Except for names and location, here begins an account of what it was like back when I was married. This is in the form of a story thatI had originally written long long ago when that long ago time in my life was not so foreign to me as it is now.
My life and consciousness were different then, and I take responsibility for all events. I will take that line from a recent Heavenletter that Heaven Admin included in his comment on the Heaven forum: "What a clunker I was."
I mean to include Oleander Court in the book called The Little Things which reveals so clearly that anyone, no matter who they are or think they are, can Godwrite™.
When I reread the start of this story that I stumbled on this morning, I leaped to revise it. And I quickly deleted some of it too just the way I delete spam with the certainty that it shouldn't be there.
To the best of my knowledge, Oleander Court is the longest short story I ever wrote and is the only one that ever featured a cast of characters -- far from a Russian novel that features a whole family and guests at a social gathering all at once -- yet more like a Russian novel than anything else I ever wrote because it features more than the one main character (me) and one other character in contrast.
It seems that when I originally wrote this story -- thirty or more years ago -- the closest I could come to knowing myself was to describe where I lived and the people around me. I could not face myself directly. Actually, I didn't have a clue to the answer to the question: "Who am I?" I am sure I did not know myself at all. I certainly didn't know what the future held for me. I had no idea, no idea at all.
I am happy to have come across this story now in front of me as a project to fix. Here is something concrete that I would like to work on. I can apply myself to it.
Will I take Oleander Court to its conclusion? Will I give you the whole story? When I presented part of this before, I thought better of going further. Let's see what happens this time.
Here's the very first paragraph:
Beverly chooses by default both Hal, the man she marries, and the house they buy. Beverly gives in and settles for what, in the final instant, cannot bring happiness. What is she doing living in a tract home on a cul-de-sac in Vacaville, California, playing neighborhood bridge every Saturday night, pretending she is like everyone else and that her heart is where it is not?