Cold

The coach walked up to Cassandra, who was looking straight down at the ground.

"Talk to me," he said. "What's going on?"

Cassandra looked up, and extended her right arm, which lightly clutched her foil. The coach looked moved his gaze from the hilt to the tip, then raised his eyebrows. "OK then. Something's wrong with your weapon, I take it?"

"Cold," Cassandra said.

The coach squeezed his eyes together. "You have a cold foil?" Cassandra blushed, shook her head. "You're cold?" Another shake. "Help me out here, Cassie," he said. "What -- "

"Is it too heavy?" said DJ behind the Coach.

"Yes," said Cassandra.

The Coach looked at the handle. "That's one of the men's foils," he said. "Swap it out if it's too heavy."

"OK."

"Can I ask why you didn't say it was too heavy at the start? Why did you say it was cold?"

"Cold things -- feel heavy to me."

"But it was heavy, not cold."

"I know. I meant to say it was heavy."

"So why did you say it was cold."

"Because -- that was the word that came out of my mouth. It wasn't what I meant, it was what I said."

Words

"It's not that I'm shy," said Cassandra. "I want to say what's on my mind. It's just . . . "

"Just what?" asked Annie.

Cassandra exhaled forcefully, vibrating her lips. She closed her eyes, looked down. When Annie asked what was wrong, Cassandra's head snapped up, eyes open, and pointed to her temple.

"It's all here," she said hurriedly. "I can see it, feel it, but I don't know what words to use. Those thoughts, they feel so good, so right, but  . . . these thoughts have to be carried outside my mind, and the only way I can do that is through words, but I can't find the right words to transport those thoughts. I can almost feel my thoughts travelling down to my mouth, causing my lips to move and sounds to come from my throat . . . but they're missing words. So I speak the closest thing I can think of at the moment to what my original thought was. And I know it. That's why I sound so hesitant -- I'm using the only words I know how to use, even though I know they're not right."

Thanks

"I wish we knew where he was," Bernie said, speaking of the coach years later. "I'd like to speak to him, talk about the fencing team, how much it meant to all of us back then. With the way things ended -- well, the team really didn't end, it just kind of stopped. And truth is, if I had an opportunity back then to say goodbye to him, I probably wouldn't have taken it, I was just too angry and upset, just wanted to be done with fencing, and with the coach. But yeah, you're perspective changes over the years, and I realize now what the coach was trying to tell me. And the thing I'd like to say to him now is -- thank you for showing me the truth about myself. Even though I couldn't accept that truth at the time, there was no way I could go back to my delusions after that year on the fencing team. I didn't want to know the truth back then, but I needed to know -- and that's why I can finally be thankful to him after all these years."

Agamemnon

I've decided to revisit the classical Greek literature I studied in college, partly for the mental exercise, another part in the hope of finding inspiration for my fiction. Yesterday I started with Agamemnon, the first of the three-part Orestia cycle of tragic plays from Aeschylus (that I was able to spell both the title and author's name correctly without consulting an outside reference is a minor point of pride). What strikes me when re-reading the play is how the private tragedy of the house of Atrius becomes very public. Agamemnon's murder by his wife Clytaemenstra and cousin Aegisthus (I must confess, I had to look up those two names) is more than just revenge for the feast of Thyestes (I'm back on track -- got it right the first time!); it creates a political crisis for the people of Argolis, as represented by the Chorus, who are now ruled by the cruel tyrant Aegisthus, who does not attempt to disguise his plans for authoritarian rule. But this public consequence is not unprecedented, as the assassination is also motivated by Agamemnon's sacrifice of his daughter Iphigenia (I'm on fire!) in order to gain favorable winds needed for the voyage to Ilium and the Trojan War -- a very public act, with a very private consequence. I'm curious to see how this combination of public and private tragedy will be extended in the other two plays in the cycle.

The Great Gatsby

I somehow managed to get through high school and study literature in college without reading this classic novel from F. Scott Fitzgerald. It is a rare treat to read a canonical work free from the memory of a lecture or exam, and enjoy it on one's own terms. What I find particularly appealing is Fitzgerald's wonderful prose, his simple yet powerful language.

[F]ifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars.

 At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses.

I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters . . .

The images grow organically from the pages, the language never calling attention to its cleverness, metaphors never extended too long like a party guest who doesn't realize it is time to leave. It is concise, beautiful writing, full of meaning yet never full of itself -- a novel worthy of being in the canon of great literary works.

The Classics

"I've always enjoyed classical literature, the Greek and Roman legends," said Bernie. "On the one hand, it's very basic -- this army's fighting that army, some guy's in love with someone forbidden. But it doesn't get lost in the boring details. There's little exposition, or dialogue, or God help us, poetry, or nothing like what we think of as poetry. It's about the ideas, and those ideas can appeal to anyone. They transcend politics, or technology. It's real stuff."

Mask

The fencing mask, honeycombed with rigid narrow wires, seemed like the interior of a metallic hive for tiny bees. At the bottom of the mask, a chin rest and neck guard was attached with metallic buttons. Having been purchased second-hand from the state university, most masks had at least a few exterior dents or small breaks in the wiring, and no amount of washing could remove the stain and smell of the sweat that had accumulated on the chin rest and neck guards. The coach responded to each plead for new equipment with a bemused shrug, and a pat answer that at least sounded better than the truth, that he had been lucky to get the money for equipment in the first place and there was no question about there being any more where that came from. "The masks, they're like the cars most people have in this town," he would say. "A fender bender here and there, rust from all the ice and salt in winter. But so long as it gets you from here to there, people stick with their cars, until they can't run anymore. It's not just a matter of finances, it's a principle, further proof that you can survive no matter what happens. These masks -- a mask won't make you a great fencer. It might help you look more like a fencer, but in the end, it doesn't do anything for you. We don't need new masks -- we need to practice more."

Spring

The cold slumber of winter gave way to spring, which rose greenly from the earth with a freshness and vibrancy that seemed novel.

Desolation

The wind blew strongly over the white field, thin streams of snow jetting over the long white blanket. To him, the field looked barren, desolate, all life and comfort seeming to have abandoned long ago.

Team

"Being on the fencing team is the best of both worlds," DJ said. "During a bout, I rely entirely on myself -- I win or lose on my own merits, not because of something one of my teammates did. I've done team sports, and I hate them -- you can do everything right, but fail because one of your teammates has his head up his butt on a play, and you can also win when you know you have no right to the victory. Fencing is like golf, or tennis -- it's a true test of individual excellence. But the problem with golf and tennis is, you usually train and prepare on your own as well. That's what's great about the fencing team -- we train together, travel together, share each other's joys and pains."

Cold

It was a penetrating, stabbing cold, contracting his back muscles until they spasmed from fatigue.

Mistake

"I don't make mistakes," DJ said. "I offer alternatives. And because society cannot accept disruptions to conformity, they tell me I'm mistaken."

The Familiar

"Cut me some slack with the Mr. Chips routine," said DJ. "If you won't say it, Coach, I will. You started this fencing team because living here in Edwards was starting to drive you nuts. It's OK, Coach, we understand, we're itching to get out of here as well. Happens all the time -- people move here, thinking they're gonna get away from it all, and the slower pace of life is a welcome relief for a while, but then they realize that, guess what, they have gotten away from it all -- everything! And then this town doesn't look quaint and tranquil anymore, it's quiet, boring, not like anything you've ever experienced before. But you're not like most people who move here, you've got a good job, one you want to hold on to, one you don't think you can beat somewhere else. But how can you stay here without driving yourself crazy? Why, you try to bring in something from your past, something that makes this world seem more like the one you came from. You're making yourself a home with this fencing team, Coach -- and that's cool, because we love it, and we think you're great. But please, don't start with this pious stuff about doing it for us, because you're doing it for yourself."

Circle

Coach concluded each practice with the circle drill, where one fencer at circle center would face each member of the team, one at a time and for only one touch, as they stood along the perimeter. The personality of each fencer would become most clear at this time. Annie never moved first, whether at the center or perimeter -- her game was to respond with the perfect counter-move to however her opponent attacked. DJ, on the other hand, moved aggressively, often lunging immediately, sometimes feinting first but always attacking first. Bernie would move to his opponent slowly, almost hesitantly. Butch waved his foil back and forth with anxious energy.

DJ

Call me DJ. Started with John Jacob, which became JJ, then Double-J, now DJ. I started fencing because let's face it, all other sports suck, unless you like phonies and egomaniacs and scripted melodrama. There is a beautiful simplicity to fencing -- it's just you and your opponent, neither of you there to get your name in the paper or impress the cheerleaders or make your parents proud. Our motivations are pure, and the competition is art. I fence for myself, but my fencing makes the world a better place.

Fear

"What the hell happens to you during bouts?" asked the coach in exasperation. "It's like you forget everything you've been working on in practice. You're all arms and legs -- you fence like you've got scorpions in your underwear."

"It's like this energy jolt, all through my body," said Bernie. "I just want to throw myself out there, get it over with."

"You know what that's all about, buddy? It's about believing in your training, trusting that if you stick to what you've learned, you'll do OK. Don't you trust me?"

"You? Coach? Of course I trust you, man. It's that I don't trust myself. I don't think I can properly execute. I trust the messenger, and the message -- I just can't believe what I'm reading."

Nerves

"Sure I get nervous during bouts. But it's not about losing, it's about letting myself down. Don't want to sound full of myself, but with my training, my coaching, I should win. When I don't win, I feel like I've done something wrong, didn't prepare properly, let up physically, didn't look for my opponent's weakness."

"You really think you should win every bout?" Bernie asked.

A thoughtful pause from Annie. "Nobody's perfect -- there's no way I could win every bout. But I can look back at every loss and know what I could have done, should have done, differently.

Chance

His answers to questions about why he had joined the fencing team were always vague, inarticulate -- dunno, not sure, it's just cool I guess -- but sincere, because his motivations for joining the team weren't even clear to him. But the pain of his disappointment now made his motivation clear. He had seen fencing as an opportunity, a chance to be good at something. But this turned out to be another lost opportunity, another avenue for frustration. He had hoped fencing would be an escape, but it had turned out to be another trap.

Dancer

Annie smiled. "This is going to sound weird I know -- but the part about fencing I like most is the footwork. I love dancing, have taken lessons all my life. I love everything about dancing -- the conditioning, the artistry, choreography and the spontaneity working together. To take what I've learned about footwork, coordination, balance, and use it in a sport, a competition . . . fencing combines everything that I enjoy about life."

Admiration

"Billy's great, man. Yeah, he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows what his limits are, and he's happy with that. He'll never be able to figure things out on his own, but once you show him something, he never forgets it. You and I," Bernie said, looking Annie straight in the eyes, "life for us is a puzzle, and we're constantly trying to put the pieces in the right places. Billy, he doesn't care. We figure things out, Billy let's life figure itself out for him. That means he's always going to be happy -- life will be one series of pleasant discoveries for him."

Practice

"Yeah, I do enjoy the practice more than the competition. When we practice, we're a group. During a bout, or a tournament, it's just you. Practicing is a social experience, but competition is anti-social -- you're not even allowed to talk! Remember that time I said 'nice job' to my opponent, and the judge gave me a warning?"

The Bucket

Her family was comfortably middle-class, frugal both by temperament and necessity. They were wealthy enough to afford what they needed, but not wealthy enough to replace aging appliances or tools. Household items were never temporary, but rather indispensable parts of their home, with their own names. They didn't have a bucket in the home, but rather they had The Bucket, which they would call to ("where's The Bucket?") to fill such vital tasks as moping the floor, carrying dirt, and waiting by a sick family member's bedside. Being as useful as it was, The Bucket would become a source of argument, because you were just going to have to find some other way to plant your petunias, I need The Bucket to help me wash the car.

Edwards

The wooden footings of the old piers rose from the river's surface, then abruptly ended at uneven breaking points, and looked like decaying brown teeth. Edwards had been a renowned port in the days of wooden ships, a focal point for the minerals, furs, and lumber of the area. When more modern forms of transportation opened trade opportunities in other ports, the rocky terrain and rolling hills that surrounded Edwards made the town less enticing for merchants. The town suffered immensely for decades, and over three-quarters of the population left; those who remained, though, took their survival as a sign of their strength, their perseverance. The memory of Edwards' glory days as a bustling port were long gone, but its spirit of survival remained.

Creativity

His creative instinct was along the lines of Mad Magazine, familiar jokes and routines with new subject matter.

Genius

The scope of his artistic genius was limited to composing lyrics to pop songs, lyrics that told a mildly sarcastic (never challenging) story about his job, his friends, eminent politicians or celebrities.

Wonder

He could enjoy the world so long as it filled him with wonder, but when novelty gave way to familiarity, discovery to routine, he would lose interest. The discipline required to understand rather than be amazed was not nearly as interesting.

Equipment

The smell of damp linen hung over the equipment. The coach laundered the jackets and neck guards in the spring, at the end of the season, and in-season laundering was rare. By the second or third practice most of the team had identified a certain jacket, mask, and weapon as their own.

Practice

"Fencing is won with the feet." Lead foot pointing forward, trailing foot pointing to the side, eight inches apart, heels in line. Advance -- lift the lead foot, toe first then heel, push and extend, now lift the back foot (lift, lift, don't drag, lift), bring forward. Retreat -- lift the back foot (Scott, you're dragging, gotta lift), push back from the front leg, plant the back, raise the front toe (lift, keep your knees bent that will help), then the heel, step back (lift!). Lunge -- extend the front leg, push hard off the rear leg, full extension.

The Argument

"You didn't see that ending coming?" Bernie asked.

"No, because I wasn't looking for it," Billy replied. "When I see a movie, I don't like trying to figure out what's going to happen, like you always do. Me, I prefer to take it all in -- the characters, dialogue, the scenery. You know, I heard Mr. Shepard say once that back in Shakespeare's time, at the front of the playhouse they would print the plot of the play, so when you were going to see Hamlet, you already knew what was going to happen. Called it the 'argument,' was what Mr. Shepard said. People did that back then because they were there to hear what the playwright wrote, and how the actors played their parts. They didn't care about surprise endings."

"Didn't know thou likest Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare? Hate Shakespeare. But people back in those days, they had it right about the argument."

Quiet

He looked up at the cloudness night sky, stars speckled in the blackness. He heard no noise, save for his own breathing, the sound of which seemed an intrusion upon the stillness.