For those of you who've been following our blog from the beginning of the literary adventure that our novel Hazel Moon has become, you know that besides all the references to Magic throughout our fictional story, we can't ignore what seems like real magic that has popped up as we've worked on the manuscripts for Hazel Moon and now Hawthorn Moon.
We weren't really thinking about all that magic, but during the last two months Lori and I have been working diligently on the sequel to Hazel Moon, Hawthorn Moon.
I'd recently gone to our local Armenian Festival, something I'd done many years earlier, but in the opening of Hawthorn Moon there is a scene set at an Armenian Fest.
This year I was determined to get more involved, seeing as I needed to do more research to get that scene in our book right, so for the first time I slipped into the line of dancers, hooked pinkies with the person next to me, and tried as best I could to follow the steps!
When it was time to go home, I'd been given orders to bring home some pastry to our mother, but also decided to get a plate of sarma for our dad. I saved a couple sarma (stuffed grape leaves) to take home, but after a long day, while sliding them into the fridge, the plate tilted, the sarma slipped onto the floor, and my trusty yellow Labrador, Mr. Jake, scarfed them up!!!
OMG...immediately my writer's mind went right to the scene at the beginning of Hawthorn Moon (find below) where November's dog, Sonny, ended up eating the sarma that our character, Marcus, just couldn't stomach!!
So, you see, the magic is heating up as we get deeper and deeper into developing the manuscript for our sequel, Hawthorn Moon!!!!
ARMENIAN FESTIVAL SCENE FROM HAWTHORN MOON
1
WEEPING WOUNDED HEART
Seattle, May, 1991
I’ve
never been in love,
Don’t
know what it is,
I only
know when someone wants me…
Jane’s Addiction
“SONNY LIKES THE SARMA,” said a surprised Marcus as the midday
spring sun haloed around his natural Afro in a crazy supernova sort of way.
The cap he normally wore was in his
pocket…an afternoon thing when he liked his hair to have some freedom.
“Well, of course he does,” I replied,
“…we’re pals, but it’s more than that. We’re close, like twins. Sonny ate the
sarma cuz he knows that if he offered me some of his kibble, I’d try it…get
what I mean?”
My words flowed out amidst the wafting
Mediterranean aromas of spicy boreg, a layered pastry often filled with cheese;
eech, an Armenian bulgur salad; and lahmajoun, a kind of pizza and a popular
street food made with ground lamb, parsley, and tomatoes.
“I haven’t been to an authentic
Armenian festival in way too long so this is a big deal for me, I buy some
sarma and you won’t even try them…they’re just grape leaves stuffed with rice.
Come on, I know you’ve got the chutzpah to choke at least one down.”
“No…nope…I don’t think so, November…I
don’t know what it is…I’m not feeling it and one thing I’m not is an
ass-kissing hypocrite, but the rest of the fest really kicks! Look, girl, there
must be a reason there aren’t any Armenian restaurants…think about it, so it’s
not happening, just saying.”
With his last argument, worthy of a
Supreme Court chief justice delivering the final word on Roe v. Wade, Marcus
put on his charcoal newsboy cap, the style that had skulls with lemon moon eyes
looking back at you, and smiled as he fed Sonny, sitting there drooling with
anticipation, another one of his
meat-filled sarma. After woofing down the last one, Sonny proceeded to lick
clean Marcus’ hands and his long, beautiful deejay digits.
LEERING AT HIM TOOK ME back to his loft, the one above St.
Andrew’s Grocery Store. Through my mind’s memory eye I could clearly see the
old, peeling vermilion velvet wallpaper and the heavy rustic driftwood beams
crisscrossing a ceiling with patches of plaster ready to fall to the floor.
It was the perfect crash pad to sit
for hours and read Rilke poetry, such as the line, Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only
waiting to see us once beautiful and brave, or listen to a vinyl recording
of the great Jimi Hendrix belting out “Hey Joe,” and all while drinking Merlot
and chamomile tea at the same time.
His sparse makeshift kitchen contained
not much more than a plug-in hot plate and microwave, but my head was swimming
with images of boxes upon boxes of cheap macaroni and cheese. While remembering
them, I lost my taste for the Armenian delicacies I’d purchased.
WE WERE PRIVILEGED to be at the revival of the only Armenian
picnic in the Seattle area. The last one took place over a decade ago. Walking
about the grounds we came upon the cultural tent first.
Looking inside, my first step was
filled with trepidation. A weird wave of foreboding washed over me, as if I was
in a home movie with my father behind the lights and camera. I grabbed on tight
to Marcus’ hand, knowing I’d need his support, and walked in with my head held
high.
Capturing our attention immediately
was a wall of old photographs. The chilling images were of children, girls,
boys, women, and men of all ages dressed for combat. You could see on their
stern, stark faces that they were battle-hardened—they’d seen death and dealt
death to their enemies.
The most gut-wrenching picture was of
a mother and daughter, both weighted down with a double row of heavy caliber
belts of machine gun ammunition. They weren’t wearing a uniform, none of them
were, but they’d adapted their clothing to be rugged and warm. Their entire
society was in a life-and-death struggle for survival and every citizen was
forced to become a soldier.
Moving on from their Wall of Valor, we
saw an author signing books.
He was Armenian and his books told
various stories connected to the Armenian saga. Again, I felt a strange, close,
personal connection to him. Something about his head, the shape of his head,
like a globe, like a soccer ball…like my father’s.
After purchasing his memoir, a
personal story about his growing up Armenian in the Seattle area, we left the
cultural tent and walked into their food court.
Smiling at us, hoping to leave us with
a cherished memory, were the ethnically charming Armenian ladies in their black
hair nets, many stout with dark hair and dark complected, who’d lovingly
prepared the food, using recipes handed down from generation to generation, going
back to their homeland in the Middle East.
As a result of the Armenian Holocaust
in the early 1900s the Diaspora spread all over the world, with a close-knit
group from a certain region in Armenia settling in Seattle.
One of the servers noticed that Marcus
was turning up his nose at whatever sample she offered him, but she wouldn’t
give up. Her aged face had the same black-and-white photograph features I
remembered from a picture of my mother that strangely disappeared when I was a
girl.
With her classic Armenian gold hoop
earrings dangling, her wrists covered in gold cuffs, her eyes were dusted with
gold flecks. Stunned, I was reminded of that missing picture of my mother as a
young woman—a survivor, her image projecting strength, power, and mystery. It
was not a look for parties, but oozed smoldering intensity through eyes
constantly at war with a dangerous world.
It was a face, not unlike my mother’s,
one which carried the struggle, pain, and pride of generations—influences that
threatened to but didn’t accomplish warping the shape of her heart which was constantly
battling with itself. Despite the past I could tell her soul lived in the
present joy of a garden of golden pastries—flaky, buttery, rich, and savory.
She looked at me without any judgment,
knowing I wasn’t and might never be where she was. She’d earned her survivor’s
look of stone—I’d stolen mine.
“You…you try this shakalama…you will
like, believe me,” she said, offering a piece to Marcus with the reverence of a
priest holding the Holy Eucharist. “It is the sweet taste of Armenia!”
Putting his open hand up as a barrier,
Marcus replied, “I know…Armenians can be sweet,” as he paused to look affectionately
in my direction, “thank you, but no, darling, not today.”
After that I knew it was going to be a
lost cause with Marcus and let him feed his food to Sonny, but somehow what
happened made me sense that the day was destined to unfold in some significant,
life-changing way that I could have never imagined, something…something was going
to happen that would shake our world.
UNABLE TO SHARE SOME OF my cherished ethnic culinary heritage with
Marcus was taking me down, but before bottoming out some unusual, imported, and
so-damned-honest sounds caught my attention. The festival parking lot came
alive with ethnic music and this aspect of Armenian culture my Black boyfriend
was interested in tasting.
“Hey…dear Novi…you’ve been holding out
on me, these guys are really kickin’ it. Don’t just stand there!”
“But we don’t go to this church?”
That didn’t matter to Marcus who
grabbed my hand, waved Sonny on to come along, and we joined the line of folk
dancers holding hands and all performing in unison a series of repeating moves
with their feet while slowly snaking around the dance area.
The repeating pulsing music became
hypnotic, the crescendos exhilarating, the distinctive sound of the kanun
gloriously evident, its strings rising above the other instruments, as Marcus
and I broke into the human chain joining hands with members of the Kaprelian
and the Andykian families—kicking when it was time to kick, swirling and
laughing as we were caught up in the collective euphoria of the experience.
Sonny found a spot right by the band
and seemed to be dancing in his own way, panting to the beat. The music was
mesmerizing, the extended manic sounds, the fairytale dance steps, and there I
was with Marcus, right in the heat of the meandering moment, part of an ancient
celebration, a ritual featuring thumping hearts the blissful pomp and
circumstance of unbridled, free-flowing movement.
Part of that joy was feeling accepted.
I wasn’t from their church, Marcus was African American, yet despite our differences
we had all become one unified soul joined in harmony by the music and dancing.
I could see Marcus dripping sweat on the unusually warm and humid spring day,
but you don’t notice minor discomforts like that when you’ve slipped into the
Twilight Zone of an Armenian folk dance.
Just then a cooling breeze washed over
us making us feel like the sky was dropping cool petals of lily white flowers
on us…hmmm…heavenly. Looking up I saw bewitching cotton-ball clouds magically
dancing along with the music.
While we were standing on the
sidelines catching a rest, Marcus spoke up to break the spell I was under.
“You handle yourself well out there,
but I thought Angela was the one who loved to dance, why isn’t she here with
us?”
“Believe me, she wanted to but duty
called. She’s working a promo.
AT THE LOCAL MALL Angela was with her mother selling fragrances.
“This place is awesome, the folks a
little different than the LA crowd, but do you think teal nail polish will work
here in Seattle to match the Eternity bottle?”
Angela Gonzales-Gondola was sporting a
new sassy shag-do tinted in a pretty Mediterranean off-center red, projecting
her most seductive fall-in-love-with-me smile as she captivated a passing
couple wearing matching brown hoodies.
“Yep, my baby poopsy, that should
work. See, I’ve got on my icy-green fishnets to match the bottle…ooh, I like
this song...hippity hoppity, right?” mother Rosa asked as she began to break
out in some not-bad street moves, showgirling it in front of their fragrance
kiosk for their last kicking gig at the mall.
“Mom…the song is, “Rapper’s Delight,”
by the Sugarhill Gang, and the lyrics go, I
said a hip hop, hippie to the hippie... There’s more, Ma, but will you please at least
get the first part right, and the name of the rapper from the band is Master
Gee,” Angela clarified, while busting out some badass moves of her own.
Glaring at Rosa were several pairs of
eyes from their competitors trying their best to push their lines of perfumes,
but Angela and Rosa seemed to attract all the fragrance-buying customers that
day, and most days, frustrating the other sellers to no end.
Angela answered the final question
before closing the deal for the couple who’d been presented with a series of
small samples sprayed on business cards, sniffing a jar of strong coffee beans
to clear the nose of the previous scent before trying the next.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I like the
subtle but strong earth tones…yep, wrap it up and you’ve been a big help
describing all the differences between the samples,” the guy from the couple
said, obviously flustered from his close encounter of the erotic kind he’d just
had with Angela.
Yes, Angela was good at what she did,
she knew her fragrances, but the real dance taking place between her and her
customers was about raw, sexual chemistry and Angela had it going on in that
department. She made the sale to a couple, but it was the guy who first made the move in Angela’s direction, to
the consternation of his date as the sales soiree unfolded.
“Game on, Mom…score two more for
me…ooooh, Angela is good, now isn’t she!”
They got paid just for being there at
the mall and talking up their Calvin Klein line of fragrances. They earned the
posh gig of being paid to go on the road merely promoting the company’s
fragrances because they were the most successful sales team by far in their
district. Beyond that, they had fun competing to see who would end up closing
the most customers when the mesmerized person, male or female didn’t seem to
make a difference, opened their wallet to buy something they were pitching.
Angela’s bold boast triggered Rosa’s
competitive instincts and she didn’t have to take a backseat to anyone. Rosa
had been a dancer all her life, her prime cut shapely legs and rounded calves
constantly turning heads. Her dancer’s feet were always wrapped in sexy open
strap sandals, shoes, and boots, not so much for the open-toe look but because they sweat so much. Adding
to her visual impact is a three-inch stunning skunk streak down the center of
her long luxurious hair.
“Watch this, half-pint,” challenged
Rosa, eyeing up a fifty-something handsome UPS guy in his brown uniform.
Her pitch usually got the job done. It
always began with a huge, broad, welcoming smile boasting lots of teeth and
gums to go along with pumping up her shoulders a couple of times like she would
do proudly serving a pan of homemade lasagna. But that was just the opening
salvo. The UPS driver was about to slip into her seductive sales web.
“Tell me something about your honey.
Do you think she’d like a sensual scent or something fun and spirited on you?”
Before he had a chance to answer, Rosa
would press the assault after noticing he had a wedding ring on.
“I see you’re married. What is your
wife’s name?”
“Kelly,” UPS Guy answered while
raising his ring finger to show Rosa.
“Try this, new from Calvin Klein,
Eternity for men, but really this fragrance was made for women. In fact Calvin
Klein’s wife’s name was Kelly, just like your Kelly. He picked the name
Eternity because it carries the magic of the purity of white flowers symbolizes
how a man feels when he falls in love with the woman of his dreams, and that
kind of love is Eternal…you’re just
going to love on it,” Rosa tactfully insisted after setting the romantic stage
as she proceeded to spray a sample on him.
This was the risky reverse-seduction
phase of the sell. When the right
fragrance mixed with the man’s natural scent, the potent pheromones released
could be intoxicating, sending Rosa and Angela into a swirl of erotic
intensity. The girls would often have to wait a minute for the butterflies to
settle before they could continue a pitch.
That’s what happened with the UPS
driver and he noticed Rosa swoon after inhaling his enhanced manly scent. The
poor guy was outgunned, though, and smiled a look of surrender as Rosa
proceeded to close him, all while Angela, who knew exactly what was happening,
smirked wistfully in Rosa’s direction before engaging in her new habit,
swirling her wedding ring round and round when she was in the midst of any
intense emotion.
Although Angela and Rosa spiced up
their promo days with a little good-natured competition, it was obvious to anyone
who knew them or saw them together that they were close.
Score: Angela 2, Rosa 1, but the
ladies called it a draw.
“Alright girl…who’s rockin’ Seattle
After a high five they began busting
out Salt-N-Pepa moves right in the middle of the mall while singing the lyrics
to, “Ooh Baby Baby,” both of them positioning their hands up to their mouths as
if they were holding microphones.
BACK AT THE ARMENIAN Festival, there was a lull in the action as
the band took a break, so Marcus pulled out his harmonica and was serenading me
with the song, “Dixie,” his style soft and slow…right from the heart.
I grabbed his cap while he was playing
and put it on laughing, “This is mine for the rest of the day since I’ve got to
go to some poser lame photo shoot you got me into…rockin’ out with Marcus
Duprees!”
I pulled it over my way wavy long
hair, that on this day was coppery brown
and shaped with three thin braids.
“Hey, that’s exactly why they wanted
you—November Rainer Savitchian can ROCK OUT. These guys trust me to steer just
the right talent to them. The gig is at the Den Zen End bowling alley and the
guy’s name is Gutter…he’s a way cool scenester. I mean, him and I go way back,
he digs your incense, and he wants someone real, earthy, and different for the
video…and…he’s paying you some good cash. Gutter Man is a character. He drinks
like a fish and owns the Singing Telegram Modeling Agency…some guy…know what I
mean.”
“Are you kidding me…what is all that
supposed to mean? I just know I’m not going to like some dude who sings and
drinks. I do like his name, though…different, for sure, and I’m wondering what
his last name could possibly be. You’re right about the incense though, he is a
loyal Tomorrow’s Rainbow customer. I mail him a lot of it every month. But, how
come you don’t know the name of the band the video is for and by the way
Angela, my very best gal pal, is in town. She’s staying at the OK Motel. We’re
going to get together there later and listen to some music if you want to join
us.”
With that I jumped on the back of
Marcus’ shiny blue Buell roadster, Sonny leaped into the Robin sidecar, and I instinctively
began stroking both his and Sonny’s hair…just something I like to do…just
saying. Then, Marcus shot an arrow right through my wounded heart with words
that slapped my misty Seattle love world silly.
“I’m dropping you off at the Weeping
Wounded Heart gas station…you know the one…with that huge weeping willow out
front. Gutter will pick you up there. There’s a nice concrete bench outside.
Why don’t I pick up your Italian friends at the mall, it’s been awhile since
I’ve been there, I’ll pick up some pizza, and after you’re done shooting the
video we’ll get the party started at their motel! So tell me more about this Angela.
Does she really have five kids with three different guys?”
“No…that’s four, all boys, Gunner,
Garlito, and the twins, Giovanni and Giancarlo,” I answered, while petting
Sonny some more in the sidecar, trying not to think, to stay in the moment, that
place where I was always safe, wondering what I’d said to Marcus…oh how damning
and ordinary conversation can be.
I WAS ESCORTED OFF his bike onto a corner that faced the Fresh
Fish Market. After inhaling the pungent smell of rotting salmon and cod coming
from their dumpster, more than ever I felt like the last thing I could possibly
want was to be in another typical music video exploiting women as sex objects
and be groped by some drunk guy named Gutter.
Peering down at my favorite blue
calico cotton summer dress, wearing black combat boots, with my dad’s brown cardigan
on, I just couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to photograph me. I pulled
the skull cap down and watched as my Marcus rode off with Sonny who was looking
back at me with those ageless canine eyes, to do what I did want to do—see my friends and listen to some tunes.
I missed Angela so after leaving her
behind when I moved to Seattle, but then I could just sense that tonight was
going to be a supersized soiree that would make up for all the time we’d been
apart—allowing us to feel closer than ever.
THE CRUNCHY WHITE GAS station gravel was stained with the remains
of various petroleum products as I literally ran to the only thing that seemed
to make any sense—the large weeping willow, covered with fresh Popsicle-green
new-growth leaves and gleaming with the look of endless possibilities.
I paused, then turned to hug the
trunk, my mind racing back to that fateful Eve of the Hazel Moon so many years
ago, tears flowing knowing how much that night changed me.
Looking down I could see pairs of
nightcrawlers, opposite ends lined up next to each other, carrying out their mating
rituals. Looking up to the chirps of song sparrows, I saw a male and female
prancing as a prelude to procreating, and following the sound of scampering to
the right I noticed a female red squirrel being pursued by two chunky suitors hot on her trail.
Standing next to the great willow I
felt myself at the epicenter of a natural world teeming with the hanky-panky
life force of renewal and where was I—November Rainer Savitchian, abandoned at
the Weeping Wounded Heart Gas Station. But then, I began tingling all over.
An early May breezed picked up. It
carried an intoxicating familiar fragrance—lily of the valley, spiced with the
warmer notes of Patchouli. Raising my eyes I saw a swirl of white hawthorn
flowers. Slowly emerging from the cloud of petals, breathtakingly beautiful,
singing with a songbird’s voice, yet always projecting her sassy devil-may-care
personality, there she was.
