Rewriting Stella

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Rewriting Stella Page 28

by Tuttle, Dan;


  Much like a mama bird, devout-faced, wing

  extended for protection as it ought

  to be for fledglings, Tao proceeded share

  translations of the newests of the day,

  from Yertle’s stonewalls on Obamacare

  to hints of some resurgent KKK.

  Stel witnessed these events with full remove,

  her brain sought only patterns in their moves.

  150.

  It wasn’t common in the group back then

  to force another person to the point

  of naming names, specific facts or men

  or dates, the backup bullets that PowerPoint

  would have to prove a storyline. Therefore

  it wasn’t clear how rando’d handle Stel’s

  implicit gauntlet thrown to name there four

  real people. Stel: “Reps’ loyalty impels

  adherence to the highest ranking force:

  their party. In exchange, the day they need

  that body to in turn their bills endorse

  it does so willingly without hard plea.

  Take last five years as data, tell me when

  some phone bank blitz changed ways of councilmen.”

  151.

  Debating misstep made of letting an

  opponent off the hook by asking more,

  Tee rescued him with answer. “That Grand Can-

  yon state guy voting down on late-night floor

  the health repeal. It stopped, debate expired.”

  “Dramatic, sure,” said Stel, “but back one step.

  He’d stated age would soon make him retired,

  and freed from vote power-seeking. Plus, the prep

  was hardly limited to one week’s fuss:

  the conversation raged for many months.

  Folks lobbied ’gainst a greater blunderbuss

  and won the keystone vote somehow, for once.

  And then, of course, its gutting happened next

  in unrelated tax bill Yertle flexed.”

  152.

  Forgetting selves, the fireworklike debate

  had Stella’s voice both first, and clearly, heard.

  The music rescued group’s disputing state

  by pouring melodies where further word

  was absent. Jazz had ways of speaking to

  the topic most at hand. One vicious sax

  left Phrygian remorse lines streaking through

  progression else devoid malicious tacks.

  As even finest compositions played

  depended on improvisations that

  musicians conjured so to serenade,

  so varied quality of their group’s chats

  as functions linearly optimized

  by knowledge, logic, standing, plot, and guise.

  153.

  Rendition of the Monk tune “Round Midnight”

  brought undulating somber moods enhanced

  by lack of resolution Stel’s bid might

  erode belief in Tee. Crowd all entranced

  by solos virtuosos each exchanged,

  with nary any cue from one to next,

  the new companion, Darla, soon estranged

  the group with flash-on selfies meant for texts

  with hashtag labels that the public knew.

  Stel joined her friends in judging Dar for this

  attention-seeking ritual in view

  of real live people seeking sonic bliss.

  Cade, next to her, said, “Yo, excuse me, ma’am,

  but can you stop?” “Uh, what? It’s Instagram.”

  154.

  Cade’s face looked like it lost its rhythm. “So?”

  The single syllable did same to Dar.

  Her pale face was blue screen of death: “Dunno

  what’s got your knickers twisted—it’s a bar.”

  She clearly thought that selling alcohol

  was in itself sufficient cause to pose

  for photo stream, “Chill out, pal.” She forestalled

  feud by then typing in her phone. “New lows…”

  said Cade. Stel: “Darla, you’re here to be seen?”

  “I wouldn’t say it that way, but… uh, sure.

  A million followers means every scene

  is one more chance to show them my allure.”

  “Which is…?” “You don’t know? Now I’m taste’s own chef.

  I’m sponsored, queen kingmaker in SF.”

  155.

  Stel recognized Dar somewhat fuzzily

  as roaming protest cute girl whose conceit

  was smartphone self-absorption. Does ill she

  was judged to bring exist at all? To meet

  with leftward-leaning group and document

  her presence to her followers gave cred

  to Opposition’s message. Cadence: “Spent

  your life amassing followers?” “Instead,

  how ’bout you think about it as pure fun?

  I live my life. I share some bits. They flock.

  I’ve got some bread. I scatter it for one

  and pigeons come in quantities Hitchcock

  would fear.” She glanced from phone, “Delight enough,

  remake your every act as public stuff.”

  156.

  Cade’s circuits fried, he gave up argument

  and asked if Stel’d make like an Autobot

  and roll out. “Walk or MUNI?” Bar crew’d spent

  a long night all together, squatter’s plot

  arranged around a single table. Tips

  solicited in basket weren’t produced

  since none of them had cash for more than sips.

  Stel privately hoped as she’d been seduced

  by music made, so someday she’d repay.

  That pay-it-forward ethos quite skipped Cade,

  with Kendrick’s Pulitzer in mind replayed:

  know what loyalty’s to, use that crusade

  encoded in your DNA, then shed

  your skin, molt toward a single-cause purebred.

  157.

  They strode ’neath drooping yellow flowers with

  arboreal aroma redolent

  of rose like weeping willows’ kin and kith,

  an SF version of that red known scent.

  They grew in tiny front yard plots, the wind

  swept all their better parts into the air—

  as face-down blooms, Stel might have had them binned

  were they not nasally so debonair.

  She liked to pass them by at night, and stop

  to sniff, as proverbs so encourage us.

  She did, and climbed with Cade up to the top

  of slipworn marble steps to home. “Let’s suss

  out how we’ll make Dar gone tomorrow, ’kay?”

  Too gassed to argue, Stel gave ground: “Sure, Cade.”

  158.

  “No, really, Stella, stuff like that ain’t right.

  We hang together as a group ’cause it’s

  a bitch to find new homies. Disinvite

  the randos using membership for glitz.”

  “I didn’t like her either, Cade. But what’s

  she guilty of? Some selfies in drum break?”

  “It ain’t frustration she mistimed the cuts,

  it’s disrespect to us. Her shots unmake

  the reason that we came together.” “Um…

  you think that reason’s what?” asked Stel. Cade said,

  “To rise up, revolutionize, become

  a righting force.” “You think we’ve parlayed dread

  toward anything? No, Cade, we’ve talked. You’ve macked

  on Mona. Cade, there’s no way to prove act

  159.

  of meeting up amounts to much when the

  agenda’s sit around, drink beer, and bitch,

  to use your term.” “Of course it won’t, Stel, duh,”

  he pedaled back, “but in that Dar enriched

&n
bsp; herself on her affiliation with

  the rest of us. We started this.” “It’s ‘this’

  that honestly I think is more a myth

  than vehicle for righteous selflessness.

  You do by doing. Pick a vision, then

  go utilize the freedoms States protect

  to get support of neighbor Chad, John, Chen,

  Miguel, Vu, Thor, or Aikins, go connect

  a dozen peoples’ peoples with a cause.

  That’s what your hip-hop says.” Take made Cade pause.

  160.

  “No, hip-hop raps about the artist’s grind.

  They drop own solo story and a beat.”

  “You’ve played me dis tracks. Those are well-designed

  to piggyback on others, get retweets.”

  “You’re missing fact that Darla’s got no core.

  It’s hustle lived that differentiates.”

  “She’s parasitic, sure. She used us for

  mere background props.” “Worse fissure’s when she states

  that what we’re doing’s hers.” “Well, she was there.”

  “It’s still appropriation.” “Zoom back out:

  you love hip-hop ’cause it describes warfare,

  a struggle you feel’s shared. Presume a route

  from vid to better sense of self exists,

  like does for music… then spare Dar the fist.”

  161.

  Upstairs Stel found her room as it had been

  when hours before she left it, nothing new.

  So no excuse was there for glycogen,

  adrenaline, or ATP to cue

  a caffeinated buzz she felt, no fight

  or flight, no strangeness physicality

  had left as clue. So why on this one night

  did she feel jazzed? The musicality

  of that quartet? The liberality

  of her progressive friends? Vitality

  of conversation? Glib mentality

  of vexing half-debate? It shall pit Tee

  against all things, all times, Stel, saddened, thought.

  She took up pen to said conclusion jot.

  162.

  Some stuff goes on, and you don’t like it. So

  you find some folks who think much like you do.

  You gather them together and you go

  to friendly spots with late or no curfew.

  It’s nice to see same faces week to week

  and nicer hearing chorus of consent,

  and thus you carry on. What makes you weak

  is having deviation in convent.

  Point one, your in-group’s in if they agree.

  Point two, your motto’s chasing from behind.

  You hear, refute, and protest. And point three:

  you’ll gather no converts of heart or mind

  until you paint the pic of what could be.

  Find unbelievers, dictate what ‘good’ means.

  163.

  “It’s not the best,” reflected Stella, eyes

  reviewing poem in desktop draft. “But hey,

  that’s what I get from any improvised

  attempt. The first draft’s meant to just convey

  the meaning. Only when the audience

  is numerous and worthy does it make

  sense to invest the time in gaudiness

  to dress the message up.” Then Timberlake

  came on downstairs, and bassline racked the floor.

  No, wait, Stel thought, that’s J Cole on JT,

  and Elvis, Eminem, and Macklemore.

  He said blacks quibbled ’bout who’s most shady,

  and all the while there’s one gone snatch the crown,

  when they look up white people snatched the sound.

  164.

  Familiarity in course of days

  had made it clearer when Cade cued up whom:

  he played Talib, Cole, Roots, Jean Grae when fazed,

  and Wu-Tang, Buddy, Monch to spark a room.

  Embracing for a moment empathy

  for how her housemate host felt following

  their tête-à-tête, Stel breathed and then a fleet,

  seditious thought came toward mind wallowing:

  perhaps she had a real-life crown debate.

  If what she heard from Darla had been true

  and internet thought Dar’s life somehow great,

  then masses’ tastes were open to the new

  and, with some luck, Stel might just have the knack

  to play a different game and tastes hijack.

  165.

  The smartphone form-fit in her hand, she pressed

  the buttons bringing her to marketplace

  where backend robots eagerly suggest

  which apps to buy for her guessed target case.

  A touch or two, some seconds, then voilà:

  her Tricorder was now equipped like Dar’s.

  All folks from Pakistan to Panama

  could follow now Stel’s poetic memoirs.

  She held her face up to her phone and screen,

  iambic fourteen measured lines behind,

  adjusted wrist and zoom for centering,

  then clicked the pic for internet to find.

  She nudged her friends to follow her with text,

  hoped format wouldn’t leave them too perplexed.

  166.

  Though inspiration’s moment never would

  come back to Stella, she guessed sonnets came

  from want of structure. Fledgling adulthood

  had freedoms more than younger years had claimed.

  If Darla brought the internet delight

  with live streams of her life, then there was hope

  iambic oddity of Stella’s might

  find patrons for its word kaleidoscope.

  She brushed her teeth and switched the lights and crept

  beneath the silken comforter of bed

  and wondered if, that night, while she there slept,

  commemoration poem would stay unread.

  The weight of covers ushered weight of lid,

  till into hopeful slumber Stella slid.

  CHAPTER 22

  167.

  With sun a honey lemon, chili cloud

  drew contrast with the grape-in-season sky,

  the evening periwinkle pooled to crowd

  out other hues as darkness stretched beside.

  As setting sun illuminated sand,

  its angled tiny dunes like Tatooine,

  the grains turned somewhat beautiful from bland,

  alive in limelight looking tangerine.

  The evening’s fog avoided let sands play

  a role in sunset scene at Ocean Beach,

  Pacifica, or down in Monterey,

  as equals to blue waves and humpbacks’ breach.

  When mist and murk diffracted direct light,

  the lowly sand stayed unremarked as sight.

  168.

  The Opposition crew were in the crowd

  invited for Joe’s birthday, folks B-side

  to back the headline bonfire pit. Smokes cloud-

  ed minds in twilight. Man-bun poured the SKYY

  with splash of tonic so to not be bland,

  and dressed red cup with wedge of tangerine.

  Guests drank, some polished figurines with sand-

  ing paper, some did Henna tattooing.

  Flat grill kept burgers cooking, Monterey

  Jack bubbling atop, grease dropped through breach

  ’tween slats. The People Under the Stairs played,

  preventing anxious Cade from feeling beached.

  He hadn’t sought to let Dar in his sight,

  but Stella hoped he’d come to see the light.

  169.

  Stel walked with Cade and Mona down the shore,

  a northward stroll to watch sun light the cliffs

  not far. The oceanside brought stevedores

  from coastal Dar (t
he city), fishers’ skiffs,

  and seafood barbecue aromas back.

  Cade took his phone from pocket, waggled it,

  raised eyebrows, looked at Stella: “Something wack?”

  Stel shook her head. Mo, looking rattled: “Sit.

  Sure? Stuff goes on, and you don’t like it, so

  you find some folks who think much like you do.”

  “Is this an intervention?” Stel smiled. “No,

  we don’t think that you meant this as our cue,”

  replied Mo. “Great. So whatcha think?” “You’re nuts.”

  “Nah. But if so, I blame your rap.” “The cuts

  170.

  aren’t what I’m used to,” Cade admitted. Mo

  said, “We’re just checking. It’s the first time I

  got late-night notes from you and – I dunno –

  the stuff you sent all made me wonder, ‘why?’”

  “You, actually,” said Stella. Mona smiled

  as if she had suspected so, “The name?”

  “Yep. Didn’t think you’d guess. You came off mild

  till taking Tee to task on Oppo’s aim.”

  Cade looked at ladies quizzically, “Please clue

  me in to cipher you appear to share.”

  “Sure, cutie. Think back to the night when you

  kept Stel alive post-party, when I dared

  to tell Tee she was wrong.” “Ah,” Cade said, terse,

  and pieced together Stella’s sonnet verse.

  171.

  “You saw my oratory didn’t work.

  No listener seemed keen enough to stand

  for reason: ‘Opposition’s no framework

  for change. Of course, it makes a heady brand.

  It taps the verve they like in Tee, the fire.”

  “Which drove me crazy, Mo. That’s why I wrote.”

  “It’s fun to read, but really won’t inspire

  as her invective does. The antidote

  is something else.” No one spoke up. Cade looked

  as if idea backed off tip of tongue.

  Mo went on, “I think Tee’s got crew well-hooked

  on anger train, pushed out debate among

  us. That said, we weren’t on track to get clout

  regardless, and we’re friends. And friends hang out.”

  172.

  They stood and brushed the sand from off their bums.

  Stel looked toward party: “Creepy! I’m not fond

  of scene back there. Looks wicked.” “Those props? Dumb,

  ignore them. They’re a statement.” Folks had donned

  Guy Fawkes masks someone brought, all faces gone.

  “What are they?” Stel persisted, spotting Dar

  now ’midst the revelry. Cade: “Costumes spawned

  from revolution. Benny’d know.” “So noir,”

  said Stel.” Mo: “Here they’re probably a farce,

 

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