Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

The Coleus under Roy and Martha’s front porch window look a little scraggly, nothing but tall leggy stems bending in their bed of dry cracked earth. The gardener would never let them go like that if Roy hadn’t been so sick. If Roy had been up and around, standing tall the way he used to, those plants would be standing tall too, their leaves firm and perky, the ground blanketed with a soft, moist layer of mulch. Well-tended. That was the best way to describe Roy’s garden and come to think of it, Roy too. I try to remember if I saw the gardener this past Wednesday, his usual day to mow and blow. Who will notice if Roy’s plants die now? Not Roy who is sick in bed. Not Martha who uses a walker and rarely ventures outside. Roy told me once that Martha wouldn’t allow him to get her a wheelchair. She couldn’t stand the idea of looking like an invalid. That sounds like Martha, the kind of woman that old-fashioned words like proud and stubborn apply to. Too proud for her own good. Martha’s se...

Tristram & Islolde: N.C. Wyeth  I ’ve been taking you back to Bandol with me lately. First came The Walk , then came Le Kiss. Here’s the final part of the story. The whole story is now available here and on Soundcloud and iTunes so you can start at the beginning if you like. Garlic & Gauloises It felt like we’d left Bandol and the beach far behind us. We had to be very close now, close to this place out in the middle of nowhere where Michel was going to take me dancing. Finally I could hear voices, shouts and real laughter; a boy’s hoot, a girl’s bell-like tinkle. Someone called out Veronique, Veronique, Vero! There was an answering cackle and something else, something in French that I didn’t understand. Whole words, snatches of sentences, floated through the still night air, loud enough for me to hear except that they were in French, and so, much like the sea breeze on this hot summer night, they fluttered and fell away before I could grab hold of...

It's that time of the week when I usually share a French-themed post for Paulita's Dreaming of France meme. I didn't prepare a post in advance and the events in Charlottesville were so disturbing,  I found it hard to do anything this weekend .  In my opinion Robert E. Lee's statue could be allowed to stand BUT only if alongside the statue, there was a large granite monument detailing the racism and hatred it represents. I don't think we should be allowed to whitewash and forget our shameful history. That's more important than ever now that an American citizen has been killed by Nazis here on American soil. On that same granite memorial I'd propose a tribute to Heather Heyer who died standing up to hate.  That being said, these two photos with the word love•• painted on the wall are two of my favorite shots from our recent trip. Both found in Paris, on brighter days.  Connect to Dreaming of France

The 8th and last of the stories I've been recording about Derek, an old boyfriend from the seventies. Listen or read it below. Originally published 4/25/16. Catch up with all the series episodes on my podcast on iTunes, SoundCloud or Stitcher. Behind Closed Doors It’s natural, isn’t it, when you’re young, to think about sex all the time. Didn’t you?  Before our first time at the Brentwood Motel , that’s all we both thought about. We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. Wondering. Endlessly curious about its earth-shattering nature. There was a shift after that. Once, in the middle of the day, Derek had parked his GTO at a turnout in the road off Temescal Canyon, and treading past overgrown bushes, we’d found a patch of ground semi-surrounded by brush and bramble. Just 50 feet from the busy street, we laid a blanket on the ground, doing it under the sun, surrounded by green. If life had been caught on camera in 1972 the way it is now, that day, with every flashing sunb...

I've been recording stories for anyone who prefers to listen rather than read and starting this week I'm excited to announce you can subscribe to my podcast on iTunes. And it's totally free! Just click the iTunes link in the sidebar.  #7 in the series of stories about that old boyfriend from the 1970's. On Sunset When you hear Sunset Blvd, you think of the Strip, the section of the boulevard that curves along the northern ridge of West Hollywood, snaking its way down Sunset from the Chateau Marmont at La Cienega to Doheny, past the clubs that in 1973, I’m still a year too young to get into and I’m too chicken to have a fake ID: the Comedy Store, the Rainbow Room, Gazarri’s, the Whiskey A Go Go. But Sunset doesn’t stop at the Strip. Sunset straightens up and leaves the Strip behind when it comes to Beverly Hills with its mansions and maids waiting for the eastbound bus that takes them home at days end. The road winds westward past the pink Beverly Hills Hotel...

California Incline, Santa Monica. Stan Cline/Nostalgia Gallery I have no idea where Derek is these days but he’s got a permanent place in my hit parade of memories from the 19 70s.   Here’s another story about a boy. Curbed I sat on the curb outside  Derek ’ s house, legs bare,  stretched out in front of me  in a pair of denim cut-offs, arms freckling in an embroidered Mexican peasant blouse I’d picked up in Olvera Street. Just catching some rays in the hazy sunshine of a predictably sunny summer day in Santa Monica. Never too hot. Never too cold. Just ... right. Derek’s head safely under the hood of his GTO, futzing around with the dipstick, I took a quick swig of Coke, bringing  the bottle up to my mouth, suddenly embarrassed at the phallic shape, wishing it was  a can instead. Derek popped his head over the hood, mustache twitching up in a smile, holding his hand in the air expectantly like a baseball pitcher standing on the mound, waiting ...