The Fox

I sat heavily at the base of the tree as my body began to fail me and shut down one vital organ at a time until all that was left was a kind of vision or sighted-awareness that pulled me through the orbs of my eyeballs like a man jumping through the portal of a sinking ship.

There was no one around to observe the dissolution of the processes of my physical existence much less the escape of what was left, but something must have been signaled by my demise as a figure coalesced from the shadow of leaves darkening the forest floor.

I saw if not sensed its dark profile, a large curving nose coming to a point like the blade of a scythe and I felt a chill run down my spine that no longer existed in this disembodied state.  The man-shape approached with what appeared to be a confidence mixed with caution.

I sat there defenseless, no arms to raise, no legs to run, no mouth to shout, just my naked being quivering in a timeless space or a spaceless time, confused and unclear as to the rules of the game once one has crossed over from life to death, or different-life as it were.

My fear appeared to embolden the thing as it drew substance and form from it, undulating in odd proportions though retaining an overall humanoid appearance with predatory eyes the color of obsidian looking to encase me in their cold and dark malevolence.  

When all hope seemed lost a fox came trotting down the path, its red fur flickering through the shafts of light that pierced the forest canopy.  It locked eyes with the shadow-form as it stepped into full sun and burst ablaze, then charged and leapt without hesitation.

On impact the shadow splintered into a murder of crows scattering to find refuge in the tree tops far from the fox.  He turned his cool blue eyes my way and I knew in an instant it was my son who had passed over before me as a child, now an unlooked for savior.

And I saw my body reclining against the tree amongst the Autumn leaves.  It had carried me far along the path of this earthly existence, but I was happy to leave it to be reunited with the red-headed boy who I’d helped bring to life, and he had returned the favor.

***

This Moment is a Mystery

This moment is a mystery

shunned by the mind

which cannot control it.

The past is different.

It is stored and manipulated,

an intellectual playground.

The future is also there 

to be grappled with as anxiety,

a fantasy of could-be’s. 

But this moment is a mystery

over which the mind is powerless

and so it wants to be anywhere but now.

***

Watch it Burn Away

It feels like it’s time to go deeper.  

I’m not sure what this means, 

but there are times that I get 

sated on superficial concerns 

to the point I want to puke 

it all out and start all over.  

But maybe it’s just that I’m 

at the point to go deeper,  

not giving in to winsome wants 

and instead exploring that strange 

and neglected realm of needs.  

Why is it so hard to distinguish the two?  

It is a stark and beautiful landscape 

free of clutter and scattered trash.  

The air is clear and clean there

though I am quite fond of pollution

like the sweet smell of gas that pools 

on the ground reflecting many colors.

But I need to light it on fire and watch it burn away.

***

The Shadow Giant

This is a story about a story that was written when I was a young infantryman in Korea.  As the story of the story goes, I was on CQ duty one night some time in the winter of ‘92 which required me to sit at our headquarter’s main desk all night long, man the phones for any emergencies, clean, and initiate “first call” at 5am by knocking on everyone’s door in the barracks to get the training day started.  I was a PFC (private first class) at the time and a sergeant was required to be with me, though that just meant he would watch VHS movies until around midnight and then doze off on the couch in the common area until morning while I did pretty much everything else.

In one of the back rooms there was a computer and printer which I seem to recollect was the Training NCO’s office.  When I was sure the sergeant was fast asleep I snuck in there and fired up the computer which took awhile.  I pulled up the word processing program (WordPerfect) using some DOS commands that I was familiar with from my time in college prior to dropping out to join the Army.  I had hatched the idea to write a story and this was my only chance to get it printed out with the help of a dot matrix printer.  I was not sure how much time I would have before someone might find me out, so I got to typing.

The story I had in mind was inspired by an incident that happened on one of my many clandestine weekend trips to Seoul.  On a particular Saturday night I was in Myeongdong which was a famous shopping area in the city.  I was not there for the shopping though, but to visit a famous Catholic cathedral that sat on a hilltop at the end of the main street.  It was built of brick over one hundred years ago by masons brought in from China.  It was a place I liked to visit from time to time to just sit and think about things.  It emanated a kind of peace that was a respite from the city’s hubbub and the stress of being a soldier in a foreign country.  Behind the cathedral was a statue of Mary in a small grotto with a couple of rows of benches in front of it for people to sit and pray.  Around her feet were strewn flowers brought by mostly elderly Korean women and some partially consumed candles.

I was there fairly late at night and no one else was around.  I found a match amongst the items left there and decided to strike it and light one of the candles.  After I lit the candle I turned to go and sit on the front bench, but was startled to perceive movement high up on the back wall of the cathedral.  I froze and the movement stopped.  It took a moment with my heart pounding in my ears to realize the movement was my own shadow being projected in gargantuan proportions on the walls by the candle behind me.  

So, this is where the story began as I sat in that back office trying to be quiet and not awaken the snoozing sergeant while I typed.

In the story I see the giant shadow and I am thinking about my Korean friend with whom I’ve come to feel a good deal of affection.  It was a time in my life where I’d physically disconnected myself from my family, friends, and even country to bide my time overseas for God-knows-what reason by joining the Army.  The melancholy could be crushing at times.  In the story I experience a great burst of feeling and frustration from that melancholy and exit my body to inhabit the giant shadow, becoming in essence a shadow giant.  I stand to my full height and gaze out over the sprawling city and my eye is drawn to the glow of Seoul Tower sitting atop Yongsan mountain which is the highest point in the city.  I am north of it and, incidentally, the headquarters for the US Army in Korea is situated on its south side.  I lumber that way in large strides feeling out this strange new body until I am atop the mountain and grasping the tower like a sign post.  

Throughout the story I am weaving in comments about spiritual parallels, sometimes using metaphors, sometimes being more concrete.  Also interspersed are small paragraphs of commentary about this girl, her family, how we met, and the challenges faced in being from two very different cultures and me as a military interloper as well.  There seems to be an overarching theme of helplessness which I guess, in retrospect, is aptly captured in being so large yet so insubstantial.

From the mountain top I spy the large dark patch of land that is Seoul Olympic Park south of the Han River outlined by the lights of bordering neighborhoods and office buildings.  I descend from the mountain at a run and clear the river in one massive leap landing in the open grassy fields of the park.  Her neighborhood is not far from this place and I get on my shadowy hands and knees to try and find her house with the help of landmarks and subway stops that I’d used when merely a tiny human.  At this point in the story I try to add some realism by having a drunken reveler weaving his way home glance up and almost make out my features in what appears to be a low lying cloud to him.  We lock eyes, he shakes his head vigorously to clear the vision, and then stumbles on.

At last I identify her house and notice her second story bedroom window light is on even though it is past midnight.  I am able to crouch down low enough to see her small form lying in bed with one giant eye.  She is still in her daytime clothes as she has been working into the night to prepare for celebrating the Lunar New Year coming up with her family and has collapsed into bed and fallen asleep.  At this point it gets overly gushy as I describe her as likely dreaming and possibly sensing my presence.  She then suddenly looks very sad (something about a “furrowed brow”) and I wonder if she is “hearing the splash of my giant tears.”  

Oy vey, so dramatic!  It is embarrassing even writing about it 25 years after the fact, but I wish I’d written more and captured so much more of my experiences as a restless traveler over the years.  I was too critical of an editor and quickly abandoned most attempts to write anything more than a letter or e-mail.  The few stories that did get written down (or typed out if a computer was available) were lost in so many moves or the obsolescences of evolving computer disk technology.  

But there is this one.  The story of a story.  An attempt to catch a glimpse of my younger self, perhaps.

***

The Cornet

There was something special about musical instruments in our house when I was a small boy growing up in a small town.  There was the piano of course, but my mother had a large red and white accordion as well that hung from the shoulders by wide leather straps and weighed about as much as I did.  My father had a cornet that lived in a copper-colored hard plastic case lined with faux fur and smelled of old valve oil.  It was like a toddler version of the trumpet: smaller, chubbier, and with a warmer sound than its flashier cousin.  

The accordion had a keyboard on one side and a panel of buttons on the other separated by pleated bellows in between.  One button in particular fascinated me as it had what appeared to be a diamond imbedded in it.  The cornet was an exquisite contraption in its own right with golden tubes looping in on themselves ending in a shiny bell.  I loved watching my mother hoist that accordion, unsnap the bellows, and start pushing and pulling to get music flowing from it while my father hooked his pinky finger into a ring on the cornet to anchor his playing hand and flutter the valves to warm them up.

And there were so many buttons!  How did she know which ones to push and when?  If she pushed one down several others would depress simultaneously as if she had an invisible assistant.  If my parents were playing together the accordion would supply an intro for the song while my father waited with cornet in hand working the valves to make sure they weren’t sticking.  At just the right moment he would lift that sculpted piece of brass up to his mouth and purse his lips as if to kiss it.

Sometimes the first note was a little sketchy, but he would quickly recover as his lips found their proper place in the mouthpiece and the warm air began to flow more steadily.  It was a kind of magic to hear them make music together with Mom laying out all the harmonic lines and Dad soloing the melody over top with some flourishes here and there to add some spice.  At other times they would sing a duet in church with just the accordion providing accompaniment and Mom singing alto.  It wasn’t until our teen years that us kids sometimes got into the mix allowing for three or four-part harmony within the family.  

So, when the opportunity arose to join band in the sixth grade it was a no-brainer that I would do so and play the cornet.  That summer before sixth grade the band director had Saturday morning classes at the high school to introduce students to the instrument of their choice.  For trumpet it was me and two of my classmates learning first how to buzz our lips, loose then tight, to find that low C and then the mid-range C without having to push down any of the three finger buttons.  I was a long way away from those flourishes I’d heard my Dad make on his romping rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers” but I was excited nonetheless to be holding the cornet itself and making sounds come out of it.

There is one day that sticks out from the others that summer when I was 10 years old.  I would ride my bike up Second Street to the high school for these lessons while trying to balance the cornet case on the bar between my legs using only one hand.  It was very awkward and my neighborhood was at the extreme south end of Second Street and the high school was at the extreme north end which measured out the entire length of our town.  That day I got the idea to put the cornet in my backpack and leave the bulky case at home without asking my parent's permission.

Well, as luck would have it, I was less than a block from the high school when my right handle bar clipped the side mirror of a truck parked on the street that was sticking out over the sidewalk.  That sent me sprawling, hitting my head on the cement, and rolling over into the grass of someone’s yard.  I was somewhat dazed, but immediately thought of the cornet and pulled it out of the backpack to find I had dented the bell.  Despite the fact blood was starting to trickle down my forehead I was distraught about damaging the cornet and wondering what kind of trouble I would be in when I got home.

I sat in that yard in a kind of despair with a nauseous feeling in my stomach and some tears trying to work their way up into my eyes.  The blood was starting to flow a good bit more from my head but all I could think about was the cornet.  I finally took a deep breath and pulled myself up off the ground to retrieve my bike and continue up the hill to the high school.  There I ran into one of the other students who was being dropped off by his dad in a pickup truck.  His dad took one look at me and got out of the truck and sent his son into the school to get some paper towels from the bathroom to press on the bleeding gash in my head.  I must have had blood all down my face and on my shirt by this point as I tried to convince him I was OK and could just wash it off in the bathroom and continue on to the lesson.  The look on his face told me he wasn’t quite buying it and he made me get into his truck and drove me home.    

I don’t remember getting home or what I said to my parents, but I do remember they were less concerned about the cornet than the gash in my head which surprised me as a kid.  Of course it makes sense to me now that I am a parent and have a son near that same age.  It seemed to me at the time that the cornet was somehow more substantial than I was and would live on long after I was gone.  I thought even back then that it would be passed down to my son and to his son, ad infinitum, like a family heirloom.  But it was lost at some point after I left my parent’s house in my twenties, last seen under the front pew of a church that was soon to close its doors and swallow that cornet whole.

The Connecting Hand

The Ascension of Flippo, King of the Clowns

On some dark and stormy nights

when the thunder rolls and 

the house creaks in the wind

I swear I can hear the electric purr of the 

motorized chair lift on the stairs 

that used to be there, but is now only 

some empty screw holes and an outlet.

I can almost convince myself it is 

transporting Flippo, King of the Clowns, 

from a lower plane of existence to a higher one

step by step as he chuckles upwards

in the house where he lived for 40 years

that we have only borrowed for the past 10

but now are vacating as well.

***

The Inexplicable Death of Someone so Young

Sometimes one must escape

from the chaos of one’s job,

the sights, sounds, and smells

of a sad and suffering humanity

and find the solace of a quiet 

stairwell where the sun streams

in and makes space for thoughts

and feelings of one’s choosing.

***

Cross Country Practice

Those winding roads 

east of town with nothing 

but tall corn on either side 

and the sun baking down.

The trill of insects 

and the sway of tassels

in the breeze overhead

that does not cool.

The clomp of shoes

on pavement in sync 

with heavy breathing

trying to find a rhythm.

This is...

Cross Country practice

in the late summer

on the outskirts of 

a small Indiana town.

***

The Time Tunnel

The mystery of time as 

experienced on a 

particularly hot day 

in Central Park...

I stand in the coolness 

of a stone building

and turn to see my son 

under the portico.

He is in silhouetted profile 

and a time tunnel suddenly

telescopes out from 

my observing eye.

I no longer see him

but myself at his age,

the same body type, 

head shape, and posture.

It is uncanny in those 

few moments before 

he turns and acknowledges

me standing back in silence,

pain and regret welling up

from that faraway place

and threatening to overwhelm me

until swallowed up in his smile.

***

Myshkin as Muse

I want beauty to save the world,

for love to conquer all, for mercy 

to lead us home, like a father 

holding his son’s hand as they exit 

the chill of the forest at twilight.

This is the fire for creating things

of beauty for and with my kids,

in trying to understand them in 

their suffering and finitude 

when their composure fails them.

Understanding that they look to me

to grasp life, death, re-birth and 

all that is caught up in the power

of giving one’s life for the other, 

killing the beast that devours itself.

***

The Missing Tree

 It was the missing tree that triggered the thoughts of a time when this house on the corner anchored our neighborhood with gracious parents and their three boys.  It was the first tree my son had climbed when he was six years old and made possible with the help of the oldest boy providing a leg up.  Strange to think it may have been the only tree he has climbed in his 13 years so far considering I’d climbed hundreds by the time I was his age, living as I did in a more rural setting. 

On summer days I would drive by on my way home from work and see several boys in that front yard playing a game of some kind with a football.  My son tells me that on some plays he would go into “Hulk Mode” and act crazy mad so that “no one could stop me.”  We laugh at this now.  He was the smallest and youngest of the bunch.  He confesses that the older ones would miss tackles or he would crash into them and they would fall down as if hit by a great force, “Oh no!  Watch out, Elias is in Hulk Mode!”

Summer nights the parents of the kids would gather at the corner and talk about any number of topics: sports, child rearing, school problems and accomplishments, and how quickly our children were growing up.  Sometimes a rainbow of popsicle colors would arc forth from the front door and be dispersed to the kids to cool them off.  All of that withered away as the boys grew older and became too busy or too mature to participate in childish games.

And then a new family moved into that house on the corner and we knew an era had come and gone.  If it wasn’t sad enough that the original family had moved away, the new family cut down that perfectly healthy and beautiful tree leaving a thoroughly empty yard in its absence.


***

The Battle of Four Birds' Nests

Spring of 2018 will go down in Haney History as “The Battle of Four Bird’s Nests.”  Every year since we have lived here a robin has visited our gazebo in the Spring and built a nest tucked under the protection of its roof.  The kids love to be lifted up so they can see the pale bluish green eggs and watch the robin make forays for food once they have hatched, the nest full up of oversized yellow beaks reacting to any sound that might be their mother’s return.

If we are out in the yard she will sit on the fence, a tree branch, or the gazebo railing and chirp loudly at us as if to say “Go away!  Go away!  I have to feed my babies and you are making me nervous!”  Elias was four when it first happened and Anya has followed in his steps as a yearly witness to this phenomenon.

This year was no exception.  The robin came and built its nest in the same spot and laid its eggs.  But this year the nest was ransacked by some unknown animal and the nest unceremoniously dumped onto the floor of the gazebo.  This happened three different times as the robin stubbornly rebuilt its nest.  

At some point Anya saw some crows on the street in front of our house messing with something that she discovered were broken robin egg shells.  She was tearful and mad at the same time surmising the crows were the culprit, though they may have simply been opportunists.  Squirrels and chipmunks are active in our back yard, but the rabbits get a pass as they are not well known for their climbing skills.

Then a final nest was built in a different spot out on the cross beams of the gazebo and that one remained, but no eggs or baby birds have been forthcoming.  Today I gathered up the four aborted nests and added them to my lawn waste after mowing and clearing out some low hanging branches.  It was sad not having any cheeping baby birds this year.  Only wrecked nests and the realization that life doesn’t always go as we would like.