by Kevin Tilley
The crows are circling with a certain amount of impatience.
So now what?
…
Day Two, Part Nine: Crazy Patterns
Whereby
chance encounters
take on growing, if not illusive,
importance through the unsound churning of our narrator's
inner dialogue, the kind understanding of a pair of quiet lips, and a
generous show of support from a hitherto antagonistic
gang of rhymers. And a hungry dog, in a close
approximation to having its day, finally
gets some food.
. . .
She squeezes my hand every few steps. Perhaps as a sign of reassurance. Letting me know that it is not her intention to lead me astray -- to usher me headlong into the impenetrable realms of my darkest desires. Of course, when one is in the process of directing another into harm's way the first thing they'll want to establish is a firm covenant of trust that nothing bad is about to occur. A banner thought treading across my looking glass marbles. A brutal gust from the farthest reaches of normalcy kicking up and hitting me square on the chin. Hinting at the mad resolution waiting at the four corners of my mind. Weighing heavy on my conscience.
Such sinister thoughts from this gentle source.
Maybe she just wants to remind me that she is still at my side. As if I could forget. Haven't been able to think of much else since we began our walk. Not every day you find yourself promenading with a lovely girl decked out in such colorful regalia. Not for me any way. But this is a day which seems to be full of surprises. Good or bad. Who's to say? What's the difference? Really...
Or maybe she's trying to provide me with a tangible sensory experience to hold on to, for those times down the road when she is no longer...
Cut it out. Do yourself a favor and refrain from reading too much into this female's gestures. You should know better by now. After all, your track record hardly places you in the best position to offer any reliable interpretations.
It is a matter of simple truth. The storms have yielded their casualties. More than we could ever venture to count. An underlying distribution brought on by half-hearted inspiration. The line drawn on black and white grounds. There is no solace to be derived from the rings that emanate from the center of perfectly acceptable replacements. Hah...who's kidding who?
Searching through the rubble to find that one token of affection you know will take you safely back. Only to find that it in a place you never imagined. Such is the phenomenon of happenstance. Out here in the nether regions of sanity. Letting it all hang out. Exposed to a witches brew of unrelenting elements. Gone to indelible extremes. For the sake of those flashes of brilliance you never found a way to frame. Hung out to dry. Elbows ripped on rusty nails.
Where was I? Running through the endless field of my well-bound mortality. An old story. Told in tongues. On my fingertips. Scraps thrown to the dogs of memory. Sniffing around for a decent place to pay their regards.
What have you gotten myself into? You stupid martyr.
You talking to me?... Thought so.
I know. I've never been all that adept at grasping the gravity of obviously dubious situations. Tending to fall under the weight of temptation. At every turn. Inviting any number of perilous consequences. Creating a fair share of hardship for myself and, more importantly, to those who sadly placed their trust in my arms.
Try not to slip. I know how easily you tend to lose your grip. And it would hardly due to begin infusing historical trepidations on such a monumental occasion. At this end of the time line. A lonely constellation of missed opportunities and torn embraces. Forgetting more than you can ever remember. A selective sequence of events. Serving no agreeable purpose. Certainly offering no degree of honor to the gift of this presence.
Soothing the unrelenting beast within. A choir of voices sounding discordant harmonies. Doing their best to get the better of my vulnerable state of mind. Bouncing off the walls. Stating their objectives in no uncertain terms. In words overflowing with uncertainty. Open wide to various mutant theories. A bellowing organ grinding through major scales. Commanding attention. Failing to attend to the half-steps which make up the better part of our grand opera. And where does all this fit together? Sweet caresses smoked down to the filter. Life and death waltzing through the mainstream.
Anything is reasonable...to a point.
Laugh it off. You have more pressing matters at hand. That hand. So warm and real. Curling around my own. Unlike anything you have encountered in recent travels. Pristine. Unfettered. But don't get yourself carried away. You still have a long way to go. I suppose.
Rest assured. Let it go. See where it takes you.
Wonderland. The sign reads. Letters growing larger as we move toward what I assume to be our first stop along the way. Will there be others?... Hoping she won't ditch me when the opportunity arises. Wonder. Land. Spelled in burnt out bulbs and empty light sockets. A scattering of stars and quarter-moons decorate the balance of the marquee, rendered in paint that has faded far beyond original hues. Looks as though we've all seen better days, out here in this forsaken land.
The furriest of our three begins to bark abruptly, in rapid gasping yelps, as the previously elusive troupe of misfit marauders breaks precedent and comes rushing up to greet us. In an attempt to settle my four-legged follower one member of the merry mischief-makers brandishes a rather sizable leg bone, complemented with ample flesh to soothe this most benign savage beast. Or is it a breast? Either way, that dog digs in with due diligence, leaving me to fend for myself. Man's best friend...
You might as well place your trust in the slightest of ideas. Where are we without implicit trust? Nowhere. I have been up and down, and back up again. And down. And the only truth I understand is pain and sadness and pathetic drama. Sympathy bleeds through the cracks of old machinery. Smoke and oil and nicotine stains. Absorbed into the flesh. A crude brown residue that no amount of scrubbing will ever diminish.
The group, now within speaking range, begins to form a loose circle around me and my harlequin princess. Not to surround us, it would seem, but more to create a barrier between the nucleus of our created reality and the outside world. Walking around and around. Some sort of atomic entity occurring naturally. A universe unto ourselves. Or something like that. Been a while since those chalkboard sermons filled me with such wonder and taught me things I could never fully appreciate.
Pretty soon them Electrons (a nickname by which I immediately vow to always refer to them), in addition to marching in a circle around us, begin to chant. This can't be good. I wouldn't think. And if the mere fact of the chanting weren't bad enough, the actual substance of the chant brings the creep-factor well above suggested and/or desired levels.
Old Man Raven, sister Dove.
Mister Eagle high above.
Claws and Hammers and sharp, sharp beaks.
Fly with the Wisdom none dares speak.
In the future. Yesterday.
Swoop down on your guilty prey.
Cleanse the flesh and restore the word.
Pluck the feather from a whirlybird.
Repeated over and over. As the circling goes on. Serving to induce a fairly hypnotic state. A sort of cozy euphoria begins to emanate from deep within my abdomen. Before I know it I am overcome with a sense of uninhibited joy and possibility. Grasping my partner's hand firmly and twirling her into the cradle of my arms. Where she waits, suspended, a bit taken aback by my actions, but not in that out-of-sorts way so common with many a young flirt. And then, as the chanting grows louder, I plant one on her. A mighty kiss for the ages.
And the crows fly off, a dark cloud speeding through the sky. Straight into the coming storm.
She whispers into my ear. I smile.
And we all enter the realm of Wonderland.
A pair of silly wanderers. The serenading Electrons. And a highly content canine with a flesh-
stripped bone dangling from one side of its mouth -- Groucho style. An impromptu party that keeps on growing. Leaps and bounds. Leaps and bounds.
Old Man Raven, Sister Dove.
Mister Eagle high above...
…
Day Two, Part Ten: As it Comes
The first crack from the undeniable and mounting disturbance in this already quite disturbing atmosphere breaks the air, sounding a warning shot. Like a mortar shell from an occupying force's front line. Gathering strength and growing restless. Rolling over the freshly broken ground with lighting speed. Fueled by greed and power. Only a matter of time till the shit hits the fan. A solemn promise ringing through the air. Giving pause to all passengers on this WonderLand Express, darting rapid glances at one another, each contemplating various sources of possible shelter. Dampening spirits.
All but one.
An old man sits atop an overturned, weather-beaten metal bucket. His fingers are making strange trips over the body and neck of a two-stringed guitar. Conjuring a version of music that has little to do with acceptable forms. What passes for his 'spirit', what could be more accurately referred to as his aura, almost palpable in its negative emission, seems well beyond damp. Downright soaked if you ask me. In gin, bad luck and hard times. Lost love. Betrayal. The whole nine. All etched into his face and hands. Doesn't take no charlatan soothsayer to chart them lines. Deep creases and deeper scars. Some straight and brief. Others jagged and far too long. Running from sight beneath a shirt collar or buttoned sleeve. Some souvenirs of life's hardships can not be hidden, others can never be seen. Some offer only a glimpse, which is really no offer at all.
A second crack. Nearer.
And the sounds from that guitar interplay with the violent vibrations. A low howl escapes through the old man's lips. Hard to tell from exactly where as neither moves -- not up or down. Maybe out of the corner of his mouth. Or through the space his front teeth once guarded. The dog hurries past me and lays down on a rug at the old man's feet, at the center of a vibrant Navajo pattern, with plenty of the dog's pre-shed fur for added flavor. An awareness that I was the one being led all along begins to settle. Come to think of it, that bone trick was a little too convenient. Not that I'm complaining. Or even that surprised. I've been fairly suspicious of most everything since checking in. Yesterday. Seems a million miles away.
Still...it does not due to look too much the dupe, especially when trying to impress the ladies. Yep. Amusing even myself. Out here in the middle of this carefully constructed charade.
This self-proclaimed Land of Wonder. With its withered front man and his flea-ridden side act. One brings 'em in, the other gives them a healthy dose of the fear. Will wonders never cease? Telling stories with endings you know all too well. Having been there and having done that. Speaking songs you've sung in the privacy of your own asylum. Drawing conclusions in the spaces between. Look real carefully and you might just recognize...
Crack number three. Nearer. Much nearer.
Where was I? Where have I been? Exactly.
She runs her hand up my arm. From wrist to elbow. My Harlequin romance. Giving me chills no number of native layers could possibly quell. I'm living a dream. Out here in the open. And I am in no shape to question the implications. Falling in love at every turn. A hopeless surrender into the rhythm of a forbidden alliance. Breathing in the aromatic wonder emanating from the curve of her shoulder. The comforting tones of a perfectly placed turn of phrase. A perfume of lilac and nicotine and diesel awakenings. Nothing you can firmly place. Not that you are trying. At least, not that hard.
Patience. Buddy.
A haunting tremolo emerges from the alchemy of sounds and other, less readily picked up, sensory stimuli. The old man's otherworldly utterances, the echoings of thunder and frightened thoughts, the frailty of a gesture, the pops of light that dance in the shadows. All combining on a single wave of energy. A fundamental calling. A procession of rises and falls far beyond my years or experience to fully absorb. All I can do is register its existence and note the possible relevance. The prospect of either enough to make me want to find my own space in this silly eternity to crawl up and hide.
But I must stand brave and tall. I'm here on a mission. After all. Not exactly sure whose, but we all learned long ago to not ask too many questions. Didn't we?
Number four. Loud enough to make those Electrons jump around. And m'lady. Not to mention m'self. All moving with highly charged agitation. I take it upon myself to scan the suite of WonderLand attractions to find a suitable...HELLLOOW... what have we here? Too good to be true. But there's the sign. Clear as day. Well, clear as any other day.
The Tunnel of Love.
Okay you gods up there. Or wherever you've hidden yourself down here in these proceedings. The thunder, the pulse of energy, the sign... You don't need to tell me twice. Again.
I take my trembling elected love into my arms and, giving her my best matinee idol devil-may-care impression (sly smile, wrinkled brow, dreamy eyes -- a look which probably has her wondering what sort of stomach problems I'm experiencing), carry her across the tunnel's threshold. Placing her gently in the front seat of the lead car, a real car in fact. A '66 Buick convertible. BEE-YEW-TEEFUL. Painted a magnificent cream. With a dashboard like a spaceship's. She crosses her legs and runs her hand over the giant steering wheel. Letting out a little giggle as she presses the chrome horn. My signal to hurry past the hood ornament and slide in beside her. Both of us buckling up just like they used to show in those mental hygiene films.
And we're off like a rocket. A fifth burst melting away behind us. Igniting into flames...
…
Day Two, Part Eleven: What You Pay For
Everything goes dark. I can hear myself breathing. Or it the sound of my shotgun mistress? A rhythm of scared excitement and anxious anticipation. One and the same. Joining together in some homage to the voodoo powers which have so graciously infiltrated the better part of our consciousness. In this together. Moving at break-neck speed through a vast nothingness. Wondering just what, through this blind twisting and turning, might be waiting to rear its ugly head. If either of us brought any inhibitions with us they have surely flown out the window by now.
Letting go.
Between two worlds. More or less. Two impossible unknowns with an evasively uncommon denominator. Taking what matters I can into my own hand. Fumbling with well-honed instinct toward the radio. Turning the knob in anticipation of who may be broadcasting in this region, and just what sort of programming has been selected for designated lovers. And the car's interior comes to life. Gauges glowing. Revealing a scale tipping on any number of fronts. Velocity. Temperature. Levels of all sorts. A vast array of warning signs. Speakers crackle with pure volume, pumping out the strains from an early 30's recording. Ol' Victoria Spivey moaning out her suggestive take on affairs of the heart. Or so I imagine.
And the road traveled responds in kind. Steam rising from the freshly pounded pavement. Revealing an endless stretch of asphalt absolution. Expanding with every chest expansion. Into the expanse of this wide open. Painted lines fleeting by. Road signs filtering away. Leaving their disjointed messages. Staccato Burma Shave invitations. "Jesus Loves You" salutations. Washed out annihilations. Speed limits gone astray. Bent metal declarations. Beliefs left on the shoulder. For anybody to come along and pick up. A game with no rules. An entertaining aside.
One, two, three...
Picking up where you left off. Wherever that was.
Through this tunnel of trepidation. Nothing given and nothing taken. Matches struck against the coal runway. Sticks wrestled and left to burn. Coming to terms. With rapid acceleration. With all those pieces of yourself left back there in the dust. Flying through time, into that dead-end infinity. No stopping now. Might as well release the wheel and raise your arms. Enjoy the ride. You didn't think you were actually in control. Did you?
Maniacal laughter erupting. From all sides. Sense-surround
surrealism. Leaping into the throat. Coursing through the nervous system. Palms dripping sweat. Cooling with the rush of wind. Loosening your shoulder strap, to get the full effect. Placing your shaky faith in whoever designed this amorous contraption.
Passing a figure on the passenger side. Holding a sign that reads "Death or Bust." Good to know your destination on the highway of life. I guess. Getting that sinking feeling you'll be seeing him again. Soon enough.
I turn my attention to my fellow tunnel dweller, to acknowledge she also witnessed that ominous apparition. But she doesn't quite look herself. Not that I know her well enough to make observations on how she should appear. And I must allow for certain tricks of the light, especially in this mood. But still...her face seems to be undergoing a subtle transformation. All I need.
I look away abruptly to gather my bearings, focusing in on the blurry geometric shapes affixed to the dash, the simply stated emblem of this great machine, and look back. Sure enough. Thought I recognized you. Been awhile. Funny to find you seated here. Considering the last time we saw each other.
And just how should I begin to account for this turn of events? Interesting. Indeed.