Literary.
Not a typical story. Not a conventional narrative. Not my usual tale of moralism and archetypes. And certainly not an action-packed tale of mission-adventure. More like a series of vignettes. But there's romance…lots of romance.
i want to...someday
or
Ron writes a poem
Ron sat hunched over at his computer, puzzling. Rufus paced in a circle on the desktop next to the computer.
This was not a class assignment for school. He would not stress this much if it were, or invest this much time and effort to complete it, self-confessed slacker that he was. He wondered; would his G.F. feel complimented that he was putting so much thought into something meant for her? Or would she feel tweaked that he didn't put this much time and trouble into something really important, like homework, or missions, or their relationship?
It hardly mattered. He had started this thing, and he had to see it through, if only for his own peace of mind. Besides, now that Rufus was as engrossed as Ron himself was, the little animal would not let his master rest without giving this his best effort.
For a few more minutes, Ron frowned in thought. Then he sat up, brightly. Setting hands to keyboard, he began typing.
Rufus stopped pacing and intently watched the monitor as the words appeared.
It makes me stiff / To see your bare midriff
Rufus stared at the words. His reaction spoke volumes. First he slapped his forehead with an open forepaw. Then he marched in front of the computer keyboard, crossed his arms, and stared at Ron, as though to say, Really?! Are you serious?!. He frowned like Coach Barkin did when ordering Ron to crabwalk around the school athletic track. He shook his head. "Hun-uh," he intoned sternly. No way are you going to give this to Kim for her to read. his look said.
Ron nodded. "Yeah. You're right, lil' buddy. I can't send Kim this. She would keel over. The Tweebs would find it. And Mr. Dr. P. would send me somewhere Black Hole Deep." He deleted the words. He sat back in his chair and sighed disconsolately. This was going nowhere. He wanted something that would be passionate without being pornographic…something that would move her to tears the way watching The Memo Pad movie did.
He closed his eyes and let her mental image float up into his consciousness.
Was she wearing her crop top? One of her several crop tops? No…it was her tan tunic top with the flared sleeves. It was looser, not as formfitting as her other tops. It had a neckline that could be laced up, like one of Malcolm Nevious's old-fashioned peasant shirts. But Malcolm chose his clothes like he was in a perpetual role-playing scenario….
Grimacing, Ron shook his head to clear it. It was distasteful to have thoughts of Malcolm Nevious intruding into pleasant daydreams about Kim.
Now then…where was he…ah, yes…Kim's peasant top with the drawstring neckline…or something like that. Kim and Monique had a much better grasp on fashion jargon than he did. But he visualized her wearing it. When she reached up with one hand, the sleeve would slip down and bare a slender shapely arm. When she reached up with both hands to brush back her tresses, or put up her hair in a ponytail, the top would lift up and reveal just a glimpse of her waist.
It was something guys knew about from the moment in life that girls ceased being yucky and began to be pleasing. When a girl reached up, it stretched her body, narrowed her torso, and accentuated her curves; she became endowed with catlike grace; it all coincided with girls becoming endowed with a bustline, and other such aspects of puberty.
He had read somewhere that partial nudity could be much more sexually arousing and visually enticing than full nudity, because it forced the viewer to imagine what could not be seen; it would seem that this was confirmation. He had seen Kim's midriff constantly for several years now, what with her old mission suit crop top and her everyday school and leisure wardrobe of crop tops; but somehow, the sneak peak never failed to catch his eye, like the whiff of food every time he passed Bueno Nacho or J. P. Bearymore's.
And if she caught him giving her 'the' glance, she would shake her head, roll her eyes with feigned annoyance, smile tolerantly, and murmur, "Men…so hormonal-ish." And then she would catch his hand, twirl herself, wrap herself in his arm like rewinding a yoyo string, and give him a peck on his cheek.
All of which brought him back to the present. He googled "bare midriff" to get some ideas…and got the usual harvest of websites and pictures. Some of it was very graphic. Some of it was downright offensive. Scowling, he closed the browser page and leaned back in his chair, sighing.
Ron didn't want porn or smut; he wanted something exalted and glorious, like the Song of Solomon, only a little more modern. He wanted something passionate and tender. "Doggone it, Rufus, there's gotta be something that'll give me an idea for a romantic poem."
The little pink animal pondered, scratching his head and rubbing his chin. Then, snapping his fingers, he hopped to the keyboard and began hitting the keys.
E. E. Cummings.
Oh, yeah, thought Ron; that poet who Ms. Wilhelmina Bardolph Avon, the Middleton High English lit teacher, lectured about.
She had called Cummings "avant-garde", which, as far as Ron could gather, meant 'artsy'; unconventional; Beatnik-ish. He knew that word only because it came up in conversations between his dad and Rabbi Katz; they would kid each other about their misspent bohemian youth. Ron was proud of his Ron-ish, never-be-normal unconventionality. But he avoided artsyness like the plague.
Ron opened the browser page on the computer and googled the poet's name. The man's bio and a selection of poems came up. He clicked on a link and started reading.
Oh, yeah…that guy, he thought. Kim had seemed especially interested in the man. For the life of himself, Ron couldn't understand why. The dude didn't capitalize, hardly used punctuation, and mangled his spelling something awful; the writing was hardly comprehensible.
It was unfair that somebody could get away writing that badly and become rich and famous. At least Ron assumed Cummings was famous, and therefore rich. The guy was well-known enough to get his stuff put into poetry anthologies…which wasn't the same thing as being as famous as the Global Wrestling Association athletes, like Pain King or Steel Toe, or pop singers, like the O-Boyz or Britina.
As it was, Ron's written assignments were already overlaid with Ms. Avon's indelible red felt-tipped marker, indicating what she thought needed correction. His dad once saw one, and remarked, "Son, that schoolwork has more red ink than a bankrupt accounting firm's ledger." If he turned in his essays and term papers the way Cummings wrote poetry, it would look as red as a stop sign by the time Ms. Avon finished annotating it.
He came to these lines.
anyone lived in a pretty how town / (with up so floating many bells down) / spring summer autumn winter / he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men (both little and small) / cared for anyone not at all / they sowed their isn't they reaped their same / sun moon stars rain
Ron dropped his jaw in dismay and threw up his hands in frustration. "Rufus! Buddy! You want me to write like this dude?"
Rufus shook his head negatedly. Working the keyboard and mouse, he navigated the computer to a new webpage. "Ta-da!" he pronounced triumphantly, gesturing at the computer screen.
Ron grimaced. In some ways, his fave four-footed companion could be more demanding than his girlfriend, his English teacher, his football coach, and his parents combined. Shrugging, he peered at the computer screen and read.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in / my heart)i am never without it(anywhere / i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done / by only me is your doing,my darling) / i fear / no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want / no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) / and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant / and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Ron stopped, astonished. Wow. Something clicked. Something resonated. Scrolling back up a few lines, he carefully read and reread
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in / my heart)i am never without it(anywhere / i go you go,my dear;
That was him and KP. Wherever one went, the other was in their heart, whether with them physically or not. Sometimes there was such a blending of personalities that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
and whatever is done / by only me is your doing,my darling)
"I've got your back." "I couldn't save the world without you." They were constantly saying that to each other.
i fear / no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want / no world(for beautiful you are my world,
Could two people be any closer to each, or love each other more passionately, than that?
The syntax was still atrocious. But the ardor was undeniable. What Ms. Bardolph was always saying in her lectures started to sink in; poetry, even free verse, need not to conform to the rules of grammar, syntax, and punctuation to make its point. Using metaphor and imagery, poetry could bypass logic and touch the heart.
Ron found his poetic inspiration. He rolled up his sleeves, hunched over his keyboard, and went to work.
Rufus would scrutinize what was written now and then, and nod in approval.
It was well into the wee hours of the morning by the time he finished it. Delighted, Ron hit the 'save' button. Wearily, he slumped back in his chair and sighed with satisfaction.
Then, after a moment, he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, and read intently what he had composed, again and again, silently mouthing the words, caressing each syllable with his eyes, meditating on each phrase in his heart, and envisioning himself kneeling before her, she who was the delight of his eyes, and whispering each and every word into her ear.
when you blink your eyes and look at me / (your gemlike eyes) / i want to look back / and never stop staring
when you lift your arms to put up your hair / (your firelike hair) / i want to let your hair down / and stroke it / weaving my fingers through it / letting it run over my hands / like soft silk water
when your sleeves slip down and your bare arms show / i want to feel your bare arms around me / an unbroken circle
when your shirt slips up and your bare waist shows / i want to feel my bare arms around you / an unbroken circle
i want to stare at your bare / ( hair-head-eyes-nose-lips ) cheeks-chin-jaw-throat ( neck-shoulders-arms-hands ( breast-chest-waist-navel-hips- ) ; belly-thighs-knees-legs / ( ankles-feet-toes ) / your all of you from head to toe / top to bottom / your everything / someday
i want to cover your bare finger with a golden band / the way i want to cover your bare waist with my arms / someday
Ron sniffled. A tear actually rolled down his cheek. He had tried to make it both wildly sensual yet humbly worshipful and respectful. He had tried to portray his Beloved in words the best he could. He had tried to commit his deepest feelings to paper. It was all here; a passionate paean to both her physical beauty and her sinuous gracefulness; an articulated longing for physical intimacy; and a humble, fervent desire to share their lives maritally.
Was it anywhere close to a decent replication of E. E. Cummings's style? Was it worth all the time and effort? Would Ms. Avon zealously take a red pen to it, if she ever saw it? Would Mr. Dr. P. have a cow of Black Hole Deep intensity if he ever read it? Did any of that matter? Ron had put his heart into this, as much as anything he had ever done. And he knew that his KP would see that. He hoped and prayed that it was worthy of her.
Ron hit the 'save' button, then the 'print' button, then logged off his computer. He would not sneak to the printer in Kim's school locker for this, the way he did to print off video game cheat codes. He had to keep this real and honest.
Rufus had been curled up asleep on the desk. At the sound of the printer, he awoke. With bleary eyes, he perused the finished work, winked at Ron, and gave a 'thumbs up'. Then he scampered to his little bed and dove under the covers.
Ron carefully folded the paper, tucked it into an envelope, and sealed the envelope. No other eyes would see it again except Kim's, and those whom she might choose to share it with. He got out of his clothes and into his PJ's
He knelt by his bed and said a brief prayer. Oh, Lord our God, King of the Universe…please take care of everyone I love…my folks…my sis…my pet…my bud's…but most of all…her…and her fam. Kim…my Best Friend Forever…my mission partner…the girl I love. I hope to You she'll like what I wrote for her.. Thank You for everything. Amen.
He lay his head on his pillow. Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come immediately. Like a sylph, Kim floated in and out of his thoughts, pirouetting, hand-springing, her abundant tresses flowing like wind through a wheat field, and glowing like metal in the forge; her eyes throwing off sparks like an emerald mirror ball; and her smile beaming like new snow under a full moon.
With a wistful sigh, he reconciled himself to what was obvious; even if he were Edward Estlin Cummings, or Solomon the king, he would always fall short of adequately describing the beauty of Kim Possible.
A / N
This Glacially Slow Writer has had a Ron-Stoppable-sized prolonged period of writer's block. This was scheduled to be submitted by Sweetest Day of October 2013. Instead, it gets uploaded for pre-Valentine's Day of 2014. And herein follow the acknowledgments.
Kim's peasant top with the laced neckline is shown in such episodes as Job Unfair and Vir Tu Ron.
Malcolm Nevious, the pretentious video gamester, with his collection of swashbuckling-styled shirts, also appears in Vir Tu Ron.
The Song of Solomon, or, as it's called, the Song of Songs, is a short Biblical book found in the Old Testament. It is a passionate series of verses written by Solomon son of David, king of Israel, to one of his several hundred wives or concubines. Both Jewish and Christian commentators have considered the book an allegory of God's love for His people.
Edward Estlin Cummings (1894-1962) was a prominent 20th century American poet, famous for his haphazard spacing of words, lack of capitalized letters, and equally random use of punctuation. His name is often written as 'e. e. cummings.
anyone lived in a pretty how town was published in 1940. i carry your heart with me(i carry it in was published in 1920.
The English and literature teacher, Williamina Bardolph Avon, is a creation of my fevered imagination. Her name includes a couple Shakespearean plays on words. Can any literature aficionados spot them? (Wink.)
A word of explanation on the formatting of the lines of the poems, especially i carry your heart with me(i carry it in. Cummings liked to do tricks with typesetting and the arrangement of text; one line might be aligned to the extreme left margin; the next line might be centered between the margins; and the line after that might be aligned to the extreme right margin; or some variation thereof. He did it to impart a certain effect. It was all part of his unconventional style, so atypical compared to normal writing…and it's hard to reproduce with the default formatting found in FF-dot-net.
On FF-dot-net, one can upload underlined, italicized, and bolded text; but randomly-spaced text like Cummings writes sort of gets converted to a series of short double-spaced lines; the effect just isn't the same as classical Cummings poetry; and that sounded very snobbish.
So…I didn't print the lines as they are published, but rather with the forward slash / to indicate the end of one line and the beginning another, Perhaps there's some trick with HTML formatting I haven't yet mastered.
The upshot is, I encourage the readers to look up Cummings's poetry online or hard-copy to see what I mean, and to get a flavor of the style.
Now a word about story content. like my man Ron Stoppable, I deplore the objectification of women and the predominance of porn, and I wanted to write something that, like the Song of Solomon, was celebratory of conjugal love, and sensual without being sleazy. Did I succeed?
Further, does Ron's poem roughly approximate the poetry of E. E. Cummings? With the mangled punctuation and strange syntax? As one might tell, I'm more comfortable writing prose than verse.
Writing the poem? That part was easy. That came to me in a moment one night while I was washing dishes at my pizza delivery job; I jotted the words down on a paper towel. For the Glacially Slow Writer, that's like super speed.
It occurred belatedly to me that there's a facet of Kim Possible that the poem doesn't address. It's the same aspect as the Biblical Song of Songs. The poem praises the lady's beauty, but says not a word about her personality, except by indirect reference to the love between the lady and the writer. It's something that a modern attitude, shaped by feminism and a consciousness of psychiatry, would deplore. And I can appreciate that; it's akin to overemphasizing a woman's physical charms while ignoring her intangible traits, her intelligence, her courage, and her love.
But, as I reflect, Cumming's poetry is pretty much the same way; he doesn't' tell he how he feels; that's more a trait of modern introspective poetry, and can degenerate into sort of an emo self-centeredness. Cummings doesn't tell us his feelings; he tells us about the people and the things he loves and contemplates about, and we learn from that how he feels.
Needless to say, I love Cummings's poetry. I think it transmits impressions in the same way that Ms. Avon tried to convey to Ron. Good poetry has that kind of power.
I summarize the difference between prose and poetry this way; from a bit of doggerel over at my DeviantArt account.
Presenting data glaringly. / Or using words sparingly.
Prose refers to fact. / A poem is more abstract.
Compression of idea, economy of word. / Poetry is more felt than heard.
Prose is science, poetry is art. / Prose is mind, poetry is heart.
Prose is the study of proper botanical class. / Poetry is the wind blowing through leaves and grass.
Is that any better than the poem Ron wrote? Meh, does it matter?
And Blessed and joyous Valentine's Day to all lovers