Kayak

 (Continuing)

Right here and now. Your life lovingly gazes back at you in circumstances here in the present.

Do You breathe? I love you for that. I am present as you read this, writing the words, loving you.

[These from the Spiral Notebook, poppy notes]

He needed to pick up his prescription of a low dose of prednisone his doctor had prescribed to knock out a sinus infection that had been pestering him for months now. It was the first time ever he would use any steroids and Anthony had warned him already with a smile. Get ready to feel – animal, my friend – pure primitive human, ready for survivor in the forest, your gonna feel like a wild chimpanzee, you wait and see.

He stopped at the bank, got gas and then grabbed a double bacon cheeseburger at Wendy's feeling strange about the girl working there, handing him his change. She had curly red hair and she also had a red bulbous nose that she kept scratching with her bare hands and then she turned around and reached out to give him the sack of cheeseburger, french fries and large root beer. 

No mask. Wet nose. What the, what?

Just on the highway and down the road 20 or so miles it was nothing but unending meows and whimpering and moody questions from Zoe about when we were going to return and it all accumulated there in the Subaru Forrester.

The sleek maroon vehicle had a sunroof, tinted windows and four-wheel-drive, luggage rack and all weather ready tires. It had suede seats and leather throughout the entire of its interior. This rental special included the highest quality sound system on the market, the Kenwood DMX 99 fully loaded with a JL audio C2-650 X evolution series sound system that thumped your belly and rattled the seats. Every day while walking or biking his paper route he would look in the windows of this one in particular. Now he was driving it, smelling it, tasting its leather, loving its gusto straight out of town and on the tail of liberty's angel.

He sang as he drove, From the Land of Sky-Blue Waters….

So with so much to enjoy, he certainly wasn't going to waste his energy trying to counsel Zoe into a better space, no instead he would go to his friend Jerry's and drop Zoe off for the extended trip and she would be fine when he got back. What's more, Jerry already had a Newfoundland, a golden retriever, two cats and a potbellied pig so it was already quite a cozy place for furbearing folks. Zoe also packed appropriately, so she brought some of her favorite books with her and some familiar snacks so he wasn't concerned in the slightest. It will be a retreat.

He allowed himself a fresh pack of Marlboro lights for the first time in a long while, tested out the muscles on the evolution sound system and got a feel for the skin of the asphalt surface of Highway 402. Out on the open roadway as dusk gave way to starlight alone he tested the engine between 90 and 100 and enjoyed the weightless flight over the undulating hills and due north through the farmlands of Soderbergh County Ohio. His first leg of the journey would bring him to Beaumont in about two and half hours.

Bob Seeger played on the Kenwood as he snacked on vanilla Coke and mustard pretzel knots. He sucked the salty mustard dust off his fingers.

Soon he would sit with loons. Soon he would be kayaking upon a glassy lake.

AIN'T IT FUNNY HOW THE NIGHT MOVES?

Why not stay here?

(Continuing)

The day was drawn forward by gusty breezes heaving from the south, warm and dusty at the graveled edges of roads that lead straight out of town with three or four days off, depending on how serious he wanted to be about the road trip.

In the mind that he was given he drove a Jeep, he saddled a horse and rode out with his cat securely fastened and sedated for the journey. Zoe had asked for some kind of compensatory meal or at least some added comforts for the journey and he was more than willing to agree.

More truly he drove, now, a Subaru Forrester that he had rented from the parking lot three doors down the street from his building. He'd seen the rental advertisements so frequently and knew at some point he was going to have to get the work done on the Honda. This was the time to do it, so off they went with Zoe in her little car carrier after much squealing and significant threats. Actually, he left the carrier open the entire time and after some initial freak out sessions, she took comfort by nestling into a corner of the carrier and falling asleep to the vibrations of the engine as they radiated through the floor.

Of course his last full work day with both jobs was a bear.

Pauline O'Sullivan wanted to know where the hell her damn newspaper was – I ask you! Do you see it? I don't see it…?

Am I seeing something under your garbage can? Yep, right there… Sure enough, you have a good one, now.

Alan was back with a joke he completely blew after five minutes of the poor drivers life he would never get back with the lengthy introduction and eighteen parts of a four sectioned sequel of who the hell knows what – but when Alan finally said goodbye the man was reminded he'd definitely forgotten his antacid.

I had, he thought, a cup and half extra of coffee after trying to wave off Anthony who was walking around with a fresh brewed pot of French roast. Why do I do it to myself?

The night of the arrival of the Poppy to his apartment, the gift from an old art friend he didn't quite get to see in person, now seemed like ages ago. It was strange then to receive a text from that very person, a message which, in essence, was sent to thank him for the thank you.

How long is this going to go on, he wondered.

In fact, as he threw his last bag into the Subaru and turned the key he was almost in disbelief that he would be at her cabin the day after next. Why on earth would I ever agree to that?

BLUEBIRD SKY

 (Continuing – from February 19 posting – EXERCISE: START HERE)

Places without people are good for the mind. ~Anonymous

He had read this quote while clicking around online among various artists blogs while listening to Steely Dan. He had never heard people put cords together like they did. The song PEG was in his head all day long.

The sun came out and the weather was okay so he sat outside to receive the fresh air and to admire the birds. Bluebirds were arriving, bright blue flashes straight across the park where he sat in his jean jacket and aviators. He wore his hair straight back.

They shot like angels out from among the shadows of shrubs near the front of the building where the brick cooked warm in the afternoon sun. The shade of blue was so like the sky all around them, it gave the appearance they were being sewn in and out of the sky, puncturing it in waves and deep swoons only to be plucked out into disappearance, into sheer azure oneness with all of the surrounding pages of sky.

Anthony Reginald Silvestori grew up in his mother's Italian kitchen, he knew early mornings and hard work and lots of cleaning around the kitchen. He also knew how to make pizza crust and tiramisu and some of the finest calzone you could find in the US. And he would finish that with a few taps of cinnamon on a cappuccino you would come back from Cuba for.

These days he was trying to contour a more open, more socially aware, globally minded Italian bakery with not a hint of machismo, tough guy criminality, whether organized or no. That would be nowhere near the sauce, the rolls, the meatballs, cheese or with the wine!

Most of all Anthony Silvestori was an incredible host and so he certainly started to recognize the presence of our agent in place at his station, sketching away again today almost as a way to take his vacation without taking any vacation.

As long he was sketching the boat where the man was fishing, testing out different kinds of lures, drinking a beer and listening to the ballgame; as often as he was setting up a tent or building a camp fire or gathering wood from the forest or climbing a wall of rocks with a friend or Hammocking with Charlotte Hathaway from middle school at age 12 or scuba diving to put together an underwater photo shoot for National Geographic… Well, you see what I mean…

When the Journal rejected his essay what he heard them hollering back to him deep down was this:

You had your run at defining THE REAL TRUTH. We just simply find it way too far to go for the church… We invite for you, with love in our hearts, a return to the basics. Yes, the doctrine of sin is exactly where you need to be for a while, a little while longer it seems to us. Again, we say this with love in our hearts.

We encourage you to continue discerning God's best for your ministries. It is so important to understand GRACE, as you know the church remains committed to the sovereignty of God, the sexuality of Adam and Eve, the authority of Scripture,… Yada yada, and we would ask for your trust and humble recommitment.

A good part of this was of course much removed from their true position. He had not read the letter carefully. It was mostly about the poor timing of course. But also, some of this was true… Everybody knew that. It's just that nobody ever really came out and said so. He would continue to think about writing back or positing a better time or restructuring for the essay. But for now he would let it go.

It was a lucrative day with Uber but he was feeling tired and happy to be home to unwind.

Goodness, how could a whole week have gone by already?

Listen to this one Zoe, Can magic mushrooms Heal Us? And how do you pronounce: Psilocycbin.

He looked over an editorial in the times. His head rested on one arm of the leather chair and his legs over the other.

After trying mushrooms the author of the article says, I became more legible to myself. What do you imagine that means, Zoe?

Did I tell you Anthony gave me a free cup of coffee today?

He's pretty nice. He went on and on:

One of our faithful, right here – ladies and gentlemen! Let's give it up, for the writer man!

When I was a kid I always wished I had more Italian friends.

Green

 [Continued from February 19 post, EXERCISE: START HERE]

Hey were you at the Third Avenue Art Supply yesterday by any chance?

Alan had hardly shut the door of the Honda and sat down with his Hazelnut coffee, as usual on the brink of spilling all over the beige leather seats that the man was quite proud of having, finally.

Who me?

Yeah, I had this weird thing where I thought I saw you but it was after we bumped into each other. I tried to track you down but somehow you seemed to have disappeared.

Love is constantly creating future possibilities for the good of all concerned –

Sacrifice, surrender… The words he was trying to memorize were getting all mixed up and what it amounted to was a full on collision between the loving person he desired to be and Alan Nicklebine, an individual who contained multitudes [thank you Walt Whitman… But]… of inane observations, lengthy circuitous stories and an average of 15 to 20 questions per mile in the car. Each ride it came time to drop him off usually ended with –

Well, I guess I have to finish that one later… Peace out and see you next time?

Okay sounds good, thanks Alan.

Early on the man seemed nice enough. It's just that there was no end to anything he ever said. Everything he mentioned made him think of something else, and "come to think of it" reminded him of something that he wanted to make sure and tell his favorite Uber driver about before he forgot. But he was a good tipper and life was short and who knows, even an irritating Sox fan might still have something good to offer from time to time.

The clouds drew themselves over the city for several days and throughout the monotony of gray one could almost sense a weariness accumulating on everyone toward midweek.

At his station near the window he sat sketching in a new pad he purchased at the Third Avenue. He was dying for a cigarette but refused to ask the man a few chairs down for a light. Technically the restaurant was supposed to be no smoking, but so many still enjoyed it that it became sort of an understood thing in town that if you wanted to smoke and drink coffee all day, eat astonishing bakery and people watch, you were at the right place. ANTHONY'S had become an extension of his living space. Seated there by the window was the grand parade that would never disappoint.

Today was no different. His favorite, a marching band from the Catholic High School waving their flags for Ireland. Today was their day: St. Patrick's! Another group from the art school were dancers all body painted green, slender and tall and small and in constant fluid motion, with music bouncing off the coffee shop windows back onto them, tossing them about in a syncopated dance… It reminded him of HAIR from back in the 70s.

He sketched out feet and legs, put a sofa underneath and around the subject, added a lamp… A Burmese cat.

The cool jazz that was playing behind him, turning the air around the swirls of cigarette smoke led him into the sketch even more deeply. He lost a good two and half hours right there and then.

Supply

 (Continuing – from February 19 posting – EXERCISE: START HERE)

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still. ~Dorothea Lange

The Poppy photograph, so well framed and square and hung plum as God's own first horizon, rested silently on the wall beyond its veil.

The night was an amalgam of dreams about horses and bonfires and not being able to find a raincoat and he suffered a fitful stirring and not too few wretched trips to the toilet and Zoe complaining about the bathroom light at 4 AM.

Down to the nub of a pencil, he wrote in the spiral notebook and he did remember scratching down this quote just before falling off for a few decent and restorative hours of sleep.

If we've never experienced human love to the point of

sacrifice, surrender, forgiveness, generosity… it will be

very hard for us to access, imagine or even experience

God's kind of love. Conversely, if we have never let God

love us in the deep and subtle ways that God does,

we will not know how to love another human in the deepest

ways of which we are capable. ~Father Richard Rohr

In the morning he took himself to an art supply store with no plan and nothing to think about creating or constructing, just the hunger he woke with to have a free day and go get some stuff to play with. He walked like a prayer up and down the halls of Third Avenue Art Supply whistling Last Dance with Mary Jane wishing he would have had a chance to see Tom Petty before he croaked. It would've been an amazing concert.

He and Perkins should've gone and sat five or six rows back like they did for The Stones at Alpine Valley.

The apartment was a two bedroom and so one room was just for his artwork and to do yoga or take a nap and center down in a different space to keep from feeling cooped up, especially during the winter months. It was real simple, Fenshwe. He had an easel and a worktable for assembling sculpture or clay models, doing mixed media with found objects anywhere from driftwood to candy wrappers.

Sleeping in and making an omelette and strolling the aisles of the Third Avenue Art Supply took absolutely no energy or stress. He played with word puzzles, memorizing lines from the morning's meditations… Letting everything flow as integrated… Taking that sacred stroll, skating along on all four wheels of his cart.

Love is constantly creating future possibilities for the good of all concerned –

Sidewalk chalk half off for a huge bucket, yes please. Thank you, yes.

even, and especially, when things go wrong.

Love allows and accommodates everything in

Pastels, pastels… Charcoal, pencils… The last sketch in his spiral-bound notebook was of the teepee and he was remembering now his desire to do some more sketching and then work from there toward characterization in the pros. Along with music he was a refiner of many and various casseroles and orchestral perfections as one would add wine to a sturdy bohemian meal.

human experience, both the good and the bad, and

nothing else can really do this. Nothing. ~Father Richard Rohr

Just then he saw it. Yep, no question about it, Alan, one of his most popular Uber riders, the one who would talk your ear straight off for half an hour before taking a breath, wore a large Sox hat, one of the throwback kind from the 70s and he saw it flashed before his eyes before he could stop and turn the other way.

Still, by some small miracle Alan had not connected and did not recognize who he was as yet, so he quickly turned around and poked his nose into a magazine and slowly walked away.

By some small grace the magazine he chose was filled with the photography of Dorothea Lange. All the shades of gray and sorrow and solidarity she captured… She was working with charcoal and doing sketching in a very different way… The camera, she said, is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.

The air in town had snapped back nearly to frozen after the rains came, there were flurries in the air.

Later in the day, in the leather chair with Zoe, he thought about writing a letter to the editorial staff of the Journal.

Having slept in so late he was up again until nearly midnight even though the early route was looming. Oh well, Sundays are sweet and too soon passing.

NO GO

(Continuing – from February 19 posting – EXERCISE: START HERE)

Later that night. Near midnight. The apartment is dimly lit.

A shadowy Burmese cat sits in the windowsill. She looks outside. She looks inside.

Hey Perkins, what's up? I figured I'd call, I get so tired of texting… It's nothing but soundbites and blinkeys, emoji's…

Well maybe we can catch up sometime… Glory is still burning man. I'm about eight fingers deep into the JW blue label tonight, sor' fime sloshing silly like an ass… I was just politely uninvited to finish my essay for the Journal. Apparently the editorial board met recently to review the upcoming issue and decided it wasn't a good time to move forward on the Destructive Power of Teaching the Sinful Nature, especially after the recent shooting in a black church in Birmingham.

We've got a white gunman with hate in his heart and I want to write against a sinful nature… Man, oh man… Part of me says, of course. I get it. I understand. But another part, man… What terrible timing.

And what the hell do I know? I was two thirds done, man!

So there's that… Call me back and fix this. Peace out – oh, and say hi to Peg!

He belched horribly and lay the phone down on the end table and turned up The Doors, leaving Zoe to wonder whether he would make it to the room to sleep tonight or simply fizzle here on the couch as he had done quite a few times before.

I wonder if anybody could ever think a little more broadly sometimes.… Take that poor soul, the one everybody will judge as a violent redneck, the one who filled that sanctuary with terror and hellfire…

His thoughts went on.

Start over – and tell that boy from day one that he is a treasure to his Creator and that he is special in this world, tell him no one else can bless like he will bless, no one else can be who he is, not ever, give him love and encourage him… Show him his remarkable and miraculous self and place him in a world of such intricacy and wonder and richness that living visions won't be able to help it but to emerge… Visions of cocreative love and cooperation and a more humane and thriving planet coming to mind with faces in them… TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL… How many tragedies, how much psychosis and violence could be so simply avoided…

Riders on the Storm was playing as he drank the scotch. Zoe's gaze was tender.

Had I been going about it the wrong way maybe?

I'm still so angry.

Should've started from the abundance side of things.

A reverie sauntered into his consciousness as though a veil of red love was thrown over him, as though an ocean of red drew him into itself beyond himself and into pure love that he could taste, that quenched and that nourished him. Zoe hopped from the windowsill and came to sit directly in front of him as though attending a flowers petal.

From there he continued: I commit myself still today to the holy remembering of the pain I witnessed as I listened over the years to all of the hurt kids I counseled, how, at a deep level, they hated themselves and punished themselves, one to the point of suicide…

THERE'S A KILLER ON THE ROAD, HIS BRAIN IS SQUIRMING LIKE A TOAD. Jim Morrison's voice commingles with the raindrops dripping through the album and outside the window, up and down the city streets, through the skies and ceilings of the apartment building, raindrops drip upon his tongue.

He sleeps.

A man drinks and drinks. There is a soothing. There is a glory burning.

God is love.

KANDINSKY MAN

 (Continuing – from February 19 posting – EXERCISE: START HERE)

As weeks passed and spring surged ahead warmer than ever, the city became alive in a way he'd never felt on any of his previous visits to take in a ballgame or stay at the Sheraton and find a good steak. Warm breezes blew errant trash up into the air with pigeons. Despite there being fewer than ever nowadays, with Uber and the others well in play up and down the city streets, Taxis still honked wildly in this part of town and he tried not to see the Checker Cabs as enemies in his own cause to bus people about with a smile and a story for his own profit in his little Honda.

Throughout the day's drive he had a hard time connecting with his passengers. No problem for them or for him really.

His distraction that day driving about came from thoughts of the man sitting at the coffee shop a few days previous. Of course he had to exchange the basic niceties with each of the Uber clients, but with each route of pickup and drop-off, hour by hour, visions of the man's face, the man's oddness stuck to his conscience like an anxious bur.

He watched him carefully, trying not to be noticed. The man was unshaven but rather nicely dressed. He wore a slightly undersized houndstooth sport jacket and leather Oxford shoes over red sox intended for an accent. He wore long hair that was badly disheveled but for a slight part at the center.

Most notably, the man sat muttering to himself and picking at his own fingers incessantly. He sat at the table but drank nothing and ate nothing. His facial contortions were offputting and many nearby either turned away or avoided sitting too close. It was a quandary.

What could've been wrong? Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he got dumped by someone or his wife just left him. It might've been some kind of brain disease or disability but that would've been a long shot. From time to time he would give the appearance of putting it back together and holding his composure after a discomforting splash of embarrassment. No, he almost seemed more like someone in dire preparation… Be prepared or despair, pay a price – something like that.

He had the appearance of a lawyer one minute and a highly anxious, despondent or terrified person in the next… A parent? A comrade? A witness to something utterly inconceivable, inhumane?

He seemed to be practicing a conversation that so captivated him, literally that so imprisoned his mind, that all he could feel was the flame of the struggle. The only thing present in all the world was what he was inside of – the fight, the crisis… Who knows?

Ever since witnessing him the man's face came back again and again and he didn't really know what to do with it but feel concern. He'd only seen him once but it made quite an impression.

Toward evening he brought a dozen tulips back to the apartment to spruce things up, that bouquet and an art magazine featuring the work of Kandinsky. He had three bare walls left and he was quite sure one of them needed the great master of abstract art represented somewhere in his abode.

Was it the poppy that inspired him to go out in search of even more beauty? Had it opened him in some way that he still wanted to discern?

That evening somebody was talkative. Who knows why? Curling up across from him on the cool chair, yes, the leather one… Zoe asked, So are you going to tell the people everything we talk about?

Well I'm not sure how to take that question Zoe, would you like me to?

Meow, she said.

I just noticed, she continued, although you told them we converse, as yet you have not offered any verbatims on our back and forth regarding the night of the poppy and all of the dreams and these visions that keep recurring.

I guess I just haven't seen a reason to. And you're the good listener after all, and you're right here. What's more, I'm always the one flitting about from one project to another. Let me give it some thought, and remember, not much will be happening until my essay is done.

He invited Zoe out of the chair and sat thumbing through his magazine. He had a vintage copy of WATERCOLORS, 1977 from THE PAT MATHENY BAND and so took it for a ride while he then looked through a small pile of mail he had set on the end table to "season." He hated mail.

Most notable was a rather formal looking letter from the publication for whom he was preparing his essay.

Oh now what? he thought. Somebody could have made that shrill, hitting-the-brakes sound on a record just then. Did they lose my email?

Thank You Note Chowder

 (Continuing)

"Words are partly thoughts, but mostly their music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it, I sense this instinctively. There is no language for this, not then, not even now, this inner glide, articulation of the wordless, plotless truth of existence. Life is not made up of stories, much as I adore them; Charlotte, Heidi, Caddie Woodlawn. Really, life is – this. It's a float, my body a cloud drifting along, effortless but aware. Drifting over the world, seeing, passing along."

From THE ART OF THE WASTED DAY, by Patricia Hampl

Thank you dear friend, for helping me to see – I promise to pass "it" along. Many Blessings

He finished the short note to the artist friend who'd gifted him with the poppy art and, let's just say it, all the dreams and whatever they meant and were still "doing" to him as memories returned and receded. 

He sealed the envelope and put it in his suit coat pocket to drop off later at the blue box just outside the coffee shop where today they were featuring split pea soup and chicken chowder and the usual French onion. Pastrami sandwiches and another fancy avocado toasts: they all sounded good so he'd planned to grab a few things on his way home from the route.

Lately the newspaper route had taken him over into the more suburban area not too far from the apartment, about two and half miles with a bicycle didn't feel like anything really. He threw papers onto porches one after the other and watched his breath steam out in front of him, letting the bicycle coax its way along the block and into sunrise just toward the end of the route which circled him back to the start just perfectly day after day.

I love this job Zoe, he'd pat her on the head during his midday siesta at the apartment and share how the morning route felt today.

Little windy but warm and balmy even. I could smell the soil and there were a few worms wiggling out of the ground.

He put his headphones on, plopped down in his Irving Leather Armchair, a fine Stetson Chestnut trimmed with bronze nail heads at its edges. It was a chair that appeared to be bursting yet felt as soft as a feather when one sat down. He needed some recharge time. It was a perfect place to chill and he played at volume 7, some old familiar Kansas.

Soon he sailed along on the violin and all that his heart could do was conduct and glide his arms about on the breeze of the sonorous current, drifting over the world, following the now even right now articulation of the orchestral and plotless life of existence.

It was adventure.

And was he gassy from that chowder. Just seeing, passing along.

OLD GURU

(Continuing)

Much to his relief the friend who had sent the magnificently framed photo of the poppy never showed at the dinner party. Now he would have more choice about how to be in touch to thank the artist for the gift. But there was much else to talk about.

Whether it was from the dream of the night before or whether he had thought it out of his own creativity the long day after that, the one he had spent on the couch, he could not remember.

He was remodeling the old cabin. Trying to choose a sturdier front door system. He was at the kitchen table laying out plans for adding a three sided porch and outdoor fireplace. He would bring in his uncle Frank to help with the stonework. His dad maybe could drop over and help too.

A vision came of pouring the gravel for the cement for the trowel for the space between the stones he'd chosen from the river near where the balsam, nearly 300 old, lay bent over the rapids beyond the southern bend of the hillside. Blue light would shine their down deep between the pine and it would glow purple, deep blue all over the late March snows there with him if he was blessed enough to be awake.

Then an alarm would go off or the phone would ring or chime and he would come to and have to move on to what was next. He had picked up the paper route from a kid who lived down the hall and although it was getting him up and out early, the money was just what he was looking for at a time that was right with his other job, part-time as an Uber driver, at least for now anyway.

Despite the early timing he did like to get up and make breakfast. It energized him and helped him simplify his rhythm to two substantial meals per day. He loved fried eggs just right, Sunnyside Up with plenty of salt, no pepper please, rye toast with lots of butter and a black coffee. While eating today's breakfast sandwich he looked through some folders in a box still left to unpack and found some of his old teaching materials. Sometimes he would actually write down the words he intended to say to a group and commit them to memory as a sort of meditative training.

He loved how it felt just reading the words, sitting there on the floor; Zoe, who knows where, but happy.

From one of them:

Training witnesses.

Everyone can naturally grow through the period of narration… wherein ones story of themselves is the driving voice. Beyond moving the river through our endless list of preferences and "what we would like to have and do with our lives" there is witnessing. We live empty. We receive and we bestow. We become present to ourselves as compassionate recipients and witnesses. We receive gratefully and give generously as a way of living simply. Here's when we can see ourselves truly coming to life.

The smile of your true self awaits your smile to become its joyful light – first for you, then for others. It is an honest and humble giver and receiver, blessing by blessing.

The one you can be present to with openness and acceptance and steadfast love and trust. Beloved, in you I am well pleased, says God.

So you can remember simply to train your witness within as you encourage yourself to prayer time… Nourish in the practice of presence, renew in God's presence through daily centering prayer and mindfulness.

This restorative practice trains the heart through loving and trusting God, the work of it is to serve as a vacant temple with every door open through which God's holy wind sustains us As One, as one would empower any healer with visions of the shalom community fully restored to life everlasting.

I close my eyes, in order to see.

~Goethe

WORKING WITH THE MILES DAVIS JAZZ QUARTET snapped and spun out in the living room and now after a nice full day, he carried a smile of deep satisfaction within himself as the turntable wheeled its magic. He maintained his father's stereo to this day. Replacing only a few parts and upgrading to Bose speakers, the old RCA sang out through Davis's trumpet while his gang got skipped and ready to stay jazzy as a snare splashed open to a trapped splat symbols and brass into the belly of a deep base sending it out all over the floor, where Zoe lie bathing in the sun. The song sauntered out into the ether. Another blessed day at work, he thought.

POPPY LOVE

(Continuing)

The character awaits you, his life lives in every thought of the writer, right here before your eyes, how could it be any simpler to understand? Oh you treasures of God who keep reading, take what is here and fill it with life. Maybe later beside the pool you will have a curiosity about a question posed or something silly that was raised here in the midst of these few simple lines of words. Maybe at the grocery store or just lying down for a nap. Recollection comes reminding with memories as a free crow flies overhead toward the end of the afternoon. Now, where is our Zoe?

She could hardly wake him. She even broke into English although she knew he was still asleep.

The poppy, the poppy… The words were hardly formed as he wiped the drool from his mouth and struggled to awaken. The late morning sun filtered through the blinds as Zoe now resorted to several boxing style blows to his face, three or four furry little right hooks to the nose in hopes of getting some damned breakfast.

Things had gotten strange the night before. He got up later than he had wished. He made himself a pot of coffee, two pieces of toast and some scrambled eggs and sat down near the patio but still inside as it was too cool to be outside for breakfast. After a few sips of coffee he told Zoe what a strange night it had been.

I remember opening the picture. I remember sitting in front of it on the floor with it resting back on the couch. I looked at that thing for what it seemed were years of time… It really felt like forever Zoe. I gazed into the center of the fresh poppy there gleaming red with its bright and glistening center wet to its lilted ridges, red pressing velvet out and away engorged to an edge sprung warm in a beatific burst of spring which whispered at first, then swelled to dew drops on my tongue… I gazed into the poppy and drank endlessly. Oh Zoe, the quenching… I had a whole lifetime with horses… I was the conductor of symphonies… It gave and gave like music pouring through me… And the more I played and played…

I just. I just cannot describe it.

He hopped up from breakfast, through his dishes in the sink and flopped over on the couch with his spiral-bound notebook and he spent the better part of that day lying on his back writing out everything, word by word he unfolded as much of the events and their significance as he could keep up with from the epic dream he had upon opening the poppy. 

At present it was hanging over a bookcase he had parked in the living room. There was a potted plant across to the other corner of the room, a small coffee table and a few lamps so the place was fairly posh. Comfortable. Stylish.

He would've spent the entire weekend scribbling down his notes, filling out page after page all from that one single strange night he opened the photo of the poppy. All he knew when he awoke was that he was very much like the poppy and the poppy was very much like him. He felt astonishment at how it lived its dripping life on the verge of its blessing, again and again. It was the healing gaze of God he prayed within himself, the heart of ALMIGHTY LOVE pulsing in this most tender flower. Now and always.

Things were warming up in town, people were out on their bikes and taking their walks with their dogs. For some reason there were several corgis in this neighborhood, he never would understand why. But it felt good to get out and walk. 

You get in your stride, you put your music on and just walk yourself down the street, maybe start with a goal of getting to the corner. Feels good to get moving. I like to move my arms a lot when I'm walking. Right up to the point before I start to look like a real dork, I'm always real careful not to push the limit. But it feels good to move the arms and legs at the same time. And we have this great hill that goes down toward the library and once I get going in that direction I usually stop over and put my nose in a book or two. I get a kick out of locating one of my old favorite novels and then I sit down on their comfy leather couches and read a chapter or two of my favorites. I love Murakami, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Kurt Vonnegut… Charles Frazier.

On his way to a dinner party that evening he had a thought about writing some new recipes for whitefish. There were potatoes in his cupboards and he thought maybe to stop at the market on his way home, that is if he wasn't going to be staying too late. We'll see.

It was a nice bunch of people he'd known from school and it would be fun to catch up. But it would be strange for him to see the very friend who had just given him the poppy photograph. When he read that it was from this particular artist he was surprised and flattered and happy and grateful all at once. Now everybody was going to hang out and he would have to find a way to thank them for the gift. It didn't take much time for him to decide not to share anything about the crazy dream he had upon gazing into it however. There was absolutely no way he was going to go down that road, not until he had figured some more things out for himself, his recollections from the night of the poppy dreams would continue to return. He would do his best to enjoy himself that night. 

Maybe some Chardonnay, some ABBA for the gang to help us all unwind.

One Is Enough

 (Continuing)

It was Friday evening and he was settling in with a scotch on the sofa beside Zoe. He had plans to connect with Sophie that night and catch up on life, that left only throwing together a light dinner of stirfry and opening up the package to do before setting up his laptop.

The large cardboard box was resting against his door when he had returned from the library where he spent the afternoon researching Matthew Fox among other creation theologians. After dinner he took his Swiss Army knife and carefully let the blade glide along the edges so as not to damage what was inside.

It was some kind of image that had been framed and when he removed the paper his jaw dropped nearly to the floor. He placed the image on the couch and stepped back so that he might fully address it. This was his habit. Three seconds with the eyes closed and then – presto! LET THERE BE ART!

There was nothing he could do but sit gazing. It was alive.

Let's Go Cubs

 (Continuing)

Castanza was at the plate, full count, when he plopped down on the couch across from his Pal in the La-Z-Boy across the living room. Cheers! they said in unison. Each taking a sip of the single malt scotch he'd brought over to share this time.

Let's hope he's gonna have a good year, he sure let us down in the playoffs, that's for sure. How much did I miss?

It's only the bottom of the second, Jack said. Well lots of those kids are great athletes, but you gotta be able to play through the pressure.

That's it exactly! And they don't have to swing at every pitch, right? They play from pure emotion – exciting to watch, anything can happen, especially when this one's up, but he is "hard to walk" as they say.

Listen to this one Jack – for my essay:

Good People

most royal greening verdancy,

rooted in the sun,

you shine your radiant light.

Hildegard of Bingen

Holy Shnikeys that's a good one, where did you dig up that one?

It's from Matthew Fox's Original Blessing, one of the most important books I've ever read. Reorienting the church back to its original center in Creation Theology. You don't start with sin, you start with a holy loving God with whom we are already one and then the love story begins.

Commercials for AstraZeneca and Flonase and Country Crock and Chevrolet play between innings.

The story of religion, he is saying, doesn't begin with some kind of dilemma to solve. It's a really interesting way to think about things. That there even is a creation is an act of love, and then add some people to enjoy it with, who are so nearly just like God, as triune… a living, love community, three in one… On and on. So it's a keeper if you can ever find a copy.

Hey there! Martini hit a double, that should bring in a run. And yeah, shoot me some quotes will you? And I need to see that essay when you're done.

I'll be sure to send it over.

After the game he bid Jack farewell and stopped by to grab Chinese for dinner and a sixpack of Red Stripe from the 711 at the corner near the playground where he tried to, again, walk his cat without success. Back at the apartment Zoe greeted him with curls and purs around his feet. He took off his shoes, washed his face and hands. She told him about her day while he ate with chopsticks, appreciating how the sunset with all its golden lights was perfectly centered by his window frame at exactly this time on exactly this date.

Sun, not sin

(Continuing)

What I've learned from sin:

… everything is always broken or less than it should be no matter what and if that's not clear it's because I can't see straight… Because of sin.

What's deserved for it is punishment. Take that to the nth degree, hellfire and brimstone.

The accuser, Satan, loves it… Might as well be the same voice saying [accusing]…Why didn't you do this? You should never have done that. You probably think one thing when the other is true. 

I learned to question myself endlessly, so much so it makes me unable to make decisions and feel happy from day to day.

Always quite sure your fooling yourself into thinking things that are false all the time. From one delusion to the next.

What's really real and who the hell are you… Truly?

It makes concrete and nearly intractable a lifestyle of endless reward and punishment for good and bad behavior, separating human beings from themselves and from God and from each other.

As he tapped away at his laptop from his station near the window at the coffee shop, the room lived its life filled with the aroma of fresh cooked bakery, espresso and maybe a hint of cigarette from the gentleman sitting two chairs down from him near the decorative palm beside the doorway. Sun sliced in through the window.

He put his face straight up into the suns warmth and brilliance. Finally. Thank you.

That was enough for one day. Every time he worked on the essay he would get a headache and end up feeling crappy. Still underneath that was the heat and energy of knowing that this is what he could do, he was the agent in place, the one who stayed. Accepting that wasn't always easy, but there were times when finishing an important project like this one could stir his visions. He'd keep writing.

Right now he needed to be on his way to Jack's. They were going to enjoy an afternoon preseason game, he for the Cubs, Jack for the Pirates as usual. Not a bad day he thought to himself, sunshine and baseball. Winter wouldn't last forever and the essay would of course come to an end soon so long as he kept to his schedule.

Part of what bothered him was the fear of being misunderstood. He was of course by no means against the critical importance of self-knowledge; knowing the importance of being able to recognize his own shadows and capacity for illusion, a tendency to project his own fears onto other people. Self-love meant cultivating the ability to see the beauty of integrity and acknowledging his own growing edges.

Warm thoughts came to mind: Keep the Beginner's mind. We must always be ready to see anew. These were basics he tried to remember. And of course, he could always return to his breathing.