Levitation - a story for Christmas Eve

  

  

I recall sitting in front of the blank canvas, my oils mixed and ready but not my muse. The gods of inspiration were eluding me that night. It was Christmas Eve and I had been looking forward to a quiet night of reflection and creation but for some reason it was not to be. I was feeling not right so I set my brush down and knocked about the kitchen for a few minutes then wandered down to the Bowery where I enjoyed several pints with a roomful of strangers. A bum stumbled through the door and in a nod toward the season of giving I bought him a drink but of course one drink is never enough – he demanded more and as far as I was concerned I’d given quite enough so I abandoned the place but not before I’d heard him yell out so much for you ya stinkin’ bum! Despite the irony I didn’t laugh, I trembled. Outside in the cold I stumbled through dark alleys kicking over cans, scaring one innocent cat, having another scare the holy dickens out of me, and wound up at the foot of an old stone abbey.

From narrow side windows an orange-yellow glow emanated out and I yearned for the promise of its warmth. I scampered up the stone stairs and pulled open the heavy oaken door. Inside a candlelight service was in progress and so very quietly I slid into a back pew. The sanctuary was more empty than full and so was my heart. From the altar there came virtuous singing. I was slightly drunk and it made me cry. An old gentleman sitting across from me gained my attention. He sat alone, still bundled in his coat and scarf, his mostly bald head springing a few wild hairs presumably left by the unceremonious removal of his winter cap. The stubble upon his face revealed a man unmoved by the demand for public approval, his appearance quite frankly that of an unshaven unrepentant sinner, that or a man too old to safely guide the razor, too poor to acquire the proper blade. And yet he did seem cheerful and quite immersed into the proceedings. He possessed an odd look of both solemnity and joy. Excepting me he was the only other person who had entered the abbey alone. I took note. At service end he donned his cap and pulled himself out of the pew with great effort. Slowly he exited through the heavy oaken door and carefully descended the steps one by one with a hand on the side brass rail.

I found myself following him out.

Most of the spiritually-restored churchgoers went one way, toward the outer city with its glowing lights and the safety of their comfortable homes. He went the other direction, back into the tawdry ancient city with its countless varieties of expanding shadows and all of that which expanded within them. I followed at a respectful distance desiring not to be detected, wishing to eschew any contact, there only for my observation. My sole purpose was to bear witness. He treaded so lightly that I heard none of his footsteps on the cobblestoned street and yet my very own steps seemed to echo loudly despite my every effort to minimize such clatter. He appeared not to hear or possibly care. At every street corner turn he seemed to gain distance from me and disappear, then once again back within my vision he seemed to barely be moving at all. Soon enough there came one last turn, then two long brick walls on either side leading straight into another brick wall.

The proverbial dead end.

He was nowhere to be seen.

I looked for a door, a hidden passage, some kind of rattle bone ladder offering a way up and out.

I found nothing.

There was nowhere else to look but up.

I saw one star there glowing.  

There was nothing else.

****

 I returned to my studio and painted past dawn.

 I stored it in a hall closet but hung it from my heart.

--- from Christmas Stories, Volume 1, by Noble K Thomas

The Second Saturday in October

It’s not much of a river.

Nothing like that of the typical image one freely conjures in the fertile creative mind, nothing like those full and clear waterways you see gushing wildly way up north, heaven knows it’s nothing like the mighty Mississippi. It’s more of a tree-infested coming together of two slanted slimy banks, a muddy passage where meager waters trickle and stagnate and eventually twist their way on east, and if all the snowmelt from the Rockies fell only this way instead of also toward the west then the river might actually be capable of generating a little consistent flow. But as it appears now it serves primarily as a steadfast delineation, a solid boundary between one American state and another, and to pronounce which side is better depends solely on your lineage or your personal taste regarding just what exactly is cool.

Big-ass money or smart-ass money?

Don’t Mess With Texas or That Arrogant Slogan Implies That You Already Messed on Yourself?

Stevie Ray Vaughn or Michael Hedges?

Tex-Mex or smoky Okie barbecue?

Keep Austin Weird or Keep Norman Normal (truth is Austin aint that weird and Norman’s not that normal).

Devon Energy or Conoco-Phillips?

Wheat or cotton?

Old slow longhorns or young giddy ponies?

Native American or Hispanic?

Hook ‘em Horns or Boomer Sooner?

Matthew McConaughey or Ed Harris? (caution: the answer to this question may reveal a lot about you regardless of whether you are a man or a woman)

Pinto beans or mungbeans? (Ehh… feel free to pass on this one)

J.R. Ewing or Eddie Gaylord?

Okie from Muskogee or The Yellow Rose of Texas?

The Black Mesa or Texas Hill Country?

Thomas Lott or James Street?

Earl Campbell or Billy Sims? Texas fans like to tease about the Sooner’s penchant to cherry pick Native Texans, and both Earl and Billy hail from Texas and won Heisman Trophies, yet the last two Sooner Heisman winners were born and raised within fifty miles of the Norman campus while the last Longhorn winner was some fruit out of California.

October is the one month out of the year around these parts that pretty much justifies sticking around for the other eleven. Blizzards may be rare but ice storms are not and they may in fact be ten times worse, the roads impassably slick and the overhead power lines sagging with a good inch or so of frozen H2O accreted all around them, and if the trees haven’t had enough time to shed their leaves then those branches can crack and there goes twenty years of forested growth. The spring can come early and if it does then be advised that the requisite wind will surely accompany it along with the swirling skies and as the sirens wail you may wonder why oh why didn’t I put in that storm shelter when I had the chance? And the summer… good Lord, the summer can radiate and percolate and oddly mutate all that which lies beneath the brilliant bleached heat dome and naturally there’s no breeze now and it may not rain for days, for weeks, maybe even months.

And when it finally does it never stops.

So yes, please God, bless October with its golden warmth and true blue sky and the comforting fragrance that emanates from the recuperating earth after a busy spring and a trying summer and now, in these cool shaded moments that randomly happen upon us when peace at long last appears at hand, we pronounce our happiness and understand why we could never leave this place, not for too long, not while the green turns to gold and fat pumpkins await the carving knife.

It is finally at this time, at this glorious culmination of fruition and harvest, of warming bonfires and heaping leaves, when a man can taste the earth and drink the air and chant silently to himself we sure as hell better beat Texas.

  

There’s nothing like enjoying a foot long corn dog with a long stripe of mustard running down it while Big Tex hovers above you welcoming one and all to the Great State Fair of Texas. Or gnawing on a turkey leg by Dickel on the grassy knoll just between the crowded midway food booths and the pond where swan boats serenely glide past. And atop the sprawling Ferris Wheel where by chance stopped at the very top you are offered a glimpse of just a small patch of green Cotton Bowl turf with white yard line chalk expertly applied and where you know it will all unfold in only a matter of hours. And after consuming three or four beers and absorbing all that pregame hoopla and basking in unrepented hope the time finally comes for entry into the grand old stadium, and it’s surreal, all that burnt orange and crimson red shoulder to shoulder cramming up those long steps and squeezing yet again into familiar confines.

Three hours later you won’t be feeling the same way as when you entered, you’ll either be loquacious in victory or silently bummed in defeat (or worse). There’s always next year for the losers (yes, eventually they’ll come to realize it) but for the others there’s tonight!

So the Bootlegger’s Boy or Coach Royal?

The north nondescript bank of the Red River or the equally nondescript south?

If and when the Savior returns to claim us all maybe the Almighty can first deliver him into the middle of these narrow clotted waters and we can all just sit back and wait and see which slippery side he decides to clamber up and onto. Until then, feel free to choose for yourself, although for most of us the choice was made a long, long time ago. 

Summer

When summer fades and autumn beckons

And your days on earth pass the tipping point,

Joints may stiffen while inspiration wanes.

Just think back to carefree days, 

Those with no nagging memories 

And the future a boundless wide-open thing.

Nestled on a day bed 

With a breeze humming through cottonwood branches,

A soothing lullaby,

Conducted by a warming sun.

At the beach or by the pool,

Endless days capped with deep sleep,

Not a care in the world.

Only time, a surplus commodity.

That was untainted joy.

Now supply has  buckled under demand,

And you've lost your perspective,

You dwell too much on what happened so long ago.

Unreachable, left behind, a receding past.

But the secret is that life gives us

A new summer each and every year,

No matter your age no matter your purpose,

Come Memorial Day it's time to tweak your attitude.

Step aside, close your eyes, and remember

Or

Step outside, open your eyes,

And do it again.