A Certain Point of View: Writing, Film and Stuff

Jim Garrary at age 35   Chez Maddie, or: Interlude in Blue   I bask in the warmth of Maddie's apartment, the scent of aged wood and a hint of lavender surrounding me. The living room is a canvas of pastel blues and greens, the soft colors of the couch and chairs inviting a moment of rest. Maddie's digital piano, a Yamaha, sits in silent anticipation of her touch. It's a model that's been around since the late '90s, compact enough to fit in the cozy space but grand in its promise of music. Maddie had shown me around earlier, her voice a melodic guide through the memories framed on the mantel, the Beethoven bust overseeing our tour with stoic approval. The kitchen, she explained with a laugh, had been upgraded by her father—a housewarming gift that replaced the '60s appliances with ones from the early '90s. I remember how she pointed to the stove where I would later cook  pasta al burro , her hazel eyes brightening as she spoke of her dad's thoughtfulness.

Maddie, as rendered by Dall-E Maddie is a woman whose beauty is both striking and subtle. She possesses a heart-shaped face, the soft contours of her cheeks tapering to a delicate chin. Her hazel eyes, framed by arched brows, are windows to her soul, expressive and vibrant. A mane of chestnut hair falls in a cascade of loose waves, brushing her shoulders with a gentle grace. Her lips, reminiscent of a Gibson girl’s, are neither too full nor too thin, but perfectly shaped for a smile that lights up her face.  Her neck is slender, leading to shoulders that carry an air of confidence. Maddie’s physique is toned, the result of regular exercise, yet retains a natural softness. Her fingers are long and delicate, the hands of a pianist, with a touch as gentle as her voice. In her posture and presence, there is a balance of strength and femininity, a harmony that captures the essence of her character. Cover illustration by Juan Carlos Hernandez  

  2 Maddie Comes Home Friday, March 10, 2000 John F. Kennedy International Airport, Arrivals Terminal, 2:05 PM EST I'm at JFK, the arrivals terminal humming with the energy of a city that never sleeps. It's a Friday afternoon, and the place is buzzing like a nightclub, but instead of music and laughter, it's filled with the sounds of greetings and goodbyes. I'm here waiting for Maddie, my heart racing a bit as I glance at the clock. Her flight, British Airways BA-175, was due at 1:45 PM, but it's running 20 minutes late. Headwinds over the Atlantic, they said. I taught my Intro to WWII class at Columbia this morning at 9:00, and Henry Townsend, bless him, arranged for a TA to cover my afternoon sessions. I rarely drive in Manhattan, but today I made an exception. I pulled my '95 Acura out of the garage, where I shell out more than I'd care to admit each month, and hit the road around 10:30 AM. The traffic was a nightmare, made worse by a fender bend

Cover designed by Juan Carlos Hernandez © 2023,2024 Alex Diaz-Granados  The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive CLICK. Should I replay it, Marty’s graduation gift to me? "I wanted to give you something to remind you of our time together... um... in Mrs. Quincy's class. And our song is in it," Marty had said, her voice now a ghostly echo in my mind. A fresh stab of regret pierced me, sharp and frigid, and I knew—I just couldn't face it again. A knock at the door fractured my contemplation. My mother's voice, warm and familiar, filtered through the wood. “Jim, honey, Mark's here.” Mundane as they were, her words came like a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present, to reality. “Thanks, Mom,” I replied. I jumped up—or at least r

Cover art design: Juan Carlos Hernandez   In this excerpt, Jim Garraty (our narrator/protagonist) is lying on his bed, listening to the original Broadway cast recording of West Side Story and trying to keep it together after an emotionally trying day that included his high school graduation ceremony. It's 8:00 PM on Friday, June 17, 1983, and Jim has just decided to not replay the cassette of music from the classic 1957 reimagining of Romeo and Juliet, choosing instead to be alone with his thoughts.  The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape in the GE 3-5104 cassette player, a Christmas gift from Mom, hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive "Click!" that punctuated the silence. I toyed with the idea of replaying the tape—Marty's graduation gift to me, a treasure trove of melodies and memories. I'd managed to keep my composu

 Boy of Harvard   (To the tune of Men of Harlech )   Boy of Harvard, what's your story? Tell her now or you'll be sorry. A gorgeous lass stands before ye, Hear ye not her call?   At your pause, she seems to wonder; Rend your teenage fears asunder, Let your heart's a-deaf'ning thunder Answer her love's call.   Kisses need exchanging Passions loudly waking; Till your young hearts b eat as one, The mourning soul is breaking; Fears on every side assailing Onward march with heart unfailing, Make her see your love prevailing, Cobras never fall!