January 10, 2004

• Pacific

   

  In far-flung corners of the world, we toss around in a timeless game.

   

  Driving through middle-class, small town zip codes, I happened upon a rural county.

   

  I see a gaunt cow scratching her rump on the splintered wood of a fence, chewing slowly, each gulp traveling four stomachs’ distance with little haste.  Even the flies are nicer here.  Buzzing around every warm-bodied, sweet-blooded creature, they zip a song past ears at lazily syncopated intervals.  Listening to small-town radio, I hear quaint country preaching and the sweet sinner’s invitation spilling through my car with a twang.  I’ve had a fly-friend to keep me company for the past forty miles, playing gleefully with the slow swat of my bothered hands.  Dented aluminum mailboxes stand at attention as I drive near; flags raised, they hold letters and gifts and none of the city junk.  Running low on fuel, I pull over at a dusty, rusty station and though I half-expect a dirty man in overalls and a wad of chaw, the place is quiet and empty.  I slide a ten-dollar bill under a locked door and help myself to a few thirsty gallons.  I’d like to hear a y’all-come-back-now-y’here?  But I get in my car and keep moving.

   

  I come upon a fork in the road and the radio fades in mumbling gradations.  I don’t know where I’m going but I know the general direction – west; I’m going west.  But to be sure, I park and pull out a map.  My chummy fly continues to buzz and he offers me his advice – well meant but hopelessly garbled.  Still, circling my head like a dirty, short-living halo, I see the world through a thousand shiny eyes.  I see a thousand kisses for a slice of summer watermelon, a thousand bats taken to a head for friends.  I learn the ten thousand ways to fall in love, the million ways to heartache.  I count twelve thousand tribes ignoring God in a hundred thousand heathen ways.  I see five thousand loaves of bread turn into twelve thousand baskets and I taste a thousand cups of wine for a body, sipped in remembrance of one. 

   

  He zooms away in search of decay and I’m left looking at my map.  With the sun beating down on my head, a single bead of sweat reminds me that I’m making my way through life, covered in the slow-moving salt of all those emotions, thoughts, ideals that make me who I am.

   

  The map is unhelpful with these hidden roads so I go with my gut and choose the way that’s paved.  Five radio songs and two bags of chips later, I see where the crowds have gone; there’s a baseball game.  And they’ve come in droves to watch the championship.  Peanuts and Crackerjacks sound about right but I’ve me a destination and I won’t stop now.  It’s a long stretch but it’s still a small corner.  As I pass, I imagine the sound of a loud crack and the crowd goes wild, shaking the bleachers.

   

  So, there’s one man who’s made a name for himself, fame caught in the seams of a screaming baseball, knocked into the next county, over Asia, through the clouds, into space.  Unbeknownst to us, my fly has hitched a ride and with a garbled whoop, holds on for life.  Unable to blink, zooming through the moment, his eyes catch the blinding glare of a thousand glorious suns.  Short-lived and dirtier than us, he has a thousand epiphanies like Armstrong’s giant step or the birth of a first.  Old, mottled cheese looks like the moon and so, my fly breaks free from his homerun ride, drawn by his primordial, natural appetite. 

   

  A six-legged satellite, he circles the planet, unable to break free from the perpetual fall of gravity.  He will not live where he is.

   

  It’s dusk.  Above, a stray bird floats and pursues me.  I’ve found another friend.  She knows the way because in her wings, I taste the brine of two oceans.  My knees guiding the wheel, I undo my seatbelt and stretch back for a sweater.  Deftly, I pull it over my head, just in time to swerve in a near-miss.  I throw a cracker out the window and she dives, chasing the saltine straight into the ground.  With her eyes, I see before and behind.  In her squawk, I hear the massive gears of a rig, bit digging deep somewhere in the middle of nowhere.  I follow her dive and through her ears, I hear the swarthy cussing of fishermen, hauling in their burgeoning nets, spilling over with flipping life.  She burrows hard, straight through the core, and emerges new in a foreign place where fishmongers sleep on their junkets, their tiny eyes straining to see her.  Down is now up and she banks left and is gone to the tune of a gull’s song.
  
  

  Time passes.  Ambling along, silver light shines above the trees and I buzz, squawk and whistle.  I shake the dust from my sandals as I leave small towns behind me.  Beneath and high above, life is pastoral.  I eat my sandwich, packed weeks ago with cured ham and slices of moon.  On the radio, they play the Gambler and I’m alive – lost but alive, making my way through America.
  
  ——

  
  
    “When there was no lunch
     to take to school, 
     I blew up a brown paper sack
     to make it look full.”
     George Foreman
  
    “I don’t gamble, because
     winning a hundred dollars doesn’t
     give me great pleasure.  But
     losing a hundred dollars
     pisses me off.”
     Alex Trebek
  
  
  The Volunteers (Kathe Kollwitz)
  
  —–
  
  Enjoying:
  
  
         doves

  
  How to face Tim Russert.

   

   

   

   

  >>>  Matt11:28 !!!

  • 9:38 am
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