The Cathedral Remains

 

I have died too many times before 

or maybe I have never truly lived.  

At times only the Cathedral remains

its spires piercing the heavens.

Despair can invade these hallowed 

spaces like an impenetrable fog

even as sorrows ever soar and

my thoughts scatter to the wind.

The edifice suffers superficial

sacrileges yet remains sound

filling with a melancholy song that 

calls me to something higher.

***

Snow Globe

 

It’s a kind of paradox

the world is agitated 

like an aggressively 

shaken snow globe

yet surrounding the 

swirling chaos is the 

beauty of being held

in the hands of Love.

***

Free as a Bird

 

Writing prompt for Monday, January 23^rd: perhaps my favorite photo of John Lennon that I’ve colorized in the craziest of ways while listening to “Free as a Bird”.

His look is one of calm introspection.  I imagine he is working out a song on his guitar.  I can appreciate that frame of mind and how it takes you out of yourself and into a world that is full of possibilities.  There are things going on deep in the mind, making connections and weaving beautiful images together, a kind of metaphysical wrestling, mysteries that bubble up to the surface to surprise and delight us as they blossom into our awareness.

I love his full beard in this one, his long hair, and those distinctive glasses that come from an earlier age.  I had those selfsame spectacles for at least a few years, but the metal bridge sitting on my nose dug in too deep and I had difficulties making them sit straight on my face.  My nose is crooked and my ears are not quite level to each other.  I wanted to make them work but reality dictated otherwise (AND someone at a party said I looked like Harry Potter).

I started to grow my hair out a bit in my early 20’s until joining the Army where it was completely shorn but not before my fellow Basic Trainees gave me the nickname “Peace”.  After I left the Army and returned to college I grew it out as long as it would ever get, but then I cut it after a year or two in order to participate in the Army Reserves to help pay the bills.  A beard came later with my conversion to Eastern Orthodoxy but the long hair never returned.

So, the hair, beard, and glasses never existed simultaneously in my young life much to my regret.  But now I am older and have been dipping more deeply into that creative well that I imagine John Lennon knew so well.  If I become morose about my late start to the game I only have to think of poor John taken too soon from the world as I carry on creating in his memory as he haunts my thoughts and inspires me to try and bring beauty to my fellow man.

***

Simply Present

She sleeps in the quiet of a church, 

front and center, under a candle.

The Psalms are droning on in a 

place just behind her head in the dark.

Friends float in and out all through 

the night to keep her company.

They stand silent, simply present, 

and then bow to kiss her cold hand.

Look, they say inside their heads, she’s 

wearing her knit cap snug in her bed.

Will I pass so peacefully and be cared

for so sweetly when my time comes?

***

For Those Who Truly Love

 

What if we just fly

on out of here, my love?

This house has bound 

us for far too long.

I know I can’t follow

but time and eternity 

will bring us back 

around beyond the sun,

a place beyond hope 

or heartbreak, where 

goodbyes do not exist

for those who truly love.

***

“Drifting”

 

My teenaged son told me he has a friend who was into “drifting” with his car until it resulted in damaging his vehicle at which point it didn’t seem quite so cool anymore.  He described the phenomenon to me and it sounded a lot like fish-tailing which we used to do in our cars that had rear-wheel drive when I was a teenager.  I guess with front-wheel drive or all-wheel drive cars these days fish-tailing is not as easy as it entails losing traction only on the back tires.  So “drifting” is the phenomenon of losing traction on all four tires by banking hard into a turn and over-steering the same direction as the curve.  

The discussion of this phenomenon with my son brought back a memory of maybe the one time in my life that I actually drifted a vehicle in spectacular fashion.  

I was in my early twenties and serving in a mechanized infantry unit in Korea.  Our company was “Delta Death” and each platoon had four Bradley Fighting Vehicles making twelve total (3 rifle platoons and a headquarters platoon).  These vehicles looked like small boxy tanks because they had a rotating turret with a main gun but also a compartment to hold infantry soldiers.  It was a hybrid vehicle of sorts halfway b/w a tank and a troop carrier.

Anyway, our unit was one of the first to transition the Bradleys into use in Korea so we were all green when it came to this particular 27-ton behemoth.  We spent months getting familiar with it to include learning about its specs, maintenance, weapons system, etc, until they finally arrived and we could actually put our hands on one and drive it.  

And driving it was a challenge.  It was a tracked vehicle like a tank and so heavy that getting it to move from a dead stop took some doing.  When backing up if you wanted to turn your back end to the right you would have to rotate the steering mechanism to the left and vice versa.  In a car it is just the opposite and so it was awkward to overcome all of that muscle memory.  Also when driving a car you are thinking about the direction you are turning your steering wheel which is turning the two wheels below you in the same direction, but on a tracked vehicle it is different.  For example, if you want to turn right you turn the steering mechanism right and give it a lot of gas but it is not a wheel that you are turning below you or even a steering wheel in your hands for that matter.  Instead, the right track slows and the left track speeds up in order to turn the vehicle in a rightward direction.  You get the general idea.    

One particularly miserable rainy afternoon my platoon took its turn at a Bradley training area.  It was a muddy plateau that had been carved out of the side of a mountain somewhere in the no-man’s-land between Camp Casey and Camp Hovey.  The main part of the training entailed driving as fast as you can towards the front of a rectangular open bunker, execute a 180 degree turn, and then enter the bunker via a ramp from behind it.  These bunkers are part of the strategy used by the Bradley Fighting Vehicle whereby you drive down into it so that the bottom part of the vehicle holding the troops is below ground level and the only thing sticking up above ground is the rotating turret which can survey the landscape and fire its guns if need’s be at a pursuing enemy.  

Waiting my turn was excruciating.  I watched the other soldiers take their turn and drive cautiously down the open stretch coming to an almost complete stop when they got to the backside of the bunker and then do a slow and laborious turn of the vehicle until they got it far enough around to enter the bunker.  This looked like an inefficient and herky-jerky mess to me.  If you were the Bradley Commander or gunner half sticking out of the turret (as sometimes happens when just driving around) it would feel like being on a mechanical bull ride where your body and head would be flopping around with each punch and lurch of the vehicle as it swiveled in fits and starts.

My time finally arrived and I giddily entered through the driver’s hatch and donned the helmet with built-in microphone.  I pulled the hatch lid down sealing myself into the driver’s compartment.  I heard the sergeant’s voice through the headset from the turret.  “You ready Haney?”

“I’m good to go Sarge!” 

I got the Bradley lined up at the beginning of the run and got the OK to proceed to the bunker.  I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and it lurched forward.  Peering out the little rectangular glass portals was difficult but I could just make out the muddy tracks in front of me and the bunker up ahead which looked like a small rounded rise with grass on it.  I kept the gas pedal buried so it could reach top speed by the time I reached the bunker.  As we got closer the voice in my headset said “Ok, slow down, slow down, SLOW DOWN!”

I estimated at this point I was beside the bunker and without letting up on the gas I buried the steering mechanism hard to the right and that 27-ton monster box slid full sideways and around in a beautiful wide 180 degree arc and ended up facing the way I’d come at a full stop lined up with the bunker.  My foot was off the gas at this point as I paused and then proceeded nonchalantly down into the bunker.

My headset buzzed angrily: “Goddammit, Haney!  Don’t EVER do that again!” as I sat there with a big smile on my face that no one could see.

***

Theophany on Mars

 

They ascend the hill 

with hands intertwined,

their translucent robes 

flapping in a windless void.

They sense the presence

of a being from another 

world transported by a

numinous needle of fire.

The landing has marred

the surface of their world

but only on the most 

superficial of levels.

Curiosity draws them to

the top of the hill as does

the free compulsion of 

an all-connectedness.

In the valley below them 

the traveller is setting up

a shiny cistern of sorts

on a quad-legged table.

Inside his helmet they 

can sense from afar

the oscillations of a chant

forming on a blue wavelength:

“When You, O Lord, were

baptized in the Jordan

the worship of the Trinity 

was made manifest…”

The meaning is unknown to them

but the beauty of it is undeniable

as the subterranean waters 

sing deep below their fleet feet.

***

I Dream of Danger

 

In my dream…

It was something I’d heard about and seen play out a time or two in the news, something  utterly terrifying. In these grainy newsreels it would show someone in a car stopping because of a car sitting sideways in the middle of the road.  Beside the car would be two cartoon-like characters that looked to be men in costume.  The costume made them look like simple children’s drawings: large and puffy, all white, and a simple face drawn on with a black marker.  There was something paranormal about this phenomenon such that if the person found themselves confronted by this scenario they were going to die and there was nothing to be done about it (a la “The Ring”).

So, I am pulling out of a parking lot with my family and as I turn there sits a car with the two cartoonish characters by it blocking the road.  In a full on panic I put my car in reverse.  I speed off backwards towards the downtown skyline and when I get there I briefly see the outline of a giant fox-like creature in the distance towering over some skyscrapers in my rearview mirror.  I realize it is part of this thing I am now caught up in and I make my family exit the car.

We run across the street and into an empty department store.  I am trying to get them to move as fast as possible without having to tell them we are in mortal danger.  I am kind of running behind them saying “go, go, go!” staying between them and whatever is behind us.  We run down an aisle to the back and I am looking around trying to find a way further in and further away from the danger stalking us.

I have them go through some doors into the back offices and then into a bathroom where I lock the door and tell them to be as quiet as possible.  I have no idea if anything I do will actually save our lives but I am determined to do everything in my power to increase the odds of our survival.  We stand in silence and I hear someone or something approach the door.  I put my finger to my lips and make eye contact with each family member to make sure no one makes a sound.  But then my teenage son starts to get impatient and gives me a kind of annoyed look and says in a low voice that isn’t quite a whisper “There’s nobody out there”.

I don’t know how to make him not talk and at this point I am sure we have been compromised.  It is such a feeling of total despair, but I can’t give up hope and so I push open a window and lift up my daughter to get her outside so hopefully she can continue to run and possibly escape the inevitability of this nightmare.

***

The Search for Beauty

Such exquisite beauty and sadness in the world.  

It is the knife that pierces my heart most cleanly, 

two sides of one blade.  It may manifest through 

music, literature, or the visual arts motivating my 

attempts to participate in it as best I can, whether

strumming on a guitar and trying not to strain 

while singing or maybe writing something that 

I hope moves someone or taking a photograph 

to capture the same sad but beautiful effect.  

I see these images everywhere and everywhen.

I would love to be a great writer or musician

but it is the visual aspect that comes most 

effortlessly to me and the eye of my heart.

And whatever it is it has to be enough for now.

I am old enough to have squandered too much

time in the pursuit of pleasurable things that 

are transient and too easily attained without 

the single-mindedness needed for greatness.

***

December Sunday

The drive to and from work
on a dreary December Sunday
when the world has died or
at least gone into a deep slumber.

The tall weeds and slender trees
flow by gray-brown and naked
while flocks of birds fly from
place to place listless and cold.

A time to be alone and enclosed in
my shiny red box, coming or going,
a peaceful bit of purgatory before
reaching either heaven or hell.

***

The Train

 

My grandpa loved trains and when I see them on occasion I think of him.  He was a peculiar man, possibly even eccentric.  He spent the last half of his eighty years divorced from my grandma and living as a single man, working as a janitor, and habitating in various rented spaces before transitioning to a nursing home when dementia set in in his seventies.  

He was gruff, especially to women and children, but as I grew older I began to appreciate him more.  Like all of us, he was who he was and had been formed by forces mostly outside of his control.  He boiled Quaker oats on the stove top every morning and added a pinch of salt.  Lunch and supper were always accompanied by a slice of buttered white bread.  

He kept to his rituals until the inexorableness of his cognitive decline robbed him of them.  I visited him at the nursing home when I could.  I would take my college books down there to work on assignments and study.  I don’t think he knew who I was but seemed appreciative of the company and sometimes unexpected wisdom would manifest in his lost thoughts.

I won’t lie, there was a very attractive nurse there that made it easier to spend time with him.  She and I lived in two completely different social spheres but it was nice to see her smile.  I once challenged my grandpa to a race down her wing.  I took off running half in jest  but when I looked around he was right on my tail.  Her lovely eyes registered surprise if not alarm.

And the train has come a long way since then.  I watch it speed over my head on the way home.  A lifetime of change and choices have come and gone like those coupled railroad cars flying by.  I wonder where they are headed at such breakneck speed?  I sometimes wish life would slow down and let me catch my breath so I can remember who I am.  

***

The Moving Monolith

 

It’s familiar yet alien 

with the caring coming

through in solid stone.

Somewhat like Ray’s 

mysterious Martians 

hapless to time and 

desecration by men

who visit and forget

kindness due to fear.

A lesson we would

do well to learn and

burn into our brains.

***

Attack of the Santa Clones

 

The diminutive Santa clones had attacked Grandma Dee in the run up to Christmas.  

They marched in columns down the alley forming dark parallel lines through the frost and surrounded the back porch with malice in their beady eyes.  Their sparkling artificial eyebrows and mustaches caught the slanting rays of the morning sun as they stood breathless and bearded portending something ominous.

Grandma Dee was busy in the kitchen prepping food for the holiday when she spied them through the window.  “What the heck?” she mumbled as she dried her hands on her apron.  “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”  Family and guests would be arriving later that afternoon.

With a determined look in her eye she tied up her housecoat and slid a large carving knife out of its holder.  On the elevated back porch she waved it around and told the clones in no uncertain terms they should turn around and go back to wherever they came from.

When that didn’t work she waddled down the steps and charged into their ranks, knife flashing in the sun, her slippers stomping and kicking as she went.  Little red bodies converged only to be dispersed by the irate woman intent on saving the holiday from certain disaster.  “For the grandkids!” she bellowed.

Later when the guests arrived and Grandma Dee  had changed into something more presentable they marveled at her Christmas lights and decorations that covered every conceivable surface.  And from the rafters hung with care were several shiny Santa heads.

The Lord provides indeed.

***

STATION ELEVEN

January 5th, 2022

STATION ELEVEN is a new post-apocalyptic series on HBO Max based on an award winning SciFi novel of the same name.

I have been captivated by these type of stories since I was a teenager when there was so much I did not understand about the wider world and what dangers might lurk there.  Post-apocalyptic stories were a way for me to explore some of these dangers from the safety of my bedroom.  If I were to look for metaphors of what an apocalypse might be and what follows it I could do worse than to see it as that transition from the stability and comforts of home as a child to being exiled into the unknown territory of adulthood where one must begin to make one’s own way in the world, sink or swim.  It is simultaneously an exhilarating and terrifying prospect that involves finding seemingly radical new ways to adapt.

My transition was extremely bumpy and protracted to the point my mother despaired that I might be that “failure to launch” scenario.  I threw myself into impossible situations to see how I would respond with varying degrees of success and failure.  This included changing my major in college at least three times, changing colleges, dropping out of college and joining the Army during the first Gulf War, ending up in Korea for two years, returning to finish college and then globetrotting for a bit.  I did not lock into a trajectory as such until a decade after graduating from high school when I was accepted to medical school.  At that point I felt I was finally moving into what my metaphor might consider the post post-apocalyptic period.

And STATION ELEVEN hits all the sweet spots for me.  A pandemic sweeps the planet with a one in one thousand survival rate.  I read today that it was developed (and two of the episodes filmed) pre-pandemic so its release has been coincidental to our own pandemic woes, but everything hits so much harder now that we are in the midst of our own.  The characters that emerge are distorted by it just like we are seeing now, bringing out both the best and the worst in us in how we adapt to this new situation.

At the heart of the series is a comic book entitled “STATION ELEVEN” that features a mysterious character in a blue space suit who lives on an abandoned space station and is known as “Dr. Eleven”.  Yesterday I was wearing my PAPRs (powered air-purifying respirator) to see a Covid patient and it struck me that my appearance was not unlike Dr. Eleven.  So, of course, I took a selfie and cosplayed myself into the STATION ELEVEN universe, imagining I’m in one of those stories I love so much.

***

 

Fade to Gray

***

Mixed emotions

Dead devotions

Empty oceans

I 

Fade to gray

Posthumous Letter to KVJ

 

Hello Kurt, you probably don’t remember me but we met at a high school somewhere in Indianapolis.  I was the teenager with a copy of Cat’s Cradle and a pen trying to get you to autograph it.  There was no Security present so my friends and I simply ambushed you at the back stage door.  You were smoking a cigarette (nothing you'd blink your eye at inside a building in the mid-80’s).  I wish I’d made a better impression.  You looked irritated.  I understand that now.  The cult of celebrity is a mixed blessing at best, a perpetual curse at worst.  

I remember it was a cold and wet evening in late Fall.  We drove up from Mitchell, Indiana.  The only thing I can still remember about your talk these 36 years later is that you were mad as hell at Ronald Reagan and his bombing of Libya.  At the time I was a Reagan fanboy and your words left me conflicted.  I understand it better now.  My “big brain” has processed quite a bit more information since then and I’ve had opportunity to travel the globe learning some humility and maybe even grace.  Blessings to you wherever you are [3 words here].

Aaron

***

The Birth of Impressionism?

 

Having taken a few photos through my rain-soaked windshield this morning and run them through a paint app the thought struck me just now… what if the impressionist style of painting began in just such a way? It would have been a Bob Ross “happy accident” on steroids.

Stay with me. A glass maker who also happens to be an avid painter is carrying a pane of glass to fix a friend’s window. As he walks with it in hand and held in front of him an unexpected downpour hits and he finds himself in a so-called sunshower and the glass covered with water.

At first he is a little put off but then he sees the landscape before him through the glass in brilliant swirls and mottled colors that takes his breath away. The world and his perception of it has been utterly transformed and he is not sure that he’s ever seen something so beautiful!

He immediately turns himself around and hurries home in a kind of daze leaving the glass behind. At his house he begins dabbing heavy blotches of bright colored paint over a staid landscape he had been working on and transforms it into something never seen before.

Impressionism is born!

***

Blood Moon

 

Blood moon 

mood more

bleed soon

heart sore

sad tune

slam door

rock hewn

love poor

sand dune

far shore

never noon

night lore.

***

The Lonely Persimmon

 

It’s a lonely time of year

for unfallen persimmons.

I respect their tenacity

to ward off the inevitable

but it makes me sad none

theless, a spot of orange

against a gray & sullen sky.

***

Kevin’s Friends

 

I’ve had a large art folder with some of Kevin McCarty’s charcoal sketches stored away in a closet for over a decade and I’ve been meaning to pull them out and put them in their poster protectors. The few times I’ve stumbled upon this folder it has always seemed like there would be time at a later date to make it happen. Well, today is finally that day.

As I’ve handled them I realize the paper has thinned and dried out into a brittle dark beige that is turning brown in spots. The poster protectors that they were meant to be placed in have sat unused and still shrink-wrapped with the sketches all these years. None too soon I have unwrapped them and carefully slipped the large pieces of sketch paper between the thin particle board back and clear plastic cover.

The thing that stands out to me is that three of the four sketches are of one person. The remaining one is of three people in various stages of completion sitting in chairs and at a counter. I recognize the setting as The Country Shed which was a greasy spoon restaurant in Marion, Indiana where the locals hung out but was torn down when the bypass was expanded.

Initially I did not realize the three men in separate sketches were the same person, but then on closer inspection it became clear: beard, large glasses, baseball cap, dark sleeveless shirt, and coffee cup. The different iterations looked different to me because he is drawn from three different angles. This kind of sketching was typical for Kevin in preparing to create an oil painting. It allowed him to understand what he was seeing with his one weakened eye and lack of depth perception that most are afforded by virtue of having two eyes. Maybe even more important than the visual aspects was the process itself which gave him time to talk to his subjects and get to know them on a more personal level.

I’m sure for Kevin it was a win-win situation. He loved talking to people and could spend hours going back and forth about any number of topics though he had a preference for existential questions. I never specifically asked him about it but as someone who has knowledge about retinoblastoma and sarcomas from medical school I wondered if his elevated risk for cancer recurrence as an adult and related increase in mortality was always somewhere in the back of his mind.

And here I sit at this desk surrounded by his long hidden works trying to give them their due. His eye has become my eyes trying to understand this man from decades passed when The Country Shed was a place to experience the connections that bind us all together.

Kramer’s Kronicles and Kollege

 

When my son was in elementary school he liked to write stories from time to time in his school notebooks and even illustrate them with drawings.  Some were required for school but others were done just for fun.  Early on he would weave in elements of Minecraft that he played on my old iPad.  We still laugh about his main character charging into a cave of zombies sword-in-hand with the cry “FOR LIFE!” 

He drew ideas from TV, especially reality shows that would cut off at some particularly thrilling point for commercials in cliffhanger fashion.  He picked up on this notion and would end some of his chapters or sections of a story with an element of acute danger or excitement that forced the reader to pause but then continue on reading in anticipation of a resolution.

And as he went from grade to grade his tastes changed.  He had a scary story phase somewhere around 3^rd and 4^th grade and then was coming up with ideas for sports-related stories in 5^th and 6^th grade which reflected his experiences of competing on baseball and basketball teams.

To encourage this early on I created a blog site for him called “Kramer’s Kronicles” which was a riff on his middle name and Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles”.  I would take his hand written stories and type them into the blog and then get his ideas about possible pictures to illustrate them if possible.  These stories became few and far between as he progressed into middle school despite my encouraging him to keep writing.

At some point I imagined he was done with all of that as a passing childhood fancy but it lingered in the form of high school writing assignments.  In this context he would sometimes come home excited about things his English teacher would say about things he’d written.  His attitude was always one of astonishment that he had the ability to create something compelling from the words he would write.  This recently found a kind of culmination in his personal essay for his college application.  It was well thought out and emotionally charged in a way that I can only imagine caught the attention of College Admissions and helped him get an early acceptance letter from his favorite college this past weekend.

And so here I am thinking of those early years of Kramer’s Kronicles and an idea has formed in my head of an image that combines a picture I took of him over the weekend at a college visit and a Martian landscape as imagined by the great SciFi artist Michael Whelan for Ray Bradbury’s “The Martian Chronicles”.  It is a visual “kronicle” of the journey my son has made over, around, and through many obstacles to find himself at a point that was hardly imaginable all those years ago.

***