The thing is; only trouble comes 'all at once'. I live in an immobile RV. The carpets represent the total census of every bacteria, mold, cigarette ash, dog hair, and rowdy parade of flaura & fauna since 1986. Well now, I'm a Hardwood Floor Guy.
I ripped out the carpet. It did not yield easily. The 1 inch staples holding it down were sewn with admirable progeny.
I walked around on that stained plywood until I lost sense of Time's scale. Had I been looking at (while sitting downcast above, or moping barefoot on) the dirty brown, stained plywood floor a few moments in eternity, or for all eternity every few hours? Somewhere out there, on the horizon of my Hopeful Mind, lies my dream: installing a Floating, Engineered Hardwood Floor (complete with Sound Silencer Underlayment with an Rh value). But first the Work Phone needs to coronet, distracting my attention from my own bored company with this plywood.
Back where I'm from in the Midwest, they say, that come Fall you can tell whether it will be a harsh or mild winter, just by looking at the Willy worms crossing the road. Sparse fuzzies means it will be a mild winter. My instinctual hide is bristling with thick woolly fuzzies already.
To a Hardwood Floor Guy who lives Off-the-Grid of Employment that means that there isn't going to be much work, if any. I despair- for months.
This year I'm preparing. I decided to Paint my plywood floor, then protect it with Floor Finish.
As a Hardwood Floor Guy, I'm a frustrated artist. I've had grand schemes, but no room to experiment. Until now. So, I dug out my copy of Annie Sloan's “Paint Alchemy”. I peruse the pages, over and over.
Lime Wash: a simple paint much used in the past and now admired for its matte, chalky texture. It consists of lime putty, some water, and pigment. Sounds pretty natural.
I begin thinking. I'd like to walk on a floor as fragile as chalk dust, yet as durable as the molecular structure of chalk.
I pull out my copy of “Recipes for SURFACES, Decorative Paint Finishes Made Simple”. I peruse the pages, over and over. Lime Wash always catches my eye. You've seen it Art Films with old Italian Villas.
Faux Marble paints have always wowed me. Why not in my RV? All those different colors should also help camouflage my dirty floor. I peruse some more. “Ragging Off and Cheesecloth-ing: Light over dark” has the soft look I'm imagining.
I feel good. I'm full of the belief that this project is laying away some Nuts of Happiness for my winter. 1
Color?
As a HFG, I prefer natural, light toned wood. It makes small spaces look larger, it's easier to maintain, and they look great. Sign this place up. I'll paint it Apricot- marbled with Cinnamon. I like it.
At the paint store, deep blues kept catching my eye. I took a gradiated sample card, and then picked a complimentary (?) green card. Once I got home and placed the cards in the hallway, along with Mango Juice and other Apricots, I felt I needed to fall back on the ancient concept of what tone a floor should be- something that makes you feel Solid. I went with Azurite Blue (Imagine a deep Mediterranean Sea Blue) and Green Bay Green.
Texture?
Almost every HFG has experienced the misfortune of trying to apply a Floor Finish over a stain that isn't dry enough. What happens is that the texture of the Floor Finish Applicator pulls some color off the stain. I have always wanted to manipulate that technique throughout an entire floor. Home owners always stagger back from me with a look of staturesque fear when I suggest this. In Decorative Painting this technique is called Dragging. The Dragging is done in a lighter colored glaze over a darker color. I bought a thick bristled Roofing brush, in the hopes that I can show brush patterns in the solid, dark blue base color.
For the Faux Marble pattern (in Green Bay Green) I wanted to convey the idea of movement.
Prepping!
It was too Overwhelming. For two days, I languished. Then, I knew: it had to begin today- or- Despair would show up earlier than Willy worms on a Harvest Moon.
Efficient manual labor works one section at a time, with one set of tools. I noticed that my RVs floor space is broken up into 3 sections of plywood. The sections could be seen to separate the kitchen/dining area, from the living/creative area, and the bed&bath section. How nice! I've been trying to suggest that this Hallway of an Abode is three separate living quarters, but my attempts had been greeted with disappointment.
Thinking task(icaly)- The K/D area offered the least resistance, so I started there. Pulling staples, only in that area. Sweeping that, and the surrounding area; sanding with an Orbital Sander (60 grit); vacuum; Spackle: filling all holes, cracks, and assorted imperfections. That cured. I used 120 on the Orbital Sander, vacuumed that all up and applied a coat of Kilz Stain Blocker and Primer. While that was drying, I started prepping the Living/Creative area.
Well... Behind my back, Overwhelming was sucking up my shares of Willingness. “I gotta do the whole floor! With that wickedly long narrow length- how can I paint That to look random, and just not 'chaos for chaos' sake'?” You know, “How can I capture that Japanese Rock Garden Thing? “
Oh, thoughts like 'those' become Spirals Downward with the increasing speed of one of the world's greatest predators, the Peregrine Hawk. I focused on the effort of my backbone where my wishbone had once been lounging. Once you have your sleeves rolled up, you often discover that Life's obstructions often become the solution you seek. (Often is as Often does).- No matter what I do; it will look like three separate floors. There's no hiding the Seams of Plywood. “So go with it”. I'll make three large single pieces of deep sea blue granite stones, one for each separate living quarter, which will gracefully achieve the affect that has alluded me.
The shaping of the Dragging and Marbling pestered me; those chalky colors comforted me, and I thought of an old dream- a tree as old and magical as the first colors in the cosmos had charged me with Heavenly Destiny. That Tree must be in it, but how? And what else? It took me a couple of days to create 3 living environments. But it's been worth the humility of grasping at The Evermore Elusive Floating Whims of Un-gestured Feathers.
The Complete Floor Plan: All the base color will be Azurite Lime Wash, portraying in texture, 3 different realities. Separate living spaces (each with it's own aspect of our Planet and Spirit- Earth). The “L” of the Dining Area will be Drugged Upward in the wave form of the Ying/Yang coupling. The length of it's hallway will convey the boughs of a Deciduous Tree. The Faux Marble Green Bay green will express the movement of boughs Praising the Full Sun.
For many years now, I've wanted to paint a Lilly Pond in my bedroom. That way I can say, “Every day I wake up, I walk on water”. That was the birth of the Lilly Pond idea, but not its geography. I'm opting to paint a Lilly Pond in my Living/Creating Room. The Green Bay Green will create faux lily pads, and I've have to coax some gold fish into it too.
My Bed and Bath will be textured like Big Fluffy Clouds, yet behind them will be the excitement of Green Bay Green Faux heat lightening.
I'm thrilled.
No. The thing is, it's more than that. You see, this winter when Despair is talking shit, I will have spent the night, and woke up with my head in the clouds. I'll make some coffee where the Earth gives birth to the infinite tenacity of life, and I'll sip the nectar of the gods, and go stoke up the Creative Surety of Walking on Water.
None of these leaps from Despair would have possible if I had not first subscribed to Imagination Troubador.
For the first time in my life, I see my down time as The Cycle of Creativity: composing at the the Subconscious Level- transposing it into the Life-Giving Language, and Dreaming in the Unconditional Thunderclouds of Forgiveness.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Toe-Crossed Lovers
I think my toes are Star-Crossed lovers.
It's written in the planets, where omens
come to prosper as sure as tomorrow.
I find myself in curious jams, which I just seem to naturally walk into: the occasional bank robber, an irate husband or more, embarrassing klutzy moments, and 'the proverbial foot in mouth' giddy bastard.
Will you take my Big Toe out on the last Great American Cattle Drive?
My Little Toe is dabbling in West Texan Oil Fields.
My feet are Giants,
Rock, and James Dean.
Before there was Steinbrenner and the Yankees, there was Johnson's Texas and NASA.
My toes, with the burning urgency of puberty, want it all
All God's little children got toes,
some be gifted, some be bone bare
some just stand around with their hands in their pockets
wondering just who the hell they am.
The other day, I had my toes in sand and foam of sea, walking along with sand in my pocket. Carrying sand like loose change, remembering the weight of loose change, and the unconscious comfort of having loose change. I wasn't looking anywhere, aside from inside my head. I stubbed my toe and nearly fell on a woman reading a book on the beach.
She became alarmed. I have this way with women, yet seldom do I have a comforting line. I had caught the title of the book, “Oh, you're reading 'One Summer's Bud'. I know that book. In fact, I once wrote a book called 'One Summer's Bud'. My picture's not in there, is it? My picture was in the one that I authored; first. By the way. Oh, yeah, it's a different book alrighty. But the title. It was the title that was mine. Title is everything. I mean, that's how you find books, isn't it.
No, I didn't actually think that you could be reading my book. It didn't sell very well, on this planet. It had huge sells across The Milky Way, though”.
She had paid her way through Charm School working as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest. After charm school there were athletic scholarships that would blunt a buzz saw. Then she met an Island Boy and ran away. Got into voo-doo, and crossed into the spirit world for a lifetime or two.
One summer afternoon she just appeared on this beach; she found a place to live near-by, and has been coming back every day to read. She's reading the worst fiction first. Because it's comforting to know that her life is far better than theirs, no matter how well-off their assets conclude: Poorly written, haphazardly conceived, boring dialogue, weakly developed; she knows she's better than that, even after the lapse of physical memory within the physical world for the last couple of years.
These were not her exact words. I read it from the energy that radiated from her cheek bone, from the way the light fell across her eyes, and the way her hair moved like aroma. I rubbed my sore toe, and forgot what it was like to know that you're rubbing your sore toe, while I read the heart of a friend.
“Can I ask you a question?', and she went on talking, without a way to get a wrench in sideways, “Why are you talking to me?”
Some friendships don't mean a thing if they don't have that BS thing, and some... well, you can't even imagine bullshitting. “Because, I know who you are”.
“That just can't be. That's all there is to it, and there ain't no more to it, than... it just can't be”.
“Tisk, tisk. Tisk-a-kiddy. Don't you believe that The Heart Ain't in the Details, Babe”.
“I know exactly what you mean. And it's all details. Pure Love and details.
“Then, we agree. We gotta find more places to talk”.
“It may take a Lifetime to arrange it all”, she said.
It's written in the planets, where omens
come to prosper as sure as tomorrow.
I find myself in curious jams, which I just seem to naturally walk into: the occasional bank robber, an irate husband or more, embarrassing klutzy moments, and 'the proverbial foot in mouth' giddy bastard.
Will you take my Big Toe out on the last Great American Cattle Drive?
My Little Toe is dabbling in West Texan Oil Fields.
My feet are Giants,
Rock, and James Dean.
Before there was Steinbrenner and the Yankees, there was Johnson's Texas and NASA.
My toes, with the burning urgency of puberty, want it all
All God's little children got toes,
some be gifted, some be bone bare
some just stand around with their hands in their pockets
wondering just who the hell they am.
The other day, I had my toes in sand and foam of sea, walking along with sand in my pocket. Carrying sand like loose change, remembering the weight of loose change, and the unconscious comfort of having loose change. I wasn't looking anywhere, aside from inside my head. I stubbed my toe and nearly fell on a woman reading a book on the beach.
She became alarmed. I have this way with women, yet seldom do I have a comforting line. I had caught the title of the book, “Oh, you're reading 'One Summer's Bud'. I know that book. In fact, I once wrote a book called 'One Summer's Bud'. My picture's not in there, is it? My picture was in the one that I authored; first. By the way. Oh, yeah, it's a different book alrighty. But the title. It was the title that was mine. Title is everything. I mean, that's how you find books, isn't it.
No, I didn't actually think that you could be reading my book. It didn't sell very well, on this planet. It had huge sells across The Milky Way, though”.
She had paid her way through Charm School working as a lumberjack in the Pacific Northwest. After charm school there were athletic scholarships that would blunt a buzz saw. Then she met an Island Boy and ran away. Got into voo-doo, and crossed into the spirit world for a lifetime or two.
One summer afternoon she just appeared on this beach; she found a place to live near-by, and has been coming back every day to read. She's reading the worst fiction first. Because it's comforting to know that her life is far better than theirs, no matter how well-off their assets conclude: Poorly written, haphazardly conceived, boring dialogue, weakly developed; she knows she's better than that, even after the lapse of physical memory within the physical world for the last couple of years.
These were not her exact words. I read it from the energy that radiated from her cheek bone, from the way the light fell across her eyes, and the way her hair moved like aroma. I rubbed my sore toe, and forgot what it was like to know that you're rubbing your sore toe, while I read the heart of a friend.
“Can I ask you a question?', and she went on talking, without a way to get a wrench in sideways, “Why are you talking to me?”
Some friendships don't mean a thing if they don't have that BS thing, and some... well, you can't even imagine bullshitting. “Because, I know who you are”.
“That just can't be. That's all there is to it, and there ain't no more to it, than... it just can't be”.
“Tisk, tisk. Tisk-a-kiddy. Don't you believe that The Heart Ain't in the Details, Babe”.
“I know exactly what you mean. And it's all details. Pure Love and details.
“Then, we agree. We gotta find more places to talk”.
“It may take a Lifetime to arrange it all”, she said.
Monday, September 21, 2009
dragon tales
My son cried after I read a story about
the last living Dragon.
He cried as if his Hopes and Dreams had been
born a mythical age too late.
My heart chasmed wider with each sob,
cranking tighter on my blunder.
How could I not have known?
Whatever hardened my own memories?
My God, how can a mere mortal, with no means
fix it? To make it All better?
I had to lie!
Create a new mythical promise
of Hope and Dreams, and
make it a promise that he could
see and touch, every day.
I pulled my heart into my fingertips,
laid my hand on his silky childhood hair
and pointed across our backyard to
the side of our mountain,
“You see that vein of quartz over there?”
His Innocence nodded the head of his sobbing heart.
“I've been saving a secret to share with
only you. Saving until today.
Today, you need to know.
A secret like this is always on “A
Need To Know” basis.
That's not really quartz. It's
really Dragon Eggs,
waiting to hatch”
He groaned, “They're rocks, Dad. I have one
in my room.”
My knees gave out.
My Hopes were grasping for
a handhold of hope.
“Oh, no. They're Dragon Eggs all right.
All those old stories about Dragon Eggs were made-up. No one ever saw a dragon's egg. How could they ever get close enough? So, they made up a story so silly, everyone believed it. They claimed that Dragons believed they were no more special than chickens: laying their eggs in a nest that anyone and anything might possibly steal.
Oh, no.
Dragons knew they were special.
So, Dragons would fly to special mountains
and with a mighty blast of Dragon fire
as hot as their strength of Will
they would melt rock,
lay their crystal eggs and fly away,
letting the lava start the fire in her eggs.
Then the stone cools, protecting her
eggs with solid rock.
Nobody, or nothing could reach them.
So thought the Dragons.
They never dreamed that someday
Man would devise a desire
and means to strip part of a mountain
in exchange for a nicer car.
So you see, they are Dinosaur Eggs.
And someday-
They will hatch”
My son's sobbing had stopped,
long ago. I've been feeling
the expressions of his soul
struggling against some serious doubt.
“How do you know? Did the Tooth Fairy
tell you? “
“No. I just, know- that's all. It's
just like loving someone. No one tells you.
You just know”.
He falls against my chest,
trusting my heart will break
his fall. He looks up to me,
“That was a good story dad”.
I sigh, as mercy caresses me
with a lover's touch.
I roll my eyes, “It's not my story;
Dragons told it me”.
“When will they hatch dad?”
“Any day, I reckon.
Not even the Dragons knew that
much magic”.
the last living Dragon.
He cried as if his Hopes and Dreams had been
born a mythical age too late.
My heart chasmed wider with each sob,
cranking tighter on my blunder.
How could I not have known?
Whatever hardened my own memories?
My God, how can a mere mortal, with no means
fix it? To make it All better?
I had to lie!
Create a new mythical promise
of Hope and Dreams, and
make it a promise that he could
see and touch, every day.
I pulled my heart into my fingertips,
laid my hand on his silky childhood hair
and pointed across our backyard to
the side of our mountain,
“You see that vein of quartz over there?”
His Innocence nodded the head of his sobbing heart.
“I've been saving a secret to share with
only you. Saving until today.
Today, you need to know.
A secret like this is always on “A
Need To Know” basis.
That's not really quartz. It's
really Dragon Eggs,
waiting to hatch”
He groaned, “They're rocks, Dad. I have one
in my room.”
My knees gave out.
My Hopes were grasping for
a handhold of hope.
“Oh, no. They're Dragon Eggs all right.
All those old stories about Dragon Eggs were made-up. No one ever saw a dragon's egg. How could they ever get close enough? So, they made up a story so silly, everyone believed it. They claimed that Dragons believed they were no more special than chickens: laying their eggs in a nest that anyone and anything might possibly steal.
Oh, no.
Dragons knew they were special.
So, Dragons would fly to special mountains
and with a mighty blast of Dragon fire
as hot as their strength of Will
they would melt rock,
lay their crystal eggs and fly away,
letting the lava start the fire in her eggs.
Then the stone cools, protecting her
eggs with solid rock.
Nobody, or nothing could reach them.
So thought the Dragons.
They never dreamed that someday
Man would devise a desire
and means to strip part of a mountain
in exchange for a nicer car.
So you see, they are Dinosaur Eggs.
And someday-
They will hatch”
My son's sobbing had stopped,
long ago. I've been feeling
the expressions of his soul
struggling against some serious doubt.
“How do you know? Did the Tooth Fairy
tell you? “
“No. I just, know- that's all. It's
just like loving someone. No one tells you.
You just know”.
He falls against my chest,
trusting my heart will break
his fall. He looks up to me,
“That was a good story dad”.
I sigh, as mercy caresses me
with a lover's touch.
I roll my eyes, “It's not my story;
Dragons told it me”.
“When will they hatch dad?”
“Any day, I reckon.
Not even the Dragons knew that
much magic”.
Friday, April 10, 2009
forgiveness
“Creation is the single greatest moment of forgiveness in any man's life. As it was in God's.”
That's a quote from Jesus, from some text which the Official Church deemed as heretic. Who among us can say what's politically correct? May he without any bias throw the first stone.
I've been wondering if Forgiveness can be so simply attained. More so, I've been pondering, “What did God do that required forgiveness? What triggered The Beginning? What Wrong begat The Word?”
I may be totally wrong, but I believe I've felt God's pain for most of my life--- Loneliness.
Even within the small confines of my two pound heart, I know that my love is infinite. In my life, there is infinite longing to Share.
What is light without reflection? Does the sun really exist without the earth? Can there be starlight without the night?
Some say that the story of Job is older than Genesis. It makes sense to me. Every babe knows that it didn't do anything wrong to be this hungry. So they cry out. It's not until much later that they have the awareness to ask, where did I come from? How did it all begin?
They say in the Beginning that God walked with Adam, that they shot the breeze together. Still the flesh was lonely. So God understanding Adam's pain forgave him by creating woman, knowing all the while that He, Himself would become the Gooseberry, the third wheel.
There are many arguments about Original Sin. There are many arguments about the meaning of the original words. I don't really care anything about that. Beauty lays in the eye of the beholder. Therein rides the crest of the double edged sword. Judgment. Before The Two ate of the Tree of Knowledge, they hadn't made the judgment call that they were inferior to God, they had been the best of buds. Not a care in the World. Not a stitch of fig leaves.
I lay awake at night, alone, in my crowded bed of judgments. Some people are too fat, some are too beautiful, others too self-absorbed, I am too poor, too mentally & bodily feeble for infinite love to be divine. I toss and turn under the covers of Madison Avenue, Fear driven government control.
I long for forgiveness. I long to create a story that will make everyone feel okay about their own Godliness. God didn't give anything to Jonah that he didn't already have.
Today, I cut my hair, cut my fingernails, brushed my teeth, and showered. Forgiving my descent into mortality.
That's a quote from Jesus, from some text which the Official Church deemed as heretic. Who among us can say what's politically correct? May he without any bias throw the first stone.
I've been wondering if Forgiveness can be so simply attained. More so, I've been pondering, “What did God do that required forgiveness? What triggered The Beginning? What Wrong begat The Word?”
I may be totally wrong, but I believe I've felt God's pain for most of my life--- Loneliness.
Even within the small confines of my two pound heart, I know that my love is infinite. In my life, there is infinite longing to Share.
What is light without reflection? Does the sun really exist without the earth? Can there be starlight without the night?
Some say that the story of Job is older than Genesis. It makes sense to me. Every babe knows that it didn't do anything wrong to be this hungry. So they cry out. It's not until much later that they have the awareness to ask, where did I come from? How did it all begin?
They say in the Beginning that God walked with Adam, that they shot the breeze together. Still the flesh was lonely. So God understanding Adam's pain forgave him by creating woman, knowing all the while that He, Himself would become the Gooseberry, the third wheel.
There are many arguments about Original Sin. There are many arguments about the meaning of the original words. I don't really care anything about that. Beauty lays in the eye of the beholder. Therein rides the crest of the double edged sword. Judgment. Before The Two ate of the Tree of Knowledge, they hadn't made the judgment call that they were inferior to God, they had been the best of buds. Not a care in the World. Not a stitch of fig leaves.
I lay awake at night, alone, in my crowded bed of judgments. Some people are too fat, some are too beautiful, others too self-absorbed, I am too poor, too mentally & bodily feeble for infinite love to be divine. I toss and turn under the covers of Madison Avenue, Fear driven government control.
I long for forgiveness. I long to create a story that will make everyone feel okay about their own Godliness. God didn't give anything to Jonah that he didn't already have.
Today, I cut my hair, cut my fingernails, brushed my teeth, and showered. Forgiving my descent into mortality.
Heroes Ho
I was taking a class on Heroes in mythology, when it began. My wife breezed through the door one day; said she wanted to be single, and booted me out of Home. I longed to be myth-like, and be the Hero to my three year old son, but legally, all I could do was wave goodbye, often.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest shame.
Maybe it was because we had lost the daily touch of each other that we grasped for any will to collapse the distance between us. Exploring our family heritage became a gift we shared that no person, no institution, no geography could take away from us. By God and Darwin, we shared the same ancient genes of a single Norse family that had been run out of Norway, taken flight to Iceland, shipwrecked off the coast of The Hebrides Our family were the only survivors. So we became Highlanders.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest understanding of 'The One and the Many'.
He's a History major now. Several Spring Breaks ago I helped him build his own Inuit style kayak. He did it without book or class, just off the Internet. I'd been dreaming this plan for years, but like most father's dreams, life didn't support them. A few weeks into his last college semester I broke out my plan. “For your graduation present, lets kayak around the Outer Hebrides,Let's go stand where the first of our people stood”.
He laughed. “Dad, no way! It's freezing up there!.... I was thinking about Iceland”.
My voice slumped, “Iceland?”
“Dad, it's Viking. Most likely, that's where we were headed when the sea took our boat. Let go to Iceland for them”. He's magical like that. “Dad, Iceland has hot springs in their glaciers. Not only that, but all the women are Hot!”
Sometimes having a son is a great comfort. Yes, there will be that.
Iceland became my bookmark, not only on the Internet, but in my heart's dreams. When I stepped down from the plane, I didn't see any of the scenery or buildings from the brochures. I was overwhelmed when the weather became my skin. Unlimited fulfillment shone bright and as warmly as encouragement in the mid-day sky. The spray of a thousand ' Thank You, Praise You' s from every plant cooled my skin. The Wind of Possibility caressed from the Southwest. The scent in the air instigating the sweet pollination of breathing. Even the sulfur taste induced by the Hot Springs felt as relaxing as a suntan. The everlasting contentment of the glacier cold. After a deep breath I wondered if every new place possessed the same magical climate. Perhaps even my little End of the Line Hometown once felt like this too.
Standing together on the ground he slaps my shoulder, “Hey, ol' man, do you feel it in the air?”
I look him in the eye, “Yes. It feels like home”.
His smile engulfs the horizon, “Just what I was thinking”.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest miracle.
It cost extra for a non-guided tour of the inlet. To spend this adventure between just the two of us, the ol' man and his hero we had to take a class from the place that rented my kayak.. How many centuries ago have guides been replaced by teachers? A guide knows his lessons protect your life from the painful consequences of poor judgment. Guides plant signposts in your expectations to stop, look, and listen to the Spiritual Experience of being overwhelmed by beauty, wonder, awe, and unbounded joy.
Dreaming and being the dream seldom honeymoon. But there in the Icelandic Sea, in a cove of glaciers and steaming hot springs beyond, rocked on the waters of promise and power older than Life, the young man of my first born sat in a working piece of art made by his own hands and passion—kayak as old as the Eskimo, and me-- the ol' man-- in the rented plastic kayak.
Breathing, paddling, seeing, listening, blinking all became taste. A taste you try to feed every cell of your being. Then, a whale broke the water, with a mission. I was capsized. My son's kayak of over a thousand generations of hand me down knowledge survived. The whale had come up between us. We were on different sides of the ripple. Somehow my foot had tangled with a strap inside my kayak, and it was upside down. I was bobbing up and down, taking in too much water. I never liked being in water over my head. And I rented the cheapest wet suit they had, also the thinnest.
His rescue efforts rivaled the Norse Sagas. I'm not saying that these waves were epically large, or that a flip flop of a whale compared to the the disturbance of a sea monster. No. But in the space of a bolt of lightening to be thrust into the charge of saving a loved one--right here, right now he and I might exchange our last look: knowing and ,yet disagreeing, “ Love absolves disappointment”.
That Fear is the greatest enemy.
As we both struggled against the fury of the sea, me at water line's mercy and his supremacy of this craft and its power against the sea, I heard him singing softly the melody and words I sang to him in times of trouble or bedtime,
“ Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink.
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”
He grabbed me, and pulled me close. As he vigorously rubbed my body to generate warmth I looked into his eyes and he smiled, “What's new Dad?”
I begged away from his gaze, so I could gather the courage to play act, “Since when did you start stealing my songs?”
His expression darts away as quickly as a humming bird's heartbeat and as poetic as a butterfly's dance. “First time”.
Embarrassing him has the same affect as getting Nature to reveal a secret. “Why?”
“Whenever I was weak from hopelessness, lovesick, or feeling sorry for myself, or just afraid of the dark at bedtime, you sang me that song. Because you sang it, I knew you meant that love was around me, so much love I didn't have a care in the world. It always gave me strength I didn't know I had”.
Sometimes, a grown child can be the greatest guide to redemption.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest shame.
Maybe it was because we had lost the daily touch of each other that we grasped for any will to collapse the distance between us. Exploring our family heritage became a gift we shared that no person, no institution, no geography could take away from us. By God and Darwin, we shared the same ancient genes of a single Norse family that had been run out of Norway, taken flight to Iceland, shipwrecked off the coast of The Hebrides Our family were the only survivors. So we became Highlanders.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest understanding of 'The One and the Many'.
He's a History major now. Several Spring Breaks ago I helped him build his own Inuit style kayak. He did it without book or class, just off the Internet. I'd been dreaming this plan for years, but like most father's dreams, life didn't support them. A few weeks into his last college semester I broke out my plan. “For your graduation present, lets kayak around the Outer Hebrides,Let's go stand where the first of our people stood”.
He laughed. “Dad, no way! It's freezing up there!.... I was thinking about Iceland”.
My voice slumped, “Iceland?”
“Dad, it's Viking. Most likely, that's where we were headed when the sea took our boat. Let go to Iceland for them”. He's magical like that. “Dad, Iceland has hot springs in their glaciers. Not only that, but all the women are Hot!”
Sometimes having a son is a great comfort. Yes, there will be that.
Iceland became my bookmark, not only on the Internet, but in my heart's dreams. When I stepped down from the plane, I didn't see any of the scenery or buildings from the brochures. I was overwhelmed when the weather became my skin. Unlimited fulfillment shone bright and as warmly as encouragement in the mid-day sky. The spray of a thousand ' Thank You, Praise You' s from every plant cooled my skin. The Wind of Possibility caressed from the Southwest. The scent in the air instigating the sweet pollination of breathing. Even the sulfur taste induced by the Hot Springs felt as relaxing as a suntan. The everlasting contentment of the glacier cold. After a deep breath I wondered if every new place possessed the same magical climate. Perhaps even my little End of the Line Hometown once felt like this too.
Standing together on the ground he slaps my shoulder, “Hey, ol' man, do you feel it in the air?”
I look him in the eye, “Yes. It feels like home”.
His smile engulfs the horizon, “Just what I was thinking”.
Sometimes having a son is the greatest miracle.
It cost extra for a non-guided tour of the inlet. To spend this adventure between just the two of us, the ol' man and his hero we had to take a class from the place that rented my kayak.. How many centuries ago have guides been replaced by teachers? A guide knows his lessons protect your life from the painful consequences of poor judgment. Guides plant signposts in your expectations to stop, look, and listen to the Spiritual Experience of being overwhelmed by beauty, wonder, awe, and unbounded joy.
Dreaming and being the dream seldom honeymoon. But there in the Icelandic Sea, in a cove of glaciers and steaming hot springs beyond, rocked on the waters of promise and power older than Life, the young man of my first born sat in a working piece of art made by his own hands and passion—kayak as old as the Eskimo, and me-- the ol' man-- in the rented plastic kayak.
Breathing, paddling, seeing, listening, blinking all became taste. A taste you try to feed every cell of your being. Then, a whale broke the water, with a mission. I was capsized. My son's kayak of over a thousand generations of hand me down knowledge survived. The whale had come up between us. We were on different sides of the ripple. Somehow my foot had tangled with a strap inside my kayak, and it was upside down. I was bobbing up and down, taking in too much water. I never liked being in water over my head. And I rented the cheapest wet suit they had, also the thinnest.
His rescue efforts rivaled the Norse Sagas. I'm not saying that these waves were epically large, or that a flip flop of a whale compared to the the disturbance of a sea monster. No. But in the space of a bolt of lightening to be thrust into the charge of saving a loved one--right here, right now he and I might exchange our last look: knowing and ,yet disagreeing, “ Love absolves disappointment”.
That Fear is the greatest enemy.
As we both struggled against the fury of the sea, me at water line's mercy and his supremacy of this craft and its power against the sea, I heard him singing softly the melody and words I sang to him in times of trouble or bedtime,
“ Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink.
Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”
He grabbed me, and pulled me close. As he vigorously rubbed my body to generate warmth I looked into his eyes and he smiled, “What's new Dad?”
I begged away from his gaze, so I could gather the courage to play act, “Since when did you start stealing my songs?”
His expression darts away as quickly as a humming bird's heartbeat and as poetic as a butterfly's dance. “First time”.
Embarrassing him has the same affect as getting Nature to reveal a secret. “Why?”
“Whenever I was weak from hopelessness, lovesick, or feeling sorry for myself, or just afraid of the dark at bedtime, you sang me that song. Because you sang it, I knew you meant that love was around me, so much love I didn't have a care in the world. It always gave me strength I didn't know I had”.
Sometimes, a grown child can be the greatest guide to redemption.
Monday, March 16, 2009
my wild rose
My wild rose died. The exact moment of death was never noted, nor were any circumstances sought out. I made no note of it to anyone. Not “Home & Garden”, not the local paper, not even my immediate family.
It was a Tuesday, Trash Day, when the corner of one's eye hyper-ly seeks out distractions from the loathsome burden of 'hit the mark or miss out entirely until next Tuesday'. The Mafia does not dish out second chances. I always thought it incongruous that the Mafia holds a stake in Waste Management. Then again, what better daily legality to hide evidence than in a landfill, which explains why the natural urge: to scavenge there, is not allowed.
Now, you know why the events of Friday knocked me off my feet. It began over organic, free trade, instant coffee. I was dishing some honey out of my “Save the Bee Foundation” honey jar, when there was a knock at my door. I dropped the spoon into the honey. The spoon and I both gasped, as the honey made the sucking sound of a feeding butterfly, as golden as honey itself. Rising above the situation I went to the door. My daughter from New York stood like an Italian Water Fountain beyond the screen door.
Stunned slapped me soundly upside my frontal lobe. I opened the door with all the speed of anticipating heartache. She lunged forward, and threw her arms around my neck. She snuggled her moist eyes just above my left ear and whispered in the rhythm of her sobbing heart. “Don't worry Dad. We'll get through this”.
The trials of being her father flashed before my eyes. The utter joy, the heart stopping regrets, the singing DNA of hope eternal, all stopped in their tracks, and popped the question, “Now what?”
Hugs are much older than language, and far more essential. But she pulls away from me, and looks me in the eye, so I can see the cards she's laying on the table.
“I heard your wild rose died”.
“WHAT!” Every infinite space within my body shouted as the subatomic particles of essence came to a screeching halt, “WHAT?”
She looked away from me. She turned her head to the corner of the garage where I had planted the wild rose shortly after she had moved to New York and became as distant as ambition's siren.
From the back of her head I could tell that her eyes ,as blue as the gratitude of a summer's sky, took in the proof that my wild rose had died. Her body went as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I grabbed her as quickly as if I was twenty again, and she, again, was that two month old baby falling from the kitchen counter top straight to the tile floor. “But How?” My body, my spirit, my logic, all: denied what was happening. “But how?”
In my arms I felt her become whole again, strong again, my hero again. At that instant, I learned that touch between two people creates a new Life, not any sensation of mine or the other's, but the experience of a better life form, perhaps the highest life form we'll ever know in this world.
She felt it too. I could tell by the way she turned back to me and, yes, even as she stepped away from our embrace; I could tell.
These were worldly matters now.
“Dad, you know, I'm not a movie buff. Especially not films from the old school. But ever since this past Tuesday, Burt Lancaster has been popping up in my meditations on creativity and form. I had no idea who he was until he showed up in “Field of Dreams”. I don't know how many films he made, or how many interviews he gave, but I'd say he's appeared to me for each occasion. He's appeared to me from every stage in his career. Every time, he said the same thing to me, 'Your father's wild rose died, and he needs your help'. He kept me up all night on Wednesday. I had to get a flight”.
My head and lower jaw drop as if the strings of preparation had been cut by my aspirations for healing her.
She rubs the arms at my side as if I'm a magic lamp. “I came for the Service, Dad”.
“What service? There's no service”.
“There will be”, and she sashays past me, through the doorway of my large empty house and lights at my small kitchen table like the reflection of candlelight.
I put on the odd shaped kettle, hammered out by child labor as distant and as formidable as the Great Wall of China. I add some Fair Trade, Pure Spring Water collected in Hemp Canvass containers, shipped via 'free range,organically fed and documentedly so, Pure Ass over the Swiss Alps, to a French seaport, where it's loaded onto kayaks made from all natural products and paddled across the Atlantic by an Intuits who are paid, not in Francs or Dollars, but in Respect for their Tradition, finally arriving at the East Coast Ports of America. It's then put onto a travois and hauled by a Native American Indian who follows the various Trails of Tears to the 'Made in China- bought at Wal-Mart' water cooler on the West Side of Santa Cruz, California, on a solar stove made from recycled gutters.
Perhaps if I had been allowed to focus on my daughter, the next few hours would have been accessible to memory, or sense. But the phone rang as if it were going for some mechanical endurance record. It wore me down, unprecedentedly to two naps. I dreampt that the wooden screen door strummed as if it were decoding the DNA of God.
I remember that someone woke me shortly before the Service. 4 P.M. I recall smiling at the reciprocal of The Witching Hour- 4A.M.- the moment when the human body reaches maximum vulnerability. My guess is, that it was that shock of ironic laughter that brought my consciousness to bare.
There's hardly anyone here. No Priest. No pall bearers. No media. Not one body of voice for compassion, or support. No grave diggers. Just me, and my daughter.
Then, there was a feint flash of stage lightening. Then, seven seconds of rain, fell as lightly as if it had traveled a thousand light years, just so it wouldn't be noticed.
After a moment of silence, a Ragweed, cleared its photosynthetic throat, which is not anything like subduing a cough. The Ragweed clears its throat by massaging the air beneath its leaves, which then turns away from itself and enters beneath your skin, forming words. “I am the ninth generation who has lived beside this wild rose. I swear by all the genetic code in my being, which is tied together throughout the perception of Time's Past and Future, that this wild rose has been 'a boon and a blessing' to us. When there was drought, she gathered the dew. When there was searing heat, she gave us shade. When we stood alone without the possibility of a mate- she drew in the butterflies and the bees. Until the last of my kind are sieged out of this place, my children's umpteenth grandchildren shall know of her Good Works as surely as own their roots and leaves”.
The impossible can not be shared. Yet, only the impossible is shared between a man and his daughter. Nine Humming Birds appeared, and hovered before my dead wild rose. I'd never seen a family of Humming Birds, but -There -they -were. Their wings beat Stillness into a divine melody, “Among the man-made homogenized color schemes and despite their destruction of the scent of life, which is broader than their tiny little light spectrum, this Wild Rose was always been our Blinding Desire of Hope, and The Sweet Fragrance of Life”.
Then, these nine Humming Birds, turned in flight, as only they can move, faced my daughter and I, curtsied, and scattered too quickly for traces.
Silence.
Silence as taut as string between two empty cups longing for the touch of connection. Such cups can not be held, or guided, or conceived. They just clamp about
your heart longing to touch, your heart of hearts.
My wild rose died...
To arise from the dead, in me, three days, and three thousand miles later.
It was a Tuesday, Trash Day, when the corner of one's eye hyper-ly seeks out distractions from the loathsome burden of 'hit the mark or miss out entirely until next Tuesday'. The Mafia does not dish out second chances. I always thought it incongruous that the Mafia holds a stake in Waste Management. Then again, what better daily legality to hide evidence than in a landfill, which explains why the natural urge: to scavenge there, is not allowed.
Now, you know why the events of Friday knocked me off my feet. It began over organic, free trade, instant coffee. I was dishing some honey out of my “Save the Bee Foundation” honey jar, when there was a knock at my door. I dropped the spoon into the honey. The spoon and I both gasped, as the honey made the sucking sound of a feeding butterfly, as golden as honey itself. Rising above the situation I went to the door. My daughter from New York stood like an Italian Water Fountain beyond the screen door.
Stunned slapped me soundly upside my frontal lobe. I opened the door with all the speed of anticipating heartache. She lunged forward, and threw her arms around my neck. She snuggled her moist eyes just above my left ear and whispered in the rhythm of her sobbing heart. “Don't worry Dad. We'll get through this”.
The trials of being her father flashed before my eyes. The utter joy, the heart stopping regrets, the singing DNA of hope eternal, all stopped in their tracks, and popped the question, “Now what?”
Hugs are much older than language, and far more essential. But she pulls away from me, and looks me in the eye, so I can see the cards she's laying on the table.
“I heard your wild rose died”.
“WHAT!” Every infinite space within my body shouted as the subatomic particles of essence came to a screeching halt, “WHAT?”
She looked away from me. She turned her head to the corner of the garage where I had planted the wild rose shortly after she had moved to New York and became as distant as ambition's siren.
From the back of her head I could tell that her eyes ,as blue as the gratitude of a summer's sky, took in the proof that my wild rose had died. Her body went as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.
I grabbed her as quickly as if I was twenty again, and she, again, was that two month old baby falling from the kitchen counter top straight to the tile floor. “But How?” My body, my spirit, my logic, all: denied what was happening. “But how?”
In my arms I felt her become whole again, strong again, my hero again. At that instant, I learned that touch between two people creates a new Life, not any sensation of mine or the other's, but the experience of a better life form, perhaps the highest life form we'll ever know in this world.
She felt it too. I could tell by the way she turned back to me and, yes, even as she stepped away from our embrace; I could tell.
These were worldly matters now.
“Dad, you know, I'm not a movie buff. Especially not films from the old school. But ever since this past Tuesday, Burt Lancaster has been popping up in my meditations on creativity and form. I had no idea who he was until he showed up in “Field of Dreams”. I don't know how many films he made, or how many interviews he gave, but I'd say he's appeared to me for each occasion. He's appeared to me from every stage in his career. Every time, he said the same thing to me, 'Your father's wild rose died, and he needs your help'. He kept me up all night on Wednesday. I had to get a flight”.
My head and lower jaw drop as if the strings of preparation had been cut by my aspirations for healing her.
She rubs the arms at my side as if I'm a magic lamp. “I came for the Service, Dad”.
“What service? There's no service”.
“There will be”, and she sashays past me, through the doorway of my large empty house and lights at my small kitchen table like the reflection of candlelight.
I put on the odd shaped kettle, hammered out by child labor as distant and as formidable as the Great Wall of China. I add some Fair Trade, Pure Spring Water collected in Hemp Canvass containers, shipped via 'free range,organically fed and documentedly so, Pure Ass over the Swiss Alps, to a French seaport, where it's loaded onto kayaks made from all natural products and paddled across the Atlantic by an Intuits who are paid, not in Francs or Dollars, but in Respect for their Tradition, finally arriving at the East Coast Ports of America. It's then put onto a travois and hauled by a Native American Indian who follows the various Trails of Tears to the 'Made in China- bought at Wal-Mart' water cooler on the West Side of Santa Cruz, California, on a solar stove made from recycled gutters.
Perhaps if I had been allowed to focus on my daughter, the next few hours would have been accessible to memory, or sense. But the phone rang as if it were going for some mechanical endurance record. It wore me down, unprecedentedly to two naps. I dreampt that the wooden screen door strummed as if it were decoding the DNA of God.
I remember that someone woke me shortly before the Service. 4 P.M. I recall smiling at the reciprocal of The Witching Hour- 4A.M.- the moment when the human body reaches maximum vulnerability. My guess is, that it was that shock of ironic laughter that brought my consciousness to bare.
There's hardly anyone here. No Priest. No pall bearers. No media. Not one body of voice for compassion, or support. No grave diggers. Just me, and my daughter.
Then, there was a feint flash of stage lightening. Then, seven seconds of rain, fell as lightly as if it had traveled a thousand light years, just so it wouldn't be noticed.
After a moment of silence, a Ragweed, cleared its photosynthetic throat, which is not anything like subduing a cough. The Ragweed clears its throat by massaging the air beneath its leaves, which then turns away from itself and enters beneath your skin, forming words. “I am the ninth generation who has lived beside this wild rose. I swear by all the genetic code in my being, which is tied together throughout the perception of Time's Past and Future, that this wild rose has been 'a boon and a blessing' to us. When there was drought, she gathered the dew. When there was searing heat, she gave us shade. When we stood alone without the possibility of a mate- she drew in the butterflies and the bees. Until the last of my kind are sieged out of this place, my children's umpteenth grandchildren shall know of her Good Works as surely as own their roots and leaves”.
The impossible can not be shared. Yet, only the impossible is shared between a man and his daughter. Nine Humming Birds appeared, and hovered before my dead wild rose. I'd never seen a family of Humming Birds, but -There -they -were. Their wings beat Stillness into a divine melody, “Among the man-made homogenized color schemes and despite their destruction of the scent of life, which is broader than their tiny little light spectrum, this Wild Rose was always been our Blinding Desire of Hope, and The Sweet Fragrance of Life”.
Then, these nine Humming Birds, turned in flight, as only they can move, faced my daughter and I, curtsied, and scattered too quickly for traces.
Silence.
Silence as taut as string between two empty cups longing for the touch of connection. Such cups can not be held, or guided, or conceived. They just clamp about
your heart longing to touch, your heart of hearts.
My wild rose died...
To arise from the dead, in me, three days, and three thousand miles later.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
do you hear voices?
- I have sat before desks and been asked, “Do you hear voices?” I once replied, “No, but once while I was camping, about to fall asleep listening to the crickets sing the night into day, I realized the crickets were repeating a radio broadcast of Game Two of the 1946 World Series; Musial hit one out”.
I didn't realize it was a question to be taken seriously until one day, I did meet a young man who had heard voices, no cricket fantasies for him. He took a butcher knife and did as the voices instructed; attacked his wife. She escaped, unharmed.
Recently, the question has been set before me again.
“Voices” however, goes without definition. Does it mean that I hear external voices without a physical being in the external world? Or does it mean that I hear external voices within my own head? Or does it mean that my own internal voice sometimes takes the guise of The Muse? Or does it mean the damaging energy of screams, anger, hatred, and wailing (in my own internal voice) that jolt into my calm mind are voices? If the latter be the case, then are we not all living in the Age of Voices?
I've been asking myself, “When did I first hear voices in my head? Maybe they occur before memory, like impulses of hunger. Maybe they are merely the tangibility of thoughts. Like the time, before the rule of schooling, I passed some bright yellow flowers and said to myself, “When I head back home I'm going to pick some of those for my mother.” I picked all the most beautiful yellow flowers that my little hands could hold. When I gave them to her, I received screams of anger & hatred, and was duly whipped with a 'rod' of Biblical proportions, a 'rod' that wasn't Biblical in nature whatsoever. My good intentions had no voice, hiding instead behind a wall of tears, and wails -of pain, not only against my bleeding skin, but in my brain: the physical twisting struggle against an iron grip, and electric shocks jolting against my skull for escape. It wasn't until Seventh grade biology that I realized those pretty yellow flowers had been potato blossoms, and just as impossible to preserve in a vase as they were to produce potatoes.
Often when Night settles in, and man-made lights disrupt the darkness, and my eyes beg for rest, I turn off the lights, crawl beneath the blankets of alienation and seek- the deep breath of my calm mind. At that moment, don't well all become young again, defenseless children, who had spent the length of seemingly eternal days (after all it was day when we awoke, and still day when sent to bed) absorbing the wonder and awe of being alive. It was during those days, also known as the days of growth that accidents and misunderstandings occur as brilliantly as good intentions. It's then that my mind rages against the alienation of our Age: physically twisting, jolting like lightening against baby soft membranes. And I hear my internal voice berating my being.
When these voices rule my nights, my mornings are ruled by helplessness. A host of lies become the voices in my head. I'm worthless. Hope, like wealth is something other people are entitled to. And not a natural power on earth can encourage me: not the ocean, the majestic Redwoods, the magic of Spring, the glory of a thunderstorm. I remain jobless. Broke. Hungry, Dirty, A Beggar among friends.
We are living in the Age of Voices, where the masses in America are victims of Larger Than Life greed: stealing from the helpless, forcing homelessness, poverty, and wars we oppose. Some say, the victims are creating a new Age of The Muse. That a great voice from the Wilderness of Being is being prepared for us. An empowering voice: that out of our defenselessness shall come Command and Power, that from war shall come the Golden Age of Brotherhood and Harmony.
I envy the voices they hear at night.
These days, my Muse merely rants. The voices in my head wail for self-respect. My heart drowns in self-pity. And my attempts at well intended humor come across as despair. I struggle to twist away from such Muses. I turn to more ancient means to cast out the voices of the Night. I leave the fires burning (I sleep with the light on, as if there was someone else actively living in my house), and I listen to the Storyteller's repetitive lines (I leave TV re-runs on, or old movies I've seen a hundred times).
Per haps, I am too immature to hear the words of my Muse. My eyes still see ,with a child size view of the world; when I lay my gift of yellow flowers upon the altar, I'm sent reeling, “My Joy, My Joy, why hast thou forsaken me?”
I didn't realize it was a question to be taken seriously until one day, I did meet a young man who had heard voices, no cricket fantasies for him. He took a butcher knife and did as the voices instructed; attacked his wife. She escaped, unharmed.
Recently, the question has been set before me again.
“Voices” however, goes without definition. Does it mean that I hear external voices without a physical being in the external world? Or does it mean that I hear external voices within my own head? Or does it mean that my own internal voice sometimes takes the guise of The Muse? Or does it mean the damaging energy of screams, anger, hatred, and wailing (in my own internal voice) that jolt into my calm mind are voices? If the latter be the case, then are we not all living in the Age of Voices?
I've been asking myself, “When did I first hear voices in my head? Maybe they occur before memory, like impulses of hunger. Maybe they are merely the tangibility of thoughts. Like the time, before the rule of schooling, I passed some bright yellow flowers and said to myself, “When I head back home I'm going to pick some of those for my mother.” I picked all the most beautiful yellow flowers that my little hands could hold. When I gave them to her, I received screams of anger & hatred, and was duly whipped with a 'rod' of Biblical proportions, a 'rod' that wasn't Biblical in nature whatsoever. My good intentions had no voice, hiding instead behind a wall of tears, and wails -of pain, not only against my bleeding skin, but in my brain: the physical twisting struggle against an iron grip, and electric shocks jolting against my skull for escape. It wasn't until Seventh grade biology that I realized those pretty yellow flowers had been potato blossoms, and just as impossible to preserve in a vase as they were to produce potatoes.
Often when Night settles in, and man-made lights disrupt the darkness, and my eyes beg for rest, I turn off the lights, crawl beneath the blankets of alienation and seek- the deep breath of my calm mind. At that moment, don't well all become young again, defenseless children, who had spent the length of seemingly eternal days (after all it was day when we awoke, and still day when sent to bed) absorbing the wonder and awe of being alive. It was during those days, also known as the days of growth that accidents and misunderstandings occur as brilliantly as good intentions. It's then that my mind rages against the alienation of our Age: physically twisting, jolting like lightening against baby soft membranes. And I hear my internal voice berating my being.
When these voices rule my nights, my mornings are ruled by helplessness. A host of lies become the voices in my head. I'm worthless. Hope, like wealth is something other people are entitled to. And not a natural power on earth can encourage me: not the ocean, the majestic Redwoods, the magic of Spring, the glory of a thunderstorm. I remain jobless. Broke. Hungry, Dirty, A Beggar among friends.
We are living in the Age of Voices, where the masses in America are victims of Larger Than Life greed: stealing from the helpless, forcing homelessness, poverty, and wars we oppose. Some say, the victims are creating a new Age of The Muse. That a great voice from the Wilderness of Being is being prepared for us. An empowering voice: that out of our defenselessness shall come Command and Power, that from war shall come the Golden Age of Brotherhood and Harmony.
I envy the voices they hear at night.
These days, my Muse merely rants. The voices in my head wail for self-respect. My heart drowns in self-pity. And my attempts at well intended humor come across as despair. I struggle to twist away from such Muses. I turn to more ancient means to cast out the voices of the Night. I leave the fires burning (I sleep with the light on, as if there was someone else actively living in my house), and I listen to the Storyteller's repetitive lines (I leave TV re-runs on, or old movies I've seen a hundred times).
Per haps, I am too immature to hear the words of my Muse. My eyes still see ,with a child size view of the world; when I lay my gift of yellow flowers upon the altar, I'm sent reeling, “My Joy, My Joy, why hast thou forsaken me?”
Friday, March 6, 2009
new blessings
I entered the kitchen in the middle of the story. There were no page numbers, so I began picking up on it, like you do when you watch American cinema after the film has already begun.
Daniel B. sees me, and (as is his charitable way) he alters the storyline in such a way as to include me.
Seems last night he was at a party. He was talking to a lovely healer (who lives and works here locally). A previous student, or apprentice, or what have you-- any frame of reference in this physical plane ('in' and not 'on' a physical plane, that would imply that most human beings are actually living three dimensionally, “Au contraire, mon ami!”.) Whatever, she was a born ally along this healer's hero quest. --- Secretly, deep inside the truth of all our truths, we are all on a mythical journey- the hero's quest. Every life, every individual living in each and every house across America, in every abode of every kind of mankind- is a hero somewhere along that journey. For most, we are on the long, wicked stretch of road of denial of power not suitable for any life long company- that comes and goes all in due course.
So, this ally comes rushing up to the lovely healer (a bit tipsy, by the way, at this particular celebration) and says to Daniel B, “I'm so glad to find you both here, right here! Because the server is my boyfriend, and I want you both to meet him.”
Introductions are passed around, the kind where you closely examine the person, like you do when your palm is up, flat out and you are shaking your loose coins around, hunting, seeking out one in particular.
The healer turns to Daniel B. and says, “Oh, Daniel has got a great Love Blessing for the two of you”. And Daniel's thinking, “Oh come on. You know good and well that I do not, madam.”
At this point in the story, I'm thinking, “Gee, neither do I. I wonder what I'd say to get out of a jam like that?”
Now, Daniel has this amazing ability to see almost every calamity as part of a bigger picture, a happy, great biggly happy picture. So he realizes, “Wow, this woman always has the most outrageous confidence in me.”
Now, I can imagine, a great healer turning to me (with all the powers of ancient, mythical wisdom) and saying to me, Greg M. toss a little Love Blessing on these children that will outlast any mortals company, or their individual hero's quest- and she, knowing that I've got nothing, and her saying it as confidently as if I were Merlin the Magician, or Jesus, Buddha, God, or even Rasputin – they've got warehouses of Love Blessings around, because their person: body, knowledge, and spirit is so overstocked.
I'd panic. Imitate a rock, and start to grow moss until someone said something. (I have quite a large moss collection).
Then again, she knows Daniel B walks ahead on the journey; he's past denial and is into looking for valuable 'ally' ore in everyone. An inspiration comes to him from out of the spirit world-- A Native American Prayer for Beauty. He's a storyteller from the days of storytellers- as old as the beginning of things-- call & response. In his mind he re-arranges the ingredients of the Beauty Prayer into a love blessing and mixes it with his way of including you into the story.
This part of the story requires the reader to act. Stand back to back--
(with someone. They don't have to be your lover, anyone in your life is an ally
along your hero's quest ) so close that you can feel the other person's body.
Take a deep breath, feeling how the body behind you feels.
Now repeat Daniel B's Prayer, “There is only love behind me.”
Step forward, turn around and face each other; look into each other's eyes and say, “There is only love in front of me.” Now, raise your arms from your sides as high as you can, feel the breeze pass by your arms and fingers. Say, “There is only love around me.” Lower your arms to your side. Now, play 'patty-cake' and say, “There is only love between us.”
Not a bad Love Blessing from an off-the-cuff charlatan.
Back in the kitchen, I responded with something moss-tacular like, “Wow! That's amazing!” Back in the kitchen, we spoke like people do; casting inquiries like bread crumbs, hoping that a new insight or some humor might prolong the magic.
“What would you have done?” In my mind, I know, I would have frozen as sure as if someone had pointed a gun at me and shouted. “Freeze!”. But I'm not imitating a stone. “ I guess I would have put on my best Bill Murray deadpan face and said, “ Face each other and look into each other's eyes, extend your hand out- like movie ushers do, as if you were about to offer up two “Groundhog” movie tickets, and say, “Here's two front row tickets to Wrestle-Mania.”.
Back in the kitchen, I had to explain that joke, the references, the subplot.... on and on....
Daniel B.'s laughing more about how distant my sense of humor lies than the joke itself. Well, let me tell you: in the baseball field of life, my sense of humor is the infield playing 'in' for a play at the plate. My compliments play a little deeper.
Like I hope I said, I use humor when I'm in a jam.
So this story will have to do.
Daniel B. sees me, and (as is his charitable way) he alters the storyline in such a way as to include me.
Seems last night he was at a party. He was talking to a lovely healer (who lives and works here locally). A previous student, or apprentice, or what have you-- any frame of reference in this physical plane ('in' and not 'on' a physical plane, that would imply that most human beings are actually living three dimensionally, “Au contraire, mon ami!”.) Whatever, she was a born ally along this healer's hero quest. --- Secretly, deep inside the truth of all our truths, we are all on a mythical journey- the hero's quest. Every life, every individual living in each and every house across America, in every abode of every kind of mankind- is a hero somewhere along that journey. For most, we are on the long, wicked stretch of road of denial of power not suitable for any life long company- that comes and goes all in due course.
So, this ally comes rushing up to the lovely healer (a bit tipsy, by the way, at this particular celebration) and says to Daniel B, “I'm so glad to find you both here, right here! Because the server is my boyfriend, and I want you both to meet him.”
Introductions are passed around, the kind where you closely examine the person, like you do when your palm is up, flat out and you are shaking your loose coins around, hunting, seeking out one in particular.
The healer turns to Daniel B. and says, “Oh, Daniel has got a great Love Blessing for the two of you”. And Daniel's thinking, “Oh come on. You know good and well that I do not, madam.”
At this point in the story, I'm thinking, “Gee, neither do I. I wonder what I'd say to get out of a jam like that?”
Now, Daniel has this amazing ability to see almost every calamity as part of a bigger picture, a happy, great biggly happy picture. So he realizes, “Wow, this woman always has the most outrageous confidence in me.”
Now, I can imagine, a great healer turning to me (with all the powers of ancient, mythical wisdom) and saying to me, Greg M. toss a little Love Blessing on these children that will outlast any mortals company, or their individual hero's quest- and she, knowing that I've got nothing, and her saying it as confidently as if I were Merlin the Magician, or Jesus, Buddha, God, or even Rasputin – they've got warehouses of Love Blessings around, because their person: body, knowledge, and spirit is so overstocked.
I'd panic. Imitate a rock, and start to grow moss until someone said something. (I have quite a large moss collection).
Then again, she knows Daniel B walks ahead on the journey; he's past denial and is into looking for valuable 'ally' ore in everyone. An inspiration comes to him from out of the spirit world-- A Native American Prayer for Beauty. He's a storyteller from the days of storytellers- as old as the beginning of things-- call & response. In his mind he re-arranges the ingredients of the Beauty Prayer into a love blessing and mixes it with his way of including you into the story.
This part of the story requires the reader to act. Stand back to back--
(with someone. They don't have to be your lover, anyone in your life is an ally
along your hero's quest ) so close that you can feel the other person's body.
Take a deep breath, feeling how the body behind you feels.
Now repeat Daniel B's Prayer, “There is only love behind me.”
Step forward, turn around and face each other; look into each other's eyes and say, “There is only love in front of me.” Now, raise your arms from your sides as high as you can, feel the breeze pass by your arms and fingers. Say, “There is only love around me.” Lower your arms to your side. Now, play 'patty-cake' and say, “There is only love between us.”
Not a bad Love Blessing from an off-the-cuff charlatan.
Back in the kitchen, I responded with something moss-tacular like, “Wow! That's amazing!” Back in the kitchen, we spoke like people do; casting inquiries like bread crumbs, hoping that a new insight or some humor might prolong the magic.
“What would you have done?” In my mind, I know, I would have frozen as sure as if someone had pointed a gun at me and shouted. “Freeze!”. But I'm not imitating a stone. “ I guess I would have put on my best Bill Murray deadpan face and said, “ Face each other and look into each other's eyes, extend your hand out- like movie ushers do, as if you were about to offer up two “Groundhog” movie tickets, and say, “Here's two front row tickets to Wrestle-Mania.”.
Back in the kitchen, I had to explain that joke, the references, the subplot.... on and on....
Daniel B.'s laughing more about how distant my sense of humor lies than the joke itself. Well, let me tell you: in the baseball field of life, my sense of humor is the infield playing 'in' for a play at the plate. My compliments play a little deeper.
Like I hope I said, I use humor when I'm in a jam.
So this story will have to do.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Oh Brother
My Dad worked in a horse barn where wild cats thrive and dart away like youthful dreams. A little long haired Calico caught his heart as the poor thing was stomped upon day after week by horses as unaware of it as dreams of dreamers.
I was too young to question how he caught a wild cat in that barn and brought it home without a cat box in our ‘53 Chevy that had no floor board over the transmission. I was too young then, and I’m nearly too old, to recall my childhood memories of how gently he treated animals. Back in the late fifties he broke horse to ride, without any bronco billy gruff episodes. He whispered to ponies before the language was notated in pulp fiction or films with Robert Redford was planed out for him before he was born. While every farmer who grew sheep snipped off a lamb’s tail with sheers, dad taught me how to do it with a rubber band. Now, I know, it must have taken him months to tame that cat, and how many more months before he knew that cat was tame enough to bring home to his youngest son.
Whatever cost my Dad paid, he did as secretly as stitches healed the kicks to his head from the horses that he fed and cleaned every day.
Jeff, my little brother, must have been around two the summer Dad brought “Puffy” home. Jeff wore nothing but cloth diapers and a shock of hair as white as new teeth.
We had had cats before. Each had defined ‘bolted’ before this wild child, Jeff. The gentle sound of Jeff’s baby soft bare feet on linoleum would jolt them awake from slumber as if the Sun itself had shouted, “Bolt! Bolt for the sake of your nine lives! Run!”
This cat : the ‘Home of lazy toes’, eyes as green and calm as the true color of gold, would not ruffle. Jeff would swoop Puffy up and toss him over his shoulder or lug the poor thing upside down- back to bare belly.
Everyone within sight would suck in their last breath and rush to Jeff as if he were about to leap down an open well. Thoughts of what we should have done came trailing later: “I’ll grab the water bucket to separate them”, “I’ll get the iodine”, “I’ll run to the neighbors and call an ambulance”.
`But...’
Puffy never struggled. Never put up a fight. And when Jeff slammed her down to floor, or yard, and fell upon hell’s fury, like a lightening bolt, Puffy merely mewed and shook her tail. Jeff would squeeze and punch that kitten like a hand-me-down pillow.
My Dad, coming home from the horse barns, bedraggled himself, took pity upon the kitten and noted, My God, the poor thing was better off being stomped by the horses. One night, he gathered up the little spot of hairy color and placed it in the worn out Chevy and returned it to place of its birth.
Next morning, Jeff awoke calling out for Puffy. He looked everywhere. He called until his breath betrayed him. He could not eat for calling and searching. Not even mom could keep him down for his nap. When Dad come home, he worn out from toil- there was no peace. His ‘look alike’ two year old wobbled on feeble legs, his eyes bloodshot eyes, and his voice hoarsely cried, “Puffy, Puffy”. Mom was beseeching heaven, “God, I’m going to kill him.” Dad rose up from the dinner table forsaking a full plate of garden grown vegetables. He stomped out, leaving the door open, fired up the ‘53 Chevy and was gone.
We were all sitting outside the door watching Jeff search every bush, every wild flower for Puffy when Dad came back. The car door opened and Puffy ran out like a shot of fur. Jeff called again. The cat stopped in its tracks. Jeff dove upon it. Mom picked the both of the up and we all went back in to the table. Jeff and Puffy, in the high chair, one hand on a fork and the other entwined in calico.
I was too young to question how he caught a wild cat in that barn and brought it home without a cat box in our ‘53 Chevy that had no floor board over the transmission. I was too young then, and I’m nearly too old, to recall my childhood memories of how gently he treated animals. Back in the late fifties he broke horse to ride, without any bronco billy gruff episodes. He whispered to ponies before the language was notated in pulp fiction or films with Robert Redford was planed out for him before he was born. While every farmer who grew sheep snipped off a lamb’s tail with sheers, dad taught me how to do it with a rubber band. Now, I know, it must have taken him months to tame that cat, and how many more months before he knew that cat was tame enough to bring home to his youngest son.
Whatever cost my Dad paid, he did as secretly as stitches healed the kicks to his head from the horses that he fed and cleaned every day.
Jeff, my little brother, must have been around two the summer Dad brought “Puffy” home. Jeff wore nothing but cloth diapers and a shock of hair as white as new teeth.
We had had cats before. Each had defined ‘bolted’ before this wild child, Jeff. The gentle sound of Jeff’s baby soft bare feet on linoleum would jolt them awake from slumber as if the Sun itself had shouted, “Bolt! Bolt for the sake of your nine lives! Run!”
This cat : the ‘Home of lazy toes’, eyes as green and calm as the true color of gold, would not ruffle. Jeff would swoop Puffy up and toss him over his shoulder or lug the poor thing upside down- back to bare belly.
Everyone within sight would suck in their last breath and rush to Jeff as if he were about to leap down an open well. Thoughts of what we should have done came trailing later: “I’ll grab the water bucket to separate them”, “I’ll get the iodine”, “I’ll run to the neighbors and call an ambulance”.
`But...’
Puffy never struggled. Never put up a fight. And when Jeff slammed her down to floor, or yard, and fell upon hell’s fury, like a lightening bolt, Puffy merely mewed and shook her tail. Jeff would squeeze and punch that kitten like a hand-me-down pillow.
My Dad, coming home from the horse barns, bedraggled himself, took pity upon the kitten and noted, My God, the poor thing was better off being stomped by the horses. One night, he gathered up the little spot of hairy color and placed it in the worn out Chevy and returned it to place of its birth.
Next morning, Jeff awoke calling out for Puffy. He looked everywhere. He called until his breath betrayed him. He could not eat for calling and searching. Not even mom could keep him down for his nap. When Dad come home, he worn out from toil- there was no peace. His ‘look alike’ two year old wobbled on feeble legs, his eyes bloodshot eyes, and his voice hoarsely cried, “Puffy, Puffy”. Mom was beseeching heaven, “God, I’m going to kill him.” Dad rose up from the dinner table forsaking a full plate of garden grown vegetables. He stomped out, leaving the door open, fired up the ‘53 Chevy and was gone.
We were all sitting outside the door watching Jeff search every bush, every wild flower for Puffy when Dad came back. The car door opened and Puffy ran out like a shot of fur. Jeff called again. The cat stopped in its tracks. Jeff dove upon it. Mom picked the both of the up and we all went back in to the table. Jeff and Puffy, in the high chair, one hand on a fork and the other entwined in calico.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Jeff
He lived in a small house trailer on the outskirts of a small town, where secrets are as rare as compliments, and rumors as rampant as boredom.
He had nurtured a secret all summer. Groomed it, drooled over it, and tonight by the light of a harvest moon he was going to reap the rewards of - 16 prize pot plants.
His shiny car rolled down the drive like an "M&M". And the Feds were on him like ants before he came to a stop. FBI agents came out of the weeds of last year's garden; they came over the roof of his trailer; drug dogs broke through his screen doors to rush him; a helicopter landed in the north pasture. Guns clicked, men grunted, dogs barked.
He froze.
They yanked him out of the car by his collar. Roughly frisked him. Yelling in Policeese so quickly that it sounded like a Cold War language. Finding nothing, they grabbed him by the hair and began their multi-media presentation.
"We got the goods on you, boy." reeled one.
"Don't deny it." jumped in a short jerk.
They twisted his head toward some 8x10 color aerial photos of the plants.
"Your busted big time." They swung him around, pressing his arthritic back into his car door. They shoved his nose into a box of plaster of paris.
"Recognize that!?" one spat into his ear.
Astonishment hollowed out his senses.
They kicked the side of his knee. The trees amplified a popping sound and he fell.
"That's a mold of your fucking footprint, you dumb ass. They're all around those pretty plants of yours." The agent's own knee buckled like knees sometimes do after orgasm. Suddenly, a dog lurched at him nipping near his crotch. The trainer held up a baggy containing a pair of scissors, "Easy, here, found your pruning shears in your bowling bag. "
The night sky suddenly carried sirens. They wailed toward him. Kaleidoscope gravel gave way to sliding tires. He twisted his head into the pain to get a look at the new arrivals. "Great! County and City cops. Now, it'll get personal. Crude humor by the barrel full", he thought.
A rank of Fed boys interceded the county cops. Stopping them cold. The local boys got back in their cars, got on their radios, and pulled away. Away to roadblocks that only locals could imagine were necessary to separate this heinous criminal from their serene city.
Feds cuffed him. shackled him. They forced him down the path past his house trailer, past the trailer and into the timber where his precious pot bore bounty. He wasn't allowed to retrace his own steps to his love. They shoved him awkwardly into the hickory root. Over the summer he had shared particular childhood memories with that hickory root. He stumbled and fell in the waterway. The waterway which he'd come to know through a cycle of seasons like generations of a family. They yanked him to his feet , smearing mud on him, as if they were sponging vinegar into his wounds.
He had never entered this ground without a prayer, an observance of Christmas Carols: the hopes and fears of all the years are met in you tonight. A fed cracked his calves from behind with a night stick. Another hit his back, and he was down. Night dirt swelled in his lungs and distorted his sights. They tore his plants out before his eyes. His plants! His breath tore from his soul with each extraction.
They prodded him back to the trailer. His silence encouraged the agents into a mob of mockery. But he was gone. He didn't hear them. If he had heard them he might have laughed. Did they think they could touch him with mockery? Hell, compared to his family these guys were saps.
No one mentioned an arrest, his rights; they merely took him. Took him to some hospital, some shrink, some tests, some questions, somewhere.
“You're the worst case we've seen.... Dope heads generally have low self-esteem....” That phrase caught his attention. He laughed. He laughed as people do who have lived in Hell and some how escaped. A laugh so dark they backed away.
Until the interrogation. “Users?? Buyers?? Sellers?? Informants???”
They were mere gnats to him, but time grated on. He watched his pale skin grating away, piling up on the floor. It became a huge pile until his breath stirred it about the interrogator's gaze. Suddenly he felt free. His skin gone, adrift. He heard an angelic voice, "Use them. Use them to escape."
He felt giddy." Okay. ... Okay.... I'll tell. But let's trade. I'll give you a name in exchange for place on the Southeast coast.
"No prison time" is all we can offer.
"South East Coastline".
"No prison time."
“He'll kill me.”
"Not in prison."
A trial date was set in the County Seat. He arrived on time with lawyer in tow. The Judge made his entrance. All rose except the DA- a no show. They waited. And waited.
"Clerk give Jennings a call and see what's holding him up."
"Jennings? He ain't the DA no more. He was appointed State's Rep when Kopple died."
"Christ, you're right. Well, who's the DA now?”
Eyes shifted from one set of shrugging shoulders to another. “No one?”
The trial was rescheduled until a new DA was appointed.
The pick-up load of Federal exhibits and evidence never came to bear. The case never went to trial. A first time offender, and a co-operative one at that. Not a known pusher, just a recreational recluse with a green thumb. Off with a fine, some community service, and probation.
He was a new man. Everyone noticed it. Friendlier to everyone, and he called his mother more. He was clean and happy about it. He talked about the Southeast coastline constantly. “Gotta get to where the NASCAR races are”, he'd say. “Love that sound thundering in my chest”. He never managed the money to go.
A local dealer had gone to prison for two years.
About a month after his release there was a fire. a small house trailer on the outskirts of town. The local boys drove out. Volunteer fire fighters shook their heads. Was anyone inside? A shiny car in the drive had melted like chocolate in a plastic bag. Inside they did find a body- of sorts: Some teeth remained, some DNA, some carbon monoxide remained in the blood, some smoke remained in the lungs, and a rifle barrel remained on his chest.
The FBI was never notified. The State Police came onto the scene, but were politely and repeatedly told to leave, "You've no jurisdiction here." The local boys collected the evidence, asked the local contacts who knows what.
The case remains open. Was it a crime of murder or suicide? It remains a puzzle that only the local boys can properly imagine or determine who set the fire, who pulled the trigger, on the outskirts of a small town where secrets are as rare as compliments and rumors as rampant as boredom.
From his grave, my brother still nourishes a secret.
He had nurtured a secret all summer. Groomed it, drooled over it, and tonight by the light of a harvest moon he was going to reap the rewards of - 16 prize pot plants.
His shiny car rolled down the drive like an "M&M". And the Feds were on him like ants before he came to a stop. FBI agents came out of the weeds of last year's garden; they came over the roof of his trailer; drug dogs broke through his screen doors to rush him; a helicopter landed in the north pasture. Guns clicked, men grunted, dogs barked.
He froze.
They yanked him out of the car by his collar. Roughly frisked him. Yelling in Policeese so quickly that it sounded like a Cold War language. Finding nothing, they grabbed him by the hair and began their multi-media presentation.
"We got the goods on you, boy." reeled one.
"Don't deny it." jumped in a short jerk.
They twisted his head toward some 8x10 color aerial photos of the plants.
"Your busted big time." They swung him around, pressing his arthritic back into his car door. They shoved his nose into a box of plaster of paris.
"Recognize that!?" one spat into his ear.
Astonishment hollowed out his senses.
They kicked the side of his knee. The trees amplified a popping sound and he fell.
"That's a mold of your fucking footprint, you dumb ass. They're all around those pretty plants of yours." The agent's own knee buckled like knees sometimes do after orgasm. Suddenly, a dog lurched at him nipping near his crotch. The trainer held up a baggy containing a pair of scissors, "Easy, here, found your pruning shears in your bowling bag. "
The night sky suddenly carried sirens. They wailed toward him. Kaleidoscope gravel gave way to sliding tires. He twisted his head into the pain to get a look at the new arrivals. "Great! County and City cops. Now, it'll get personal. Crude humor by the barrel full", he thought.
A rank of Fed boys interceded the county cops. Stopping them cold. The local boys got back in their cars, got on their radios, and pulled away. Away to roadblocks that only locals could imagine were necessary to separate this heinous criminal from their serene city.
Feds cuffed him. shackled him. They forced him down the path past his house trailer, past the trailer and into the timber where his precious pot bore bounty. He wasn't allowed to retrace his own steps to his love. They shoved him awkwardly into the hickory root. Over the summer he had shared particular childhood memories with that hickory root. He stumbled and fell in the waterway. The waterway which he'd come to know through a cycle of seasons like generations of a family. They yanked him to his feet , smearing mud on him, as if they were sponging vinegar into his wounds.
He had never entered this ground without a prayer, an observance of Christmas Carols: the hopes and fears of all the years are met in you tonight. A fed cracked his calves from behind with a night stick. Another hit his back, and he was down. Night dirt swelled in his lungs and distorted his sights. They tore his plants out before his eyes. His plants! His breath tore from his soul with each extraction.
They prodded him back to the trailer. His silence encouraged the agents into a mob of mockery. But he was gone. He didn't hear them. If he had heard them he might have laughed. Did they think they could touch him with mockery? Hell, compared to his family these guys were saps.
No one mentioned an arrest, his rights; they merely took him. Took him to some hospital, some shrink, some tests, some questions, somewhere.
“You're the worst case we've seen.... Dope heads generally have low self-esteem....” That phrase caught his attention. He laughed. He laughed as people do who have lived in Hell and some how escaped. A laugh so dark they backed away.
Until the interrogation. “Users?? Buyers?? Sellers?? Informants???”
They were mere gnats to him, but time grated on. He watched his pale skin grating away, piling up on the floor. It became a huge pile until his breath stirred it about the interrogator's gaze. Suddenly he felt free. His skin gone, adrift. He heard an angelic voice, "Use them. Use them to escape."
He felt giddy." Okay. ... Okay.... I'll tell. But let's trade. I'll give you a name in exchange for place on the Southeast coast.
"No prison time" is all we can offer.
"South East Coastline".
"No prison time."
“He'll kill me.”
"Not in prison."
A trial date was set in the County Seat. He arrived on time with lawyer in tow. The Judge made his entrance. All rose except the DA- a no show. They waited. And waited.
"Clerk give Jennings a call and see what's holding him up."
"Jennings? He ain't the DA no more. He was appointed State's Rep when Kopple died."
"Christ, you're right. Well, who's the DA now?”
Eyes shifted from one set of shrugging shoulders to another. “No one?”
The trial was rescheduled until a new DA was appointed.
The pick-up load of Federal exhibits and evidence never came to bear. The case never went to trial. A first time offender, and a co-operative one at that. Not a known pusher, just a recreational recluse with a green thumb. Off with a fine, some community service, and probation.
He was a new man. Everyone noticed it. Friendlier to everyone, and he called his mother more. He was clean and happy about it. He talked about the Southeast coastline constantly. “Gotta get to where the NASCAR races are”, he'd say. “Love that sound thundering in my chest”. He never managed the money to go.
A local dealer had gone to prison for two years.
About a month after his release there was a fire. a small house trailer on the outskirts of town. The local boys drove out. Volunteer fire fighters shook their heads. Was anyone inside? A shiny car in the drive had melted like chocolate in a plastic bag. Inside they did find a body- of sorts: Some teeth remained, some DNA, some carbon monoxide remained in the blood, some smoke remained in the lungs, and a rifle barrel remained on his chest.
The FBI was never notified. The State Police came onto the scene, but were politely and repeatedly told to leave, "You've no jurisdiction here." The local boys collected the evidence, asked the local contacts who knows what.
The case remains open. Was it a crime of murder or suicide? It remains a puzzle that only the local boys can properly imagine or determine who set the fire, who pulled the trigger, on the outskirts of a small town where secrets are as rare as compliments and rumors as rampant as boredom.
From his grave, my brother still nourishes a secret.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Some Sunshine
I awoke hanging in a tree; my tattered parachute hung limply in a nearby tree. It was the leaves that woke me. My skin quickly informed me there was not a trace of wind in the morning air. Yet, it was the leaves clangor that had apparently woken the dead. I looked at a bunch of them, like you do when you're looking past something, but you keep a mind's eye out for them. They were trembling, no dancing in the glorious light of the sun. That was what it was. The leaves were belting out a rocking gospel hymn to the light of the sun. I found myself suspended in a vibrating bowl of praises to the light.
I saw the leaves sucking in the light and singing like the ocean who sends in waves to meet the shore while it made life. I saw light bouncing back from the leaves of this old Delaware 'English Chestnut' surviver dance to some ancient African drum song. I felt my own exposed skin sing, joyfully, “You came back for me! You came back for me!”
And I knew that it always would. I looked back to my parachute and saw it's mathematical energy transfer co-efficients altering it's integrity. I took out my knife; cut myself free, and free fell the short distance to the ground.
My fall broke the soil. The scent of fresh, healthy, happy earth took my breath away, momentarily. When I could breath again, I reached into the rare dirt with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of it and brought them to my nose, where I breathed in deeply. “Alive, Alive,” screamed everything that the sun touched. I took that knife and cut off my clothes. I let it fall along with pile of protection. With every cell of my skin, I danced along to the leaves' African drum song, and I rolled with the magic incarnations of photosynthesis. Every shadow on my skin was a nude awakening, every bright spot a spontaneous eruption of joy.
But my bare feet are tender. And soon their discomfort broke my light induced trance and I got to thinking about the real world. I might be suffering from slight hypothermia, and or shock. But worse than that, far worse by far, there are over a dozen people,frantically fearing for me long, before I woke up. I reached down, gathered up my clothes and knife. After my shoes were laced, I checked the sun's angle and position in the sky, checked the tree for moss, composed a loose map of the area from memory and educated calculations on wind speed and direction during my fall and headed out.
I put my hat on to guard against the sun.
You Can't Bring Baack the Taste of Walnuts by Eating Peaches
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Back in town. I take the 7th St. Exit, and drive to her house. Popping in to see Grandma. Then I realize, those days are gone. And I wonder if the new owners find her house too small. The one that opened the world of homemade boysenberry jam, rose bushes with white paint poured on the soil to help them grow, hinges fixed with half a pound of nails, and a kitchen that fed half of San Jose's illegal alien community.
Strangers still pray to her; they claim she answers their prayers. She promised that she would help me. Like always. She said she would help from heaven. But I don't feel her. When I'm scared, or angry, or lost, or lonely, I don't hear her.
"And HE walks with me and HE talks
with me and HE tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known."
I discover myself singing it whenever I water plants. SHE included that song in her funeral for her Presbyterian friends.
After the funeral, to the day, I started taking care of her house. It brought me comfort. That was long ago. Long ago.
Without thinking, whenever I can't think, I water my yard. I find myself singing, "Just a Closer Walk". Memories take me down paths I know. Soothed, I soar.
Karma Dharma,
same old same old.
Man buys New York for a Story. Yesterday, a man walked into Albany with a tale to tell. He waved his arms frantically, danced about like a grouse and before anyone in the Capitol knew what hit them ,they discovered that the entire state of New York was sold to an unidentified charlatan for a yarn. Asked to comment on the fiasco, officials could only replied, "I can't remember."
The TV's o,n and I'm laying on the couch; I've got a plastic bag for my head. I picked a black one; I don't want to see the tv and the view out my window all filmy and disfigured. I want to be alone with my mortality as my breath heats up the hell fires awaiting me. Trying to drum up some drama I look inside the bag, I take a gander about the room for one last time. Then outside. There are doves on the power line, facing this way and that. They move with synchronicity. One forward, the other sways back. Bobbing: constantly in opposition. I laugh. They were amazing to watch, so unaware of the other, yet balancing with it perfectly. Unaware, I rise, and watch the doves.
Are leaves a tree's family snapshots?
In a time of
crisis: I see her hands
flattening a table cloth.
What more could God do?
Dust to dust, snapshot to snapshot, worry to woe, “Tinkers to Evers to Chance, a hundred years from now the world will ask, how did a charlatan buy New York in Albany? The Grouse will dance and tell a different story:
Once upon a time, a giant red balloon traveled to earth from the far reaches of our universe. Scientist studied every aspect of the phenomena. The red balloon was something alrighty. It was on a collision coarse with Earth. The exact landing sight was a typical tract house in Aurora, CO.
The giant red balloon defied reason. Scientists were perplexed: How is it that a latex balloon didn't explode in a vacuum? Where did it come from? Does this mean that the superior intelligent life in deep space is in fact, a supreme circus clown? Will the balloon explode when it descends into our atmosphere? Will its impact destroy the earth? Or is God merely sending "HIS PEOPLE" a birthday present?
Theories were as wide spread as a cold in December. “DOOMSDAY!”, cried the media preachers, “send your money to save your soul.”
“A long lost weather balloon”, decreed some officialarians.
“V-ger” proclaimed the Trekkies.
“It’ss a sign to be happy”, shrugged the simple.
“It is the Age of Cancer”, proclaimed some Astrologist.
“The Age of Safe Sex”, proliferated non-Catholics.
And there were several yahoos who shouted with glee that their alien babies were coming home.
A tramp, an ocean away from the tract house in Aurora, CO. caught a freight for Denver. The residents, he knew. So, he knew. Chugging across the backyards of America, he remembered stories of her building a street with a shovel; of a life touching other lives. Like a railroad ,her word, her deeds, on track, a lifeline for so many. In Aurora was a lost soul; an ear that heard, but could not hear, a blue eye that saw, but could not see her life of grace and wonder. The rails rushed under his disheveled head. A whirlwind stoked his chill.
The giant red balloon, gave an orbit.
The theorist of all claims agreed, with themselves.
The tramp arrived, walking up the high plain grasslands of Aurora. The balloon began its descent. The giant red latex balloon popped. People in daylight said they saw the dust of mankind as God was moved to breath life into it. People in darkness lost a breath as they saw stars move like the hips of a goddess dancing
The tramp found the woman trembling under the expectations of her childhood. He put his arm around her and in a voice as soft as boysenberry jam said, “It's okay, It's okay.. Grandma’s house has finally figured out a way for us to notice her.”
Everyone, everywhere realized that their missed ones had always been there in a dove on a wire, a smile in a crowd, a song on the radio, an unexpected call.
And the Grouse went on dancing, unnoticed.
Bottlecaps on His Hat
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Everyone wants to know why?
The paper’s full of mysterious headlines; full because so many people have minds of their own. They have different tastes, different interests, different troubles. Yet everyone who met Joel wanted to know why he attached bottle caps to his hat. As if they knew, some 'unimaginable idea by the sane' would be born apparent to them. Then they could categorize Joel’s dementia.. Then he could be pitied. But as it stands - while the sun goes down in the West and tickles the East- the man is a champion of originality, and surly, surly as God has been prayed to, surly the champion of originality should amount to more.
I was expecting a floating sensation as if I had become a soap bubble blown by the breath of God.. I was expecting to hear music when I saw the color of it, I was expecting to grasp the simplicity of it’s notion in a heart beat.
Didn’t all of mankind hope that a champion of originality would ridicule racism? Forge compassion into a blush that anyone with a mirror could apply? Wouldn’t greed be a childhood disease like chicken pox or the measles? And wouldn’t you think self-pity would be as ludicrous as it should be.
Then, there’s Joel’s hat.
Bottle caps fixated without rhyme or guessed reason.
At least no one was hurt. Which is why Joel’s story wasn't newsworthy, will never be noted or accounted for, except that his name stood rightfully beside anyone else in the obituary column. Imagine the work and life of a good neighbor not making a 25 cent review over stale coffee on a morning where the humidity is already as high as a pulse rate.. Until the poor soul had been taken from the routine of the living. “ From the routine of the living” , the preacher repeated like a Greek Chorus, “From the routine of the living.....”
The Radish
Leaving the office he found a radish in his car seat. Washed clean. Placed as if it hadn’t been placed.
“What?” “How?” No one else had a key. Anything else in here? A Golden Retriever claiming to be God, maybe? Some elf offering him heartburn? Why not? But no. Nothing.
He untied the old lace garter belt of his son’s wedding from the rear view mirror. He made a makeshift dryer and re-hung the garter with the radish hanging perfectly, the first time; he noted.
The night he found the radish he began dreaming. He was always back in his early childhood. He’d lift a door lying in his backyard and walk down the steps coming out in other towns where a circus was playing with accountant ants on trampolines, cheerleaders on the high wire and national politicians dressed as clowns.
The following day there was a carrot in his front seat. He hung that too.
Then a sugar beet.
Nice colors, he thought, as he took down the garter belt dryer, which was way to small for the burden of its bounty.
Then a mere orange blossom. How long ago had he been married? Nearly two decades. This he placed in his lap as he drove home and put that in the freezer.
That night he dreamed the backyard door wouldn’t open. When he tried his hands turned into door knobs, as did his feet and heart.
The next day there was nothing in his front seat after work. He had a long miserable dream where he was on stage playing, “Waiting for Godot.” Of course he didn’t know his lines, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The play drug on and on.
That morning there was a wild violet in his car seat. Dew was still clinging to it. He looked around, but saw no one. He looked around again and saw that the dew was everywhere.
He walked away from his car. He picked more violets. Went inside and put them in water. He called his boss and took a personal day off from work. Then he rummaged around and found his old address book and sat down to make some calls.
Outside, his daughter-in-law drove away.
A Team in Training Address
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In February of 2008, I joined Team in Training. It was their twenty year anniversary of raising money to fight Leukemia & Lymphoma. The idea is: professionally train 'all comers' to complete an endurance event (marathons, either running or walking, triathlons, etc) in exchange for raising money for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. I was struck by the commitment, and heart of the staff, both paid and volunteer, and my peers who not only transformed their health and abilities, but raised thousands of dollars for the cause.
It was a fluke that I happened to join during their 20th anniversary, and that I grew up about 8 miles from where Abraham Lincoln lived while he taught himself the law, New Salem, IL. In the fifth grade we all had to memorize, The Gettysburg Address. I put the two together and rewrote one of the greatest speeches in American history, to honor my peers (past and future).
I believe that with This Team in Training Address can be slightly altered to apply to almost any worthy cause, including the simple act of being humane on any given day.
One score and zero years ago, our founders brought forth upon this continent a new TEAM; conceived in donations and dedicated to the proposition that through research we can cure blood cancer.
Now, we are engaged in a great fiscal war testing whether that TEAM, or any Team, so conceived and so dedicated, can prevail. We have met on a field of great personal trial in that war. We have come to set aside a portion of our lives as a promising hope for those who are either losing: their lives, or livelihood- to this disease. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot appreciate the pain of the brave parents whose child has been diagnosed.; we cannot comprehend a child’s lose whose parent has died. Those who suffer with blood cancer have consecrated our own lives far beyond our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember our practice run times, but it can never forget Why we are here.
It remains for us, the Teams In Training, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished hope, which they who suffer of this disease have thus far, so nobly advanced. It is rather for us here to re-commit to our physical and fund raising tasks; that from these honored afflicted we take an increased devotion to their cure- for which they might give the last full measure of breath. That, we of this Team highly resolve that those who have died, shall not have died in vain, that this Team, under God, shall have a new birth of perseverance, and that this Team: of volunteers, for the afflicted, and by the grace of the human heart, shall not fail..
The Boy who let Spring out of The Barn
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Everyone knows that each winter is different from the year before. Rumors were flying that this Old Man Winter wasn't as old as any before him. This Old Man Winter could still kick up his heels and dance for days and nights on end. It so happened that Miss Spring of the same year was not only beautiful, but she was quite the flirt.
She wanted to get an eyeful of this Old Man Winter and if he met her tastes she wanted him to see her. Early in february there was a string of warm sunny days. It looked like the seasons loved each other alright. Miss Spring wanted to play games. She wondered if this Old Man Winter was the man everyone had claimed. Could he keep up with her? She was going to play hide-and-seek and catch-if-catch-can. She spun and twirled away. But she slipped and hit her head on a sheet of ice. The blow knocked her out cold. Old Man Winter scooped her up lovingly and placed her in his barn.
He told himself that if she awoke he'd let her go, but she was so beautiful and he was having so much fun playing weather he truly doubted if he could let her go. You needn't be born in a barn to imagine how could it would be in Old Man Winter's barn. Miss Spring's complexion wasn't looking rosy. Nope, it was summer sky blue with cold.
Winter carried on through February and past March without a letup. April was mid-over and still no signs that winter would let up this year at all, ever. Pleas went out across all the lands and all the icy oceans for some hero to rescue Miss Spring. No one Knew for sure where she was or what had happened, but they guessed the only thing that could delay her was Old Man Winter himself. Some brave soul must confront him, or contrive behind his back a way to bring Miss Spring back.
Many people gathered about grand feasts and spoke bravely about how they wold succeed against this Old Man winter. Most of those people secretly disappeared to their homes where in their warm, comfy, stuffed chairs by the fireplace they imagined grand excuses or grand tales of near victory. Naturally, some people who had no business going, venture off anyway and became sad, frozen sign posts of failure, Others, some brave some good adventurers left never to be seen again.
There was an orphan boy of no special traits. He showed no ambitions of any kind. He was content to stand around an listen to stories that the old, old, people told. He could be found listening to old fools on streets or old spinsters way out in the woods.
Secretly, he gave himself the name, Yarn. He'd make up songs that retold the stories that he had heard. He was careful not to be overheard.
This winter was most curious. None of Yarn's old friends had never heard of such a lengthy winter. Yarn wanted to hear the story first-hand. He walked out in his warmest clothes and blankets. He even borrowed some baby blankets to wrap his shoes in He slipped out of town unnoticed by any human eye or ear.
He had no idea where Old Man Winter lived, so he walked directly into the cold wind. Soon his face was stiff and it hurt like needles. He began singing to keep his face warm. He sang about the great winter birds, how sad for them to be so far away from their summer home this late in the year. Yarn noticed a soft sound overhead. He looked up and saw great numbers of winter birds flocking about him. Their warm feathered wings blocked the wind and warmed the air.
Soon his feet were cold. Yarn sang about the days he'd hear about when all stones were hot, fresh out of heaven's oven. As Yarn walked on his face bent down to the ground, out of the wind; he noticed that the ice was melting. The stones ahead had melted a path for him to walk.
Soon, his body was shivering with cold. Yarn sang songs of the poor surprised spring animals. How cold and confuced they must be in this winter land without green saplings to eat, and soft ground to nest. Suddenly, Yarn was aware of a great commotion, He looked about him, he was surrounded by all sorts of spring animals,: squirrels, rabbits, moles, muskrats, fox, baby deer, and cubs of bear and wolf. Proudly, they walked with him., so closely that he felt he wore their coats as his own.
the warm stone paths led this curious pack to an ice lack high atop the mountains of the world. Yarn looked about him and saw no place else to go. Slowly, he stepped out onto the ice, The animals, too stepped hoof and paw onto the ice. Silence, every ear intent on hearing a warning crack or creak for the ice. none came . Another step and then another. Slowly they edged onward; on a lake so huge they couldn't see the other side. With eyes ever watcful for cracks Yarn noticed fish frozen deep into the ice. He wondered about the water fowl. He sang a story for the fish and water fowl of the world.
Without a crack or creak the ice turned into water. Fish, ducks, and swans held the animals and Yarn above the water. They flew over the lake in quick fashion. Before him on a barren plain he saw an old barn without doors. From a great distance Yarn could make out the beauty of Miss Spring as she slept. Her cold skin as blue as a summer's sky.
Old Man Winter took notice of him and his troupe for the first time. He blew some arctic air pin them. They stood firm. Firmer really, their feet were frozen to the ground. Yarn had no plan. He didn't expect to get this far. He yelled out to Old Man Winter, "What is YOUR plan for Miss Spring?"
"Who wants to know?" hissed an icy gale.
"The whole of the earth and sky. The whole of the seasons. Summer would like a clue as what to do. As would Fall and your successor has a stake in this as well."
"Really?" grunted Old Man Winter and he sat down. "To tell the truth I have only one thought and that is to look at her. "
"I guess she's a looker as far as a frozen lump of coal goes, but it's a pity you shall never see..." Yarn word fell secret.
"Never see what?" asked the confused old man.
"How much more beautiful her works are than her face could ever be."
"Oh, you don't know what you're talking about. You and your zoo tire me."
"You mean, you don't know how beautiful her work is? Every animal, every bird, every tree, and weed knows. You are joking with me aren't' you?"
"Joking! Not I! It's you who jests. Weeds don't know anything. Or trees or birds or anything you speak of. Don't' irritate me, boy or I'll freeze your heart.
Yarn looked the situation over. There wasn't much to work with. He couldn't run across the field and grab Miss Spring and run away with her. Old Man winter would crush him before he reached midpoint.His teeth began to chatter. He started singing to keep from chattering. He sang softly about the beautiful works of nature. He sang to Miss Spring as if he had come to court her. Normally Old Man Winter would have been frigidly jealous, but he could not believe his eyes. The barren field suddenly looked strange. It had.. it had ... color. Yes, that's what it was., greens! And some round dots of bright yellow, some dainty tufts of blue too. HE noticed that the air was different. It smelled. After a few sniffs, big enough to suck up most ponds HE decided that it was a pleasant smell.
Yarn' song grew louder. The story more personal. Miss Spring awoke. Her face the color of imagination.
She stepped outside the barn and the hillside came alive. Yarn noticed that Old Man Winter blushed. When he blushed the color turned his old ice wrinkles into sunrise color cloud, Soon he was gone. Where his eyes had been now shone the rising sun.
Miss Spring looked about her. When she saw Yarn and his troupe of trustworthy companions she realized that they had saved her. "What is your name child?" ( the animals and birds she knew)\
"I call myself Yarn, because I love stores, so. "
"Because you saved Spring for the whole would I will make a new thread, soft as your hair, as warm as your heart, as strong as your will, as deep as your courage, and as colorful as Spring, This new thread will be called Yarn in your honor. In the winter months, when days and days of grey sadden peoples hearts; they will knit sweaters out of beautiful Spring colored yarns to give them warmth and faith that I will come. IN whatever is made out of yarn there is hope."
Yarn blushed, you could say the honor unraveled him.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
There's Only One First Step
I was in prison. Not with iron bars and constant walking guards. This place was like a tiny little village in Mexico or Central America, or maybe even South America. The walls were aged white stucco. We stayed in what would have been a large commons room. Along the walls of the this great open room they had built little cubicles with a chicken wire fence where iron bars would be. There was a little chicken wire gate that was never locked from the outside, but it had a little hook latch that we could lock for our own privacy. It was a tall room. High enough to have a walk way above the first tier of cells. That walk way lead to a second layer of cells. Each cell had a wooden roof of rough hewn slates. Over the widely space slats what a layer of sheet metal. Then open air, and floor or the ceiling of building above. The center of the room was a maze of walls, and loose straw couches. The maze was no problem to solve; it was simple on purpose, but it gave us dens of inequity.
I'd fallen in with a group of Americans, we were all Americans come to think of it, but we didn't labor on that fact. Each of us knew that we didn't belong there. Yet, we never mentioned our charges of crime, nor did we ever talk about our defense attorneys. We just knew we didn't belong there. We talked mostly about escape plans. And we talked about each other.
Who ever knows what someone else truly thinks about you? So nothing was said about me. There was a skinny little guy, a neurotic coward of guy. Everyone else wore classic Papyion white prison third rate cotton. He wore a red t-shirt, almost a night shirt on him, and he wore a beanie. What wanted to be ruler of his own country. And until the peasants of that country come to him and ask him to be their ruler, he's settle to rule over himself and the only red shirt, and the only hat in the place.
We had a guy from the 70's disco babe chasing machine guys. I was talker to the old man of the group one day and I said, I don't like disco jock over there. The old man looked up at me, as if from a book of Chekhov short stories. I like the guy, he said, because the author takes a sympathetic view of him.
And the old man was in our coup. He seemed content, even serene, as if he felt down deep inside that, this too shall pass. He was older than he let on. At least that's what we thought out of respect for his attitude in life and for his vanity.
There was also a beautiful black woman with us. She sang little rhythmic ditties all day, of two none words, like “mone – wa”. All I could think about was what a great lover she would be. Her face as rich as wedding cake icing. Her songs were so heart felt they flowed out of her like sunlight falls onto your skin. The glorious high notes that took you to a place where all was glory to the highest. And low notes that took you hand and then hugged in a way that all the fears that bring on the night never had a chance to exist. And then there was the rhythm of her song. It was as if everyone that was good would always go on and on, effortlessly, and you'd be one with her subtle changes. Changes so perfect that you'd know that this new change was nothing more than a different part of the same rhythm. Ah, to have here around.
One day, Lee Majors joins our group. Now, we were going to escape for sure; we had a real live Hollywood Hero on our side. Truth was: he'd escaped before, got caught, and was brought back here. We will escape soon boys, and when we do avoid the church. Avoid the church at all costs. Evil is there.
During our days, we might make some impracticable crafts. Instead of weaving baskets, we'd weave birds. Even a sow's ear. Or we might hang out outside. Either way, we never saw any guards. Although we knew they were watching the prison walls. Some people had been killed trying to escape.
Today, we were outside. There were several little buildings in this abandoned village. Some had walls around their yards. All the buildings had the same hot tin roofs. I saw the black woman sitting on a wall, singing. I headed that way. When I reached her, I saw that several members of my coup had climbed onto a little shack and were leaping for the top of the wall. They were barely missing the top. Come on man, you can do it. And then you could help the rest of us over. Looking over the feat, I thought I could manage it. But I knew I'd get shot once it became apparent that I could escape. I shook my head no. Then the old man jumped for it, missed and fell. He landed on a pipe and seriously hurt his back. The black woman stopped her singing and yelled for me to go help him. I scrambled over to him. He was unconscious. The black woman came to our aid. She and I decided that we had to get him to a hospital. The prison had no help to offer. Dead, or incapacitated prisoners were cheaper to deal with here. The group helped to fashion a gurney which the woman and I drug off toward the some mythical hospital on the outside. She was all songs after she alerted me. And as we drug him off together, I sang my own two syllable non-words.
Without a thought about the guards we drug him across the the prison yard. It wasn't until we were well beyond the walls that we realized we were free.
We were in a land of large, wind swept cypress trees, eucalyptuses trees, grass as tall as your waste and as wasted as youth. The air was so sweet that it picked us off our feet. We were flying. Flying to the hospital to heal our friend. The sweet air had brought him too. He was flying too and he wheezed that he was alright now. Not this time we thought, as we flew on with him in tow.
We stopped at the first noble building. We landed like ducks on a pond. And she and I drug him closer to the building. Looking at the huge building of white stone I stopped and said, Now, this is a “real church.” A “real church” white dove landed in my hair and then flew off to door. We followed.
There was an elderly white woman standing post outside the door. She held a thick book in her arms. The old woman didn't look at us. She asked us, what's wrong; is there anything I can do to help you?
We started bullshitting her; we didn't want her to know that we were escaped convicts. She stopped our stories cold by announcing that she was a healer, retired now, but she could heal us just the same if only we would be honest. Then she turned and looked into our hearts. She said the old man has been suffering from arthritis in his back for years. The black woman replied in earnest, oh no, he fell on his back just today. And that's why we brought him here.
The old man spoke through his pain and embarrassment, she's right. I never told anyone because I didn't want you guys to razz me.
Shocked and encouraged by her insight I asked if this place was some kind of underground railroad. Could they give us sanctuary until a safe passage was prepared for freedom?
The singer grabbed my arm and whispered a warning, Lee Majors warned us to never come here.
Maybe it was her touch that set off the idea, whatever, the old healer and I said the same thing at the time. He'd been here before, was set free, and returned on his own accord because he couldn't handle complete freedom.
I looked past the healer; the church door was open and I saw a day care inside. I heaved tears. And the healer looked at me and said, Yes, you can get out; if you are honest in your heart.
And then I saw this prison as a metaphor for my life. I'm always in places I don't want to be. The nodded to me. She whispered, take the first step; there's only one.
I shook my head no. I can't leave my friends behind. They are too scared to come here.
And then I woke up.
Fool, I cried. The only way to help them is from the other side.
It's impossible to explain the rightness of this dream. Because you had to have been there to know that the air can be so sweet to lift you off the ground. And a building can be more than you could possibly imagine God to be. And only in the land beyond can whispering an honest admission will gain you eternal freedom from yourself. And only in my dreams do I see that for a brief, unreal moment I have been to other side, and that maybe if the Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I can give you hand to see it to...
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