks of January have many of us in shock. We've lost so many great artistic talents: David Bowie, Alan Rickman and now, Glenn Frey. This last means the most to me. The Eagles were the soundtrack to my twenties. I can sing most of their lyrics. So many fantastic songs. "Desperado". "Life in the Fast Lane". "Witchy Woman". I know them all.

When I think back to my years in graduate school, which more than any other period of my life determined the person I've become, I hear "Hotel California" playing in the background.

I embroidered cacti and longhorns on a denim shirt as a present for my first real boyfriend, along with the legend "Take it to the limit". It was a gift of my hands and an allusion to the music we both loved. He and I shared a five bedroom house with three other guys--a wild time. Once we threw an all-night Hotel California party. It began at nine PM with pink champagne on ice and ended at dawn, with tequila sunrises.

That was decades ago, of course. But we so often continue to think of ourselves as young, even as we age. When someone from our early years passes, though, reality hits home. Glenn was less than five years older than I am. Death is more than ready to crash my party.

I'm determined not to mourn, however, or to become morbid. I refuse to worry about the end. It will come when it comes, whether I worry or not. Instead, I celebrate the work of artists like Bowie, Rickman and Frey, grateful for what they brought into the world. They left us something of themselves that will endure long after they've gone. The best of their love.

I can only hope that at least a few people will someday think the same about my stories--a labor of love if ever there was one.

Wine, Cheese, Conversation and Caring

My step-mom Nan died last week of cancer, at the age of 84. This wasn't unexpected (cancer deaths are rarely a surprise in this day and age). I had been dreading that call telling me she was gone for several months. What does surprise me is how strongly I still feel that she's here. I look at the clock, calculating the time on the East Coast, and think about picking up the phone, before I remember that she won't answer any more. I see something interesting on the street, and make a mental note to share it with her the next time we talk. I especially remember her when I'm cooking - she loved to cook and we often exchanged recipes, or tackled a family dinner together.

Even when she'd been hospitalized for weeks, she'd always begin our phone calls by asking how I was doing. That's just the sort of person she was. Honestly interested in others. And supremely sociable. Before she got sick, it was often difficult to reach her by telephone, because her line was always busy. She could chat for half an hour with a friend or family member and never notice.

Although she was not a blood relative, I was at least as close to her as I'd been to my own mother (who died when I was in my twenties). Nan was married to my dad for nearly forty years, and they loved to hang out with my husband and me. One of Nan's favorite activities was to bring out a cheese and cracker plate and a bottle of wine, say five or six in the afternoon, and just sit around sharing great conversations. More than once we ate so much cheese that we decided to skip dinner altogether. 

I have so many happy memories of our times together. She had three children of her own, but she always gave my siblings and me as much love and support as she did her own kids. She made us all one family.

Nan wasn't a flashy person. You might not have picked her out in the crowd. She had several successful careers but she always deferred to my father intellectually (which annoyed the heck out of me). Aside from food, books were one of the many things that drew us together. There was never any problem figuring out what she'd like for Christmas or her birthday.

I guess I'm rambling - wandering through my recollections of our years together. I loved her so much - it hurts to realize I'll never tell her that again. And yet, the fact of that love has tremendous value by itself. When I learned she had been put on hospice, I felt as though someone had stabbed me in the chest. I had hoped to spend more time with her, to say goodbye, but at that point, although I made reservations to return to the U.S. as quickly as I could, I had a sinking conviction I'd never see her again. And then it hit me - I should be grateful for a love so powerful that it could generate such pain. Far better to know the hurt that comes from caring, than to remain untouched and alone.

I never told her about my writing. She wasn't a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but I had a suspicion that my work would embarrass her, and even worse, make her feel guilty for being embarrassed. Sure, I wanted to brag, to show her the books with my name on the cover. That would have made me happy. However, it would have put her in conflict, I think.

I've decided that I'm going to dedicate my current WIP to her. Of course she'll never know, but it's particularly appropriate since my main character is a chef. And every time I see the cover, or reread the tale, I'll remember her smile as she raised her glass of chardonnay, and the warm glow of basking in her love.

*****

I'm not going to broadcast or announce this. However, if you read this post and have a story of your own to share, about love or about loss, please leave a comment. For every comment I receive, .
I plan to donate $1 to the American Cancer Society, in Nan's memory

Thanks for reading.

FUN-eral

By Robin Glasser (Guest Blogger)

Remember the children’s table at family events? Lately it seems as though all the adults I used to turn a green-eyed gaze upon are now dropping dead. Case in point: One of my favorite cousins, who lived in a luxurious beach house in Malibu, CA, kicked the diamond-encrusted bucket. Before her departure, she and her stunning son had recently visited Croatia. Harriet always traveled first-class and Ben was always elated to join her.

While on vacation (she didn’t need to work so life was a constant holiday), Harriet began waxing poetic about her own funeral. Did she have a premonition, perhaps? She announced she wanted a FUNeral (spelling’s the same~accent on fun) so that people attending would celebrate her life. Who knew that less than a month later her words would become true?

Her husband graciously offered me a plane ticket (economy not first-class) and I went west. The affair was held at the local yacht club where the widower docks his very big boat. People voiced their thoughts about Harriet—all spectacular of course. Afterward, everyone gathered on the club’s patio to hors d’oeuvre and drink. The sunset was glorious and the FUNeral was among the best I’ve ever attended.

I’d been thinking along these lines myself and told my closest compadres that when my time is up, I want to have a ‘gone away’ party. After all, if you get the most you can out of life—why not celebrate its end?

The following forms of entertainment below offer invaluable insights into life and death:

Departures (2008) won the 2009 Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film (Japan)

I Am (2010) directed by Tom Shadyac won the Humanitas Prize (2012)

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak won a slew of book awards

What usually coincides with death? Why cemeteries, of course. And whenever I travel, I try to visit them. In fact, I wrote a piece about a very famous one. Go to this link: http://blog.parisinsights.com/?p=12602 to answer the question: Who has the shiniest crotch in Père Lachaise? Tweet your answer to https://twitter.com/RobinGlasser1 or email me at robinglasser [at] yahoo.com.

The first three people with the right answer will win an ebook copy of MY LIFE AS A CONCUBINE— the lively account of a savvy, New York City woman, never married, not looking to be, who suddenly falls in love with a Frenchman. After several enchanting years together, Jean-Loup tells her that he must return to France. She is in a quandary—stay on the isle of Manhattan where she has work, friends and speaks the lingo or depart for Paris with the utterly adorable frog prince? There is one teensy-weensy problem—Jean-Loup hasn’t asked her to go with him. When he finally pops the question, it certainly isn’t the one she expects.

Excerpt

Saturday night I arrived promptly, dressed to resurrect roadkill. Jean-Loup ushered me into his apartment as if I'd been spun from platinum and took me on le grand tour. He had spent ten years of his life in Africa and Indonesia and had the artifacts to prove it. I "ooooohed" and "aaaahhhhed" enthusiastically. He offered me a cocktail, then another one. The liquor was flowing, along with my libido. Jean-Loup swept me up in his arms, carried me to the bedroom, and that was it.

And "it" was fan-fucking-tastic! The Frenchman didn't bother to unbutton his shirt. He just pulled the tail ends from his trousers, grabbed them with both hands and ripped the cloth in half. Buttons scattered in a bright sprinkle. Jean-Loup literally jumped out of his pants and underwear. Although slender, his body was hard-muscled and beautifully formed. Pulling me into his arms, the Frenchman kissed me deeply, expertly. When his hand reached for my zipper, I gently pushed him away.

"Go lie down. I want you to watch me."

As he walked toward the bed, I kept my eyes on his smooth, tight buns. The play of muscles beneath that creamy patch of skin was a real turn-on. Jean-Loup reclined on the quilt. Sinuously, I moved toward him, stopping just out of his reach and his erection.

"Let me tell you what I'm going to do to you, Jean-Loup."

My voice was soft—husky with sex. Slow as an escargot, I began to lower the zipper of my snug, silk dress. With a little bump and grind, I shimmied out of its black bonds. I hadn't bothered with a bra. Clad only in garter belt, stockings and stilettos, I removed the combs from my hair, tossed my head, and let the raven cloud settle about my shoulders. I stared into his eyes—their intensity scorched my body like a firebrand. It took all I had to restrain myself from jumping his bones. Instead, I released a stocking from its garters, then stepped out of my heels. Placing a foot atop his nightstand, I slowed peeled the black mesh down my leg.

Skimming the whispery strip over his body, I asked, "Like the feel of it, Jean-Loup? Imagine my lips following the same course."

As I began to wind the wisp round his pulsating prick, he grabbed me, pulling me down beside him. Our lips came together in a searing kiss. Our tongues danced a passionate pas de deux. Tearing his mouth from mine, the Frenchman captured a swollen nipple. Two pairs of hands stroked, squeezed, explored. The fierce heat of desire burned throughout my body. I couldn't wait any longer and impaled myself upon his cock.

I lost all track of time until morning when, awakened by a lion roaring in my ear (snores from my "king"), I faced reality—runny mascara. If you've been there before, you know the score. I made a hasty retreat, figuring in my befuddled and besotted mind that this had been an incredible one-night-stand.

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About Robin

Recovering copywriter, Robin Glasser has written for a variety of magazines ranging from Readers' Digest to Penthouse Letters, where she wrote a column called "The Red Hot Woman." Her poetry has been published inUpstairs at Durocand The Riverside Poetry Review. Ms. Glasser's novel, My Life as a Concubine, is based on her experiences in Paris or as she likes to call it, The City of Merde, and has been re-released from Smashwords and is available in all virtual bookstores. Robin guarantees Men at Work, her fully-illustrated book of poetry, will put twinkles in your eyes and sparkles in your pants. Don't forget to watch her fast-paced peepshows based on these tongue & cheeky poems at http://www.youtube.com/msrobinglasser. You can get a copy from robinglasser [at] yahoo [dot] com Her latest novel, The Brain Exchange, is available at Smashwords, Amazon, et al. She now reads at various venues in New York.

 

Guaranteed to put a twinkle in your eyes & sparkles in your pants

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/252000

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BOHKG8E

http://www.myspace.com/robinglasser

https://twitter.com/RobinGlasser1

http://www.authorsden.com/robinglasser 

http://www.youtube.com/msrobinglasser