Bradbury at the Library

 

I am sitting at a table on the second floor of Dublin’s main library.  It is a new building with an architectural flair that is futuristic in style.  Looking through the portals that pretend to be windows I see rooftops of houses and buildings that remind me of the ill-fated landings on Mars in Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles”.

The rocket lands and the crew is shocked to find what looks to be a small American town with houses that are connected to their pasts.  It is familiar yet strange and wholly disconcerting considering this is what they left on Earth only to find mirrored on Mars.  It is one of several connected short stories that comprise the book.

And it is pure genius.  Never mind it envisions Mars as having a breathable atmosphere.  It is told in such a way that we gladly set aside our incredulity to be immersed in something so beautifully bizarre, so magnificently melancholy.  “They made their way to the outer rim of the dreaming dead city in the light of the racing twin moons.” 

As is the case repeatedly throughout human history we bring our sins with us and spoil what we touch.  It is the myth of the rugged individual which fails to understand we are persons fully and essentially interconnected.  It is the first murder when Cain kills his brother Abel and looks to blame God.  We are our brother’s keeper, even Martian ones.

***

Memories of Moscow

 

There was no one to go with me to Russia

so I flew alone on an Aeroflot flight at the

invitation of a Russian friend who was a 

choral conductor and fledgling composer.

He lived on the edge of Moscow in an old

apartment with high ceilings and a hallway

full of bookshelves on which I found a small

book of short stories by William Saroyan.

During the day he would go to his work and

school while I wandered the city with young

legs primed for exploration and a packed

lunch to walk the necessary paces.

***

There was a beautiful gate to Red Square that

incorporated a small chapel having services 

so I paused to pray and spied a young monk

making an exaggerated sign of the cross.

Our Lady of Kazan church sat just past the gate

on the square’s edge and I saw a young mother

use a McDonald’s napkin to cover her head in 

order to gain entrance to an unfolding liturgy.

The singing was transcendent, the iconography 

covered every conceivable surface, and a 

priest used a horsetail whip to sling holy

water through a crowd of mysterious smiles.

The Gospels were brought out bound in gold

and held aloft with the intoning of prayers 

while two elderly women stepped forward and

bowed to provide their backs as a living lectern.

***

St. Basil’s Cathedral sat at the far end 

of the square in light, opposing the grimness 

of Lenin’s tomb which was tucked up under 

the wall of the Kremlin hiding from the sun.

My Russian friend spoke fluent Spanish but 

was less confident in his English when he 

tried to describe St. Basil’s to me and asked 

if I knew what the word “milagro” meant.

***

Renaissance Festival Flashback

 

January 8th, 2021

Seeing the shirtless guy with the hairy hat and horns repeatedly today in the media made a memory fall out of my head.

We took little Elias and baby Anya to the Renaissance Festival in southern Ohio several years ago for some family fun.  We spent the day walking through the large complex of faux-medieval buildings and taking in the sights and performances.  The jousting was a highlight as was watching little Elias tear into a giant roasted turkey leg.  

Wandering the substantial grounds we passed many a visitor in costumes from various time periods, oftentimes with fantastical elements woven in.  I remember a dashing silver-haired man likely in his 70’s who was clad in black leather with silver studs, a wide brimmed leather hat with feather, and a magnificent sword slung across his back.  He struck me as a dandified swashbuckler in a Japanese anime story.

Towards the end of the day we were hot and tired and took a break under a tree.  Under the same tree was a young man probably in his early to mid-20’s who had caught my eye throughout the day due to his costume.  It was a Viking-esque ensemble that included a fur-lined half-helmet with large horns protruding from the sides and built-in metal pieces surrounding his eyes.  It was all of a piece and allowed a bit of his hairy chest to protrude in the middle.  He also had an imposing battle axe in hand.  

I watched him remove the impressive head piece to allow his sweaty and bearded face some relief from the sun and heat.  It struck me that I’d seen him walking around alone and even now at the end of the day there was no one with him.  I sized him up as a reserved nerdy type who had created a magnificent character but with no one to share it with apart from the throng of strangers at the Renaissance Festival.

The melancholy sight of this quiet loner tugged at my heart strings and so I walked over to him and told him how impressive I thought his costume was and wondered if he’d made it all by hand.  He immediately perked up and started talking about the various elements and how they came together.  As I’d suspected he was a bit socially awkward and almost apologetic about drawing attention to himself, yet eager to show off his creative efforts.  I just wanted to make sure that he knew that someone really appreciated the effort he’d put into his costume.

And then there’s the guy who helped storm the Capitol yesterday.  He was definitely costumed to some degree and was playing a role of some sort that was important to him no matter how misguided it may have been.  To be honest, that young man at the Renaissance Festival all those years ago helped humanize him in my eyes regardless of how angry his actions have made me.  Hating anyone is not really helping anyone and I hope he gets what he deserves, though I don’t pretend to know what that is.

***

GOD HATES FLAGS

 

Flags that whip 

people into a frenzy

and asks them 

to sell their birthright 

for a pot of power,

trying to be trendy,

to cane their Abel,

to strain what’s stable.

The civil war is

inside ourselves, 

the beam in our eye,

the need to die,

a misapplied label,

in anger unfurled, but

His kingdom is

not of this world.

You misread “the Word”

which is a person

not a book, look,

you become a thief

a clueless crook

who steals what’s broken

and believes that

love is simply a token.

***

 

If I whisper will you hear me?

 

If I mimic that still small voice

like a child following their Father?

Like a child wondering why things 

have to be the way they are?

Like a child wandering too far

but looking for the way home?

***

Watching the Waves

 

The ocean can 

swallow you whole

so you stand 

on the sand 

so as not to 

tempt or test it

as your thoughts

roll in and out

with the waves

or soar with 

the sea birds

catching the wind.

It is a sensation

that his hard to

mimic in the Midwest

so you do your best 

to take it in 

while you can.

***