Stories

Her Home (Audio)

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Image result for boy small town image

A vignette – Young boy from a small Southern town.  Raised in a culture which hovers just around poverty, whatever that is. Necessity can breed genius and skills passed on from earlier generations still link him to the land.  Making do with what is available is the “redneck” way.  While he may never know the “sophistication” programmed into the larger culture, he carries in his blood a wisdom and frank view of the world that many will never fathom.  He laughs at “City” folks who would starve to death if they closed the grocery stores and cut off the water.  He wonders at their ignorance.  What follows is told in the language, inflection, and accent of that world.  A word of advice, if the world falls apart you better know some rednecks. 🙂

Yeah, I seen them pull up and stop outside her house. They seemed important, or like they wanted to be anyway, walking like they do, like they own the damn place. It was the cops and a guy in a dark suit, the man from the bank. I seen them knock on her door and wait. They talked to each other like they were making a plan or something. One of them had some papers and started shaking them at her when she finally did open the door. She just stood there, still like that big rock we played on in her backyard.  They were talking to her, but she wasn’t listening. She looked right past them, through them.  And I watched her.  She looked up and down the block then she seen me. She smiled at me and nodded as if she knew, like she was telling me goodbye or something. Then I seen her look up, past everybody to something in the sky. And I looked up too, to see what she was looking at, but all I seen was clouds. Then this dove landed on the telephone wire in front of her house. She grinned.  Her eyes lit up and her mouth moved like she was talking to somebody.  She raised her arms and took a step out the door on to the porch and then she fell down dead.  A couple of the cops got all excited and started talking on their radios and shit, and another started doing that CPR stuff on her. The banker man, he just watched like he was bored, like it was all just getting on his nerves. I saw him look at the cops then he looked at her.  Then that bastard stepped over her like she was a mat at the door. Guess he got what he wanted, but so did she. She’s finally home.

Pine Wood Floors – Mama Taylor

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I awakened to the sound of footsteps on the pine wood floors. The cold air on my face. I was warm there underneath the many layers of quilts she had tucked us into the night before. They were heavy and comforting, holding me safe in the warm bed. She always said goodnight with a kiss and a hug, her soft skin smelling of Noxzema. I still love how Noxzema smells, probably because of how much I loved her. The footsteps belonged to my grandfather. Each morning before daylight he would light the heaters. The scrape and strike of the sulfur kitchen matches, the smell of gas and the whoosh of the gas igniting. Soon the fragrance of the rich black coffee and cigarette smoke would drift in as I drifted back out. It was a cold wet Louisiana winter.

We had been outside working in the garden, weeding and planting and preparing. Well, my grandmother did most of the work. The kids were here and there, running, exploring, climbing our favorite trees. She had the best trees. A boy could lose himself in one of those. My favorite was an ancient Holly in her front yard. I would sit at the top of it for hours, suspended there between heaven and earth. The birds would light in the branches just feet away from me and if I was very still I could watch them, unseen. Cardinals, Finches, Blue Jays, Mockingbirds all came and taught me of the world. The smells of spring mingled in the clean fresh air swaying my perch back and forth. I was a king for a little while. She called us in to eat lunch, then set about arranging us on the knotty pine floor. Pallets she called them and we were expected to sleep. The heavy quilts from the winter now laid out for our nap. She turned on her little black and white T.V. and as it warmed up that same song and that picture of an hourglass told us that it was time for silence. She sat in her chair with my grandfather’s belt rolled up in her lap and was quick to use it on us if we stirred. Because her “Stories were on . . .”

One summer it rained fish. Small bass and bream and minnows were flopping in the grass. We asked her how they had gotten there. She explained how during violent storms over water small fish can sometimes be swept up in the currents of the wind and dropped again miles away. She knew everything. How to find worms for fishing. How to fish. How to clean and cook that fish. How to make things grow. How to make us grow. And she taught us when we would listen. One of my favorite memories of her was sitting on her screened porch nestled under her arm. Warm and close without a fear or worry in the world. There was a violent thunderstorm raging around that place of utter calm and contentment. The forked light streaking, splitting the sky. A clap and a rumble and a boom of thunder shaking the earth. The smell of clean ozone and the fresh summer rain. I still love the storms, and the smell of Noxzema, and growing things, and fishing, and understanding how things work. I think God must have a swing like that. Those moments there on the swing and a thousand others like them remain with me even now. She is the picture of grace to me.

One winter day I received a call saying that something was wrong at her house. Rushing there and running inside I saw her laying on that pine wood floor. Paramedics pushing on her chest, breathing air into her, forcing it into her lungs, her belly distended, color a pale gray. She did not move or speak or react in any way to their efforts. I really did not understand what was going on as the men quickly placed her on a stretcher and rushed her away under the lights and the screams and the roaring of the ambulance. I saw her a few days later, laying in her coffin. Her hair was done and she was wearing a pretty dress. There were flowers and many people around. There was that strange funeral home smell with way too much perfume on way too many women. I was not sure if it was right or not, and I did not ask. I reached out and touched her skin. So different than the warm softness that I knew. I kissed her forehead and cheek as I had often done. She was not there. She was still teaching me. She taught me grief and great loss. I cried, and I wailed. I had not learned to hide and bury my pain, yet. Then later that day there was food and many people at her house. I think my grandfather lost his way that day. He sat still amidst the bustle of eating and laughing and crying and the telling of memories of her and of our lives together. I was quiet too and watched and listened, not really knowing what to do. I felt very alone and I missed her so, disconnected and adrift, I had no words. But one night sometime after that I dreamed. I could smell the Noxzema, feel her warm soft skin touch me as she called my name. She told me “Boy I’m OK and so are you. Everything is alright.” She teaches me still.

The Song of Souls – The Romance (Excerpt from “The Pool”) – Audio

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Inside the Real the Romance is experienced.
The Lover, possesses such strength that his thought is only for his Beloved.
His confidence frees him to focus on her.
Her beauty drives him.
She is his alone and his only desire is to serve her, completely satisfying her every want.
She, confident in the heart of her lover is transparent to him.
No detail escapes his notice.
She has captured his attention.
She is desired.
He is consumed by her.
His complete devotion to her leaves him exposed and vulnerable.
She, confident in her lover is fixed on him.
She is free from the need to be on guard.
She opens herself completely and takes him inside herself to nurture and protect.
She knows that his strength depends on her response.

See him in the finest linen.
His hair and body is anointed with scented oils.
See her in a silken yellow gown.
Black pearls adorn her graceful neck.
An obsidian belt hugs her waist like a lover.
His gaze studies her to the last intimate detail.
She watches him and knows his longing.
His desire quickens her.
She wants to feel his touch.
She wants to guide him to secret unseen places.
He is intoxicated by her scent, her taste, the way she fits him.
She is fine and delicate in every detail.
He is strength and kindness and mirrors her beauty to herself.
She knows herself as herself and the glory of her shakes the foundations of the universe.

From this place she responds to him.
He now is everything.
She is response to his growing need.
And the growing ardor does not embarrass.
Rather it ennobles with grace in every movement and mannerism.
He tells her of the loveliness of her curve.
She exposes another and guides him to it.
His energy arouses a response of anxious longing in her.
She must be near him, to smell his hair, to touch his face, to experience his strength, to hold him closely as to pull him into her being.
She is now the only one.
She is exalted above all others.
She saw herself in his eyes and was lifted up.
She felt a goddess.
He a god.
The dance transforms them.
They are lifted out of the material, the baser elements.
Their true selves are glimpsed.
They are exquisite creatures of energy and light.
Their dance is sublime, eternal, the summit of intimacy.
Hunger satiated – now restful joy.

The Mirror (Audio)

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Momma

Once upon a time and far far away . . . . .

There was a maiden who had forgotten how beautiful she was.  Now at times she could remember, almost.  The images, the feelings, would dance just out of reach and it made her sad.

Sometimes she would forget that she had forgotten and the sadness would leave her for a while.

One day as she was walking in the wood she found a magic mirror.  She could cast her gaze there and see herself reflected back.  The mirror would speak to her using words that she had never known.  And the mirror would show her herself in fine details she had never noticed.

She began to glimpse line and curve and hue which hinted at the glory of the Being beneath the form.

She saw herself through the eyes of the mirror and was lifted up out of the ordinary into the realm of her true self, her true habitation.  And she came again, and again, and again.  How could she not?  There was happiness there.

But one day the girl noticed that the mirror had lost some of its shine.  And as she examined it more closely she noticed small fractures around it edges.  She had not realized that the mirror was so fragile.

Frightened, she wondered what to do.  What would it be like if the mirror faded or was broken.  How could she go on without it?  Could she find another mirror?  At least something shiny enough to occasionally catch a glimpse of the glorious being the mirror told her she was?

She was angry.  She felt tricked and foolish.  She felt weak and exposed in her need.  Why had she looked to start with?  That damned mirror had caused her to want to believe.  It was not her fault it was so feeble.  She tossed it aside and ran.  Angry, hot, desperate tears flowing as a primal wail escaped her throat.

She came to a pool, cool, clear, and still as death.  She thought to wash herself and drink to soothe the bitter dry ache in her throat.  But as she turned toward the pool she caught a glimpse of something in the pool’s reflection.  She was startled and horrified by what she saw there.  She recognized her own shape and face but also there was part of her she did not know.  Wraith-like a specter loomed green red and yellow.  Jealousy, hate, and fear, shone through her eyes and were reflected back to herself.  Greed and callous hunger called and beckoned her to come, to surrender.

She moaned.  She wailed.  Streams of bitter tears flooded.  Grief unknown, yet not altogether strange, saturated her being until the very last of the very last of her was undone.  Silence.  Stillness.  No sound.  No wind.  Only breathing.

She pondered the two visions she had seen of herself.  She remembered their very different power over her.  One was damnation.  The other was Life.  Having glimpsed both sides now she understood that the power of the mirror had always come from her.  And each time the mirror spoke some of its magic was diminished.

In the beginning she had responded with her full self.  The energy of her response gave back to the mirror so that neither were injured.

The mirror would  point out the unique and fine details of her and her heart would soar.  She knew her beauty was real.  She began to believe and trust that the mirror would tell her only the truth.  She had exulted in the glory of her.  Her heart had tentatively began to open and relax.  Her patterns were brighter, hopeful, she could even play a bit now.  Yet sometimes in her living she would need to remember again and would return to gaze there once more.

She was right about her trust in the mirror.  It would always reflect back to her and only the truth.  And after a while the mirror began to reflect details and forms and frightening dark things that she drew back from.

She began to withdraw her self and her energy from the mirror and it was weakened.  It began to fade and soon the small fissures could be seen growing around its edges.

There in the stillness she tried to put the pieces back together.  She was saddened but she was also angered by the demands placed upon her.  All she had wanted was to glimpse her beauty but the darkness kept peering at her around the edges.  And now in that holy place between despair and rage a great wave of grief sprang forth washing over her.  Grief for both all that she had lost, and all that she might have been.  She rode the waves as they washed her weary soul.  She remembered.  She remembered everything.  And as she remembered, compassion was birthed from her grieving heart.  Compassion for herself and compassion for all those who have trod this earth.  And in the doing she found and gave forgiveness and was freed.

After many days, and many beats of her heart she chose.  She picked up the mirror and begin to look there once more.  Only this time she did not giggle and flutter like a school girl when she recognized her singular and most exquisite self.  Moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat, she began to respond again to the mirror.  And when the darker places, buried, or hidden were revealed she did not swoon or run away.  She looked longest and deepest at those things now.  And as she did even those things began to take on a sublime radiance that took her breath away.

She began to talk back and reflect to the mirror what she saw and what she was learning. And after a time the mirror was whole again.  By this time she no longer needed the mirror to exist.   She was weaned from her dependence on the reflection.  But she would still come to sit and look and listen and be.

She had begun to know herself and the glory of her shook the very earth.

One day she was walking in the wood and happened upon a young maiden who had forgotten how beautiful she was . . . . .

Gollom – Part 6

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This one is a bit harsh. Please don’t read it if you are squeamish.  It is part of a story I’m working on about having conversations with the different parts of my soul. This story is metaphorically true about my journey.   Perversity is in all of us.  Projecting it outward leaves one defenseless against oneself.  The rest of the story to date can be found under “Stories”

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As my tears flowed, I clung to the last fading glimpse of Her. Trying to hold it in my mind because it was all I had. How stupid I must be, how blind could someone get? The bitter disappointment, the numbing grief had its familiar way with me. The lethargy, same old tired recriminations played like scratchy vinyl in my mind. I began to sink toward the earth.

“Excellent!” The Priest said.

“What?” I said, turning on him. I’ve lost Her again! How is that excellent?”

“What? Who? . . . O Her. Yes I can imagine how that would be disappointing, again. I believe I have a current tally of how many times that has occurred. Would you like me to find that for you? I believe it was approaching 10,000 or so last time I looked. If you think it will help . . .”

“No, never mind,” I said. “What were you talking about?”

“Ah, yes. As you know I have been at work on a map whose agenda is here in the Interior. I have collected data on our journey to date and have made some headway. I have been recording the particular traits of the landscape though which we have been traversing. I can delineate the many twists and turns we have made but they are all in relation to each other. There was no real orientation. But as you were in conversation with those two I was able to mark the boundary between the Inside and Out. Now we have the beginning of perspective, we can now triangulate any point on our map with another using the boundary as our starting point and know where we are. You may be interested to know that the art and/or science of “Cartography,” a term coined by the Greeks . . .”

“Thank you,” I interrupted. “Rebel, sing us a traveling song.”

With a strum of his instrument he began to compose, and we began to move. We turned our back on the Outside and headed toward the interior. There were no straight lines which could be traveled. Twists and turns but no dead ends. The terrain and foliage would change as the landscape moved under our feet. It was dusk when we found ourselves in a dry rocky place that led down into a barren valley cut like a gash between two indistinct grey and black looking hills. We traveled the valleys length, our pace slowing the in the fading light, the rocky purchase, and the oppressive dread that had descended upon us. We approached a jagged cleft in the rock face which glowed in the darkness. It also gave forth a foul stench. Upon examination we discovered that it was a doorway into a cavern with crooked steps leading down into the earth. We entered and made our way cautiously down the crooked winding stair.

At the bottom landing a sickly thick greenish grey odor rushed me. It struck me like a blow penetrating beneath the senses. Bile rose in me as I attempted to make some sense of the chaotic cacophony that raped me. Urine, dung, unwashed bodies, rotten used menstrual pads, moaning, all manner of profane images, lukewarm oily tastes on my tongue and skin.

I heard a voice, childlike but deep “Fuck, Fuck, cunt, piss, fuck, shit, touch it, taste it smell it, break it, see what’s in there.” Over and over in a weird sing song with no real pattern. I saw its face surprised a bit by the smooth round curves of a young boy. Then horror when I realized what he was doing. He held a kitten in one hand and was peeling the skin off the skull with his dirty long fingernails. With those same nails he ripped open the belly exposing the entrails which he would taste with the tip of his tongue. Looking closer I could see that the still living kitten had its legs replaced with those of a frog and a newborn human child. They were crudely attached with small nails hammered through with a stone. He squeezed the little skull in his chubby little hand and with the fingernail of his right pinky deftly removed an eyeball from its socket. The eyeball dangled, still attached by the nerves and tissue and swung in a neat little arc as he turned to face me.

“You like my pet. I named her sweety. I named her that because that’s how she tastes,” he said.

I felt the churning in my stomach and the vomit rise in me. Violent heaves left the hot putrid pool at my feet. My nose and throat burned and the smell of my own fresh hot puke momentarily drowned out but added to the stench of the place.

“Thanks for sharing,” he said. “You want to hold her?” He held out the pitiful mangled creature to me. It still lived and mewed it’s cry’s through its pain and terror. Its body trembled and an occasional spasm would convulse its little frame.

“I think kitty tongues are cute. They are so pink and thin and rough against your skin”. He pried open the little mouth with his thumb and pushed until the lower jaw broke. The kitten now numb from the pain, made no sound but it writhed and jerked involuntarily making the legs quiver until one of the small human legs came unpinned and fell off. He held the broken jaw back like a flap and rubbed the tiny tongue against the underside of his forearm.

“Stop!” I said.

“Why, you wanna do it,” he asked?

“No, you’re making me sick. Now stop!

“Really? Well this is new. But you being here at all is a miracle. You tried to deal with me out There didn’t you?  But I don’t live out there. I live here with everybody else. I am a part of you. Oh I know you don’t like me and I see you sitting there typing your stupid story trying to make me something I am not, something foreign to you that you can only see in other people. You think you can control me by putting me on paper? The Clown is right. You are not very bright sometimes. Remember where trying to be clever got you. You and those two are always talking about how it Ought to be, singing songs and writing papers. Well I am how it Ought-Not to be. And you need me. What would you do without me? How would you measure Ought except against Ought-Not?”

“Maybe so,” I offered, “but stop what you are doing with that animal.”

“OK,” he said. “All you had to do is say so. Doesn’t matter to me. I was just bored. Not much to do down here.”

“What do I do with you,” I asked?

“Whatever you want,” he said. “I can do lots of things if you make me. But my favorite is stuff like this.” He held up the kitten, shaking it at me.

“Bury that creature and clean this place up,” I ordered!

“OK,” he replied. “But if this is not what you want I would suggest you check up on me from time to time. I have certain proclivities that I tend to drift towards if left unattended.”

We turned and made our way back up the stairs and out of the valley, quiet now, shaken, and sober.