Funny & Interesting Contributors: Wes Morgan on Latrine Graffiti in Iraq

Funny & Interesting Contributors: Wes Morgan on Latrine Graffiti in Iraq

(Outpost in West Rashid)

Since the beginning of the war in Iraq, journalists and commentators have debated the extent to which freedom of the press is limited by the military’s battlefield “embedding” program. In my view, though, the most frustrating form of censorship in Iraq is that imposed on soldiers in the one place where they can write what they are thinking completely in private: port-a-johns. I, like many who have spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, have come to consider latrine graffiti something of an art form — the only really interesting entertainment to be found on many dismal patrol bases and outposts. When I seat myself in a latrine and find that some arm of the military powers-that-be — a local contractor, a junior officer, I don’t really know — has spray-painted over the crude art that I so enjoy, it is frustrating. What else, after all, am I supposed to read while I take a dump? What other character does a largely prefabricated combat outpost have?

I first encountered latrine graffiti, something I have always kept an eye out for since, on my way north to Baghdad in the summer of 2007, at the Kuwaiti purgatory called Ali al-Salem Airbase. Too tired to make conversation with the silver-haired National Guard doctors who shared my tent, let alone to go for a run in the scorching heat, I had gone exploring. What I discovered, of course, was that on a big American military base in the Centcom theater, there is nothing to explore: everything looks exactly the same. The one exception was inside those stalls.

What struck me first in the latrine I wandered into, as in every latrine on every base downrange, was the overpowering stench. When 120-degree heat and a pipeless sewage system combine, you come to consider it lucky that your nostrils are clogged with fine dust. The odor aside, though, what I noticed as I stepped into a latrine stall was the vivid obscenity of the things scrawled there. Words were everywhere — poetry, rap, curses, illegible scribblings — but what the eye jumped to were the drawings: huge, extraordinarily explicit pornographic drawings. Fifteen-month tours in a war zone devoid of internet pornography, it appeared, brought out the artist in many soldiers. Covering the walls were the bold forms of pneumatic-breasted women being violated in unorthodox ways — evidence, I suppose, that for all the millions of dollars spent on training cultural sensitivity to Muslim mores into American servicemen of the YouTube-RedTube generation, it is something of a Sisyphean task.

From that first latrine stall on, I would make a point of looking carefully at what sorts of messages soldiers had scrawled in what sorts of places, an exercise that has been both instructive and entertaining. Among examples of Hustler-esque art, whole conversations develop on those walls, on topics ranging from the inscrutable to the heart-wrenching. Here and there, a graffito stands out in my mind as so bizarre that I might almost have dreamed it. For one, a complex drawing of heavily armed penguins marching into gates labeled “Antarctic Thermopylae.” For another, the long, perfectly rendered passage from Henry V that ended thus:

“Let me speak proudly. Tell the constable, We are but warriors for the working day, our gayness and our gilt are all besmirched with rainy marching in the painful field. There’s not a piece of feather in our host — good argument, I hope, we will not fly — and time hath worn us into slovenry — but by the mass, our hearts are in the trim… .”

Classical, Shakespearean, and penguin-related references aside, though, some themes appear again and again in downrange port-a-johns. Two that I have often seen blend in graffito form are unit pride and the American soldier’s abiding love for Chuck Norris. “Dragoons,” “Betio Bastards,” “Polar Bears,” “Tuskers” — these and more were unit mottoes that I recognized inside that first Ali al-Salem latrine. The phrases “King of battle” and “Queen of battle,” tributes to the artillery and infantry branches, appeared everywhere.

Invariably, if a soldier from one unit has left a message or insignia-themed image on latrine walls, a soldier from some other unit will have tastefully altered it. I have noticed more than once, for example, the phrase “If you ain’t cav, you ain’t shit” appended with “So if you are cav, you are shit.” Another favorite alteration of latrine graffitists is to change “Rangers lead the way” to “Rangers are gay.” When this blends with the ubiquitous Chuck Norris facts (i.e., “Chuck Norris killed Zarqawi” or “Chuck Norris has a 120mm Abrams cannon for a dick”), the following effect appears:



“Chuck Norris was in 1-9 CAV!!!!! [crossed out]
—-2-69 Armor [crossed out]
—-Bravo 3/7 [crossed out]
—-E/52 Inf HOOAH”

Esprit de corps, bathroom style.

Besides Chuck Norris and balloon-breasted women, perhaps the most common thread in the various latrines I have relieved myself in is the endless supply of obscenities and insults directed toward noncombat soldiers. Although some civilians are befuddled when I describe this theme, I was never surprised. The steady diet of Vietnam memoirs that made up much of my childhood reading instilled in me long ago a sense of the disdain that combat troops bore in that war for those who provided them essential support and supplies — in the day’s vernacular, the grunts’ contempt for the REMFs, or rear-echelon motherfuckers.

(Outpost near Tarmiya)

Today the language has changed, but the message has remained the same: square foot after square foot of latrine wall is taken up by vitriolic messages from infantrymen and cavalry troopers to the people they contemptuously term POGs (people other than grunts) or fobbits (denizens of FOBs, forward operating bases). Occasionally these ink-on-the-wall discussions are innocuous — once, for example, I saw a string of comments debating the pronunciation of POG — but by and large they look like this: “Fuck POGs.” “Fobbits = Faggots.” “Joes pull the triggers, pogs jerk each other off.”


Mortars rounds can fall equally on anyone — an airborne Ranger, a supply clerk, or a baby-faced Ivy League snot. It is true, too, that in Iraq more than in any previous American war the front lines are ill defined: the numbers of supply troops who were killed by IEDs on Iraq’s deadly highways during the worst days of the war speak for themselves. But, as in Normandy and Vietnam, in many minds the distinctions remain stark between those who seek a fight — infantrymen, cav troopers, advisors — and everyone else, for whom danger is real but not the objective. Grunts and REMFs, door-kickers and fobbits.

Since that first day in Kuwait, I have found latrines where this thread was absent: the latrines on combat outposts, patrol bases, and joint security stations, the tiny, besieged bastions that made up the Army’s forward line in Iraq at the height of the violence. On the outposts, there were no “fobbits,” only “trigger-pullers,” and the darker tone of the graffiti there reflected this. The level of explicit pornographic content remained steady (as far as sexual frustration is concerned, a soldier is a soldier and Iraq is Iraq, whether the scene is a FOB or an outpost) but the sense of petty rage — over who was a fobbit and who a joe, for example — seemed to give way to a sadder combination of anger and reflection over more serious matters.
(Thanksgiving at an outpost in Mosul)
Even at Ali al-Salem, the safest base in theater, death left its signs. On their way to and from mid-tour leave, many soldiers draw memorials to brothers they lost in Baghdad or Baquba — and now, I’m sure, Kandahar or the Korengal. I saw one grim little memorial there that had been left untouched for a full year when all the obscenities, insults, and cartoonish depictions of sex around it had long since been painted over: “SGT [name removed], 1-1 BRT Ramadi 08/2006, Never Forgotten.” Below this, in a different color pen, someone else had carefully written out a line of scripture that I have since come to associate with combat soldiers, for all their crudity, after seeing them patrolling and in firefights. The verse, which I have now seen more than once in tattoo form, read: “Then said the Lord, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Then said I, ‘Here am I, send me.’”
(Blown Up Iraqi Humvee outside post in Mosul)
On patrols and patrol bases in Mosul and Baghdad, I would see more direct evidence of death’s reach⎯bodies, shattered limbs, the detritus of car bombs. But as I waited at Ali al-Salem for my first flight north, those little latrine memorials were as close as it got.

(Man sleeping outdoors at a post in Mosul)
Wes Morgan has made two trips to Iraq, in 2007 and 2008, as a member of the press. During those trips he embedded with American troops in Baghdad, Ramadi, Mosul, and Maysan. Later this month he will embed with NATO troops in southern Afghanistan, and in the fall will resume his undergradute studies at Princeton University.

Funny & Interesting People: Remy Holwick

Funny & Interesting People: Remy Holwick

(Painting by Remy)

Remy Holwick (www.remyholwick.com) is an artist, designer, muse and mother living and working in Los Angeles. Last time we met up she was entangled in literally dozens of projects as both muse —see buff monster photo or go to www.vanarno.com where she is in “saint baklavia’s halo of bees”— and artist— painting, drawing, designing, creating. Her background is, not surprisingly, just as diverse. Remy grew up in Hawaii where she learned how to

dance the hula as part of the required public school curriculum. She has supported herself with jobs as unusual as porn store attendant to, after attending Reed College, supermodel. Now, still in her early twenties, Remy is managing a successful art and design career and a bubbly baby boy, John Henry Holwick. So without further ado, meet Remy!

(Photo of Remy by http://www.buffmonster.com/)

Cameron: What are you up to?

Remy: Launching my new clothing line, Beg Borrow Steal, this June at Urban Outfitters. Actually I’m answering these questions from the Joshua Tree Inn, where we’re shooting photographs for the campaign. I’m  also working on launching a second line of clothing featuring the work of my amazingly talented artist friends… once those launch, I think I’ll be heading into the studio for a while. I’d like to finally do a solo show somewhere in Los Angeles. I was, for a long time, afraid of the idea because my dad did it, and it was so important to maintain my own identity that I shunned the part of myself that wanted what he had. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that it is possible to be a part of my family, and honor and acknowledge the work my parents did, and still be my own person.

Cameron: Your dad (Wayne Holwick) was an artist, how did his work influence yours?

Remy: Being born into a house of artists meant that art was something we lived: it was never a choice, or something to just try as a hobby, or even something that was just a career. I have very clear memories of being young and building towers out of these big moldy volumes of the works of Picasso and Rembrandt, and “the book of the world’s most beautiful paintings”.

(Wayne Holwick next to Hart St. Girl)

When I was six I knew that my favorite painting was Matisse’s goldfish, and I was aware of the problem with defining “art” at a ridiculously young age. Having this particular perspective as a young child definitely affects the way I look at art as an adult.

(Matisse’s Goldfish)

As I’ve gotten older, I have developed a tremendous respect for the trajectory my dad’s work took; he started as a street artist in the late 1960s, and then became a very good photo-realist in the early 70’s— that work provided a good demonstration of his ability as a draftsman and technical painter. Later, he moved away from photo-realism and his work became radically different. He began painting huge canvases, eight and ten feet each, with surreal scenes rendered with charcoal and oil in this remarkable, sketchy, dreamlike way, sometimes with very controversial subject matter. It is a very brave thing, to me, to move away from a style that so clearly demonstrates your talent and workmanship, and ask your audience to trust you as you interpret the world for them in a style that is less obviously, technically impressive and much more introspective and personal. The fact that he succeeded in a critically successful way impresses and inspires me even more. The LA times critic at the time, Henry Seldis, had very high praise for his late work. I can’t imagine asking someone like that to take a leap of faith with me. I am not that brave yet. I hope that one day I will be.

Cameron: You’ve done so many very different jobs, how has each one left it’s mark? Are there any you ever wish you still did?

Remy: I come from a very bohemian background. My mother moved us to Hawaii when I was six, and times were often pretty tight. I worked since I was 13, first as a tour guide for Japanese teenagers, then in an independent record store called “requests”. It’s still there, and I still occasionally pull shifts when I’m on island. I was so profoundly shaped by working there; my boss, Vince, collected silkscreen rock posters, everything from family dog and mouse and kelly in the 60s to coop in the 90s. I wanted to learn to do work like that. I think it still shows in my work. And I met coop two years ago. I tried to play cool but I was secretly jumping up and down on the inside— one of the only artists I’ve ever met that I had an honest to god “fanboy” reaction to.

(Painting: Wayne Holwick, “On the beach”)

In college I worked in the mail-room, and learned that I couldn’t work sorting paper all day and then go home and work with paper, because it made my fingers hurt. I moved to the

costume shop, and learned clothing construction. At that time, I also worked in a porn store and learned what I NEVER wanted to do with my life. I left the porn store and took off on a circus-juggling tour of the nation (I used to be a pretty good contact juggler), and kept that up for a couple years. I really loved that life. It taught me how to be more independent, and that I could do something creative that made people happy. That was a major revelation. I only quit when I was offered a modelling contract in New York, and I miss that life, too. I learned SO much traveling as a model. I learned a lot about fashion, but more than that, I learned about being honest with myself about my priorities— when you’re always on the go and living out of a bag, and far away from the people you care about, you spend a lot of time with yourself thinking. Also during that time, I learned all the poise I have today from my agent, Neal Hamil. He taught me how to act like an adult. It’s maybe the single most important lesson I learned while modelling, and it is one that I will NEVER EVER forget.

(Above: Remy contact juggling and in CK jeans ad)

I came to LA 5 years ago, when I needed a break from that work.  I thought it would be a two week break… but things rarely go as planned.  I started working here as a fashion designer, and finally got a chance to really do the artwork that I had been wanting to do while I was modelling.  I started writing and drawing comics.  I started a personal blog  Everything snowballed like that, and now my whole life is a big amalgamation of all of those elements.  I am a project-oriented artist.  I am not someone that will ever be “the girl who paints those doe-eyed cartoon graffiti women” or “that realist painter”.  I take on artistic projects and roles and explore them, see how they relate to me and my life.  I’ve also been an occasional art model on the lowbrow and fine art scene in LA— I’ve sat nude for some pretty risque work— and I feel like seeing how I appear to those artists also contributes to this general mission of taking on projects and exploring my sense of self through them.

(Remy and Rocky)

Cameron:  After going through so many incarnations to get where you are today what advice would you give to young artists about how to achieve their goals and do their work? Do you need to be floating out in the world for a bit before finding success? What advice will you give your son about finding a career?

(Cartoon, Painting, and Drawing by Remy)

Remy: My mother tells me occasionally when I show her my work that her best friend, Rocky, used to call us all “the real deal” because we lived the things that mattered to us, and it showed through in our day-to-day actions. She tells me that this applies to my work, and I couldn’t say it better. Art has to be “about” something, and I think that the more you can work around the things you understand in life, the more clearly your work will reflect and communicate that understanding, so I think it is crucial that artists live the life they want to communicate as fully as they can—I think my work is best when it is honest to the life that I’ve lived, and I think/hope/pray that if it resonates with people, it’s because they can feel that it is the “real deal”.

As far as advice for my son, I tell him daily that I hope he grows up to be exactly what he wants to, because I think that that is one of the most difficult and rewarding things to be. So often we end up making compromises because they are easy or safe. I am a big believer in making the decisions that are responsible to the highest form of the person you aspire to be. Sometimes that involves compromise, but that compromise doesn’t always have to come in the form of giving up your dream of being a rock star so that you might raise a baby and work in an office.

Cameron: What is your dream project?
Remy: I have several. Because I work so often in fashion, I’d love to be part of the high fashion world’s recent concern with art. In my dream world, it would be with either Prada’s art foundation, or the Chanel brand, because they do so much with the arts as well, or something in collaboration with the YSL brand. Monseiur St Laurent was an art collector and is an icon. So many of his collections referenced art, and they were all genius. I have a picture of him taped to my fridge. At one point I got his blond floppy haircut to go with my huge black glasses, just to make myself smile when I got up in the morning and looked in the mirror. It definitely made me laugh.
I’d also like to write a longer form graphic novel at some point, but that’s far off in the future…

Cameron: Whose work inspires you? (Authors/Artists etc.)
Remy: That’s a long list. In high school, I was inspired by works of art. I loved paul pope’s comics, Matisse’s paintings, schile’s drawings.

(Cartoon by Paul Pope)

Now I am surrounded by artists and I am inspired by the processes and work ethics of my amazing friends— Gary Baseman, who I work with as much as I can because of his amazing drive and positive energy, korin faught and natalia fabia, who sit up painting for days at a time, Van Arno, kukula, who believes so resolutely in what she is doing and has taken so many risks to get where she is. Also R. Kikuo Johnson, because we grew up together and I think his work has inspired me on more levels and for longer than maybe anyone but my father.

(Ed Ruscha, Standard Station)

I still also have my heroes. Like I said, St Laurent always, Ed Ruscha, whose work I admire endlessly, Vermeer, because I have had it hard wired into me to love him, and my amazing parents, because of the incredible drive each of them had to do what mattered most and never be content to settle to live ordinary lives.

Thanks Remy!

Coffee Heath Bar Crunch

Coffee Heath Bar Crunch

I just finished an hour long run and was walking home through the West Village thinking about ice cream. I passed an old homeless man begging for change on Bleecker. Usually I’ll buy these guys pizza or a sub, but I don’t give them money because when I was a kid my mom told me they’d just buy alcohol and I wouldn’t be helping them. The street is overflowing with drunk twenty-somethings. This time I think: if he wants to get drunk he’s just like these people, no better, no worse. So I give him some quarters from my pocket. Then I turn into my local supermarket, now distracted by what I want to buy.

Kiwi’s for tomorrow breakfast, some hummus for the leftover pita bread, should I get that ice cream too? I wander towards the check out. I probably shouldn’t get the ice cream because I’d have to eat it all in one go since I’m leaving town tomorrow. From the line I can see the freezers. I really would enjoy coffee heath bar crunch, but then I have those Popsicles left. I should finish those first. The cashier starts to ring me up and to my surprise, the homeless man from outside gets in line behind me. He puts a pint of coffee heath bar ice cream on the counter. He’s got my quarters in his left hand and a couple wrinkled bills and a plastic spoon in his right. How strange that we desire the exact same thing at the exact same time. We’re not so different after all.

“What’s great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca Cola, too. A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it.” (Ch. 6 : Work, p. 100, Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol)

Summer!

Summer!

“Anywhere you like, anywhere you like,” said the goose. “Go down through the orchard, root up the sod! Go down through the garden, dig up the radishes! Root up everything! Eat grass! Look for corn! Look for oats! Run all over! Skip and dance, jump and prance! Go down through the orchard and stroll in the woods! The world is a wonderful place when you are young.” (Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White)

Friday: 73°/Saturday: 85°/Sunday: 88°/Monday: 88°/Tuesday 81°…
(Photos by Andrew Elliott, see his blog here)

What it's really like to run the Boston Marathon

What it's really like to run the Boston Marathon To celebrate the 113th anniversary of the Boston marathon here’s a video my friend Anjum and I took when we ran in 2007. Waking up at four thirty am and driving over an hour through pouring rain and sleet was very foreboding. But once the race started, it was so fun we forgot it was 26.2 miles long. The highlight? Even though we ran as “bandits” we still got cool mylar blankets at the end!

If you want to keep up with today’s race here’s a link to people tweeting the marathon now: http://www.boston.com/sports/marathon/twitter/

And of course, if you don’t know it, read about the biggest cheater Rosie Ruiz. She got on the subway in 1980 and ended up winning the marathon! Of course they realized later, when she wasn’t out of breath and had a T card in her hand, that she’d cheated:
http://platial.com/post/41364

The Flag of Equal Marriage

The Flag of Equal Marriage

The flag of equal marriage was designed by Carl Tashian, you can read about it here on his site http://tashian.com/makeitequal/.

Not allowing same-sex marriage is a violation of basic civil rights (which include protection from discrimination). Under United States law marriage grants couples many rights. Below the jump read up on them and find out what same-sex couples are being excluded from. Then join the facebook group and learn how to take action.


Tax Benefits

* Filing joint income tax returns with the IRS and state taxing authorities.
* Creating a “family partnership” under federal tax laws, which allows you to divide business income among family members.

Estate Planning Benefits

* Inheriting a share of your spouse’s estate.
* Receiving an exemption from both estate taxes and gift taxes for all property you give or leave to your spouse.
* Creating life estate trusts that are restricted to married couples, including QTIP trusts, QDOT trusts, and marital deduction trusts.
* Obtaining priority if a conservator needs to be appointed for your spouse — that is, someone to make financial and/or medical decisions on your spouse’s behalf.

Government Benefits

* Receiving Social Security, Medicare, and disability benefits for spouses.
* Receiving veterans’ and military benefits for spouses, such as those for education, medical care, or special loans.
* Receiving public assistance benefits.

Employment Benefits

* Obtaining insurance benefits through a spouse’s employer.
* Taking family leave to care for your spouse during an illness.
* Receiving wages, workers’ compensation, and retirement plan benefits for a deceased spouse.
* Taking bereavement leave if your spouse or one of your spouse’s close relatives dies.

Medical Benefits

* Visiting your spouse in a hospital intensive care unit or during restricted visiting hours in other parts of a medical facility.
* Making medical decisions for your spouse if he or she becomes incapacitated and unable to express wishes for treatment.

Death Benefits

* Consenting to after-death examinations and procedures.
* Making burial or other final arrangements.

Family Benefits

* Filing for stepparent or joint adoption.
* Applying for joint foster care rights.
* Receiving equitable division of property if you divorce.
* Receiving spousal or child support, child custody, and visitation rights if you divorce.

Housing Benefits

* Living in neighborhoods zoned for “families only.”
* Automatically renewing leases signed by your spouse.

Consumer Benefits

* Receiving family rates for health, homeowners’, auto, and other types of insurance.
* Receiving tuition discounts and permission to use school facilities.
* Other consumer discounts and incentives offered only to married couples or families.

Other Legal Benefits and Protections

* Suing a third person for wrongful death of your spouse and loss of consortium (loss of intimacy).
* Suing a third person for offenses that interfere with the success of your marriage, such as alienation of affection and criminal conversation (these laws are available in only a few states).
* Claiming the marital communications privilege, which means a court can’t force you to disclose the contents of confidential communications between you and your spouse during your marriage.
* Receiving crime victims’ recovery benefits if your spouse is the victim of a crime.
* Obtaining immigration and residency benefits for noncitizen spouse.
* Visiting rights in jails and other places where visitors are restricted to immediate family.

Rain

Rain

It is 48°F (9°C) and rainy in NY.



Wet toes inside wet socks inside shoes that were supposed to be waterproof. The whole situation was gruesome, thought John Greeland as he stooped under the drooping awning his wife had made him install over the front steps. Now she wanted it fixed. His life had recently taken on an inescapable quality. At first, alone in the storm, he had felt refreshed. It was an escape from the feverish kitchen his wife and two daughters berated him in. They had started at him because of a newspaper article.

“Friday March 17th, Guadalajara, Mexico. Hundreds of women in a Mexican factory filed charges against their supervisors for sexual assault,” read his eldest daughter Maya, her voice powerful from years of education and privilege.

“You see that,” his wife said, “you see that!” It was as if she had predicted this. As if they lived next to this factory and she’d known about the misconduct of the supervisors for years. Waverly, Massachusetts does not border Guadalajara, he wanted to say.

“Men are such jerks,” his youngest daughter Clara agreed, her small head bobble-nodding in agreement.

“I suppose so,” he said looking at the window glass turned amorphous by the torrential rain streaming across it.

“Did you fix the awning?” his wife said.

“Yeah dad, you need to do that, me and Clara got soaked yesterday.”

“I thought I would wait for the rain to stop, there’s about a hundred pounds of water hanging in it.”

“All the more reason to do it,” his wife loved logic. “If you wait the water won’t go away, right? So do it now. Are you worried about getting wet? Your own daughters came in drenched yesterday when it tipped. That’s gonna happen to some poor person again at this rate.”

John did not point out that it would inevitably happen to him if he went out and messed with it. The three women had already distracted themselves and the conversation was over.


Diana’s mother’s car pulled up in the driveway. His mother-in-law’s boyfriend got out. Robert. Six years after his mother-in-law’s death Robert still came by. His visits always left John exhausted and refreshed. Like the long runs he’d taken before his daughters were born. Arguing with Robert left John feeling entirely relaxed and calm and often he fell asleep sitting in the living room after Robert left.

“Hi John,” Robert yelled, “What are you doing out here?”

“My wives told me to fix the awning,” John referred to his daughters as wives when speaking to Robert. His wives had no idea that he did this.

“Ah the days of fulfillment, of doing a woman’s bidding,” Robert said standing next to him, looking at the pile of torn down awning and then to John’s soaked composure.

“I’d swap with you in a day,” John said to start an argument.

“You don’t—” Robert started angrily, then Diana stuck her head out of the front door.

“Robert! Get in here! Why are you standing in the rain!” And then added, “John I didn’t realize you were going to take down the whole damn thing.”

“OK see you inside,” Robert said to John and left him standing in the yard.

John came inside when it got dark and his wives couldn’t look out into the yard and see the mess he’d left. Robert was with his family in the living room enjoying cookies made by his daughters and being served a second round of tea when he passed through to change into dry clothes.

“Don’t shower now Dad or you won’t get to talk to Robert, he has to leave in thirty minutes,” Clara said.

Diana followed John upstairs. She stood in the doorway and watched him pulling off his clothes, awkwardly trying not to to sit on anything while he removed his socks first, then his heavy jeans. She didn’t say anything. The silence was unusual, but so nice John didn’t say anything. He hoped she was thinking about his body. Maybe she was. He didn’t find a towel right away and instead strode around in front of her finding dry clothes and hanging up his wet ones in the bathtub more meticulously than he would if she weren’t looking. He imagined himself to be the best horse at show, his muscles flexing softly as he paraded back and forth.

“John,” Diana said. Her voice was shallow, breathy, he was surprised that his own fantasy might actually be real. He looked up at her. Her flushed cheeks, her sweater undone one button too low. “We aren’t connecting,” she said.

“Well close the door, Robert will keep the girls entertained.”

“What? I don’t need to fight about this now and the girls already know.”

“Know what? That we have sex? Yes, I suppose they do.”

“Sex. Sex! Is that all you think about?”

“No. I thought you were asking…”

“Robert and I are sleeping together.”

John didn’t say anything. He was surprised. Not that his wife was having an affair. Not that his daughters knew. Not that Diana had unbuttoned her blouse too low for Robert. He was surprised that he felt that same calm. “It’s okay,” he said, “I’ll just take a nap and you all can sort it out downstairs.”