The Glass Character: Open Salon

Showing posts with label Open Salon. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Let go? Hell, no!

http://open.salon.com/blog/murder_of_crows/2012/01/27/the_gift_horse

This piece from Open Salon was sent to me by my buddy Matt Paust, the Hemingway of the Henhouse and third runner-up in the Burl Ives lookalike contest. But its message is no joke.

It's about horses, and it's about acceptance and letting go. I am lousy at that last one. All I know how to do is hang on. I persevere, and persevere, and persevere until everyone else has gone home. Maybe twice in my life, it has paid off.

I don't know if I was damaged into it, or what. Looking at my childhood, well, if that ain't a recipe for insanity then I don't know what is. The twists and turns of truths, half-truths and whole lies was Byzantine. Subterfuge was key, as was gritting hard and . . . holding on.

If you didn't, you did not survive.

If a horse is running away with you, you hold on, right? Sometimes that's all you can do. If you let go at that point, your brains will soon decorate the nearest rock.

If you love someone, you hold on, don't you? I do.

I thought that's what was meant by "I do".

Then I wonder why we are so often exhorted to "let go", to do so gracefully and with a Buddhists' blank-faced, supreme indifference.

I wonder sometimes if God is indifferent. If there is such a thing. Probably not, probably just some rogue energy that somehow got started, and then couldn't get itself to stop.

I love horses, I really do, but I don't have them in my life any more. Steadily, one by one, like falling leaves, the things I care about have all left me and blown away. There are only a few survivors left.

And I do not like it and I will not, EVER, willingly, let go.

http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm

Monday, January 9, 2012

Written by the Hemingway of the hen house: Matt Paust's close encounter

Capt. Love's last command

I stifled a curse when I heard the beep beep

beep.

Another traffic jamming electric cart.

I'd soon be upon the damned thing

in my usual hurry

to get the shopping done

and get the hell out.

Someone less able than me,

self-destructive I guessed

in my least charitable way.

Someone stuffing greasy chips

into his or her face,

stuffing his or her beeping conveyance

with ever more bags of cheap deadly calories,

or shooting the shit

with another witless old fart,

both oblivious to me

as they block the aisle

in their GOD DAMNED ENTITLEMENT!

I round the corner and there he is.

Yes, a he,

a gaunt, tall ancient he.

Enormous bearded head,

white hair on top

and under chin,

milky eyes rolled inward,

parchment lips agape.

The head is erect,

but dead.

The old man is dead,

body propped in its cart

like the dead El Cid

strapped on his horse by Jimena

to save Valencia,

and yet...

Somehow the cart moves,

small, herky jerky moves,

forward and back,

and around,

this way and that,

beep beep beep,

as if its dead commander

still tries to drive.

I walk carefully around

this curious grotesque

to find the spices

and then the beans.

A couple more aisles

I must traverse

before I can leave

this crowded, cursed place.

Several more times

I meet the dead shopper.

Is he following me

or what the hell?

Each time we pass

I study him harder,

with quick glances

to catch a vital sign.

I wonder why he's alone.

If he's dead, how are the purchases

filling his cart?

A respect for him sprouts in my head.

There's no fear in his face,

nor defeat in his frame.

He's not dead but he's close

and it frightens him not.

He's an old sea captain I begin to think,

a mariner once,

an adventurous man,

who thrived on the challenge,

the danger of imminent

untimely death.

He's Eric the Red

returned from the dead.

He's Ahab and Blackbeard,

Morgan and Kidd,

the spirits of skippers

who handled the helm,

whose lives became legend

inspiring us still.

And that's when I saw her,

as I pieced it together,

this towering figure

nearing death in his cart,

refusing surrender

despite all the odds

overwhelming his body,

every breath that he took.

She stood there behind him,

far enough back so I couldn't be sure

she was with him at all.

She looked lost,

nearly helpless,

bent and frail thin.

I studied her face,

but like his it was closed

to strangers it seemed.

She was looking at something

only she seemed to see.

I walked on past her,

wondering anew,

and that's when I heard it:

a murmuring sound.

It was her or him or both in tune.

I turned to look and sure enough,

she'd moved closer to him and was leaning in,

and I wondered if I could tell by the voice

or the voices if two,

what clue I could take from the tones I might hear.

Does she know this old warrior,

does he know her, too?

Would I hear impatience or grumble or scorn?

Would they speak at all, would their faces reveal?

I saw the cart move.

It turned toward the woman

and the old captain's spirit

I could see had joined hers.

There was movement, animation

in that bearded large face.

Her body was bobbing a little with life,

and I heard it then, the sound unexpected.

It was thin, it was fragile, but it held its own.

It chased away dread, frustration and worse.

Their doom imminent, the bodies for sure,

but their spirits were stronger than ever, I knew

when I heard it from her,

her giggle.

Matt Paust