Rolling the Rug

He was 4 when we rolled out the new rug,

the moving boxes cut and connected into a 

huge cardboard fort with many windows,

Greta looking on.

He is 14 as we roll it back up to move else-

where after a decade of growth, snickering at 

childish things found in the back of his closet,

Greta long gone.

He is ageless in my heart, whether small with

bright orange hair, or nearly adult-sized with 

his own ideas, direction, dreams, and desires.

***

Gretchen Goes to Nebraska

It was 30 years ago today that King’s X dropped their second album “Gretchen Goes to Nebraska.”  The year was 1989 and I was a new transfer to Indiana Wesleyan University after an aborted sophomore year at DePauw University.  You might say life wasn’t quite unfolding as I’d imagined it would when I graduated from high school.  I was arrogant, insecure, and eager to make friends, but not so eager to be one.  What a strange time it was.

That’s when King’s X came onto my radar via their sophomore effort and it blew me away, well past Nebraska.  The picture of the band members looked edgy and uber cool.  The album concept was heavily influenced by C.S. Lewis and the first song even shared the name of his best known science fiction novel “Out of the Silent Planet.”  The cover was an illustration of what appeared to be a portal into another world cut into the fabric of space-time.  It’s as if a focus group had recruited me to brainstorm ideas for an album that would bring together elements of what I loved most in my young life.

And the music (Sweet Mercy!) was an eclectic mixture of hard and soft, full of soul, with three part harmonies and a relentless drive.  I’d never heard anything quite like it and I fell in love.  

I have six of their CD’s at present count, at least three of which I’ve acquired in just the past few years.  It’s like the band lay dormant for me for a couple of decades before I rediscovered them and was reminded of how much I adore them.  These CD’s are in my car and I love to play them when I’m driving.  My 14 year old son is not a fan because it is “Rock” and he is not into “Rock,” but my 8yo daughter will do some shared head-banging with me from the back seat with a big smile on her face.  She seems to get it.  

***

Unstuck in Time

Aaron has come unstuck in time, much like Billy Pilgrim at the beginning of chapter two in Slaughterhouse-Five.  There’s a kind of snipping sensation when his eyes lose focus and take a rest so that his internal vision can take over the controls.  Don’t try to talk to him when this happens.  You will be just some disembodied voice, like a medium from another plane of existence trying to break through.  He can, and likely will, ignore you.

It is the act of writing that he is experiencing.  The trigger is more often than not a particular memory or, more accurately, the *feeling* of a memory that begs to be re-felt and, in the re-feeling, shared with people who might want to read about such things so they can feel it too.  It is a reflection of our shared experience of the world.  We are all connected, so they say.

Check his backlog.  For some reason a crow is a recurring feature in these stories, especially the ones that reach back into his childhood.  Aaron is not sure why this must necessarily be the case but it seems unavoidable or even inevitable as a stand-in for himself or other key players.  Maybe it’s a symbol for something mysterious or inexplicable, like “all people are connected.”  His favorite, though the title might be a bit too on the nose, is “The Crow.”  That one is a doozy and really happened to his younger self.

What has sparked these thoughts as of today?  Well, for one, he is re-reading Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five due to this year being the 50^th anniversary of its publication.  He just so happens to be 50 years old himself and is at this very moment writing in 3^rd person in case you were wondering.

And something that happened yesterday as well...  Aaron becomes unstuck in time, but only by one day in order to share something strange that happened that is destined to be a felt memory.  His son has gone to the neighborhood Rec Center to play basketball and upon his return the 14 year old boy is obviously upset about something.  He comes into the kitchen and plops down on a stool and hits his not-quite-adult-sized fist onto the table.  

“What’s wrong, buddy?”  Aaron asks, speaking as his father.

“Nothing.”

They go back and forth with no information being exchanged until Aaron takes a stab at guessing what might be wrong to try and break the fruitless cycle.

“OK, I think you are angry at yourself because you saw an old lady stumble and fall at the Rec Center and you walked away and did nothing.”

The son stops staring into space and focuses on his father with a quizzical look.

“Am I right?”  Which is the only thing Aaron can say in response to such a look because he was not expecting it.

“Dad, I was walking home and I saw an old man fall out of his wheelchair in his driveway and he was saying ‘help, somebody help.’  I didn’t know what to do.  I saw a woman come over and she called 911 on her phone but I just kept walking.  I’m so mad at myself.  Why didn’t I stop and help?”

Aaron assures him that feeling upset at himself is a good thing and a sign that he cares about other people but that there was nothing to be done apart from that woman calling 911.  What the father is really thinking as these reassuring words are coming from his mouth is, “How in the sam hill was I able to interpret my son’s emotions so accurately without knowledge of what had actually happened?!”  He suspects time travel.

***

A Soldier for Uncle Sam

A soldier for Uncle Sam

but

I do not know who I am

Not that it even matters

when

the bullet flies, splatters

Making me less of a man

not

more, unaccording to plan

***

Kung Fu Coffee

The sleeve was gone

Coffee cup hot

Making it hard to hold

Fingers burning

But

Like Kwai Chang Caine

I bravely moved it

From hand to mouth 

For a sip of liquid Chi

***

Blue Light Special

Yesterday after work I had to go pick up my son at a friend’s house who lives a good distance north of us off a busy highway.  In order to avoid the worst of the traffic I went straight there, but had about an hour to wait until I was to pick him up.  To kill some time I stopped by a HalfPrice Books.

I roamed the store a bit, read a bit, and checked out some Facebook stuff online while sitting at a table near the entrance.  Next to that table was a cart filled with old games for sale and curiosity drew me in (or was it the musty smell?).  Amongst the forty or so games I found Stratego and a game called “Break One Nine” which involved using a plastic CB radio and pushing your semi-truck piece around a game board.  It struck me that my kids would have no idea what this game was about or why one would use a number code to communicate information over a radio from a vehicle.  Isn’t that what texting is for?

Speaking of arcane knowledge from the 70’s... I then found a game called “Blue Light Special” and in my mind’s eye I was three feet tall again and running through the tiled aisles of a Kmart store looking to find that spinning blue light shining somewhere just above the height of the shelves, a booming voice overhead egging me on, “Attention shoppers!  There is a Blue Light Special in kitchenwares.”  I’m sure my Mom’s voice was the next to boom out without the help of a speaker, “Aaron!  Where are you?  Get back here!”  

“Blue Light Special” is now a cultural reference and as indecipherable to my kids as “Break one nine.”  Like many phrases and references passed down from my parents that I’ve never had any direct experience of due to the passage of time, my kids will likely hear these things from me that will strike them as peculiar.  The advantage that they have that I did not have is they can immediately “Google it” and discover the origins of what they have not personally experienced.  Maybe their kids will snicker when they hear “Google it” and have no idea what they are talking about in some future Google-free world.

***

The Escalator

Looking at a picture of me and my son 

on an escalator in the DC subway system 

unexpectedly brings a kind of epiphany:  

That salvation is the relentless ascent 

of an escalator powered by the  grace of God,

but I have to get on it, maintain my balance, 

remain still, and let it carry me upward.  

My inclination to move will only likely 

send me heading in the wrong direction, 

yet even so there continues to be an 

inexorable pull dragging me heavenward.  

And something about this image gives me hope.

***

A Blue Tongue

If my tongue were blue 

I’d be locked in a zoo

with nothing to do 

but sit and stew 

in monkey poo.

  

In lieu,

my tongue is pink,

I do not stink,

not a missing link,

nor a fuzzy fink,

just a kid on the brink.

*wink*

***

The Shriners

When my sister’s back 

was crooked, not straight,

the Shriners came 

not a minute too late.

They trundled forth

In their little cars 

and paid the bills

like superstars.

  ***

The Last Day of School

It was the last day of school and he figured he wouldn’t waste his time sleeping for the rest of the summer.  Even as his parents dropped off to their slumbers and the sisters fell into dreams, he was out on the back second story deck pondering the universe, suspended several feet above the earth.  By starlight and moonglow he surveyed the endless cornfields and patches of forest stretching southward from his perch on the edge of the small town.

A groundhog trundled through some high grass along the fence line, but stopped and stood on its hind legs when it sensed the thin upright shadow floating above the field.  It was the boy who sometimes called out to him on sunny days.  He fled from other upright walkers, but this boy was different.  They would sometimes make eye contact and with his homey hole so near at hand he tolerated the uncertainty and strangeness of the situation.

The deer was less certain as it stood stalk still amongst the corn rows waiting for the boy to disappear back into his home.  It was also aware of the groundhog who took chances by standing man-like above the grass.  The deer thought it foolish and was certain the small creature would pay for it some day.  Better to stay hidden, keeping one’s ears upright and eyes sharp, sniffing the air.  The boy, like others of his kind, could kill from a distance.    

But the boy’s mind was not preoccupied with thoughts of vigilance or the need for survival.  He was imagining the possibility of tornadoes raging in the distance and whether there was life on other planets.  He wanted collapsible wings and a jet pack to launch himself from that deck into the radiant darkness.  He wondered if angels exist and if they knew he was looking to emulate them with fanciful contraptions.  Was flying synonymous with freedom?

***

The Precipice

I stand on the precipice

toes touching only air

as the chasm yawns.

Love will fill this space

but not by my efforts

alone, disconnected.

Can you help me God?

I want to take that step

made possible by faith.

And fly away from pain,

disappointment, pity, and

the need to be needed.

***

St. Maybe

With so much suffering in the world

one must find the consolations of

beauty and love, a reason to keep

going, the courage to shine like a sun

and dispel the darkness, but not with-

out struggling and, strangely enough,

suffering.  Maybe it is enough to be a

candle, a sputtering flame of whatever

kind.  Oh God, why is it so hard to do 

what is to be done, to be what one is

to be?  Hope.  Despair.  A saint, maybe? 

***

Mother

The towering Mother

(so lovingly tall)

peeks down in my crib

from the back wall.

I feel my dependence

(in spite of it all)

as towards the altar 

I quietly crawl.

Catch me dear Mother,

I tumble and fall.

In acts of kindness

you will not forestall.

***

The Flying Man

From above it is the bright yellow backboard that stands out, nailed to the back of a small green barn, a boy dribbling a basketball awkwardly in the grass underneath it.  The edges are painted red which match the centered rectangle.  There are also red letters on it, but I no longer remember what the word is, only that I painted it with a spray can and stencil when I was a kid.

The barn is not tall enough for the goal to sit at its full height of ten feet which is fine with the boy.  He already has a regulation-sized goal on the driveway in front of the barn.  This one is something he has made with his own hands and affixed to the barn with the help of a ladder and a neighborhood friend.  If he charges straight at it and plants his foot on the wall to spring upwards he can just brush the rim with his fingertips even though he is too short to even touch the bottom of the net on a real goal.  

It is a lazy summer day at the edge of a small town in southern Indiana.  From my vantage point above the scene I can see the cornfields stretching off into the distance behind the house.  I have taken the form of a crow in my mind’s eye to ride the winds of memory back to my boyhood; to this particular place, day, and time.  I caw loudly in greeting but the boy only glances in my general direction before fixing his attention back on the goal.    

The wind is really whipping today snapping the sheets hanging on the clothesline and threatening to whip them up into the sky.  I have to land on the top of the post closest to the barn where the boy is attempting a hook shot.  The ball careens off the side of the rim and rolls between the bushes and into the grassy expanse that separates the house from the cornfield.  He runs to retrieve it, but when he bends to pick it up he hears a peculiar noise that makes him forget the ball and look skyward.

It is a kind of buzzing sound that is faint, but growing louder.  Looking westward I see what it is he has already discovered.  It is an ultralight aircraft flying over the cornfield, the pilot perched below its wing in front of a small motor-driven propeller.  The boy has seen these before in the summertime headed for the small airstrip to the east of town.  He waves vigorously at the man to try and get his attention.  Then it happens... the motor sputters and coughs a time or two before going completely silent. 

The boy feels his heart starting to pound in his chest as he realizes the airstrip is too far away for the man to reach it without power.  He cups his hands around his mouth and yells at the man to see if he needs help but either he cannot hear him or he is too preoccupied with his situation to respond.  The boy abandons the basketball and runs to pull his bike out of the barn.  He pumps the pedals to catch the road heading eastward hoping to follow the contraption that is quietly gliding through the sky to an uncertain landing.  His imagination comes up with possible scenarios for the pilot’s fate.  Will he hit a tree?  Electrical lines?  Will he land on Highway 37 and get hit by a semi?  Will his plane burst into flames when it hits the ground?

Whatever the outcome, the boy is determined to follow the descent.  He has to keep visual contact because there is no sound to help identify its location.  I fly in his wake as he splits the wind for me.  We pass down streets and through neighborhoods that he has never been in before but it is necessary to parallel the plane’s path.  After a few minutes of pedaling at a furious pace he finally sees the ultralight disappear over a rise and he ditches his bike in the grass to track it down.  Climbing a small hill he feels his insides quivering.  Will the man be injured or even dead?  

As he crests the hill he sees the man extricating himself from what appears to be an intact aircraft that has nose planted into the shallow rise of a hillside.  He appears frustrated which turns to irritation at the appearance of the boy.  The boy asks if he is OK as I sweep up into a tree to observe their interaction.  He offers to ride his bike somewhere to get help, but the man waves it off and says he is fine and doesn’t need any help.  The boy did not expect him to be so gruff.  His thoughts of saving the day quickly fade as the man turns away and ignores him.  In a moment of insight and with a shrug of his shoulders the boy thinks that maybe the man is embarrassed and wonders to himself, “what’s up with grown-ups anyway?”  It is a good question and not one this crow can answer for him.

***

A Rocket Ride to Saturn

A rocket ride to Saturn would be nice

with you

skipping from rock to rock along the 

spinning rings

the songs of infinite space entwining 

our hearts

floating in the fullness of silent things

like love

buoyed from botherings that bring us down

***

A Need for Melancholy

There are times I can only tolerate music 

that is terrible in its melancholic intensity.

It is when I feel things are most real and

not something to be swept under a rug

like an infectious pop tune painting crazy

colors that I do not see in the world, my toe

tapping like the twitch of a dying man’s foot.

Melancholy is like salt that burns the tongue

yet brings out the fullness of a food’s flavor.


***