February 17, 2002: Snow

It’s snowing up in Jackson; the lines are down over in Houston. The weather is playing in a minor key with subtle green notes that are out of tune with the season. A mid-winter cotton crop of frozen water imposes havoc on a land steill bearing the scars of slavery. Sometimes reconning comes as intermittent doses. Lent is about to settle over the South. Perhaps the sounds of contrition have arrived in an unexpected form.

I’m waiting for yet another healer. Knives, potions, extractions of red life from arms have moved in like uninvited guests. One needle extracts while another injects. Life out-life in.

It’s snowing up in Jackson, but a different reconning clings to the coast.

Stephen Crane Watched In Silence

A cold rain in July was difficult to process.

“I’m lonely,” the girl used the words like a tissue against the driving water.

“The rain isn’t really cold. It’s the contradiction it presents to the heat.”

“Dumb ass, I’m still lonely, and your pseudo-intellectual meteorological burps do nothing to change my situation.”

Why were they having this gray and yellow conversation in the midst of a pounding Gulf squall?

“You far from home?”, he tried.

“Always have been.”

“Where is home?”

“I’ve worked hard to forget. At the moment it is here in the shelter of this concrete picnic table that escaped from the 50’s.”

“Want a beer?”

“I don’t drink, but yes.”

They drank in an existential silence that would have frozen Camus. He saw nothing as he stared out at the rain. She felt everything in the hole she had used to replace her soul. Every splinter of lightning and its lover, the detonation of thunder, echoed in that dark place.

“See you,” and he walked into the gray wall of the storm. She sat gazing at the empty beer bottle and slowly dissolved into the universe.

YESTERDAY

“All my troubles seemed so far away.”–Paul McCartney

Yesterday, fifty-three years ago, the smoke blew across the green. I was not there. By the end of the week, I sat on another green 798 miles away and wrote my father a letter asking “why?”. Today I sit in my chair 965 miles distant from that loud smoke covered space. I am still wondering “why?” But, I have not forgotten. May the four rest in peace.

Misnomer

He was a big “0fer” on his last three outs. The last one ended when the bull known as Quiet Man rammed him into the dirt at 7 seconds on the clock. If he did not make the short go tonight, he would be living in his truck, not just sleeping there. As his finger traced the draw sheet, he found his name next to Dog Food. The story was that this bull was so scrawny and ugly that one of the owner’s hands had remarked that he would not be worth much except for dog food. The fool should have looked into the animal’s eyes.

The boys on the circuit knew nothing about this creature as this was his first major competition. He walked down to the holding pen and spotted Dog Food standing alone. His horns had been trimmed off and his nasty yellow hide covered a body that was anything but scrawny. The bull noticed him with the eyes of ancient wisdom, snorted once and moved away.

Thirty minutes later he was lowering himself onto Dog Food’s back, tightening his rope, and adjusting his seat. A nod and they pulled the gate. The once mocked yellow creature took one stride out of the chute and launched his rump toward the moon. On touch down he snapped his head back with the move that frequently left riders with a broken nose or worse. A blindingly quick spin left, another four-foot flight, a second head snap and the horn sounded for eight.

He pulled hard on his rope, but his hand stuck. Dog Food twisted and he was finally free. No red flag, the board flashed 90. He would not sleep in his truck and would not have to eat dog food.

March 1521: A fair question.

“El calor es como el infierno. Las serpientes tienen colas con fabricantes de ruido. Nadie vive aquí. Esto no podía ser Eldorado. ¿Por qué vinimos?”

He never heard the arrow that sliced through his carotid artery.

Welcome to Florida.

View From The Other Side

Trotting down the narrow dirt floored corridor defined by steel bars, it was time to go to work. A new night in a new place, but his first time out always brought excitement. Time began to slow down as he waited in line for his turn. A time for reflection before preparation.

He began life as a number somewhere in the place humans called Colorado. Number 666 so they said. Remembering when that moniker gave way to a real name was easy. Warm summer light brought a shimmer to the tiny human they called Lisa. All she wanted was to pat his head. Four tiny strokes later she uttered, “Snuggles”. So he was transformed. The ultimate power had arrived, the power to name. Yet now, in ten minutes he would retrieve some of that power.

Out in the human world some of those creatures were screaming loudly about how he suffered abuse, a feeling he had never experienced. True, he never controlled when he worked, but he was well-fed, his health was carefully monitored, and the hard work lasted 8 seconds. Besides, he got to travel. The best part was he would never see the inside of a slaughterhouse.

The time had arrived. A loud clang accompanied the closing of the chute’s backdoor. Humans hovering like the flies he hated back in the feed lot. Soft denim against his back and along his ribs as this week’s opponent took his position. His name felt appropriate. Deep breath; open gate; explosion. His opponent did well, but not well enough. Four seconds, and he trotted back to the holding pen to think about sunshine and four tiny strokes.

Macbeth: Somethings Seem Like Cancer

Leaning against the wall was comforting. It was a stability his situation did not offer. Contemplating the contents of the dressing room kept his mind on the brightness of the future and avoided the abyss that awaited. The draw sheet had explained the future with great clarity. Two things blocked his path to the short go ground: a bull and the six inches between his own ears. One was uncontrollable. The other was as persistent as the tide on the East Texas coast. In one twenty-fourth of the day, he would need to conquer both.

Macbeth was a huge creature, black as the heart of his namesake’s wife’s heart with horns as twisted as the witches in the story from where he derived his name. The animal seemed to have a supernatural sense of when the gate would be pulled and was already in the air as the hinges hit their stops. Never spinning in the same direction twice he consistently elevated to four feet of altitude and often sought revenge on the would-be rider once he was on the ground. As of today, Macbeth was 14-0 verses the cowboys.

The space between his ears was more problematic. No sane person would climb on to the back of a 2000-pound animal and hope to setup housekeeping for eight seconds. Yet, here was the path he was on. Dwelling on the broken arm, the two cracked ribs, bruised hip, and dislocated shoulder would not improve his chances of making eight against Macbeth. Time had wandered away. The walk down the hall to the back of the chute felt natural.

Macbeth was calm as he adjusted his rope and found his seat. The world seemed quiet and normal. He nodded. They pulled the gate. Hell came to life.

REFUGEE

Straight, like the edge of a blade; empty as his soul; leading nowhere with his steps. County Road 9 presented itself. A January chill prevented the wavy evidence of heat rising. If visually isolating, the silence was nonetheless inviting. Making its second pass a hawk decided he was not on the menu. Just as well, company was unwelcome.

The primal voice in his head reminded him that he knew where CR 9 led. Movement captured his attention as a four-foot-long diamondback slithered across the asphalt to sanctuary in the southern drainage ditch. Death in the air, death on the ground, he needed to move.

A hundred more steps, and a light breeze momentarily dropped the temperature five degrees and lifted the aroma of the marsh to his face. Now he remembered that while all roads terminated in the same place, this one provided a way station in nirvana. A heron squalled. He felt at home on the edge of creation.

The Berezina

He sat on the bench and allowed the early morning fog to drift him far away in time and space. Still staring at the sea but now from a rock beside a much colder body of water. Fog had given way to snow; sea to a river; silence to a banshee wind carrying cries and sobs.

Lost unnamed heroes sprawled on the funeral slabs of river ice. Others bobbed in the liquid holes doomed to freeze again when night came. The remains of men staggered toward their painful death or crippled future.

Finally, the pain-filled wind was pushing one last lost soul across the horror choked stream. His stained fur coat flapping in the maelstrom and strands of long ungroomed hair punishing his face. The last man to leave the grand foolishness.

The fog lifted; the sun burned the bay clean and left it blue. His bench remained damp as he wondered why ghosts came when they did. Would his shade ever visit some pilgrim on this bench?

Thinking About 8

He read the draw sheet, knowing he needed 8 to advance regardless of the score. The name was familiar. A small quick bull, scruffy gray hide with sawed-off horns. The left one pointing up and the right twisted down. Liquid Hell was owned by some cattle company outside Amarillo. This was a good draw to put him into the short go.

Thirty minutes and 8 seconds later he and Liquid Hell had put him in the short go. Back to the wall for the next round’s draw. He got the news and found that his slow walk to the holding pen seemed to last forever. The animal was quiet, flicking his ears back and forth as if he were listening to music. He stared through the steel rails with the certainty of one who knows his identity and the confidence that he owns each 8 second contest.

A much bigger bull than Liquid Hell with a black splotch across his face, he resembled a bandit. The boys said he never moved the same way twice, and he was likely to come after you after putting you on the ground. Eight seconds was all he needed, and more than he desired, but this was the money round. Electric Witch knew that as well.