For Andrew and Emilee (and seven years)

The Pajaros

There's the awkward couple, the sober couple, the odd couple, the prideful man with the yearning girl, and the three happy happy happy couples. On a Saturday morning in the temple, I am blessed to see them all.

I came this morning simply because I was awake. Had I known that it would be the most apple-crisp golden delicious Autumn day in 28 years, I probably would have gone somewhere else. To the mountains. Or the park. Or my mother's backyard. But at 5am it is dark and still and equally as ominous as it is promising. So it was the temple. The safe choice, even on this most cranberry of days.

There in the Celestial room, a lone twenty-something early riser can feel quite like a curry on Thanksgiving day. Eccentric. Sweaty. Wholly out of place. But not today. For some inexplicable yet undeniably sensed reason, today is a good great granddaddy day. In fact, even here in the Casa de Dios, surrounded by angels and saints, I can only describe it as a bona fide damn fine day if there ever was one. For twenty minutes it is me. And the Samoan Queen sitting across the room. And no one else. And despite all of her grace and graciousness, the Queen does not give me even the slightest hint that the entire sum of life is about to be played out before my eyes.

In they come.

The most picture-perfect bride and groom I have ever seen. Not in contrasting black and white, but both dressed in the color of heaven. It is their faces and their hands. It is their eyes. They are not disgustingly happy. They are exultingly happy. Every inch of smile on that girl's face is equaled by that young man's own. I am happy just to see them. An unnoticed matron seats them on a couch and leaves them to their own best every moment of their life. There is no way that my presence could intrude on this. From where they sit, I do not exist. Even the Queen has been mentally exiled. There are just smiles, and faces, and hands, and eyes.

More couples are ushered in, one by one. This one is sober. Stoic and self-assured. There are no smiles like the first couple, but there are plenty of hands. And eyes. And happiness does not skip a beat. Then comes an awkward couple. Both standing on stork legs and looking on with deer eyes. But they are not uncomfortable like I think. They are just funny. They make each other laugh. They poke and they coo and they smiles smiles smiles. Then another perfect picture. Then a middle-aged man a full 6 inches shorter than his middle-aged bride-to-be. But when they sit there is no shortage of eyes. Or hands. Or even feet for this giddy couple that has been waiting oh-so-long for this perfect October day. I am glad they waited. They are glad they waited. God is glad they listened.

Then comes in a kid. His hand lays open at his side. A girl with a face like a New England beach grasps desperately at his lifeless hand. Her eyes are full of clouds. It has been raining. And I suspect there will be many more rainstorms running down that Cape Cod face long after I'm gone. She is searching for his eyes. He is coolly scanning his surroundings with all the false bravado of a junior high drop out. He is probably 25 years old. He is 12 years old. For the second time today, I swear in my head. "Damnit boy! What are you looking for? What on this Great Green Earth could you be looking for at this moment? Is it your confidence? If so, you have at most ten minutes to find it before you'll need it every day for the rest of your life."

I take a few breaths.

"Listen, I don't know you and I am not a prophet. I don't have to be to tell you that the entire sum and substance of what you're looking for in this life is standing by your side. If you will stop being cool for twenty minutes, you will make your grey-eyed promise the happiest girl in the world. And she will work to make the infinite minutes that follow happier than you can imagine. For one day, for twenty minutes, be a dork. Smile. Cry. Feet hands face eyes kiss. This is it. She. The Joie de Vivre. She is about to promise you her existence. And more importantly for you to understand, you are about to promise her yours. Let her crush you with those grey eyes. Let her swallow you with that quivering line of a smile. She. And then everything."

And then...

They sit down. She buries her head in his neck. He gives a quick glance around...throws caution to the wind...puts his arm around her shoulders...rests his head on hers...and closes his eyes. Queen looks over and gives me a knowing smile. Jesus looks down, his eyes also closed, and nods.

***

I walk out of the temple to find that the dark morning has turned to Autumn. The air is light and the light is flowing in amber sheets across the square. Two birds carefully raise out of a golden ball of oak. The branch where they sat shutters for an instant at the memory of their weight. With no more communication than the happy beating of their wings, the birds trace a winding and parallel path through the sky until, sooner than I can fathom, they disappear over the temple.

REWARD!

If anyone can find me the original opening credits sequence from "To Kill a Mockingbird" online, I will TOTALLY make it worth your time (if you know what I mean). But it has to have the original score, not the slow oboe piece on YouTube.

Thanks.

The Rings of Saturn

Around her head - one million frozen rocks. To care about this, to worry about that, to love this, to judge that, to carry, to lift, to throw, to endure, to solve, to heal, to give, to serve, to care. Oh the care is there. One million cares. One million tiny orbits. One million fireflies disturbing the dark of her sleep. No sleep. A stony haze.

Quick, take my arm. I'll hold your mind. One million miles lie ahead. Half way through she stops and looks back at herself. What do you see? A stony noose. One million miles you've promised me. We walk, time fades, we turn to look. One million flecks of glass a halo they have made. A halo, for thus a saint is made.

Salve

Buy this album now. Ask questions later.

Powered by Podbean.com

Writers' Block

This is a call to arms. A few of you have been privy to the "Ultra Mega Classic Writers' Workshop and Tea Room" rumors that have been circulating for years. The idea is simple. People get together, they decide on a given topic or style to write on, they take a month to write something, they get back together and share their writing and give feedback. It's like school without nuns. It's like a bookclub with a different kind of gayness. The beauty is that it can all be done over the world wide weeble these days. So you never have to look a critic in the face. Although the sharing of tea becomes more difficult with the technological disconnect.

If you think you would be interested in such an ultra mega classic forum, please comment on this post and let me know. I'm trying to get a head count to make sure this thing is even worth it. IT'S WORTH IT!

Peace, love, and sympathetic touches.

82 (The Corner)

He is quick; that much is clear. But the glow of his ever-increasing fame pulses every time he hits someone. He slides back and forth effortlessly in his backpeddle - like water that knows its way down a riverbed - then bolts forward an instant before the world flinches to plant his head in a pair of unfortunate numbers. Lights out. That's what his coaches have started calling him. And he smiles a broad ethnic smile every time they do.

He is good with the ball in his hands. The four red stars on his helmet are proof enough that he is the most valuable pair of legs behind the line of scrimmage. But 27 white tomahawks that surround those stars are the reason he lays sleepless at night. Reading a quarterback's eyes. Following a running back's hips. Listening to a receiver's footsteps. All for the pop. The kill. Even through the blinding light that crashes through his brain at 'the moment' - even through his own blood and snot - he can hear the bench erupt with every hit. He is a lithe and lightning hero. He is a bullet and a gun.


There will come a time when he doesn't play anymore. It is already almost upon him. No, he won't suffer a broken spine or a torn ACL or a brain-battering concussion. Time will simply reveal to him what he already suspects in the back of his helmet: he is not that good. And that is fine. But one far-away day he will teeter dangerously on the edge of 30. And he will realize that he has ever been backpeddling. Any jolts forward have been met by a violent crash. The bench will have gone silent. But he will continue to smash and punch and throw himself to the wall. A broken marriage. A single parenthood. A failed schooling. An empty job.

Boy, in that day, remember four red stars. Turn your feet around. Take the ball. And run.

O ellie, this is the heart

.....this is what it looks like.
(touch my wrist) it is red like a summer apple.

.....this is what it sounds like.
(hush baby) it is orange like a calling child.

.....this is what it tastes like.
(kiss my cheek) it is yellow like a popcorn kernel.

.....this is what it smells like.
(close your eyes) it is green like a morning world.

.....this is what it feels like.
it is brown like your eyes.
it is black like your hair.
it is pink like your voice.
it is blue like your overalls.
it is purple like your dreams.
it is white like your name.

(laugh, child. ring out)

the heart is white like your name.