A tall stoop-shouldered figure climbed a ragged suburban street which ran uncompromisingly across a little hill at the south end of San Pablo Valley. Swirls of fog circled about him in flight from the rising west wind. His thinning hair was grey, his countenance saturnine, but his step, though not elastic, was firm and vigorous. It had need be, for sometimes the sidewalks were paved, sometimes a single plank, and sometimes simply rough earth.

Arrived near the top of the hill the man began to look about uncertainly as if to locate some well-known landmark. The fog was thinning a bit toward the south and an outcropping of rock came into view. Nearby a solitary carpenter was engaged in building a twentieth century bungalow with a worse than mediaeval technique.

Stepping hesitantly forward he stopped and gazed at the ledge of rock with a puzzled expression. “The old rock must have fallen into the hands of quarrymen to have shrunk to that size.” So he thought. Surely the light of other days, encased by time’s passage, could not magnify memory to shrink the rock to that extent,” he muttered. Then with more certainty he added, “It must be beyond and to the right.” Almost as he spoke a fresh, cool gust of wind cleared the top of the hill to his right and the object of his walk was before his eyes. A jagged outcropping of hard jasper boulders crowned the little hill. Poison oak bushes grew in the clefts between the rocks, and the whole area had the air of a tiny wilderness, very much out of keeping with its immediate surroundings. The man quickened his pace and was soon in the outskirts of the rocky citadel. As he went on, vivid memories loosened his tongue again to softly give voice to those many shadows tumbling forth from his mind.

“There is the big coffin-shaped block of green jasper I used to stumble over as a lad.” He took two steps forward along the side of the great block and began lovingly to finger the broken side of the great boulder. “These,” he said, “are the very niches I used to climb. Strange that these boulders have not weathered more, but jasper is hard indeed. The boulder was shaped like a great seat with a sloping back. The man climbed up and ensconced himself there, taking pleasure in fitting his toes into the niches which had been more suitable for his boyhood feet.

More fog was coming in from the west but, for the moment, the view had become quite extensive. The man gazed westward. First a steep slope, then a flat expanse, crisscrossed by suburban streets on which, as yet, nobody lived, then a low muddy beach, with San Pablo Bay just beyond leading to the Marin County shoreline with the Mount Tamalpais mountain range towering above. Seen from a distance native Indians envisioned the range as a sleeping maiden, her feet to the north, hands crossed on her breast, her nose at a high point with her long streaming hair flowing south down to the Golden Gate — a view the man loved to contemplate from boyhood.

The man doffed his hat, which now lay beside him, so used was he to fog, wind and cold that was typical of the Bay Area during the summer. He gazed on the prospect below with extreme distaste. “Not pleasant at all. They, the planners and developers anticipating the hordes to come have succeeded in methodically spoiling this spot of country without making it more useful to anybody.”

Looking back in time he saw through his father’s eyes the valley as it lay in sunshine so very long ago, a pleasant land between low hills and the Bay. To the north the mountains became low hills and ran down to the water with little cliffs here and there. The flatness of the north end of the Valley was relieved by a gentle eminence which had been ploughed about till it lay like a very breast of grown mother earth on the northwestern horizon known as the “Little Little Hill”.

At the north end of the valley nestled the little village of San Pablo consisting of a few saloons, a general store, a blacksmith shop, two churches and quite a number of scattered cottages. Farms, each with a windbreak of trees, often varieties of Eucalyptus imported from Australia, were dotted about the valley, mostly at distances of about a half a mile from each other. Only the richest inhabitant, whose farm occupied the center of the valley ever thought of painting his house or out-buildings.  All the houses were, more or less weathered to a brownish grey color, the windward surface having a soft, furry feel. It was not an exaggeration to say that all the farm outbuildings were in a tumbledown condition. A well-kept kitchen garden was nowhere to be found, though each farmer usually had a few fruit trees for his own use. Hay, grain and cattle were the principal products and some of the proprietors tried horse breeding with varying success.

Land titles in the valley were in such a chaotic state evolving from the latter days of the “Spanish Land Grant” in California that most of the inhabitants were reluctant to invest heavily in their property.  Thus it was that most of the landowners held their fields by possession only, and if they would be certain of future legal ownership had to buy title to cover their claims, an expensive and uncertain process.

The real awakening of life came in October or November of each year, when, with the first rains, after the long dry summer, the brown hills clothed themselves in living green and remained so through the winter to again begin turning brown in late spring.

The one active Civil Officer was the County Sheriff who spent most of his time at the County Seat to the north east where he was more than sufficiently occupied in traveling the estuaries of the Bay and the nearby rivers to discourage the so-called “river pirates” in their endless petty thievery from water craft whence they stole copper, tools, chains, etc, for surreptitious re-sale in San Francisco. These river pirates were always the shyest and most unobtrusive of beings, shadows sifting through early dawn and dusk hours, but whenever cornered fought fiercely, quite in the manner of a Western-style “shoot-out”.

With land rights in the valley so tentative, life for the meager population flowed at a slow pace, lazily in tune with the tides and uneventful mild weather days, just waiting for the inevitable human migration from the East to flow over the landscape imposing a rapidly varied cultural stage-show upon this somnolent land.

Heaving another great sigh a host of childhood memories crowded in upon him of the days when his Aunt Julia, or the Irish maid, would accompany him to the rocks and sit beside him on this very seat. He recalled the slope was then alive with chattering squirrels before the days when Medicine’s “witch doctors” decided they had bubonic plaque and poisoned them all . . . his friends. He remembered how he would be allowed to run down the hill toward the Bay, and was always told that he might run down till he was called back. He always had hoped vaguely that he might someday reach the sea, but never came within less than half a mile of it, and even the device of pretending not to hear the “Halloo” echoing down from the rock ever worked.

Dense fog was coming in again, cold wet and clinging. The man shivered and scrambled down the opposite side of the rock to that of his approach from the western side. Then he proceeded to the north over the brow of the hill. More curling wreaths of fog, lit from above by sunshine that appeared only as a faint and ghostly light to the man on the ground. The dry grass under foot was now wet and where the departing sunshine lingered on the ground tiny drops of water sparkled along the stems. Then fog and nothing else enveloped all. Not a London “particular” mind you, but a fog which gave a distance of a hundred feet roundabout to the sharpest glance.

Abruptly above and to the left rose great dark shapes, so dark that they were easily seen though still two hundred feet away and they had a strange uncertainty of outline as if alive “. . . must be forty feet high if they are an inch,” said the man peering through the fog. “What can they be? I did not know of any such constructions on the hill that I can remember.” He had been moving forward while speaking to himself, but now stood stock still, quite amazed. “Good Lord? Cypress trees! I know this must be the back line of our old orchard. I helped father George set them and water them just half a century ago. Then, I was just five years old.” A long pause ensued interrupted only by the gentle sighing of the westerly breeze singing in through the Golden Gate.

He stood as if transfixed, a flood of poignant memories streaming before his eyes. Then from the bottom of his being he heaved a groan of longing and regret. “They are all that is left . . . all that is left of so much that has sunk into the deep . . . below Time’s ceaseless churning.” He drew near and placed one hand lovingly on the rough wet bark of one of the trees, then continued down the hill and, to his surprise, found a few gnarled pear trees, but could not get his few teeth into their unripe fruit.

Down, down toward the valley floor he wandered in a zigzag course, while signs of a mean and poor civilization appeared dimly through the fog right and left, then he strode straight ahead into a wavering, heavy bank of fog and gradually passed from view as in a set of slowly flashed still photos . . . gone . . . empty.

Many years later his no longer young son remembered a meager depression era picnic one warm summer’s day to Point Richmond, part of which had become an oil terminal, which jutted out into San Pablo Bay. His father, the big man, now more stooped than ever, moved so slowly into the gray water, his worn body draped in improvised linen swim shorts dangling loosely about white flesh, until just his head appeared above water, then the slow, even breast strokes, powerfully moved him beyond our sight.

He was gone such a long time that the three of us began to seriously wonder when he might reappear or if he wanted to return . . . terrible thought, that. Another half hour passed when like a great tired whale he was spotted, rhythmically breast stroking his way back to us, this a man when as a youth, swam easily out the golden Gate and back. The boy stood silently watching his slow return, focusing on his face, those dark brown eyes growing bigger and bigger, until the rounded shoulders heaved from the water. His gaunt face seemed so pale and expressionless. He stumbled slightly, never smiled and with a few short words to “the wife” sat down to gaze wordlessly westward at the far shore and into the distant fog beyond.

–o0o–

]]> http://davidhaight.wordpress.com/2009/06/20/honor-thy-father/feed/ 0 davidhaight http://davidhaight.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/his-eminence/ http://davidhaight.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/his-eminence/#comments Wed, 27 May 2009 22:04:48 +0000 davidhaight http://davidhaight.wordpress.com/?p=299 ]]> by David H. Haight, copywrite 2009

Donna Maria Constanza, after carefully verifying his identity, admitted the thin, pale-faced envoy to a dark little room where he discovered a glowering male seated in a wheelchair at the dining room table before a rapidly cooling egg, ensconced in its dapper little white cup. A late breakfast had been interrupted at the cost of rising irritation.

The former CEO looked up from an aged, sagging face whose eyelids drooped deeply, exposing a sickly pink inner lining.  One’s impression was uncomfortably similar to that felt when emerging from sleep’s hidden dream world after a tortured shocker — remembering masses of tired flesh dropping away in slow motion.  The whole visage appeared as melting wax or sagging putty on a hot, humid day.  Little humanity showed in that mask, only a hard, cold intelligence glowing through large, pale, blue eyes faded by time — excessive sun leaving each socket bland with the warmth of a tepid bath.

“Be seated,” he growled in a flat monotone.  His wife, the frail looking but spritely Donna Maria Constanza, seated herself purposefully opposite him at the end of a long teakwood table.  His days as absolute master of his destiny – or so he thought — was still noticeable in the tone of voice, i.e., imperious, crisply cold, his orders not to be questioned.  It was a compassionless, hollow voice used to rigorous command and timely obedience.

Ignoring his visitor, the old gentleman gazed out the window while vaguely recounting aloud an unsolicited resume of his life laboring for Great Eastern Oil.  That is: Many years in the Middle East, then five years in Buenos Aires, and so back to London early in WWII. London office soon sent him out to the Dutch Antilles to supervise all operations there until war’s end.  Shortly thereafter he retired to pursue the good life amongst wealthy aristocrats from around the world accompanied, of course, by his ever-faithful Donna Maria.  For a number of years their lives seemed to center about large white-washed hillside villas scattered upon privately owned little islands in the Aegean Sea punctuated with yachting parties ‘midst lakes of champagne — all those privately policed hidden backwaters for the privileged few – all before the Arab Emirates became the hugely profitable glitzy place to be.

“Ah, yes” he dreamily murmured, followed by a long pause and sigh as a rainbow of memories overwhelmed him, reflected in a voice so darkly empty as to send unbidden shivers up ones spine.  An irresistible nostalgic wave pulled him back once again into all the dark places to view his deeply hidden private acts, while unsought pain catapulted through the rotting body, twisting his face into a wrinkled, macabre grin.

No!  He really didn’t give a d–n just who this annoying little man really was. Merely another hired menial come to tidy up an entanglement from his very recent past, to relieve him from the last tiresome responsibility. The visitor acted only as a temporary goad to be plucked and tossed aside.

They had phoned him from the local music association that he had helped found requesting he return all old documents in his possession so that they might maintain a continuous record for archival purposes.  Of course – how very correct — very logical indeed! Bah! A sweet disposition wasn’t his forte these days, if ever there that had been so in his makeup.

He looked past his unwelcome guest to meet his partner’s steady, watchful gaze.  Those little ferret eyes missed few details surrounding her master’s worldly affairs as she tirelessly policed his perimeter.  Sighing deeply, he reflected on their initial meeting and how over the years they had perfected a purposeful non-verbal communication — a unique, very precise body language.  Chuckling inwardly he easily read her unease at his reminiscing which might move him further away from what must be done.  And, of course, on top of everything these days she was ever at him to forgive his own son and reinstate him to the family bosom, and his rightful inheritance.

He shuddered, thinking back upon that early morning incident long ago during which he destroyed his son’s room, smashing everything in sight, raging out of control, ordering his son out of the house, disowning him. The boy’s “artistic” endeavors and quirky friends left him cold as ice and inwardly furious. What a wastrel!

They stood there after the storm, glaring at each other. Jason impotent in his frozen silence, his face shifting from pale rage running through disbelief to fear and ending in overwhelming sadness as once again he realized his father would never ever understand him, much less even try to accept him as he was.

Of course it was natural for the boy to turn to his mother, Donna Maria, for moral support and more.  The old man knew how well Donna Maria held her inner strength and even if they had been very close for so many years, he feared that if he had tried to rein her in to reject their son, she would have left him utterly alone to drown amongst his memories – left him literally.

The remembered sight of those two boys asleep in each other’s arms awoke all the dying man’s boyhood fears and frustrations.  Sad, he thought, he never had something to hug, someone to love – not even a close boyhood friend with whom he could share secrets and explore life’s possibilities. . . nothing.

Immediately after his destructive rampage Donna Maria couldn’t calm him for hours.  In the end he had collapsed sobbing deeply, swearing he would never welcome his son again. Never!

As the years rolled by he openly denied Jason’s very existence, refusing to discuss whatever scraps of family news floated in from the outer world. His reaction was silence — bleak, empty silence.

The old man dropped his gaze while rumbling and mumbling at her like a crippled lion on the Veldt forced to defend his territory while inwardly he continued his miserable commentary.  “That good-for-nothing sycophantic son of mine deserves nothing more from me. Always working away at me through her is he — squeezing more and more out of me to support his dilettantish dabbling about in various arcane artistic projects — never completing anything.  What rubbish!  My blood flows in his veins and to what end?  She expects me to take him back as if nothing were amiss — as if nothing had happened?  As if that would in any way honor our relationship?  Ha!

Despite everything he would occasionally curb his anger, his feelings of rage and admit in the privacy of contemplation that Donna Maria had a point. “The boy is after all of my seed — whatever his tastes in human relationships.  Gods! What a dilemma. What am I to do? Damn it all, why can’t he be like me?”

Thus it was he sighed his way into a long, long pause, before continuing under his breath, “Never ever had time to explore life for myself — had to work like a beaver to stay on top of things — correcting all those half-baked, ignorant little minds, those pathetic underlings. They never could see the whole picture, much less want to.  Oh, Christ, enough of this. Basta! I must get on with it.”

Donna Maria flushed from out of Mexico City society after his early retirement ended his celibate life. She now observed her old companion with increasing anxiety, her tiny coal black eyes burning into him as she forced her will to master his gaze. Their only child, Jason, had been a late and unexpected arrival, soon becoming the joy of her heart.

“Would he remember the purpose of this encounter?” she thought.  Her tight, spidery face held a peculiarly avaricious fierceness as she obeyed his wishes.  ”He’s the Boss!” she clipped at their visitor, slipping on a mechanical grin that indicated she took no responsibility for whatever actually occurred between her keeper and this odd little man.

One could not ignore the old gentleman’s great fleshy hands flopping meaninglessly about, shaking uncontrollably — rather like tired fish flipped out of deep seawater. He tried to briefly remember how good life had been, but his miserable legs tortured him without mercy.

Grimacing in extreme discomfort he abruptly nodded to Donna Maria to fetch those bothersome boxes and turn everything over to the waiting functionary.  Their contents no longer held any meaning or interest for him — just more terminal memories, more noisome responsibilities to be shed.

Donna Maria Constanza reappeared shortly thereafter with a number of battered file boxes containing long lists of names, carefully inscribed on 3 X 5 index cards, financial memos, old program notes and numerous faded letters.  Dropping her musty armload upon the table with an emphatic thud she thus advertised her desire to see this lot removed forthwith.

Absent-mindedly nodding towards his guest the old man waved his relinquished boxes towards the front entrance, his great white hands seeming to sweep the mass as well as his uncomfortable visitor out the front door and beyond any further consideration. “Thank God I’m free of that,” he thought, and bade his duly cowed visitor a curtly, dry farewell. The portals gently closed leaving him to reconsider his cold egg sitting there reminding him of his mortality — his fast-approaching demise — the inevitable accounting — la cuenta — the foggy wall to be encountered — all that rot!

“Amusing, isn’t it, how very indifferent the world is to one’s private suffering,” he rasped as a huge flabby hand slowly encircled and crushed the cold egg, strewing ruin all about to Donna Anna’s annoyance.

Unbidden shadows returned to haunt him while once again he grimly reviewed the sharply outlined personal records of those he had vanquished during long years as the Chief Executive Officer, a royally favored CEO.

Smiling grimly to himself he acknowledged having been bought — and well-rewarded, too — as the ultimate executioner and front man for those tight-fisted major stockholders whose insatiable greed and behind-the-scenes maneuvering threatened to sink the very ship they exploited.  How they used me, he recalled, shrugging indifferently at such memories and feeling little regret at this remove.  “After all, it was wartime. We had to survive. Everything changed so fast.  We — I had to do it!” he grumbled, remembering a few particular souls he had sent into nameless obscurity never to be heard from again.

Something about their eyes still troubled him even after all these many years.  He almost looked forward to setting it straight on the other side — if there was such a place — seeking a final peace beyond those accusing faces.  Occasionally he wondered how they had fared, grimacing uncomfortably as his mind contemplated so many unpleasant scenarios.

From the dark hallway Donna Maria glimpsed a tear slither snakelike down through the deep creases of this, old, dying man’s face — now so filled with regret. She shivered, at once attracted to his sadness and yet equally repelled, as if peering into a long-covered, deep well.  Scrabbling about at the back of her mind echoed the dictum that this moldering human wreck must live long enough to sign the final papers restoring his son at last to the family and to his fair inheritance.

“He must — he has to!” her mind screamed.  Thoughts of her beloved son, Jason, and his many struggles to survive as an artist overcame her as she barely suppressed a sob.  Even then, she shrank from all that was soon to come.  Devoutly crossing her-self with a slight bow of the head she emerged like a tiny purposeful breeze from her private hiding place, the little observation niche at the end of the hall.  Dressed in her usual black shift enhanced by puffy shoulders — he liked that — she appeared ready to perform her duties for yet another tenuous day.

Winding up the inner steel coil of self she remained always ready for the pounce. Not too soon, just at the right moment.  After all, he is recalling his past and softening a little.  Regret is sneaking in upon him. Patience is your key, her mind cautioned.

Purring softly behind a fixed smile she cleared the table and carefully wheeled her loving partner to his desk, her mind silently echoing its cautionary warning:

“Not too soon — take care — await just the right moment!

–o0o–

Old, wrinkled, parchment-skinned Gundek sat by the lake twisting his fingers trying to remember the correct title for the venerable figure standing before him blocking his view of shimmering waters lapping the lakeshore so close by.  This saffron-robed figure watched Gundek with a ferocious intensity as he peered into the old man’s soul, stripping him naked, turning a merciless light upon every inner hiding place and its concealed treasures.  Such a relentless gaze allowed no escape, though a gentle smile wreathed the Lama’s weathered face.  Deeply held consideration for every living creature was his great gift, to what little he perceived of the outer world. His was a compassionate soul.

“Ah…Of course, it’s you isn’t it!” Gundek vaguely remembered, wrinkling his brow, curious as to the Lama’s presence and what it might have to do with him.  Yes, that’s right. Now he remembered this was the man of conscience whose compassion wrapped itself in silent waiting.  It was the Village Lama standing there whose duties included keeping the little village to its ritual schedule imprinted on the seasonal calendar. One must carefully attend such a holy person whenever he appeared to announce preparations for what was to come, be it a joyous celebration, a nuptial feast or a farewell ceremony for the recent departed. Many seasons ago he had shed his monk’s robes in order to take a wife whose gentle counsel kept him to the Middle Way.

Gundek always became impatient at meaningless interruptions, as he deemed this encounter to be. More than that, the Lama stood between him and riffled lake-waters covering a peaceful face that appeared for him nearly every dawn. Lingering just below the surface it sparkled with meaning and promise, a golden mask dazzling his eyes, hypnotizing him for hours.  He listened to its soft voice echoing in his head, promising further adventures beyond all speculation when he should finally pass over into another life.  Meanwhile it became his joy to absorb wisdom radiating out from the golden Buddha mask, its eyes holding him transfixed. Occasionally the gilded eyelids lifted to reveal two inky passages leading to another quality of “knowing.”  He sensed that someday he might fall through those dark orbs into an existence where absolute truth was so thoroughly incorporated into the heart as not to require any language other than that presented by the eyes.

Though Gundek had become a patient man, having fallen foolishly by the wayside many a time during his youth, his advancing years urged upon him an anticipatory attitude regarding what the future might hold.  One should not call it impatience, but he hungered to know more of all the great mysteries, to experience the reality that lay behind so many shadows dancing through his dreams.

Once again today his ghostly wife of long ago emerged from the shadows of his mind to snuggle coolly by his side joining in his conversation with the mask, all their mingled thoughts flowing together in the same channel leading to long speculative discussions lapsing at last into meditative silence. It was always thus.  Now, however, she chose to ignore the Lama whom she had observed from time to time.  He was, she thought, too focused on the village — too involved in managing other lives at the risk of compromising his own. She already had a sense of what he might say to Gundek and dreaded Gundek’s reaction, knowing full well that conventional time had lost any meaning for him as the days spun through their rhythmic cycles.

Slowly her form faded back into memories’ depths leaving her lovingly remembered husband to focus clearly upon the figure blocking his precious view of the lake, the mask and the snow-capped mountain ranges just beyond.

At last his Venerable Presence, the bright-eyed one spoke in measured tones, tersely direct, carefully emphasizing each word.

“Gundek, it is nearing the time when you must open the Ying-Ying box holding our seven sacred discs.  Surely you must know this is so.  Are you willing at last to join us in throwing the discs at the time of the next full moon?”

He had asked this question of Gundek many times in the recent past only to be met with an abrupt refusal approaching absolute denial of everything implied by the ceremony.

Gundek’s face tightened in distaste, resenting any pressure to recognize his fast approaching conclusion to this life’s particular last chapter.  Yes, he knew of the sacred chest and had watched its ritual removal and placement at the center of their village circle ready for the village elders’ sacraments.  On the evening of a full moon the discs were tossed in the air three times landing upon a blue dyed cloth divided into quarters. He also knew that when a villager was nearing the end of his long road on earth, it was then he would most likely agree to three throws of the sacred discs…a last opportunity to “groom one’s fate,” they said. He smiled at that bit of irony, knowing full well Fate stands complete unto itself, waiting for the human subject to finally appear celebrating the last act.

As a courtesy, the village Lama would take the first throw, tossing all seven of the discs high into the air.  The quarter in which the one black disc landed within the circle on this first toss indicated the season of the year in which the invited subject would most likely pass into a new life, each quarter representing a season of the year. Then a respected venerable elder would make a second toss of all the discs. Their landing pattern suggested the most likely month of the particular season shown in which the subject would exit this life.  Finally, the subject would toss the discs as high as he/she could, the arrangement of the white discs upon landing indicating the most likely day and time for his or her graduation into a new life.  On this last throw, should the black disc land in the same quarter as on the first toss, that fact only reinforced the projected season of departure.

“But what had all that to do with him now?” he thought.  His health was good.  He felt no pain and happily attended each day’s chores while troubling no one in their community, keeping to his private thoughts, making few demands on others, increasingly happy to be left alone – except for those two wearying sons  of his.

The Lama’s question left him quite lost and in denial as to any personal meaning, which to other villagers might seem as clear as the sun at mid-day. During the past several seasons many villagers had seen Old Gundek withdrawing further into the past, conversing with ghosts — the unseen — in early morning hours. They hadn’t heard about or seen the golden mask lurking just below the lake’s surface as Gundek had discussed that fact with no one. Often he would forget to eat his daybreak meal and later after midday he sat in contemplation until night shadows swept him past the midnight hour.

Only the Lama might remind Gundek where he stood on that long road into the beyond.  No one else dared to reveal his feelings, his insights.  It was simply not done.  Village custom demanded strict adherence to a traditional code of behavior when it came to coping with life’s peak events. It seemed to most villagers that the ancient ways were always best. Choice in these matters was strictly limited.

Gundek shook his head back and forth refusing to believe that his friends — and he felt all the villagers were his friends — saw him as nearly ready to move away from them into another existence.  Even so, he had become increasingly weary and short-tempered at daily interruptions to his meditative life. Many moments passed before he at last obeyed an inner impulse and bowed his head, thus silently agreeing to attend the next full moon ceremony even as he resisted most thoughts circling around the end of his life here on earth.

“Why all this conventional fuss and speculation?” he muttered to himself.  Of course he knew the rituals were in essence observed to push away fear of the unknown.  But the whole thing seemed so natural to him.  He felt a certain relief in contemplating his own demise, his very own, “great letting go,” tossing the corpse of “thou shalt” off his spiritual back.  He observed an anticipatory rumble surge through his mind with every sunset.  For him a fearless curiosity possessed his mind.  Relief rather than fear poked at him when he allowed himself to contemplate his approaching departure. His chief regret, nibbling around his thoughts more urgently lately, was the failure to somehow bring peace between his two sons.  He had tried a variety of ruses, but one or the other of the two always managed to see through his efforts and shrank away from actively joining in any resolution.

“There is no end to life!” he spat out, half in anger, half in disbelief at all the fuss over one fading earthly life — any life — wishing the Lama would go about his business elsewhere.  He had always envisioned this digression to earth as only one of innumerable cosmic travels, adventures moving one towards a distant rendezvous with an ultimate reality.  He wriggled uneasily before the Lama, tacitly acknowledging he had always had difficulty managing village relationships in an easy, non-confrontational manner.  It appeared he was more suited to live the life of a hermit engrossed from dawn to dusk in meditative contemplation away from any communal web.

The Lama smiled at him replying, “Of course Life is infinite, but there comes a time to consciously turn the page, summarizing what one has learned in this short space here on earth that can be applied in the next chapter.  One must acknowledge responsibility for having lived one’s life, of having made certain choices and thus having participated in the pain and joy, the very warp and woof of existence. You already know this acknowledgment is not a matter of choice.  But why not make the passage consciously, rather than drifting along — blindly fading away?”

Gundek couldn’t think of an adequate reply, only that he was still enjoying this life so much. He resented the idea that he would merely “blindly fade away.” Why should he focus on what in truth never does end?  Just then he caught a flicker in the shadows of his mind, and there she was returning, this young wife from so many years past, floating quickly to his side.  She was just as beautiful as ever, those huge dark eyes reaching out to drown him in their depths, her lips nearing his ear to continue their interrupted conversation through many a long, cloudless day. He quivered with joy and expectation, ready to absorb her feminine wisdom so gracefully offered as a constant whispering stream moving to him beyond time and place.

His view of the Lama blurred, mentally pushing that demanding presence away into the lake.  He grimaced as the sacred lake appeared to swallow the Lama among its dark wavelets, but then he quickly recovered to address this rooted figure. Bowing his head to the ground before the Lama he promised him, “I will reconsider my life and prepare myself for the full moon ceremony.  But you know I am not ready or willing to leave just yet.”  The tone of his voice was almost a plea ending in a question mark.  The Lama returned his bow and accepted Gundek’s declaration feeling a mixture of joy and sadness at the inherent inevitability clothing this brief encounter.  He sighed forth a prayer for Gundek’s soul before returning to the village shrine where other suppliants waited to consult with him over tea.

For a brief moment after the lama departed Gundek experienced overwhelming grief for all that had been and never could be again. That is, his memory did not faithfully reproduce as he had lived them, these many scenes now floating past his inner eye.  He would miss the gentle caress of a spirit wind, the interplay of light and shadow at dawn and sunset, rare aromas teasing his brain to recall so many dreams rising from mother earth.  With her help he felt his spiritual essence rise from his body beside the lake to slowly drift over the village, sensing all the early morning activity, admiring how cleanly swept the great central oval was with its rock-rimmed center ready for the next ritual gathering.  Suspended over the landscape he could clearly see his elder son, the “Silent One” who always wore a smile, repairing a rock wall at the base of the village temple settled on its hilly mound.  Further up the mountain he could see the offering ground walls within which the village dead were dismembered and offered to flocks of scavenger birds whose insatiable hunger reflected an absolute truth i.e., life always and forever consumes life…even dead remains.

A little further down the hill he could hear moaning growls mixed with thunderous drumbeats celebrating the goddess Tara in the village temple.  A whiff of aromatic burning incense pulled him forward. Descending to wander through the dark, double-door entrance to this most sacred temple he was startled to see his youngest son covered with sweat beating the huge temple drum with grim determination only to crumple upon the floor in tears.  The young man had, as was customary, lit candles before the Tara scroll and filled a dozen little brass cups with water to honor the Goddess, even though resident rats could be seen slaking its thirst without hesitation.

The sight of this weeping youngest son presented no surprise to Gundek’s hovering spirit, though his chest heaved in sorrow. He knew in his heart at the moment of his youngest son’s birth this now boy-man would blame him for his mother’s death.  Yet much the same in reverse could be said of Gundek about his own feelings towards the boy whose birthing had been too hard a struggle for the young mother.  Her death was felt to be the babe’s fault, depriving Gundek of his one great love, creating a monumental gulf blocking his ability to easily show affection for the helpless new born.

A further complication resulted from rivalry for village recognition, producing endless arguments between his two sons, the youngest born of a late marriage whose short term caused Gundek such profound grief.  They say he took on the task of raising these sons quite alone, yet he must have seemed cold and distant to them.  Without their mother they spent much of their younger years searching out other village women who could give them a touch of comfort and a little taste of love.

Hovering in the temple in this trance state he once again felt recurring pangs of shame and guilt that he had not found the strength to give his boys the love and acceptance they deserved. His tears now matched those shed by his younger son, drop for drop.  Yet he could not bring himself to span the distance separating them.

This younger wife lingering in his mind, now released for a time from another life, kept a prayerful silence wishing to weep, if only she could.  She knew there was little point in trying to alleviate the grief both her sons suffered. Each of them had to work through to the causes of his pain. She felt herself to be no more than a willowy wisp projected from afar, and therefore of little help to anyone.  It was their responsibility and need to perform private healing tasks if ever they were to achieve any peace in this lifetime.

Refusing to be overcome by sadness accompanying her former husband’s spiritual melancholy she assumed an inner flutelike voice urging, “Let us revisit our favorite sitting place on the high plateau so that I may once again walk with you and view wayside delights through your eyes, hear the dried beige grasses singing in a spirit wind while above I shall see huge circling scavenger birds representing the great Earth Mother’s mouth returning us to her womb. Once again allow my eyes to caress familiar snow blest mountain ranges viewed through you — all this accompanied by those feelings we both once shared.”

Gundek knew in his heart he hadn’t left his special lotus center by the lake but had, with her help, ventured out from his body to see and sense his surroundings as if in a vivid dream. Her desire had touched his heart and spurred him to action. Returning into his body he rose, struggling to stand upright and returned to his hut to gather a little meat and cooked grain into a packet. Then he donned his thick sheepskin coat and headed out up the trail leading to the high plateau.  He sighed and wished he could once more feel the warm body of this lost young wife in the flesh, once more clasp her in his arms, and slowly, carefully make delicious love to her as they had many a night in the long ago past.

He heard a little laugh and giggle bouncing about in his ear. He smiled and asked her if she too, remembered how well matched they were.  For a moment he thought she pulled at his earlobe. Her little voice whispered she would never forget their love-making, his consistent gentleness with her, his loving kisses lavished upon every curve, his smothering of each sacred hollow with sighs as his fingertips gently pulsed her full breasts. As if once more a wee babe, he nursed at her nipples. He explored below her navel to feel her belly arch up against his body, enticing his manhood to take the plunge, followed by their rhythmic dance.  He had always waited before spending himself in her womb — waited until she arrived at the same passionate peak so they might jointly descend together, flowing downhill in one long, delicious moan to savor desire’s last twinges before falling, sated, into a heavy, deep sleep.

Such were his thoughts as he slowly strolled up the winding path towards the white stupa with its golden crown and knobbed staff pointing towards infinity.  Peace always descended upon him as he approached this vital center where he heard the flapping prayer flags talking to him in the wind, their carefully printed images praising Buddha in all his forms.  Spreading his prayer mat he would sit for hours alone in focused meditation, Buddha’s painted eyes on the tower watched over mankind in all four cardinal directions. A goodly portion of the daily sun cycle would pass before he settled back into his body to attend this life’s concerns and village responsibilities.

“Once I am immersed in prayer, time ceases for me.  I become one with The Light — with the Teachings, the Darma, though it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to return to this life,” he mused.

Abruptly she sighed, a long whistling exhalation into their silence. Gundek felt the mother of his several sons stream away from him like a little minnow briefly held in his palm finding an exit space between his fingers, then plunging down into the swiftest waters running to the center of Creation.  Even as she slipped away he heard her fading, flute-like voice sing to him for the last time.

“My time here is over, Love of this life.  I must return to the other world beyond space and time having been allowed to briefly revisit this life of yours. You are almost at the point where all the branches, all the possibilities meet.  It is there that you have to seek out which flow to follow.  It lies within your Self and only you can discover that right way.  Listen carefully. Obey your feelings. You cannot be misled if…” Her voice wavered briefly on “if” — a brief windy puff and then she was gone.

Once again a great red sun ball descended into the West, its rays warming his tear-streaked face, touching his heart, promising as always to return in the East after communion with the gods below.

Gundek fell to the earth and lay spread flat out as if stretched on the surface of a globe pulled evenly from within and from without.  The sensation lasted only a brief moment before he collapsed back into himself, blessed by an intense inner peace which, oddly, held no sense of loss, only a calm knowing that all was as it should be.

Everyone moved as if performing an ancient dance in slow motion.

When all were seated, upon a nod from the lama, a steady drum beat accompanied a prayer chanted by the Lama, directed at all the many faces of Buddha.  Gundek sat transfixed by the drumbeat, assisted by a potent herbal drink ingested before entering the sacred circle. He felt himself expand to move within the flames weaving forth from four lit torches placed 90 degrees apart outside the white rock circle, honoring all the Golden Horde gods gathered behind the four winds.

Upon a nod from the Lama the drumming stopped. He reached into the Ying-Ying box and removed all the discs, which he then shuffled before uttering a loud explanation and then tossed them high in the air over the silk spread.

As the results of this first throw registered, exclamations of astonishment arose from the assembled.  The ebony disc had landed in the exact center of the silk spread touching all four quarters.  When this rare phenomenon occurs it is understood to indicate the awaited transformation could take place at any season of the year. Gundek appeared indifferent though his spirit celebrated singing, “I can leave when I choose. The choice is mine.”

After prayers before a rising moon whose silvery light softened shadowy depths and sun-lined faces, tall, ascetic Menlip was selected to toss the gathered discs a second time. He abruptly reached forward to shuffle the discs, tossing them high with a chesty rumble, and then watched them cascade down in the moonlight to splash upon the silk cover as if into a liquid bath.  The unexpected had happened once again.  Gasps were heard followed by heavy silence edged with eerie foreboding as the black disc had once again landed dead center covering an equal portion of each quarter.  Some wondered if the dark forces had taken control of this ritual and murmured fearfully, shifting nervously about while the most favorable day of any seasonal month was selected.  Gundek felt himself increasingly at ease and began to chortle when it could not be shown conclusively whether his departureit was to be the first or last day of any particular month.

Now it was Gundek’s turn to gather the discs with a last toss to determine the time of day marking his final exit.  He gathered the orbs to him, doing his best to control the laughter that threatened to erupt from his center and lifted his hand to make the toss, but he seemed to freeze in place, his facial expression shifting from repressed laughter to shocked awe. Dancing before him, unseen by the others, the glowing face of the Buddha shone brighter than the Moon, signaling him to throw the discs and heed their landing.  Gundek couldn’t take his eyes off the reflected truth focused upon him and hurled the discs upward in a twisting toss. The discs climbed so high observers gasped fearing the discs had disappeared into the heavens.  In a moment they descended, piling upon each other at the exact center of the silk with the ebony disc sitting on top of the little pile.  Not a sound could be heard as most of the villagers rose to silently return to their homes whispering prayers for protection against unknown, mysterious forces at work.

The Lama, Gundek and his two sons remained hypnotized by conflicting visions regarding what might next occur.  Meanwhile the golden Buddha mask had faded into a silvery moon glow surrounding them.  Rising shakily to his feet Gundek departed without a word.  Both his sons exchanged glances knowing full well where their father was headed, agreeing in thought that they must be with him this one night of all nights.  They rose, bowed to the Lama and walked side by side down the path to the lake, wordless for a time, knowing within their centers that there was no point in racing after their father’s form.  He knew his way and they would discover him and support him at the appropriate time.

Moving forward in silent contemplation, Elder Son lost his perpetual smile. His face appeared ill at ease in the bright moonlight.  He finally spoke in hesitating cadence, apologizing for his treatment of Younger Son over all their many years.  “I was angry at you — always feeling you had robbed me of our mother. I thought that you had drained all her energy away for your own pleasure, your own life — leaving Father and me to exist in empty shadows.”

“Her death was not my responsibility,” Younger Son whispered haltingly after a long pause. “ She wanted me to come to life here in this world, for all of us. But you and father have pretended from the beginning that I didn’t exist.  I have waited so long to find a way to make peace with you, but you have always turned away, while Father’s face grows hard whenever I appear.”

Younger Son’s voice choked into a watery silence that became unbearably dense until they both saw Gundek at the same time, seated in a meditative pose on his favorite rock close beside the lake.  He seemed so still as if made of stone, not moving a limb as they approached.  In the far distance Moonlight reflected off snow, embracing peaks that turned the landscape into a mythic landscape, a fairytale dream, charming heart and mind, enticing their spirits forward to ascend the peaks in celebration

Even as the two young men approached their father, his form so focused in deep concentration, they could not deny their mutual apprehension the closer they neared him. Something in the air, in this magical border, this liminal strip between land and water informed them how tenuous all life is — that nothing exists for all time and what a sham rigid certitude is. Everything overlaps, yesterday with today anticipating shreds of tomorrow. Past and future condensed into one moment revealed without fear while the Universe sang its healing song.

Elder Son whispered, “Father — are you awake?  May we speak with you?” Grundek’s head bowed a little seeming to indicate assent.

Coming up behind his father’s back, Elder Son placed his hand on Grundek’s shoulder and then cried out in startled wonder.  A golden Buddha mask, its eyes closed, floated just below the surface of the lake directly in front of them.  Without realizing it, he had given his father a little nudge when he saw the mask.

Grundek ever so slowly tipped forward into the lake — into the Buddha mask.  Just before his face hit the water, the two sons saw Buddha’s eyes open wide, expanding to receive Grundek’s form for the long, long sigh into another reality.

–o0o–

Inland, late summer sun hunkered low upon the land savoring each last rising moisture droplet.  Seen through dancing heat waves, dust devils tickled alkaline flats, flowing ‘round ochre-splashed, beige-brown, hand-cupped hillocks, their clefts creased in dark green valley oak waiting upon November’s first rain.

Old Jim sat by the window overlooking cool Noyo Harbor ruminating upon his desolate childhood days, his mind percolating up a full range of buried memories to bubble into this misty morning.  Once captain of his own craft this “beached” fisherman often spoke of buying another boat as his last now sat on the harbor bottom, victim of a drunken deckhand whose clumsy errors ruined them both.  That sad day was over ten years ago, but it seemed like only yesterday.  Thing was he couldn’t remember the deckhand’s name and when questioned in depth and in detail he failed to come up with any precise information. After a time the village folk slowly came to believe that there never was a deckhand who could be blamed for the accident that landed Jim high and dry on shore for the rest of his life.  Maybe, just maybe, it was drunken Jim himself who left the bilge cock open that foggy morning when he puttered towards the outer bar heading to sea elated at the thought of bringing home a massive salmon haul, there being a great “run” in progress.  Oh, sure he enjoyed the drink, he did!  But he’d never admit to having been drunk and making a fool of himself.  Blessed Virgin, none o’ that!

This morning as happened on average once a month, some flashy tourist selected “Me and My Shadow” from a collection of golden oldies on the battered Jute Box sitting in the corner. Damn, he hated that tune!  The words always got to him – seemed to taunt him about that awful day when he suddenly found himself gulping sea water as his proud craft sank, pulling him down to harbor bottom and almost drowning him.  Oh, what a way to wake up from such splendid hopes!  Couldn’t get it raised neither.  Got no money and everyone knew of his taste for the “happy juice”, so no one would lend a penny.  Blast ‘em, one and all!  Yet — he showed up regular like, early in the morning at this little café on the wharf to order his first meal of the day.  It was always the same, i.e., eggs, sunny side up, with soda biscuits lathered in Mum’s thick, white gravy washed down with at least three cups of blazing hot, black coffee.  Little of what he ate stuck to his hollow-faced, emaciated frame.  Just in one end and out t’other.  But, eating was a habit he never could quite break.  Especially in the early morning when a gnawing emptiness writhed about in his mid-region reminding him that there was still some living to be had — with maybe one, just one little drink after sundown or maybe a couple little ones to warm away the night chill.

Toothless Old Jim, a frazzled skipper’s cap covering his bald pate, sat there scrunched over talking to the world at large — to anyone who would listen — to anyone whose eye he could command.  All the locals knew Old Jim, having heard innumerable times how Jim was going to get back into action.  “Gotta keep moving,” he’d say.

“Oh, yeah.  You gotta keep movin!”

On this particular morning Jim was more talkative than usual, trying to draw the whole café into his rambling observations upon a shadowed life whose beginning was shameful and its end hidden in sea mist.

“Say, Miss, it’s another grand meal, but I didn’t order no bacon – don’t want it.  I’d have to gum it!”

“Oh dear — my mistake. You can have it.  No charge.”

Poking at it he added, “I’m a Great Depression child, ya see.  Know what that means?  Mustn’t let anything go to waste — damn.”

“Sorry, I’m so addled this morning,” she said.  “Everything’s gone “galleywumpus” — you know, all mixed up!  Just don’t know whether I’m a-comin’ or a-goin’.  The owner — he died last night.  Yeah, Fred just keeled over with a funny look on his face, like he seen a big slice of his favorite chocolate cake, and – and –” She barely throttled a rising sob.  Jim froze, paused mid-sentence then gently touched her arm saying, “I know — I know darlin’.  It’ll pass. Ya must take it easy, ride with the swell to keep afloat. Ya know that’s the thing to do.  See Hon, I already been dead onct.  They brought me back . . . their pro-fes-shun-al duty, they said, but . . .” After a pause, and an embarrassed cough he softly said, “Sometimes I wish they’d just let me go.”  His eyes focused on a distant point far across the bar — way out to sea whose horizon held a mystery he couldn’t fathom.  Then he was off again, serving forth his past yet another time and looking around the little room to catch the eye of any stranger who just might be listening.  “What the Noyo needs is a really good party boat. Maybe a two-decker that could handle a couple hundred folks — serve dinner and cocktails at sunset — really give ‘em service like down south in Flori-day or on the Mississippi.  Yep, like in Hawaii, off Hon-o-lu-lu.  I bet the old town would boom — bring in lots of folks.  Do it with flair.  Offer ‘em something special, huh?  Classy . . . the real thing!”

Jim stuttered to a lame pause franticly searching for a friendly face, his eggs setting up in cold grease.  It was then his eyes locked on mine and he was off, yet again.  “Been retired six years after gett-en out of the hos-pit-al — read every damn book I could get my hands on.  I’m ‘booked out’.  Ya know what I mean?”  I nodded assent.  “Action’s what I need — have to see things happen-en” His voice faded to a sad mumble as he attacked his cold eggs.  Catching my eye once more, he resumed his soliloquy. “Remember clever Takano – end of the dock . . . Japanese.  They make us look sick when it comes to know-en about fish.  Yep, he sold his sea-urchin business and warehouse up here, end of the wharf . . . went down to San Pedro an’ bought a fish factory there an’ he’s now the biggest albacore canner on the West Coast. Right!  Them are smart Japanese, ya’ know.”

Anyone could tell he admired Takano’s business acumen – wishing he were that clever.  To his credit his voice contained not a note of racial put down, only respect.  “Oh, they’re very clever, but boy did they get skunked on the Paramount deal.  Remember that one?  They bought Paramount for 500 million samoliens and ended up dumping it for 50 million. Brother, a lot’a shareholders took it on the chin with that one, heh-heh.”  His verbal ramblings began to wind down at last, ending in a barely audible mumble, “Yep . . . I died once before – many years ago.”

It was then his face relaxed to look around the harbor again, his favorite place on earth, the only place he knew and loved with all its bustling wharf activity.  The party boats chugging in and out . . . then the big trawlers up from San Diego or down from Seattle crunching into berth with their deep sea load of canner’s gold.  Harbor seals, two by two, at night playing water polo under klieg lights aimed out from the big fancy restaurant cantilevered over Noyo harbor waters — that big touristy one right next to Captain Flint’s Fish and Chips place.  Here and there sleek leopard seals mixed in the game, cavorting about in rolling dives to reappear twenty yards off with a dignified snort announcing their dark-eyed presence and — wasn’t that just fun, though? Fat sea lions, two-ton tuskers “urk-urking” at dawn and dusk to claim their place on wooden rafts barely peeking up out of seawater.  Oh, how he loved all this!  If he could only go out just one more time to feel a cold, fresh sea breeze and sniff the tangy-tarred Pacific soul food challenging him to another day’s due.

At last, he rose from table, sighed, paused and slowly crumpled to the floor thinking, “Here we go again!  I’m just another brilliant act in slow motion.” Only thing was he wouldn’t be back for the applause.  Of course he didn’t know that then, bobbing about in a ceiling corner . . . giggling to himself as he watched over all the pandemonium below.

Then the scene fell apart, a crumbling mosaic, changing into a time and place so happily familiar to him from long ago that he could weep — if that were possible.  He was once again a small, curly-headed boy on the beach in a large bay at Mazatlan of a late fall afternoon near setting sun just as the young fisherman and his buxom wife with the big wrestler’s arms pulled in a great boiling net of fish churning in panic. Count and pull, count and pull . . . a one, a two and a three . . . again and again, until a magical mass of varied sized silver fish lay floundering on the beach with himself close at hand.  Without warning the sky fell in on the three of them as a great wheeling inverted cone of birds dropped down around them. A screaming, diving, careening mass of scissor-tailed frigate birds, larger than gulls it was. Raucous and demanding they swept close to his head, their wingtips whipping a curl now and then as they scooped up the smaller fish.  He joined in the mad feeding frenzy, laughing and shouting as he danced to his own tune, throwing little floppers high into the

air . . . life to feed life. Even the fisherman and his wife, now happily laughing at their fine late afternoon catch joined in the fun. Soon a passing young Mexican youth, balancing a great tray of honey-sweetened pastries upon his shoulder, laughingly tossed more floppers really high up with his remaining free arm as he danced barefoot on the sand to his own cha-cha-cha rhythms.

It was another…“Just Enough” day.  Tomorrow would take care of itself, as it always did.  After all tomorrow lies on the other side of tonight — and forgetful sleep.

Without thinking Jim passed through the wall, his soul drinking in this special spirit wind with its vivid personal tales sharply spread before him.  He tried to cling to that first memory — that early, radiant moment watching a small dancing boy floating westward over the waters with a cone of whirling scissor-tails circling right overhead.  It was a shrinking exclamation point at the end of life — fading into a different light – more mysterious and loving than he had ever known.

–o0o—

Another sunrise questioned our fresh salt-laden ocean breeze sweeping up the Noyo River into my room across this narrow veranda.

I stand here — a quaking memory sprung naked upon a new day remembering last night’s harbor seals fishing the river just below our cantilevered deck — their playful lovemaking — the occasional gull flashing a white streak across light beams focused upon Noyo river water.

Now, here — quite alone — having released you at last after all your courageously endured pain has passed — seeing your gaunt face, the eyes turned up, then gently calling you back from your slippery passage halfway between here and there — the eyedropper-ed lemon water flowing across your lips — an event- weathered body relinquishing its hold, returning to earth a well-used husk — then that slight suggestion of a smile flickering at the wee corners of your mouth bringing from me a nodding smile allowing you to proceed upon your journey — letting you go …… quite O.K. to “split.”

Who were you, really — this acquaintance become friend that I mourn?  Our first meeting was at a local FM radio station where you had just finished your weekly jazz program.  I was immediately struck by your directness — a man without a mask, no “persona” evident — all “out front” with your feelings. You were entirely present, your causes raging forth against blind institutional injustices perpetrated upon those living at the very edge — the dispossessed, the wounded — society’s unwelcome detritus.  Not too long after that your illness came upon you and I well remember the day when you asked me to write a little something to be read at your wake which you wished to attend in the “altogether” while still able to chatter and move about.  How very odd, almost macabre that seemed at first.  Yet, upon reflection, how very perfect this was for you.

Eventually there arrived a certain celebratory hot July mid-afternoon when some 25 of your friends and medical team gathered for a candlelit potluck — the shades drawn to protect your failing sight — the lovely crisp linen tablecloth adding a correct touch of formality — everyone immersed in that unique personality flying under the name of Jody.

Just before dessert and coffee-time time the great-eyed you looked up at me from the end of the table — wine having taken effect — and imperiously bellowed, “Read it, David!”  My God, I thought, my neo-Victorian self cringing at any reading of an honorarium out loud at a wake attended by the “deceased-to-be”… but we got through it, didn’t we!

The flavor of you is encapsulated in your funny, wistful summer letter from Oregon — a thoughtful profile:

“Hi-ya! Guys!  Since arriving here on Saturday I’ve been spending my nights in a phenomenal little pocket of energy called: “Rest Area, Oregon.”  I’ve stayed here so that I could shave, brush and appear groomed to go into Eugene town and check things out.

Today I found a two bedroom cabin for rent in a most lovely flower-laden spot.  I turned it down for a variety of reasons, but the landlady, Mrs. Fitch, and I really had the greatest afternoon.  She told me right off the bat that I could help her save $1,500 for hearing aid implants if I would TALK A LITTLE LOUDER! Mrs. Fitch is 90 and I felt very honored when she extended her most gracious invitation to come visit real soon.

It was good for my soul as I’m pretty lost out here in America.  I expected to be, though — and why I do it, I don’t know! The weather is a constant pleasure.  I use two blankets at night.

Tomorrow I’m starting a job picking pole beans at seven cents a pound.  Hopefully, too, I’ll find a nice spot to park my car.

Well, here it is tomorrow — and I didn’t go bean picking.  I drove, instead, to Cougar Hot Springs and am at this moment sitting in a ’60s Hippie campground with psychedelic buses and all …”all” including the always happy, Hippie dogs.  I was going to stay here for the rest of the month and still might, but I must return the 70 miles to Eugene tonight.  I met a couple there who was staying at the same Rest Area and we swapped stories and shared coffee in the morning.  I forgot to say good-by to them, or set up a time to meet.  Their stories are boring– but I need them.  They’ve accepted me and I love them for that.

The old Ford is being real good and what a great car to live in!  . .  .Hope you both are well . . . think of you often . . . Love, Jody

“The universe handed me a big one yesterday — in the form of positive HIV results.  OH, GOD! Do I ever feel alone — and yet I don’t, really.  Trusty Lin gave me a wonderful call.

My brother and sister don’t want me to tell our Mom but — I don’t know if they understand the power of a mother’s love.”

“And his Mama she rocked him, her little darlin’ to sleep.”

Driving into Washington on my way home I began to feel really lousy and decided to check in to a local clinic. What a scene. The mama cat here is my friend. Each morning she lies on my stomach and hugs me with her purrs.  I like the hugs and wait for morning.  I’m last to be nourished. First she hugs and bathes and feeds her babies. Her mother’s love has swelled and filled my life. A mother’s love always does.

This morning I cried while I waited for her to finish with her babies. I try not to cry where she can see me. I don’t want her to know that the gas chamber may be waiting for her. I don’t want her to know that I may betray her love. She has loved so well.

The staff says they’re here to help people, not cats.  I’m here to nourish all living things. If I leave and the old mama cat is killed, there’s just one thing that’ll bother my mind – yes, mama went to heaven and left me behind.

“…yesterday morning while I was still here by myself I got up at 3 a.m. to let mama cat out and there was a young woman named Jennifer shivering from the cold and frightened of what she calls the “nomad women” – a group of imaginary people she thinks are out to kill her. I invited her in, wrapped her in blankets, put a hat on her head and went about trying to create a natural and soothing feeling within the room. It turned out to have a rather funny twist, as after finding a classical station on the radio, I began a letter. It was only appropriate to say, “You’ll have to excuse the interruptions as there’s a young woman sitting here quietly hallucinating and making comments like, ‘Do you think the nomad women will kill me?’ … ‘I used to be rich, but I still have the dress I wore to the Mayor’s ball, I think that’s enough, don’t you?’ …’I think I have a big rat in my stomach!’ …all classic comments which allowed a glimpse into the environment of the mentally ill without my having to be pretentious or assuming.

So strange what moves into one’s view.

“I’ve looked down deep inside and am sure now that this is Good-by — so, what the Hell, let ‘er rip!  It’s my life, my story.  I’ve lived it, caressed it, lain with its pain — lived every minute of every day with it, so — I ought to know!”

“Sitting here drifting in and out of old memories I really feel angry that you said — you insisted that I not drive my Ford anymore.  Really! Giving her up, my house on wheels, is very hard.  Freedom seems to ride in the front seat — freedom, adventure, always another new experience down the line.  Well, yes, I know that I shouldn’t drive anymore as I might crash and hurt someone.  The idea of killing or injuring a child is horrendous to me and yet… So, O.K., take the d—d keys!  Let’s not talk about it.  Sure, I have wandered off in my mind, lost consciousness even and crashed into the hillside bank on my way into town, but . . . you see . . .

I LOVE TO DRIVE!”

“AIDS is a part of me now.  I’m growing an invisible arm that no one can see, but it’s always flopping around and becoming the center of attention.  For me, I’ll live and die as the universe and the Fates see fit… whatever… so, you ask?

For a time I shall be a loaf of bread…uh-huh!

All warty and wrinkly . . .

Lumpy on the outside . . . uh-huh!

Not a conventional beauty indeed — but –

Break me open and what do you find?

An even textured, thoughtful me

Accepting, well . . . almost everything.

Two full-length mirrors beckon once more.

There am I, a thinning Lancelot –

Or — is it a bemused Don Quixote?

No matter –

My mirrors giggle at me –

Pretentious self-preoccupation won’t do for them.

Looking carefully at this naked body

Covered on all sides with raging, itching rash –

I wonder if this is the trial put upon Job — the Test? What do you think?

And, so, I join my mirrors in echoing, silent laughter.

Reflections in my mirror picture a polka-dot body

This new “Me” given by the gods rejoices!

How whimsical to sport a polka-dot body…

I kiss the mirror in thanks,

It smiles back at me.

Am I current, you ask, up-to-date?

Ready to — “Let go into the Light?” you ask.

No, I shall never be entirely ready

Does it REALLY matter?

But, good friends — you Guys and Gals –

Those sterling few….

Thank you for your caring — your hugs,

And warm eyes.

For all the hot meals with long visits…

Thank you — all of you — for those…

BIG “little things” for which I shall never find

Just the — right — words.

Love, LOVE — bottomless LOVE

from ……Jody.

p.s. SEE ya! ……REAL soon!”

“Funny — Grandpa was born, Agrarian, in 1894.  I was born, Industrial, in 1945.  I’ve always had a label, if not on the outside then on the inside, which plagued me. Grandpa’s world had no labels that entailed right and wrong.  His world had states of being, to wit, the “old milk cow is in labor tonight.” and “The hay is ready to be shucked.”  Out here in the country judgmental labels were saved for foreign nations, religions and political systems.”

“I’ve always liked almost any jazz tune and my discovery of black culture was manna from heaven.   W-h-e-e-e!  Jazz time is my time! I didn’t feel inferior and my deep love and youthful exuberance in exploring black musical history was a compliment to everyone — or so it seemed.  One tune I’ve never cared for — and even wondered why — was “Daddy You Been a Good Ol’ Wagon, but You Know You Done Broke Down.” Unlike “It Ain’t Nobody’s Business” it sounds a little cruel.  If my eyes go — and they are weakening — I might tell a few people “It ain’t nobody’s business what I do” but I’ll never tell these eyes they’ve been good ol’ wagons and it’s time for the dump heap.  They’ve given me enough memories and saved my life so that I could just sit forever soaking in memories — and let these eyes rest in the darkness — where the cool waters flow.”

“You know I feel that “sad people” are the only real ones?  They can tell you the truth about things.  They have always known there is no one you can depend upon forever and no real change in your life, however great, that can keep you in the end from what you were in the beginning — that is, lost and lonely sitting on an old oilcloth watching the rest of the world do the “Butterfly Stroke” — in all that cold water.

There is no getting away from it, I am compelled to go on admitting my pain — my so very personal involvement with this pain — and not turn it into an abstract “process!”… though to continue treading water I feel sometimes like the man in Stevie Smith’s poem, “Not Waving, but Drowning!”

“Is it too “Christian” to honor suffering — to admit to the blatant injustices and unkindnesses we perform on one another daily?  I feel it is not, and will continue to follow that feeling.”

“I know every emotion will wrap itself around the “dying me” but Death, when it comes, will be a surprise — a surprise I’m looking forward to!  Does that shock you?  Why?  For me …… well, yes, I want to live this death of mine, not wallow into it like a drunken sailor drugged out of my mind without any feeling, any sensation or ability to react.  No, I want to live this happening called Death — this great Transformation.

Hum-m-m-m, maybe I shall be a gigantic night moth in a great steaming jungle under a new moon…off in some distant dust cloud of a planet.

For me the great loop has spiraled over…

A thousand times…

Cycling through dawn to dusk…

And back to dawn from beneath the deep blue sea

Fifteen hundred times, to be near exact…

Here am I … now, stepping carefully

From day to day, forever surprised…

At the generosity of strangers.

Some think I ought to be filled with anger,

That I must rage, fight, protest…

Mentally “bomb” the virus — go to war!

Scream out against this loss of my time…

Cram with murderous chemicals a Self opening up,

Not go … silently … thoughtfully…

Peacefully … into that blue-black, star-filled Cosmos.

Sorrow, rage and anger have left me spinning…

Slowly spinning in a quiet backwater.

All I wish to do is live fully this moment…

Perhaps to see beyond the Bottom Line…

To glimpse some other place…

Some other possibility.

My home sits top of the Ridge –

Pine woods all about

Distant, misty ranges in view…

A blessing to be far-sighted — quietly sitting

[And scratching -- and scratching and SCRATCHING!]

I would really rather sing a hymn to Nature,

In — some other guise, pu-lease.

[Scritch-scratch ..... this terrible rash!]”

Soft wind — sweetly aromatic…

Cools this room of mine.

Greenness thrives in our protected place….

A lush potted plant jungle collage….

Giving me…love for love.”

Looking into a distant mirror I see… Oh, my!

Tall, gaunt, deep-set eyes…pale….

A hollowing, fading…Me… Oh, my!

Suki looks up…her sheepdog eyes

Deep brown, attentive,

The ears laid gently back,

Her tail greeting a slow, thump, thump…

Pure, unqualified total love.

Why did they — out there — poison my three dogs, one after the other — before I died … why? . . .  tell me . . . I loved them so.

–o0o—

Thinking of Jody . . . standing here rooted to this narrow deck teetering over Noyo river waters I would weep if I could, ergo, so says convention.  Swaying in contemplation I feel no tears within, only Joy at the flowering taking place somewhere inside this still pumping heart — a measured bursting forth — a sweet singing within me — utterly impossible to fully relate in all its shaded subtlety — those unconscious twinges emerging at the surface — that thin line between knowing and remaining forever asleep.

[You died at 5:05 a.m. yesterday just at sunrise, slipping away while the others slept -- you so wanted to live fully this last great human adventure that you made me feel your words -- singing, fluttering now in my mind demanding to be put down here -- your farewell wave:]

I imagine you thinking:

“My last night has slipped away before this early dawn when all Nature holds its hushed balance between night’s dreaming renewal and the sun chariot’s mighty roar.  I look about to feel a gentle light quality to the air, a softness, and sense everyone about me to be deep in another land, their extended hooks to catch my drifting self withdrawn … quite put away.  You did say it’s O.K. to go — and so — I shall drift further on my way, letting this vestigial cord snap, releasing me to sleep a new dream nearer the magical center…wherever she shall be.

Looking in my mirror and remembering — round and round it goes –Oh, God … my mouth hurts — this Thrush thing.  Please bring me cold, cold water and ice with lemon juice — let it run between my lips — they’re so dry and — I’m so tired.

No!  You, lady, over there tossing on the couch — don’t hang on to me anymore with your fears, your pointy thoughts — let me go in Peace! It is harder each time to come back, you see, so I thrash and flail my limbs about. Please…just let me go! Maybe in the first dawn flush I can float away… when you’all are not looking…when you’all are still asleep…please?”

So it is I “remember” his last thoughts.

Later came the urgent phone calls — four long hours — the weeping mother on Widby Island, Washington Sound — the doctor’s certificates — your clumsily covered shell carted out the door like so much rubbish into a last sun-splashed afternoon, bumping into a door jamb.  How oddly the unfelt shock vibrates within my numbness.  No…no dream this ending.

As always, my safe place is to be by the sea immersed in its ceaseless chatter, its glints, the changing forms — floating above the wonder of it — walking with it hand-in-hand. Yes, I admit my ….is it weakness? After those four hours I ran away from your passing event, from all the creepy-crawly human ants come to parse your few material leftovers… couldn’t bear any more of it.

Now, I stand here — seeing — listening to harbor life at full flood while the song continues to rise, its wings carrying the soul beyond and above seaweed wrapped legs threatening to drag down a suffocating land creature bound in its grieving mesh.  No! — not that for me — or for you.

Looking down into harbor water for a moment, I fall through a frozen space — a crack in time — a mere hiccup.  The water turns jet black before my eyes and from deep below rising to just under the surface a great God’s classic glittering gold mask sings his song to me.  Eyes, obsidian black, absorbing all light — betoken your truth — no smile-blessed laughter bursting forth from this flickering surface.  Rather, a simple, silent song sent…you to me through him — a true God-father whom I accept at last — seen within this watery mirror.

Over His face a constant silver flickering stirs my soul — the endless, timeless dancing opposites — and I am comforted, feeling your promise come upon me.

A time so very long ago floats to the surface for me. The image reflects a foolish young man, the me of that time, taking a post-pneumonia swim into the setting sun off Malibu beach — into a sinking red-gold Apollonian mask, riding an up-welling current I swam outward unbound, silent singing the melody the gods sent — a far distant place calling there in the west, my life hanging by a very thin thread.

It is fitting that you come to me now through Him — a comfort — a challenge — and a reassurance.

Once again another full chapter closes with a click as the motel door swings smartly shut and we return to our pine/cedar-covered Sierra Foothills — our familiar burrow — our waiting place.

–o0o–

This Old One sat by the very edge of the never silent, chiding sea wondering with a shy, amazed smile that after so many years there were still all those unanswered, seamless questions . . . so encrusted with time’s detritus they appear as banal wisps of thought floating haphazardly upon a mental wind, i.e., “Who/what/where am I?” “Is there any essential purpose in my being here in this now time?”  Then seeping into consciousness he remembered that:

Deep in No Time a spark was lit,

From a nameless Unity a child was born.

Lifted to the surface of a frothy sea

Upon a broad carapace

The sleeping creation stirred — soon to awaken.

Gentled by soft moon glow

There upon hard-packed sand,

Along the edge of Knowing

He met his welcoming Devil

To search within Outer Experience

A return to Unity –

Discovered through a wandering shadow –

His ever trailing other half.

In the mind’s eye, touched by the heart, one can perceive possible scenarios, perhaps a banquet table laden with ephemeral, interwoven choices, seemingly impossible to sort out. The Old One thought that for most humankind when facing these questions there is an instantaneous rush upstairs to the intellect, that wondrous machine so laden with its brittle, concrete forms — its organized religious strangleholds, its intellectualized cultural certitudes — that simple, intuitive answers coming straight from the heart, encapsulated within a feeling context, often had little chance of recognition.

How very, very sad, the Old One dreamily mused, while here it is that I commence lightening up my worldly baggage to bounce fitfully up and down, a “letting go” to ready myself for some as yet unknown adventure, perhaps the ultimate journey whose end is never.

Thus it was the Old One dozed off, his back to the magical garden from whence, in late afternoon sunshine, floated forth a naked lost fondling, a most delicate shell, to reclaim another soul. Gossamer wings stilled, reflecting rainbow sunlight, arms slowly folding ’round the sleeping Old One, the two to be seen from a distance blending into one. Hummingbird smiles flickered over the child’s face, this androgynous creature, as it also fell into memory’s deep sleep, while behind them a centuries’ old tropical garden sighed, nodded recognition and applauded their intermingling transformations.

So dreamt the now Ancient One

A universal tale

Stored in Everyman’s soul

Twined amongst the very roots of being

Deep, deep within the seed of creation

Down, down in all that rich, black muck

From which a white lotus stem

Soon to flower

Rises to receive our sun’s brilliant blessing –

A lasting gift from the Gods!

We — Lovers all

A taste of honey

You gave to me

Drops — falling gently,

Filling all secret places

Joy for me if you stay

Sweet memories if you go –

Fading softly –

Into some misty future –

So it is I treasure,

My taste of honey.

Settling further into the dream he recalled while dancing further into his private sea –

“Drifting into ‘No Time’ I find myself at the very bottom of the Well of Sadness. Up to my waist amongst these desiccated yesterdays, I thrash about immersed in memory’s ashes, lifting my eyes up to view what I can see of the heavens — that intense, round of starry blue at the top of the well. Then as I stare into turquoise cold fire, I feel within me an expansion — a buoyant lifting of the heart. To do honor to these complex feelings I ritually lift a great pile of ashes skyward as an offering to my past. While holding these dissolving ashes aloft I become intensely aware of the wide “trail of sorrows” to my left through the gloom, that tortuous pit-filled painful path etched so clearly in Man’s memory.

Directing my eyes upwards to follow the downward path,

I revisit all the sorrows accumulated through the years, back to the very beginning,

To that difficult birthing, being held upside down as if I were some ungainly bird

soon to be cooked and consumed by external event and then the hard slap! My

resounding howl of outrage is followed by a dull thud as I am plunked down,

uncovered, upon a cold grass mat in a sandy hollow while womb fires are damped

by busy hands assisted by She, our most ancient mother.

My safe, dark, reliable cave space gone I am truly caught up in events over which I have no control and so for the first time universal fear, that chilly, amorphous ghost haunting all mankind, presumes to direct my feelings.

Looking more closely within this dream scene I become aware of all the “way-stations”, the sorrowful places and events now lying exposed to view — as the ashes seem to dissolve through my fingers — drifting down, clinging to my feet.

For a moment I feel an overwhelming sense of helplessness in this silent pit until in the far gloom appear shadowy forms of old friends and family members who have passed through a misty boundary at Life’s end to continue their journey in another place.  They pass before me through this dim light moving in a slow, almost regal rhythm only to disappear once again back into some far deeper twilight realm.

Such clinging memories flash before these tired eyes! I reach out to stop them, to recall some part of our times together, but to no avail. I am caught in a shadow play where my role is only that of the rooted observer. Here, faintly perceived, another less well-defined group pass in parade, their great staring eyes blankly fixed on mine.  They seem to loathe slipping by me, clinging to an inner hope, a fear, wishing to stay a little longer, yet knowing they fast approach the end of their allotted time.

This scene — all the old memories and feelings I perceive humming in the ashes surrounding my body produce a great stirring in my soul, permeated by a sense of joyous celebration. It is quite impossible to sing and dance a sad song…a tipsy unbalanced cha-cha-cha. I feel silly and have a good giggle!  If I were to dance to “sad-sad-sad,” then I must immediately sing and dance to “joy-joy-joy!” Thus the dance comes into focus, into balance and I must sing to a centered point until the pendulum stops as time holds its breath while a deeper vision comes into view.

The eternal “I” awakens and knows itself for the first time — a deep, inner “knowing” — an early dawn awakening in which the Ancient One within me sees himself spread within a circle like some Leonardo de Vinci figure, naked, grasping a wheel so vast as to send hidden doubts across my mind.  Slowly, ever so slowly, the great wheel commences spinning counter-clockwise as the Ancient One hovers above and observes an immense, fiery column akin to volcanic magna rising from the human navel directly below, extending upwards through the center of my body — a powerful red rising sacred essence flowing up the axis mundi upon which I am centered in space.  My arms extended I feel life’s fire contained within that blood-red column pulling my feet into the earth as I experience all opposites within my own being.  Therein stirs a great and terrible power.

Looking downward to my left I see my left handprint in the sand and to my right a matching right handprint.  Left is as right presents and thus a balance.  Lifting my head to look into that overpowering outer macrocosm I recognize from the core of Self who it is that I am. Thus it is that I accept the androgyne, the He/She of me born into this life as half a wheel. I am within, at my innermost secret place, both masculine and feminine and so embrace the feelings of each half.  Yet, should I attempt this perfect union in the flesh, disaster will surely follow — as night pursues day round and round this tiny globe. Thus it is I release to some primordial memory these realizations as if they were forever frozen in amber.

Looking from the last of the falling ashes to my right I see through the gloom a narrow, steep path leading up out of the Well of Sadness.  Echoing inner truth I acknowledge the absolute necessity for focus, selection, discipline and continuity in order that I progress further up this narrow way.  My eyes follow the new Way up through misty unknowns and out into a blue-black, star-speckled void in which I see my arms raised, holding a great herb-filled krator whose fragrant essence permeates the universe.

There is no question of choice here, only the necessity to continue the journey.  As I do so, song bursts within me — along with the realization that the trail out and away from the lonely pit is far shorter than the wide road of life which has led this earthbound being to an ash filled pit.

From high above I hear repeated over and over again an old Swahili sun greeting:

Ni Macho!  Ni Macho!

Meaning I see! — I am truly awake!”

Late afternoon and a little breeze accompanied by an unexpected wave splash pulled the Ancient One back into Now Time just as there was glimpsed through closing dream doors a spirit ascending and expanding into the cosmos.  For the briefest moment there was the feeling that Self moved past all conceivable concepts of “beyond”, past all light, all brainy analytical thought, past any ego-centered earthly self — just the feeling of an expanding awareness drifting outward to become a small portion of evolving, vibrating consciousness — perhaps a dream within an immense fantasy.

The Ancient One tried to put into words a few impressions of this transcendent moment:  “Yes, think of your Self experiencing the fastest roller coaster ride of your life.  At birth you tip slowly over a high crest and commence the great rush forward into the unknown.  Imagine no conclusion to that forward rush — no downs or ups — no reaching any point of completion, but rather a rush so intense that you are propelled within the greatest silence through what earthlings term “space” and so past all detectable points of consciousness…

Out beyond analytical thought

Out beyond earthly memory feelings,

Reaching towards some unknown womb wall

The body sense of self expands,

In all directions simultaneously,

To be bathed briefly in interstellar light,

Each molecule, each atom rushing outward

As any concept of a unique Self

Becomes increasingly transparent

To some transcendent entity,

One is transformed within a magnetic wave

Encountering at the outermost reaches

Of “No Time” that softly resisting,

Webbed inner spherical wall

Requiring but the briefest concentration of energy

To burst through a slight resistance

Flowing and melding

In an intense multi-colored light stream

Surrounding untold numbers

Of gently vibrating spheres –

From one of which –

The now forgotten “you” has just been born

Yet once again!”

–o0o–

On a windy, cloud scudding day, a lone, middle-aged man can be seen plodding his way down a long beach, kicking up sand in front of him, his white locks blowing wildly in the wind, forming an undulating halo ‘round his pate.  Head bowed low, he slumps forward in his wind jacket murmuring apologies to the sand fleas he carelessly disturbs, so distracted and feeling out of place is he in trying to trap all wandering thoughts streaming through consciousness.

Always apologizing to humanity at large, liberally scattering many a “thank you” about day after day has worn him down.  Why did he do this, he wondered? Though it was against his nature to pointedly disagree with anyone, even if he thought he was right as to the facts or subtle surround. He always felt vulnerable if he took a firm position that he would then have to defend.  Being alone bulwarked a desire to remain uncommitted on most matters, since there was usually a series of significant alternatives hovering overhead or around the corner, each of which contained elements of objective truth. At least, so dictated his mind…wherever that was located in truth. Perhaps this sidestepping was his way to avoid taking responsibility for anything or anyone, even himself.  Obviously he detested confrontation with all its irrational emotionality. What a waste of energy and time, he thought.

Now, however, his resistance to firm commitment in the moment teetered, crumbling all about him, even as the Tao te Ching echoed solemnly from certain outer walls of consciousness that “The secret waits for the insight of eyes unclouded by longing. Those who are bound by desire see only the outward container.”

“Longing, secret …” what kind of longing, what secret he grumbled, resisting recognition of answers long incorporated into his psychotherapeutic practice with needy clients.

Mumbling to himself he shuffled along offering a judgmental soliloquy to the wind on his angry behavior earlier in the day.  He thinks of that still true, worn cliché, “When a fool looks in the mirror, a king never looks back.”  “Never looks back?  Never sees the self behind the mask? How can that be?” he exclaims, kicking up another great scoop of sand.  Exhaling a long sigh, Eric bemoaned his place in the scheme of things, feeling increasingly trapped, watching gray walls close in upon his little life and his professional persona.

At the edge of awareness, he dimly faced so much that is incomplete behind his looking glass, so absorbed is he in trapping all wandering thoughts streaming through consciousness—all that dark, undigested, energy-laden stuff he has pushed aside for so many years, lacking courage to turn and face personal monsters trailing behind, monsters he has encountered reflected back at him from clients’ faces.  He seemed in his ruthless self analysis to be perpetually running over roiling waters beneath a dream bridge, chased by amorphous shadows whose gleaming eyes bore like hot pokers into the back of his head.  From within he observes them gaining on him and yet, until perhaps just now, he had lacked the courage to turn and face down those shadows, walk through them, push the fear clouds behind him. After all, that is what he often told his clients, “Just face the monster and walk through it, or let it move through you. You will be surprised at what lies on the other side.”  He growled out a few curses wondering why in Hell he couldn’t apply these wise ministrations to himself.

“Gods, is this yet another middle-aged crisis,” he spluttered, pausing to query a rolling tide whispering to an end around his ankles.  “I’ve already survived several, thank you very much.  At least I am here, whatever that might mean.  Being ‘here’ includes the fact that I have been a practicing psychotherapist for over 25 years and should know how to face life’s problems and at least have a game plan for coping. Ha! That’s a royal bit of persiflage,” he exclaimed aloud, rank self-pity oozing forth to befoul the air.

“Do any of us ever get it, or are we doomed to dissolve unhappily into the great emptiness?  Then again, are we fated to return again and again to this chaotic life, perhaps to transform more psychic sludge on our beatific way to some undefined paradisiacal end?  That would reflect the swirling effect of a cosmic hula-hoop ever ascending.  Ain’t that right, Martha?”  He giggled sadly, performing a silly hip-rocking dance along the shore. A few watchers from the cliff above chuckled at what they saw to be a disheveled, hirsute bum stalking the wind in a mad frenzy.

Aimlessly hurling surf-smoothed land pebbles in a high arc out to sea, he wandered mindlessly in a zigzag pattern towards the end of the cove, infinitely relieved to be totally alone once more.  Shameful self-judgment had him painfully by the nape of the neck.  Facing his inner reflection bouncing back from the under-curl of those marching waves thundering in over the bar was quite enough company for today…especially after having lost control so early in the morning. But what is it exactly that he should be controlling?

“How did it happen?  What set me off?  All that broken glass and pottery scattered about, including one of Mary’s finest pots.  How could I DO that?  Then the look in his nephew Samuel’s eyes…his focused attention.  No, it wasn’t fear…just puzzlement, I guess.” His questions, piled endlessly upon each other, interspersed with sighs, seemed to push him further into an overwhelming sense of shame.  Oh, yes, he had blown up before, usually on average once a year, but this rampage was a whopper.  He wouldn’t, absolutely couldn’t physically harm another human being, least of all watchful Mary or ever so silent Sam.  They kept him anchored, fore and aft—most of the time.

Today, the gods looked down upon Eric, speculating whether he was yet ready to face an underlying truth belching its fiery red magma from the hot floor undergirding his conscious behavior.  He had allowed anger at life’s apparent unfairness to flare into being again, searing his wife and nephew early on this brilliant red dawned day.  Wide-eyed, they looked at him in speechless surprise, feeling fear once more beginning to move the ground beneath their feet, not knowing what next might appear screaming out of him.  Like witnesses to a sudden accident, they momentarily froze in place…Mary settling down at the kitchen table, spreading out those timeworn wrinkled hands, pressing down so hard her knuckles had gone an ugly gray white.  While Samuel, all of eight years, simply wobbled in place, his eyes wide in speculative wonder, having witnessed a similar emotional explosion each year from the day he settled down in this old, rambling house following his parents’ fatal auto accident.

Oddly, the child knew just what to do.  Edging forward to Eric, he placed his hands palm down on the angry man’s arm to look deep into Eric’s eyes before asking, as he always did… in one form or another, “It’s tearing…hurting you inside, isn’t it?”  Usually Eric would lower his eyes and lapse into silence, his shoulders folding forward, signaling an end to the outburst.  Sam had an uncanny ability to read another’s deepest feelings when encountering a crisis situation. Today, however, the sight of Samuel tentatively moving towards him to ask the same old question was more than he could bear, and he rose with an oath, slamming out of the house, terrified at what might lie behind his desperation.

Listening with some relief, still frozen in place, Mary and Samuel could hear grinding gears fading as Eric hurtled down the driveway speeding west towards his very private, secret place, near a protective watery womb—a sparkling white sand ocean beach now clogged with storm tossed flotsam.

Wending his way between huge sea-lashed tree trunks draped here and there by octopus-shaped gobs of green seaweed, he headed toward his favorite meditation boulder nestled in a small cove at the end of the beach.  Hunkering down in a shallow, sandy hollow, he sat motionless…legs crossed in the usual position for hours on end, deep in thoughts insanely looping about the same oft repeated question: “Who am I and why am I here? Gods, that question should have received an acceptable answer long ago. Just who am I to give others serious answers to their most threatening inner problems?”

A sensitive passerby might fantasize that Eric looked like a mythic earth god searching the far horizon for lost souls tossing toward shore over the deep.  Instead, he felt himself to be one lost soul amongst many, no longer sure of any particular form, any spiritual certitude or achievable earthly goal.  Rather, everything…every idea moved in flux.  He had nothing to cling to…to believe in.  Lost in stygian blackness his soul cried out in its agony while the right answers, all those grounded truths, hammered at him demanding rational consideration. But that was the problem. “I am so weary of being merely rational, telling all those other souls what they need to consider rationally.  What about my soul’s need for the sudden irrational act—my angry outburst this morning, for example. What does the irrational act mean?”

Now, he felt drained, sucked dry, ready to be tossed aside to terminate a meaningless existential excursion into this great worldly joke wrapped in irrational hope.

Today, time stood still for Eric, long hours passing unnoticed except to mechanically consume a candy bar he discovered in a side pocket. Eventually a cold breeze sprang up as the winter sun sank lower until it threatened to plunge into Pacific waters beneath a light blue, far horizon spackled here and there with wispy, pink-tinged clouds.  Eric shivered, stretching his stiff legs over the boulder’s edge to make an ungainly plop back into the sand, his thoughts turning at last homewards and an uncertain reception.  His windswept surroundings had briefly presented a brassy rose hue, even as he spotted the first starry planet blinking down upon him.  Cool eyed Venus winked a generous greeting, promising a stable presence, whatever might evolve.

Allowing his imagination to wander, he discovered a gigantic rip in the heavens through which God’s unblinking eye peered down into his heart challenging him to admit his “sinning”, his callow lack of self-control, challenging him to take responsibility for the hurt he had caused this day.  He let out a bitter laugh as he reflected upon this cosmic, mythical, magic golden eye, seeing what there was in his heart collapse into angry flames plunging down to encounter at bottom so many unique, unrealized possibilities encapsulated in all his writing projects.  He felt his little human self struggle upwards, or was it downwards, on such a narrow path towards an ultimate summit or to depths not seen, but felt in anguish.

“Shall I imitate Garcia Lorca’s little Punchinello in Dirge for a Puppet… who so bravely leaps at Fate?” thought Eric, his laughter echoing from cove walls now turning deep green black in the fading light and he began to cast out upon a rising breeze a silly ditty he vaguely recalled from his war service: “Oh, ‘fer a bob-tailed nag or a blue-tailed hag! Hooda! Hooda!”  Sighing into silence he remembered a poem he had composed during happier, more innocent days:

“Swinging to-and-fro around spiral arms,

Dancing about some distant nebula,

Plunging away from our undiscovered center,

Pursuing outer limits tethered in imagination,

Discovering obscure beginnings’ reflected light,

It is then our hearts clasp the universe,

Even as we return, folding back upon ourselves.

To live the life awarded us in all good grace.”

Eric shifted uncomfortably beneath his mental corpse, that dismal past family history, bending forward under tedious ungainly weight to continue his lament:

“Oh, not to think—not to have to carry the burden of consciousness, how sweet that would be.  To find myself reduced to the natural animal living happily in paradise, respecting its ways and not concerned as to why, or how, or where I should take the next step in life. Why not leap across this tedious slog to find a better way, a safer more abundant valley.  If I could, my favorite place on earth might remain this sandy strip along ocean’s edge…a mellow space between the fluid promise of becoming “a something”…and a fixed, unchanging landscape saturated with our human ‘thou shalts’. But I’m already a successful therapist, d—n it!”

So thought Eric, hopelessly wallowing about in extended self-pity, dimly sensing he was an absolute, incurable ass, and indeed would become totally bored inhabiting any projected paradise out “there”.  Such utter nonsense all this verbiage is, screamed a distant part of his mind, his disengaged human intellect.

Then it happened.  A dazzling shaft of light slammed his brain, dulling his eyes, momentarily stopping his heart…a severe stroke they later said.  He fell into the surf like a twittering rag doll, instantly realizing, without any judgment, that he might now abruptly meet his maker, plunge down into his eyes and so find his way home at last.

Our blessed sun slipped below the horizon to make its way beneath the earth to another dawn as an evening breeze sprang up to kiss the sand, riffle Eric’s clothing and toss sea spume landwards. Ever so slowly, consciousness returned to his dark blob of a self caught in a rising tide. Carefully lifting his head he focused bloodshot eyes on a shadowy, hooded form clasping a staff rising over a far dune at the end of the beach.  “How droll and pointedly obvious,” he snickered.  The melodramatic nature of the past moments sent laughter streaming through his brain, presenting a gift of visions popping up in the narrow blank space preceding his life’s beginning and end. Oh, such visions they were:  He sensed a pregnant rainbow arching to kiss heaven’s vast realm even as he looked seaward to spot laughing mermaids reaching up through roiling surf to tickle skimming seabird bellies.

Somewhere above he sensed a mass of tumbling cloud faces rubbing noses, melding into a thousand frothy forms descending to bubble around his surf-tossed, shivering body.

Very slowly fuzzy sight regained sharper definition as once more he felt his heart pumping blood, singing at a faster rate, promising him energy to rise and struggle forward in a slow crawl on hands and knees to rediscover a familiar hearth and home. It was then an incoming tidal tsunami from packed memory banks thrust him back to his earthly beginnings, running a panorama of select experiences through consciousness with each laborious move he took towards that lounging, mechanical beast, the SUV, just over the dune.  Each forward motion accompanied a vivid memory whose feeling tone caused tears to flow as Eric made his slow passage inwards from the sea to reclaim some semblance of an earthly self.

When almost back to the car a third attack hit him leaving him unconscious, face down, just as he reached for the car door.  Tourists found him some hours later and so off to the hospital ICU to be on life support where Mary and Samuel appeared the next day, their anxious faces asking all the forbidden questions he dared not face.

It was Samuel who held him bound in a piercing, sad gaze. This nephew of his, a small wisp of a boy, soon to have managed nine years of life, left him after every encounter deeply puzzled and just a little terrified.  There was something, some quality in the boy that defied age and experience, almost a profound inner knowing totally out front, yet overpowering in its simplicity. It was as if he were in essence speaking from another reality, another realm quite outside any momentary issue or place. At school the other boys were constantly challenging him or would try to beat him up. In return the boy stood still and would look calmly at them asking such a little question, “What are you doing?” his dark eyes focused calmly upon the aggressor.  Usually the bully stopped, backing off in confused withdrawal while Sam serenely maintained his space and peaceful attitude.

Now, Eric couldn’t take his eyes off the boy who slowly approached him, taking his numb hand and looking intently at Eric he said softly, “They will take care of you in the other place ….don’t be afraid.” For a moment Eric was tempted to laugh only he couldn’t. He felt within their locked gaze that the boy was absolutely right. They would, indeed, take good care of him, but . . .

It was then he dropped off into a timeless dream world, a mix of scattered memory fragments jumbled together amongst possible scenarios of what life might be some day.

Samuel shortly turned to Mary abruptly saying, “He will be fine now. Really, don’t worry. Please, let’s go home, I’m tired.” The boy’s face seemed so much older, mature in a strange way, yet deeply weary, as if he had almost passed beyond his strength. Mary nodded assent, once again experiencing what could only be called an extrasensory affirmation flowing from the core of this little being named Samuel.

Many, many days passed seemingly without beginning or end as Eric passed in and out of consciousness, some days being better than others.  He seemed so pale, a wasted paper-thin man now, a shadow who could only talk with his eyes since the last little stroke had robbed him of speech and almost all movement. They wheeled him into the little room at the end of the corridor, a special quiet room assigned to the dying.

Nurse Rogers, her great round face displaying an Irish pug nose and blue eyes of large proportion peered forth from under swales of deep red hair to look down at her new charge with an impersonal, professional intensity that brought only a wisp of a smile to the corners of this parchment man’s lips—this subdued Eric. Though he wanted to, he could say nothing to break the silence. She said nothing either. Yet how they did talk with their eyes, holding a mutual gaze for several minutes until staff members appearing at the doorway displayed their increasing nervousness. They simply saw him as already moribund and merely awaited his final documented release.

When his time came she had sat some six long hours with him, occasionally dozing off only to awaken and find him staring steadily at her. At around 4 a.m. he turned his head just a little intensifying his gaze and slowly moved one hand from under the covers about his chin signaling her to come over. She seemed to wade to him through all his echoing goodbyes as she took his hand to feel shortly a slight squeeze. Watching intently she saw him settle back against his pillows, his eyes momentarily glazing before he once more turned to her with as large a smile as he could manage before those wide eyes seemed to peer in deep wonder at the great mystery lying just behind her.

He felt a slow flutter of the heart—just a slight tightness in the chest and then the most amazing happening. The ceiling of his little room seemed to float off to his right revealing the deepest, brightest cosmos to be imagined set against black velvet as ever so slowly the walls seemed to fold outward and under all about him.  There was no sensation of lifting upwards or any “out of”, merely a steady expansion of being.

Nurse Rogers appeared to fade into a vague outline and then disappear as he realized he could see all about him without turning his head—a miracle. He had 360 degree vision and of such clarity at his center, facing all those many choices on all sides out in this great immensity. He sensed no pressure to choose, no pressure to be anything but what he already was . . . in this now and forever time.

As the lotus walls unfolded reflecting a fast forward photographic sequence, his sense of smell returned to its once acute sensitivity—the air so sweet as if he were taking in fresh gulps of oxygen-saturated air upon the top of some great peak or at the foot of a tremendous waterfall. Then he fell into a quality of spiritual shock as his inner hearing tuned in to an a cappella chorus of such magnitude as to set his true Self vibrating. Myriad flashing lights accompanied the all-encompassing music, a veritable celestial fireworks display—expanding his mind, wrapping his soul in misty wonder to send him out beyond any measurable distance and into the infinite, into another sphere of being hardly to be imagined or even briefly understood.

–o0o–

Freddy was a nervous sparrow type, forever hopping about — her yearning, full mouth never quiet, alternating between loving remarks, followed by admonitory warnings — an endless stream of advice issuing forth as she perpetually “kept order”, organizing plans for the day and an occasional excursion for some of the older children.  She was always thinking ahead.  Often when naptime arrived Freddy sank into her comfy chair clutching her coffee cup filled with its usual murky black leaded happy juice, her small bit of comfort made all the better in the evenings with an added shot of brandy.  Indeed she was the loyal glue in the machine, keeping it all running, holding tenuous threads out to the children — her extended family — so sensitive to their social needs, yet coolly distant from them as she observed their comings and goings.

Dear, loyal Freddy, thought the Director, Miss Jenks, as she removed her galoshes. What would I do without her to manage all this controlled confusion, immediate wants, yearnings, little pleading eyes.  Actually, arrival time was the worst.  All those children being dumped so early in the morning while anxious parents offered a mish-mash of cautionary remarks as they paused briefly on their mad dash to work, steaming down packed freeways, counting the minutes to check-in time and their first liquid pick-me-up.  At times deep within she wondered if all this was worth the effort.  Was she after all just another aging human approaching the top of a ladder set against the wrong wall?  Then she would see a certain searching look in a child’s eyes and she knew she had to be there — for them all.  It was just – she never could figure out why exactly that was her need.  Of course, she realized with a shrug, the deeper, unstated truth.  Her consulting psychologist would point out with acidic professional certitude exuding a sort of Gertrude Stein flavor that since she was childless, living alone — no mate to share life’s drama, much less her bed, that — “Well, my dear, isn’t it obvious?”  Yet, far more deeply down her lonely well, safely enshrouded in unconscious folds, she longed to touch some ineffable truth that might throw open the doors to her inner cosmos to let light fall into all her dark corners. Good Lord, she giggled. Such thoughts reeked of inflated, romanticized amateur psychology – more psychobabble!

Sighing through the briefest smile she felt the old wooden building tremble as her last helper appeared for the day. Clumping up the few stairs thundered Tasha in her size 12 Birkenstocks, her huge butterball earth mother shape barely fitting through the door.  Miss Jenks eyed Tasha’s luxuriant swaying breasts free-floating beneath her loose sweater — as she didn’t believe in wearing bras — and winced as she visualized her own saggy, little droops — a sight she always tried to avoid by a quick adjustment of her mirror — upwards.  Miss Jenk’s handsome, somewhat aristocratic face with its high forehead and carefully curled auburn hair comforted her self-image reflecting back to her a distilled directorial propriety — a certain distant assurance implying organizational control backed by feminine mysteries to be revealed in due time to initiates only — not cast before any common run of womankind.

Tasha!  Why do I put up with her, she asked herself.  Well … for one thing she functioned during the day like one great sponge for the children.  They loved her unqualifiedly — burrowing themselves between those great breasts, crashing down between her Herculean thighs, running their wiggling fingers through Tasha’s long blonde hair and following her about everywhere — usually clutching their milk bottles.  She seemed always a movable feast — the great earth center.  Miss Jenks wrinkled her brow remembering what one uninhibited male parent called Tasha one day of a late afternoon, to-wit, “libidinous thunder thighs.”  Reall!  she thought.  Of course she was perfect for her role with the younger ones, especially around nap time when she appeared in all her glory — sitting in the corner on a huge pillow, the most needy child of the day curled in her arms, all the little ones flocking about her — a covey of cooing doves — touching her as a kind of home base before curling up in their blankets.  In twenty minutes they were all asleep, even Tasha — her blonde tresses strung out around her akin to some mystical magical gold carpet wafted in from ancient Baghdad.

Miss Jenks commenced her worrying routine once again — Angelo, a returning child being her point of concern — and then there was his father.  Something rather peculiar about him — an older man, quite taciturn some would say, with a handsome “intellectual” face showing little affect.  He seemed so coolly correct, distant, encased, utterly weary and absolutely unapproachable.  Always impeccably dressed he appeared far removed from scruffy everyday concerns.  She envisioned him in his dimly lit, grand library sitting stiffly in silence supported by an immense leather Morris chair, his mask-like face reading on hour after hour — the silence broken only by a crisp flick as he rhythmically moved from page to page.  Was this his prime joy?  She wondered whether there was any love left in him for Angelo, now that his wife had given birth to a second child.  In relation to Angelo was he simply being correct — performing his paternal chores in a lifeless puppet-like manner? Actually there were moments when she dimly realized she was deeply envious of him, his self-absorption, his disconnection from chaos and absolute insistence upon a surrounding order which she suspected sadly isolated Angelo from the demonstrable love he so sadly needed.

Miss Jenks remembered the day Angelo appeared on scene clutching an odd little book of Victorian aphorisms — loaned to him by his father. When asked what the book was all about, he carefully traced the large letters sounding the words. For example, “Little boys should be seen and not heard,” “Waste not, want not”, “Spiritual growth comes through pain,” and other similar homilies.  Angelo looked up with a frown. “Daddy said I should study them. What does ‘study’ mean? She shuddered, wanting to rip the little book from the boy’s hands and feed it to the flames while exhorting the father to “Wake up and pay attention to his son’s feelings!”

Many days when the mother couldn’t pick up Angelo this tall, well-dressed man would appear, nod briefly to Angelo, take him by the hand — rarely saying anything to him, much less asking him how his day had gone.  No, just took him by the hand and led him away at a steady pace.  Angelo never left without turning back for a long, lingering look at the little nursery-room.  A school indeed, his first for that indispensable something termed “social conditioning” or taming of the inner monster, though one had to wonder just where Angelo’s inner monster was hiding.

Little Angelo troubled Miss Jenks.  He never willingly joined in any of the activities, much preferring to simply sit and “read” — turning page after page — or watch the other children milling about engaged in a variety of activities, his dark brown eyes positing so many unstated questions.  She worried about him.  It wasn’t natural for a little boy his age to be so silent — so aloof from physical activity.  Yet, he would enter into activity if encouraged to do so and if the other children were not too rough.  He always answered questions, had been tested and retested for mental and physical abnormalities.  All appeared normal.  In fact, he was a very bright child with good verbal abilities — when he chose to use them.  Then there was the mother, poor sod.  She appeared forever disorganized, harassed and at the very edge of self control — her flashing blue Irish eyes radiant with emotion erupting through any conscious attempt to control feelings.  Just recently she had borne her second child, a fact Angelo chose to ignore totally.

Today, as usual, the children began to appear in twos and threes with the occasional loner tagging in on his/her own, their lunches properly labeled by Freddy and tucked away above reach until the appointed time.  Most of the children settled into their quiet Monday routine without regret.  It had been a long holiday weekend — Presidents Day.   Many of them had been hauled to the seashore for windy walks along a roaring winter sea or bundled into the mountains to see the snow and yet another nursery while Mum and Dad attacked the slopes before reappearing red-faced, breathless and full of chatter to sit before a roaring fire, hot toddies in hand.

These children had had enough of the “Great Outdoors“ and were happy to play together in low key this first day of a new week.

Quite without any prior announcement our Mrs. Peterson appeared at the door in some disarray, her hair flying all about, a squalling baby on her arm, full of apologies with a touch of fear in her eyes as she volunteered her story.  Dan, her husband and a survivor of Vietnam, had come down with another one of his attacks and needed her full attention for a number of days.  Could she possibly leave the baby with them until the nursery closed when she would pick her baby up and the older child?  Please?  For three or four days — a week, if need be?  Miss Jenks was prepared to say no, when she observed the look upon Angelo’s face — the attitude of his body, his rapt attention.  She found herself saying, “Yes, of course.  It’s quite all right.  Certainly that was possible.”  They did have a little nursery-room off to the side with a proper crib and supplies for just such temporary care.

The look on Angelo’s face deeply troubled Miss Jenks — his intense gaze – his absolute and total focus.  As the day progressed she noted that Angelo wouldn’t take his eyes off of the baby’s crib.  He seemed to haunt that little room and followed baby about when she was changed and taken for a short walkabout in the large playroom.  Later in the day when it was time for the afternoon nap, Angelo raised a terrific fuss.  He simply didn’t — wouldn’t settle down for his nap.  He protested adamantly, finally being reduced to tears, offering no explanation and was in the end allowed to sit upright looking — always looking at the little nursery-room.

This behavior on the part of Angelo went on for several days until the whole staff and Miss Jenks couldn’t stand it any longer and decided that something had to be done to defuse this mystery.  Miss Jenks suggested a plan:  They would settle the children down for their afternoon nap, Tasha being told to feign sleep while nervous Freddy was asked to go off for an hour of relaxation — a healthy walk in fresh air off the Pacific would do her good — calm her nerves — while Miss Jenks would see to it that Angelo was settled down to sleep and then covertly she would observe his reactions.

The very next day the little plot was carried out.  The children had had a thoroughly rambunctious time of it and didn’t mind at all being put down to nap — all except Angelo who once again fussed mightily.  At last even he submitted and Miss Jenks returned to her desk, pretending little tasks, yawning at length and finally seemed to drop off for a doze.  Shortly thereafter through half-closed eyelids she observed Angelo carefully peering about until he sat bolt upright to look fixedly at the little crib in the small nursery and then, after a last check of the room he crawled catlike over to the doorway.  Rising to his feet he tiptoed over to the crib, peering down upon the sleeping babe — the wee one asleep on her back, both alabaster arms stretched above her head.

Miss Jenks had meanwhile slipped out of her shoes and scampered over to the doorway watching Angelo as she held her breath.  Everything was so still, just the regular breathing of many children and their occasional jerky stirring about on scattered mats.

Angelo seemed a little statue, bent over that crib peering — waiting — his arms behind him, hands clasped.  Miss Jenks was quite prepared to make an Olympian leap should Angelo be up to no good, but — no — no, that wasn’t it at all.

The babe stirred, briefly awoke and wide-eyed stared directly up into Angelo’s eyes.  Only then could Angelo eagerly ask the question he had wanted so long to pose after all this waiting.  His clear bell-like voice echoed about the room:

 ”Tell me about God.  I forgot.”

Miss Jenks froze in a gasp — momentarily failing to register any reaction as deep within her mind painful memories tumbled forth positing all her unrequited longing.  After a fragile silence she found herself on her knees pressing Angelo so close to her breast he could hardly breathe.

He turned towards her with those great unsmiling brown eyes — that placid, unlined little face and, looking down into hers, ran his fingertips softly down her face — exploring a rare river of tears.

                                                  –o0o—

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                                                –o0o–

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                                                –o0o–

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                                                –o0o–

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                                                –o0o–

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                                                –o0o–

Still asleep as the first soft light of dawn dimly outlined the cypress trees surrounding our country home, I plunged down through all my dream images to land on a soft tuft of moss near the base of an immense sunflower plant.  Nearby, I noticed a wiggling cocoon-shaped mass with an arm sticking out here and a foot out there.  It seemed perfectly normal for me to be in a magical realm where anything might happen.  The world “up there” felt quite mad these days, indulging in a chaos I simply refused to share.  It was much better down here — away from my parents who were always shouting, arguing and throwing things at each other.  Verging upon something they called adolescence I resist knowing more about “adult problems.”  It’s enough to keep smarmy, touchy boys away, though quiet Terry seems nice enough.

Before I could examine my thoughts further, a little head popped out of the cocoon announcing, as if by rote, “I’m the Sun Flower Elf…The Sun Flower Elf… and WHO are you, pray tell?”

Such a good question left my mind momentarily blank as I suddenly realized I wished to claim no identity in this place, but saw myself as simply the Queen watching a puppet show. I can’t possibly explain why I felt this way.  Above all I wish to be entertained without having to do anything. That is my right as a feminine observer, isn’t it? Not to HAVE to do anything.

“I’m nobody, really.  Call me ‘Nobody’.  I’m a shadow here, actually.  Pretend I’m a ghost.  Do you mind?”

“Spooky-Wooky — I love ghosts!” it said.  “They have such creepy stories to tell when they aren’t wailing and moaning about what awful lives they lead up there in your world where we shadow folk mess about right under your noses.”

“So, if that’s the case, why don’t we meld together and you can watch me climb to the sun from inside my head?” said the Elf.

“What do you mean by ‘meld’?

“Flow into, become a part of, silly!

“You needn’t be rude!”

“Oh, yes I do NEED to, Miss Hoity-Toity — so there!”

“Really!”  I felt a fluttering spell coming on, just like Mother’s usual.

Anyway Elf appeared to know exactly what he was going to do…what he had to do…where he was going in life.  Now that does seem right to me, seeing “a him” settled on getting something done — like my Dad.  Before I knew it, I found myself looking through his eyes from inside his head, sitting quite a ways back as if I were seated in a comfortable movie theatre.  Finding myself inside his head didn’t bother me, though my seat was a bit squishy — all that brainy gray matter.  I knew anything might happen and whatever did happen wouldn’t frighten me at all.  It’s magic, you see. Maybe it’s a new way to see — from the inside out.

“Why climb to the sun?  How do you do that?  What do you do when you get there?  Isn’t it hotter than you can stand?  You might just melt, then what?”

“Now, now Rachel, one question at a time, pu-lease.  I climb to the sun ‘cause it’s the only thing to do — the only way to go.  I mean what else would a Sun Flower Elf DO?  And the “How of it” you ask.  Well, look at my feet.  See — I’m born with crampons on my feet and I have pointy toes, too.  My arms are strong and all I have to do is start climbing up the stalk. It’s the only way we’re going to find home again. Here we go!”

Up and up we went, resting now and then at silvery-green leaf joints until Elf stuttered “Oops”!  Just ahead of us, climbing majestically down appeared a great long, green creature whose huge eyes bulged out from a small head balanced on a thin length of neck. But, oh my, those jaws — jaws constantly grinding away on critters it had snapped up with its short hooked front legs. At the moment she was absorbed in consuming a green grasshopper, working away from one end to the other.

The creature stopped for a moment to size us up and see whether we were worth grabbing for a tasty lunch.  After a moment she identified herself.  “You may call me Ms Forever Hungry Mantis… I’m always hungry, that is.”

“Why are you eating dinner upside down?” I asked. “It isn’t proper you know.”

“Well, I declare — never thought I’d meet an authority on eating etiquette when I’m famished and in no mood for a philosophical discussion regarding eating routines.  I suppose you’ll next ask me why I don’t have a bib tucked into my vest?  Right?”

With that she made a sudden grab our way, but missed snagging us, a rare occurrence indeed.  I won’t repeat the naughty words that came out of the Elf.  His punishment was to lose his balance, sending us crashing down through the leaves, sliding sideways on some of them, grabbing at anything he could, until with a mighty crunch, he landed us on top of a slithery Toad who had just finished a big meal at the nearby pond.

Well, what that stuffed toad burped out can’t be written down or repeated  “@*!!?zam zam bloody boobs!” for starters.  Even Elf turned red in the face.

“You may call me Old Randy, if you like,” gurgled the toad, puffing himself up to twice his size so as to scare us off. “A word to the wise,” he thundered. “Don’t go ‘round thumping people on the back, or you’re likely to be eaten

 – so there!” And with that, Toad waved his long sticky tongue at us and gave a big hop forward, disappearing with a floppy swish into masses of greenery.  I could sense Elf straightening his shirtfront before sighing that we had to start all over again and, this time, he asked me to keep a special eye out for strangers.

“So, be a backseat driver for once…like you tried out yesterday with your mother.”

“What? How do you know about that?”

“Oh, I know all about you.  And the ‘How’s,

and the ‘Whys’ and how you got here and where you’re likely to end up if you don’t pay attention to our little adventure and stay with me and –.”

“Now, just a minute!  I’m supposed to stay with you?”

“Ho-Ho-Ho, your dander’s up.  Goody, goody, gum drop.  I think you’re catchin’ on. Yep, for better or worse, we stay together.”

“You know too much about me.”

“Is ’zat right?  Can’t be helped. You’ re in my head and I’m in yours, so who’s who?  Come on, we have to do a lot of climbing.  It’s already afternoon.”  Shaking himself like a young puppy, he grabbed the stalk and started up once again.

The view was so beautiful, or was it something about elf eyes.  Everything stood out in sharp outline, with colors so bright I wanted to reach out and touch them.  A great surge of happiness took over my mind as I began to feel like a deliciously puffed-up balloon.  Then it happened.

A dive-bomber of a creature, with flashing rainbow striped wings, huge grippers and the most enormous eyes, whizzed past us.  Those eyes were twice as large as Ms Forever Hungry Mantis.  He looked lean, mean and famished.  Flipping a sticker at us, he screeched that he’d be right back to gobble us up and that we should be courteous and call him Dragon Fly Surprise. For a moment the wind held its breath, as did we, and then we heard the fierce clatter of wings approaching. “Watch out! Here he comes,” shouted Elf, hiding under a green leaf on the other side of the sunflower.  But his warning was too late.  We found ourselves clasped to the belly of the great dragon beast zooming high into the sky before it settled on a safe spot to nosh away on us.  However, he hadn’t counted on how clever Elf was.  The wee lad had managed to squirm his way forward, so that he could reach up to the creature’s head.  With one great bash he struck the yucky dragon right between the eyes in a very tender spot.  Next thing we knew, we had been dropped and were swirling rapidly downward into the sunflower field, plunging through dark greenery to crash land on a hairy back. 

“Oh, mighty Sun, spare us!” yelped the Elf, hitting the ground with a solid thump to face a furry, big-eared rat twirling a large walnut round and round on the end of his nose.

“It’s NOT proper to drop in on me like that…not even with an announcement, which you didn’t give. That’s NAUGHTY!” exclaimed Old Woody, a short-tempered rat who shook his walnut at us.  Without waiting for a reply he turned back to his game, humming a tune to himself and turning the nut round and round in the air while blurting out odd lines of prose — something like:

Greedy mouths eat up their world,

(mumble — crunch)

Spoiling air and water,    

(gushy –yich)

Feeding offspring packaged sludge,

(NOT my taste)

Body systems on the blink.

(price of ignorance)

Things out of control.

(greed cleans the trough)

How clever they feel,

(pride puffs the mind)

Plagues roam old earth

(could care less)

 “Can’t touch me, I’m safe!”

(THAT’S what you think)

Science can’t catch up.

(it’s those double-blind tests)

 “Where’s the balance?”

(out in left field over the edge)

 Tell us who survives?

(NOT who you imagine, My Dears)

“Only roach, ME, and the Albatross.”

At last, the furry menace stopped his ranting to declare “See, I have special hairs in my ears that pick up lines from future time. I know what’s coming down the pike and I will survive, while those big-headed, two-footed clunkers who trample the earth will fade into a bad dream…Ha!”  And he began to dance a tarantella, once again balancing the world nut upon his nose. Quite a feat – a two-in-one show.

“Oh no, not another Nature freak!” snorted Elf.

The creature stopped in mid-twist, hurling his nut at us and displaying his teeth. He plunged at Elf, turning the air blue with rage. We felt our final moments were at hand but a steady swhooshing sound moved swiftly in our direction along the ground. We faced mother’s pet Wombat — a nasty, bad-tempered “beasty.” The creature was sleek and fat from all the vermin he had caught in adjacent fields and eyed us with an unmistakable look, advertising we were next on his menu. Old Woody, the rat, gave a mighty snort of alarm and bolted in any old direction to throw sneaky Wombat off. Elf gulped and leapt for the nearest sunflower leaf, climbing so fast the view through his eyes became a rolling blur — leaving me dizzy and shaky inside.

 This time, Elf scooted all the way to the underside of an immense round pod whose lumpy greenness provided a good clinging surface as he clawed his way to an outer edge.  Raising his head above the yellow-leafed perimeter, we saw what seemed to be a waving field of little arms reaching towards the setting sun from so many seeds we couldn’t count them.

Pulling himself up over the edge, Elf landed flat out on a field of brown bodies whose pollen-laden feelers caused him to have a sudden sneezing fit. Then, the strangest thing happened.  As he stepped from one seed to another, moving inward, we heard sets of musical notes, none of them the same, forming sounds so gentle to my ears I swayed to their watery rhythms.  Every time he stepped on another seed the mysterious music changed melody and key.  I asked Elf to slow down so that I might enjoy each delicious tone. Oddly the music seemed to come both from the seeds and from deep in the sky.

Looking up into the heavens, we gasped at the sight opening up.  There was no doubt the music came at us from far out in the Heavens.  Each seed when stepped on set off a bright twinkling overhead. Then we saw her outline stretched across the heavens from east to west.  Her arched form drizzled milk from full breasts upon our world during night shadows, even as she washed us with her tears.  For a moment I wanted to call her my mother, but thought better of it.  After all she was the Goddess!

Actually my earth mother was at home throwing things at Dad to get rid of her anger. She seemed always angry. She said it was better to let it all go in one extended shot and not allow it to build up inside.  That’s why Dad stocked up on cheap kitchenware, but saved all the crockery bits for a garden sculpture, which Mum didn’t appreciate.

Soothing chords flowed into me out of a universe quite beyond my understanding. Certainly I didn’t know what to make of it all. Elf sighed wearily, quite overcome by the day’s efforts, and curled himself up like a kitten upon the sunflower’s dimpled center falling asleep straight away. The heavens danced lazily overhead to his heart’s rhythm through a long, starry night

.

Struggling to keep my eyes open I sensed the shady lids over Elf’s eyes dropping down in slow motion, closing off my view as I struggled to stay awake staring at the vastness surrounding our sleeping flower.

Coming from all directions I heard a great chorus of voices singing, “Show’s over, Rachel!  It’s time you return home to live your own life in every way … day-by-day.”

Yawning, I curled up to sleep until a brilliant dawn announced its golden presence along the rim of our eastern hills. And then, wonder of wonders, there I was back in my own bed trying to capture and remember all the fine points from my unexpected adventure. Only thing was, I heard another plate smash downstairs to the rumbled tone of my mother’s imperious voice.

Coming to the end of my dreams I finally realized poor Dad had become the “target of choice” for all his remaining days, while I – well, I started looking to discover a way out into the world.

`

                    –o0o–                             

An English summer awaited Lilly this year following her somewhat pretentious graduation from the London “Institute of Cosmetic Design & Floral Happenings”.  That particular prospect barely set her flesh aquiver since weather projections indicated the island would be drenched more than usual and she ached for a dry expanse brimming with sun. Her Aaron thought she was acting a bit daft while using her school finish date as pretext to push forward his plea that they soon marry and set up their own nest.  That is, of course, just as soon as she located a position in a posh London Beauty Salon. Hardly an intriguing future she thought, though the “lolly” would be most welcome after all her scrimping just to make do.

[“Blessed Mary, quite contrary! -- it all sounds so rational, so organized and so -- so utterly boring!” screamed her inner Imp.  “Why don’t you jump the traces for once in your life – just once?  Follow your whimsy – digress from the plan. I dare you!” he shouted, rubbing his hairy palms in hopeful expectation she’d take the bait.]

Lilly shuddered at the idea.  All her conventional fears, preached from High Church pulpits, dictated she obey masculine rules — Aaron’s rules — and remain in the groove she had been digging for herself.  However the Imp wouldn’t cease his chatter, his incessant clamor.  That little bug-eyed, leering, almost salacious face tagged along in her dreams giving her no peace.  She was losing sleep resisting newly discovered anger, seen in her dream flashes as a shroud surrounding her bothersome Imp.  Lord, what to do!

The morning after her launch into the working world, and without giving it too much thought, she casually inquired at a local employment agency as to whether they had any summer positions available in Spain for newly licensed cosmetologists.  “Well, yes, they did, actually.”  One in particular caught her eye. A brief summer spot in a well-established Women’s Salon located on Ibiza in the Balearic Islands.  Lilly made a grab for it and was accepted sight unseen to begin her duties just a week hence.  Then the reaction set in.  Aaron would be absolutely furious!  Well, that’s his problem and for once I don’t care, she thought.  I want – I need a change, some sun, a time away from Merry Old England and in particular London’s diesel smog, the crowds, life’s insane pace — all those fusty bodies.  In short order she booked for Barcelona by bus and thence by overnight ferry for Ibiza where she was happy to meet her employer, an English lady of considerable hauteur.

After a month’s familiarization with salon routine, Lilly was approached cautiously by her employer, who had a special assignment in mind.  It seems she had just received a request from a certain wealthy German Frau for a complete “make over” who was resident on the island of Formentera, just a short ferry ride from Ibiza.  However, the doughty Frau requested that she be attended and “done up” at the villa — if you please.   Lilly would have to take her newly acquired moped and all necessaries in a company kit bag.  So, off she went one early morning and before many hours found her self buzzing along on macadam through a stunted pine forest, past large estates all secured by high walls topped with glass or surrounded by impressive wrought iron fences, behind which lurked equally impressive guard dogs.  She thought all this “security” was rather peculiar, as she had never heard any gossip about the island. Evidently its inhabitants were not accepted topics for speculative discussion.

Though she had been given the general location and description of the villa, there were no residence markings, no names or numbers anywhere apparent. Thus she had to do a bit of guessing.  So it was Lilly finally found what appeared to be the correct estate and was passed through the entry gate by a short uniformed guard who, it seems, spoke only German.  The circular driveway ended at a rather impressive main entrance where the tall iron-studded door stood slightly ajar.  She had noticed a number of old faces peering at her from various 2^nd story windows only to disappear without any expression — almost dismissively abrupt.

[Her Imp growled.]

Odd that.  And then there was a low hum of many voices floating towards her from the main house.  She approached the imposing door, moving it a trifle further open and forthwith received a thumping shock.  Before her lay a great hall lit by crystal chandeliers with some 200 souls gathered, almost all the aging men tarted out in Nazi SS dress uniforms — no “tutus” allowed with this crowd.

On the wall facing her hung an immense swastika flag with an attached SS banner gently rippling in an early afternoon breeze.  Blond lads wearing Lederhosen were scurrying about filling glasses and attending various gastronomic needs, consulting tables that circled the room laden with rare food and drink. To one side a small orchestra was warming up while champagne was being served.

Lilly lingered long enough to register the scene in detail even as her instincts told her to vacate premises as quickly as possible — in a word, “Scram!” as those Americans would say.  However, a discrete “a-hem” from behind took her by surprise.  Wheeling around she met the steely eyes of a tall, well-formed white-haired gentleman whose summer jacket sported a Nazi armband while the SS thunderbolt insignia hovered over his right pocket.  She shuddered, stammering at him in English explaining her errand even as she noted the giveaway bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm.  When he discovered her purpose he exclaimed, “Ja, sie ist meine Frau!” And then directed her in excellent English to the villa next to this estate where the good Frau, so eagerly sought after by this charming young English lady, was in residence.  He smiled broadly, bowed with a sharp click of the heels explaining that Der Fuehrer’s SS was having its annual birthday party, “Ja?” and then bade her a hearty Prussian farewell.

[Yich! Screamed her Imp!]

Lilly scampered as fast as she could to the moped, weaving an uneven trail out the main gate, not sure whether she was hallucinating or was caught up in an entirely weird charade — a crack in recent time, perhaps. After all this was 1969, not 1945.  She felt violently nauseated and dizzy as she raced erratically back to the ferry landing.  She wanted nothing to do with any nearby Nazi Frau!  Panic nipped at her heels relentlessly whispering “Go home! Return to Sussex! Go home — now!”

[VA! Go! urged her Imp.]

Not having a political bent she had never known that Spain’s dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had given protection to well-heeled ex-Nazis for six months out of the year, many of them congregating on the Island of Formentera in the Balearics, provided they left Spain for the remaining six months.  The latter was a most happy arrangement for the former Nazis (sic) as they flew out to South America to join wartime comrades in various sunny mountain venues where many German immigrants had settled long ago.

Lilly found the whole experience too overwhelming to even consider remaining in Ibiza for the balance of the summer and so gave immediate notice.   To top it off, “bloody” Aaron hadn’t written her once while she was in Ibiza.  “He’s probably moping around, slopping up the beer every night at their favorite local pub.

[You bet!” snickered the Imp]

Ruminating upon that obvious fact closed the chapter on Ibiza for Lilly.

Within a week she was off to Valencia by ferry to begin the long drive back to England.  She had indulged in the luxury of a small rented car and after enjoying several days in citrus-scented Valencia had driven west to Cordoba, where she lost herself amongst the Grand Mosque’s many dimly lit arches.  Her little soul tried to absorb the voice of God repeated over and over in stony arabesques — a sibilant echo reduced to sacred dreams captured within fading afternoon sunlight — but without success.  The Imp pursued her relentlessly interfering with her ability to focus and concentrate, much less meditate on anything spiritual.  She guessed it was her lack of readiness, still being on Life’s “up” curve and years away from the downward plunge.

[“You’re physically hungry and need a lusty MAN!” screamed the Imp jumping madly up and down.]

Ruminating thusly, her Imp chased her further into those arched depths receding with every step into a dull gray gloom.  Sad to say, a huge Baroque Catholic Cathedral had been constructed right in the middle of the mosque where the Moslem holy center had been walled in up to ten feet high, lit by one low wattage bulb illuminating its unwanted heart.  Against her High Church instincts she made herself enter the cathedral to view some of the world’s finest choir stalls still in existence, though the sight only made her long to shorten her journey.

So it was she fled feeling relentlessly haunted, rapidly sifting through the Ibiza experience seeking deeper meanings slowly simmering away on some obscure back burner.

One late afternoon Lilly found unexpected calmness awaiting her upon her arrival in Granada after the drive south-east from Cordoba.  Inexplicable as it was, sight of The Alhambra’s high walls and square tower — that fortress upon a hill set amongst its intricate gardens — functioned to open a gate back into her own secret garden, deserted so very long ago.  Her race away from recent events anticipated a rapid return to familiar English rural settings with long days and flowered summer days in store.  Fortuitously it seemed, a recent vivid dream seemed to anticipate her return to England.  There in the dream she was found standing upon an Ibithincan Island ridge of an early February morn staring in wonder down into a cupped valley resplendent in almond blossoms from rim to rim. A great white flowered blanket set undulating in a chilly breeze off the Mediterranean, yearning for winter’s end, mild though it was. The dream held her longing for a lush flowered countryside dripping in dew, vibrating to spring’s gentle breath.

Her Imp was happily smiling as she parked her rental car near the Parador and continued to do so even as she inquired within whether they could accommodate her this evening. “Yes, Madam,” came the reply. “You have been favored by the Gods”, they said, as there had just been a cancellation and she was most welcome.

Looking about the ornate lobby with its high paneled ceiling and dark carved wall fixtures — the whole setting replete with well-used leather furniture — she shivered uncontrollably recalling her unnerving experience back on Formentera.  Even now she still awoke in the early morning hours — heart racing — her mind claimed by the same nightmarish dream.  She relived an early childhood memory of being caught with her hysterical Mum in a Luftwaffe bombing raid over London at dusk.  All those brilliant images, the sounds and smells of cordite, melded grotesquely into her recent encounter with the surreal Nazi SS birthday celebration.  The sounds and smells of war, hot blood flowing ‘midst acrid dust and smoke, seemed to blend with her father’s many tales of bare survival in a German prisoner of war camp where the only decent food to be had was Komissbrot, a dark, heavy rye bread — Commissary Bread.  Then there were the tales of attempted escape followed by selective brutal punishment to set an example for any men contemplating further escapades.

While she could make peace with those early memories she couldn’t forget her tall, blond Hippy friend on the beaches of Ibiza who along with his friends sunned many a day in the buff to the absolute horror of good Catholic Spanish citizens.  To them uncovered human flesh was a

“dis-grace” and one simply did not swim in the ocean — ever.  “I presume they must have sex by the numbers and only briefly — assuming the Missionary Position of course” she thought.  For her, carnal pleasure was forever a sin to be indulged in solely to plant seed within the furrow,

a procreative act only, despite Aaron’s wistful complaints. This flaunting of unclean bodies — so many of them advertising U.S passports — finally stimulated the local Guardia Civil to ferocious action.

One afternoon they deliberately selected her Hippy John to be treated as an example, arresting him on a crowded weekend, hauling him off to the depths of policia Headquarters where they shaved off his long hair down to the scalp and pulled out all his teeth without benefit of anesthetic.  Following that rude process they informed him that he had exactly 48 hours to leave Spain or they would have him arrested and held for trial.  She found him afterwards in shock, bleeding, his eyes glazed over — a white skull gasping uncontrollably, unable to comprehend such deliberate cruelty.

[Her Imp wept!]

Lilly wriggled uncomfortably, remembering dark Spanish peasant eyes set in expressionless faces topped by shiny, black tri-pointed hats watching all aliens.  Watching and judging them every moment of the day, even appearing suddenly at night outside one’s window at the Finca to check out private activities, especially when a party was in full roar.

It wasn’t long before the Hip population dropped precipitously and eventually faded into a respectable middle class Bohemia. Poor John, she thought. Her brief summer affair with him had awakened her desire for romantic interludes — that carefree plunge into the mysterious and unpredictable — possibly even dangerous.

[Her Imp leaped about gleefully anticipating further “naughty but nice” adventures.]

Really though, John was such a little puppy, in truth innocent of all evil intent and only desiring to live as simply as he could.  It was all so sad.  She missed his soft kisses and gentle “embrazos” given without any further expectation, that is: “No sex — no hanky-panky!” He tacitly agreed to her boundaries on that issue.  However, comparing John and Aaron, she knew perfectly well she would eventually settle for practical, logical, ever steady Aaron.  He would be her “r-r-rock” to which she could turn in years to come, though she forever fought his possessiveness — his obsession with her.

Sometimes she thought of him as a large limpet — another sucking gastropod — one amongst so many dependent males encountered so far.

A moment’s overwhelming dizziness captured her as she stumbled into the nearest chair, its cold leather and pungent aroma pulling her back to the present.  “No, she must exercise some discipline and bury the past — good and bad!”  So spoke her Puritan instincts.  It was quite over with and yet — those feelings and fears lay just below the surface of her mind.  It’s her Aaron she should be thinking of now, a dark, curly-haired Scots lad whose milk white face surrounded black eyes of such depth as to put her down in a swoon.  Really put her down flat on her back, if she wasn’t careful, that is.  Perhaps that’s why she came to Spain for the summer, to test how she felt about dark men — about men in general.  She knew her Aaron had hot Spanish blood in him — courtesy of an amorous stranded Armada crewmember — an obvious fact when he pulled her close to his tense body for a long, long swiveling embrace.

[“Absolutely breathtaking wasn’t it, dear?” chortled her Imp.]

“Now, now Lilly, you really must control yourself.  Take a cold shower! Go for an extended walk in the gardens of the Alhambra and immerse thyself in only this present moment!” So erupted the inner guardian, to her Imp’s dismay.  Giggling a bit she felt her face warmly flushed and envisioned a mirror-imaged schoolmistress’s finger shaking at her own reflection.

[Her Imp lay about panting!]

Afternoon sunlight was waning towards the west when Lilly finally entered the Alhambra gardens to stroll in wonder observing Moorish engineering evident all about.  Water flowed everywhere to counter memories of endless hot, dry, desert days.  Pools in all sizes abounded throughout that great complex garden, as did little level stone bridges across singing rivulets while every vista held a fountain centered down some pebble-strewn path.  Looking South could be seen the Sierra Nevada Mountains, their snow-covered slopes providing a rich source of water for these gentle pleasures.  She sighed, turned a corner and gasped in utter delight.  Before her lay a series of wide sloping steps leading to a lower herb garden.  Along each side of the descending stairway stood a thick waist-high granite balustrade, the carved central channel carrying a continuously flowing stream of water.  She envisioned harem ladies, faces draped below the eyes, taking their daily walk on a hot summer’s afternoon, trailing bejeweled fingers through cool mountain waters, their tinkling conversation ebbing and flowing as in a well-stocked dovecote.  Then she remembered a recent documentary on the Alhambra filmed at night, the whole building emptied of tourists. Rooms, courts, corridors and all the gardens were lit in soft yellow light playing amongst carved shadows as the camera eye roved in cautious query from view to view, each scene accompanied by Manuel de Falla’s “Nights in the Gardens of Spain”. Such glorious music captured voices whose echoes still dimly reflected from these ancient walls — rushed down long passageways into cool courtyards to hide in private nooks claiming garden views, or a distant snow-covered range.

Dusk had fallen by the time Lilly returned to the Parador in a mood so peacefully centered that recent events only fluttered at the very edge of awareness.  A desk clerk informed her that one of the finest Flamenco groups in Granada had recently returned from a tour of South America and was to appear this evening at an old tavern high in the hills, just below the gypsy caves.  Could he reserve a table for her — the late evening performance, perhaps?  She dreamily agreed and later found herself with an assorted group of tourists winding their way up the hillside in a decrepit school bus that had seen better days many, many years ago.

[Her Imp was put-putting like an old motorboat, imitating a certain fictional Toady.]

Once seated in the tavern — actually an old nondescript building hanging to the hillside just below the road — she began to absorb the ambience emitted by a lingering suffusion of fine wood dust and stale red wine.  Walls between the roadside rooms had been knocked out, the resulting space having been converted into a small seating area with a raised platform to the rear. Looking about she noted a series of small tables, variously shaped, covered with oilcloth on which had been placed old wax covered wine bottles converted to candle holders, a small glass of real flowers, and an ashtray.  Chairs were of mixed vintage with well-used benches set against the walls whose few windows could do with a good scrub, not to speak of the occasional wall hanging loosely draped here and there.  The small stage, actually a raised platform whose well worn planks spoke of many an evening’s heavy pounding, seemed less than spacious, the forward area presenting several stools at each end of the stage.  Above the entranceway facing the stage were a series of spotlights and that was the entire assembly.

[Her Imp yawned!]

She thought how very drab it all seemed until she began to study the patrons, most of whom were older men of a comfortable age, immaculately dressed and incredibly polite, radiating a proud dignity requiring appropriate recognition from anyone approaching. Yet she felt a missing essence, an unknown possibility that lay somewhere behind the stage waiting for an exact moment to make its appearance.  Now and then dark faces would peek out at the house assessing the crowd while waiters wearing indifferent tunics distributed large flagons of sangria to each table and the men engaged each other in mellifluous conversation while dense clouds of smoke from strong cheroots formed over their heads.

A tall, well-tanned gentleman of strong features seated himself at her table, smiling indifferently and offered her a long black cigar, an offer which she briskly declined establishing a clear line across their little joint domain. She prided herself on maintaining unassailable boundaries to accompany her northern coolness, her inbred certitude — at least on the surface.

[“You idiot!” screamed the Imp]

Shortly there appeared from backstage a plump, swarthy little man carrying a sumptuous old guitar, his great black eyes darting about the room like an insect’s antenna, noting old customers with a slight bow, the number of tourists and how many were potential hazards with their invasive flash cameras.  He strummed his precious instrument while carefully tuning each string, then looking back over his shoulder, and with a toss of his mane, summoned another guitarist. He was a younger man whose high tenor voice accompanied the squat little man’s rumbling, raspy growl as they began the evening’s entertainment with long melancholy runs vaguely reminiscent of a subdued Portuguese Fado — that sad wailing lament for imperial days long past.  From the back of the still dark stage came a soft drumming cadence and forward into the spotlight moved a young woman of great physical beauty, scantily clad, her clear white complexion set off by intense red/ black makeup.  She danced a mixture of flamenco, ballet and soft-shoe slaps, none of which seemed to phase male conversation that continued at a low level throughout the room, though their eyes fondled her every curve.

[Lilly’s Imp giggled delightedly!]

Successive dancers drew more attention as their advancing age and increasing skill fed a growing tension when, shortly after midnight, the lights dimmed, the guitars fell silent for a moment and then burst into a grand rush of sound. Up came the spots and from the back of the stage a tall tree of a woman moved forward in a steady demanding heel clatter. (pop-pop-a-pop-pop)  Abruptly, all talking ceased.  She stood center front, never casting a look at the assembled — merely a swift glance aside to the lead guitarist. Her face was that of a woman well past middle age, a woman whose branches had survived many a storm, though the wounds inflicted were readily apparent.  She wore no makeup and her still jet-black hair formed a nimbus about her face.  Strong hands brushed back a few strands now and then and she smoothed the long dress over her thighs before erupting into an intricate foot pounding challenge to all wandering spirits — to all those who would dare take from her bounty without bowing to her will.

Lilly cringed in her presence feeling utterly reduced.  Then a wave of vertigo doubled her vision.  Naturally it was all due to the smoke-filled, packed room and a certain male mustiness topped off by her table partner’s generous servings of sangria. That was simply it, of course — “Absolutely nothing else!” she muttered to herself.

[Her Imp smirked!]

A second spot flared on to capture a slim, well-formed youth dressed in clinging black tights to set off his powerful thighs and narrow waist above which he wore a pure white flaring bolero. His heavy curls whirled about his head as he lustily danced the prancing stallion approaching his chosen mare.  Lilly could swear his luscious buns actually quivered in expectation of conquest.  “Oh, how silly!” she exclaimed aloud, her table partner eyeing her coolly, one eyebrow raised in juicy speculation.  She could feel the blood rushing up her neck.  She dared not look at him.

[Her Imp rolled about convulsed with laughter!]

On and on the frenetic dancing continued until in the early morning hours a shift of mood seemed to pervade the room.  This tall tree of a woman danced more seductively with a suggestion of a smile forming about her lips as the young stallion pounded out his fierce need unrelentingly.  As before a familiar crescendo, the room held its collective breath — the two coming face to face for their climactic encounter.  Arms akimbo she lifted her face to look directly into his eyes, her hot accepting smile a prelude to… and then, the unexpected.  She lifted her arm to flick a long sweat-saturated curl hanging over his forehead, the drops forming a glittering, slow moving arc in the spotlight.  Their bodies momentarily froze.  The music faded as his lips formed a shy, boyish smile.  With this the whole room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief even as two young ladies swooned away — Lilly folding up on the table, quite overcome.

[Her Imp couldn’t stop hooting and clapping!]

In years to come our very proper Lilly rarely spoke of her visit to Granada and only then with such – such a numinous yearning bursting from her face that one had to retreat into an inner haven — seeing her reach tentatively into the air — as if to recapture an image — long gone missing.

–o0o—

An English summer awaited Lilly this year following her somewhat pretentious graduation from the London “Institute of Cosmetic Design & Floral Happenings”.  That particular prospect barely set her flesh aquiver since weather projections indicated the island would be drenched more than usual and she ached for a dry expanse brimming with sun. Her Aaron thought she was acting a bit daft while using her school finish date as pretext to push forward his plea that they soon marry and set up their own nest.  That is, of course, just as soon as she located a position in a posh London Beauty Salon. Hardly an intriguing future she thought, though the “lolly” would be most welcome after all her scrimping just to make do.

[“Blessed Mary, quite contrary! -- it all sounds so rational, so organized and so -- so utterly boring!” screamed her inner Imp.  “Why don’t you jump the traces for once in your life – just once?  Follow your whimsy – digress from the plan. I dare you!” he shouted, rubbing his hairy palms in hopeful expectation she’d take the bait.]

Lilly shuddered at the idea.  All her conventional fears, preached from High Church pulpits, dictated she obey masculine rules — Aaron’s rules — and remain in the groove she had been digging for herself.  However the Imp wouldn’t cease his chatter, his incessant clamor.  That little bug-eyed, leering, almost salacious face tagged along in her dreams giving her no peace.  She was losing sleep resisting newly discovered anger, seen in her dream flashes as a shroud surrounding her bothersome Imp.  Lord, what to do!

The morning after her launch into the working world, and without giving it too much thought, she casually inquired at a local employment agency as to whether they had any summer positions available in Spain for newly licensed cosmetologists.  “Well, yes, they did, actually.”  One in particular caught her eye. A brief summer spot in a well-established Women’s Salon located on Ibiza in the Balearic Islands.  Lilly made a grab for it and was accepted sight unseen to begin her duties just a week hence.  Then the reaction set in.  Aaron would be absolutely furious!  Well, that’s his problem and for once I don’t care, she thought.  I want – I need a change, some sun, a time away from Merry Old England and in particular London’s diesel smog, the crowds, life’s insane pace — all those fusty bodies.  In short order she booked for Barcelona by bus and thence by overnight ferry for Ibiza where she was happy to meet her employer, an English lady of considerable hauteur.

After a month’s familiarization with salon routine, Lilly was approached cautiously by her employer, who had a special assignment in mind.  It seems she had just received a request from a certain wealthy German Frau for a complete “make over” who was resident on the island of Formentera, just a short ferry ride from Ibiza.  However, the doughty Frau requested that she be attended and “done up” at the villa — if you please.   Lilly would have to take her newly acquired moped and all necessaries in a company kit bag.  So, off she went one early morning and before many hours found her self buzzing along on macadam through a stunted pine forest, past large estates all secured by high walls topped with glass or surrounded by impressive wrought iron fences, behind which lurked equally impressive guard dogs.  She thought all this “security” was rather peculiar, as she had never heard any gossip about the island. Evidently its inhabitants were not accepted topics for speculative discussion.

Though she had been given the general location and description of the villa, there were no residence markings, no names or numbers anywhere apparent. Thus she had to do a bit of guessing.  So it was Lilly finally found what appeared to be the correct estate and was passed through the entry gate by a short uniformed guard who, it seems, spoke only German.  The circular driveway ended at a rather impressive main entrance where the tall iron-studded door stood slightly ajar.  She had noticed a number of old faces peering at her from various 2^nd story windows only to disappear without any expression — almost dismissively abrupt.

[Her Imp growled.]

Odd that.  And then there was a low hum of many voices floating towards her from the main house.  She approached the imposing door, moving it a trifle further open and forthwith received a thumping shock.  Before her lay a great hall lit by crystal chandeliers with some 200 souls gathered, almost all the aging men tarted out in Nazi SS dress uniforms — no “tutus” allowed with this crowd.

On the wall facing her hung an immense swastika flag with an attached SS banner gently rippling in an early afternoon breeze.  Blond lads wearing Lederhosen were scurrying about filling glasses and attending various gastronomic needs, consulting tables that circled the room laden with rare food and drink. To one side a small orchestra was warming up while champagne was being served.

Lilly lingered long enough to register the scene in detail even as her instincts told her to vacate premises as quickly as possible — in a word, “Scram!” as those Americans would say.  However, a discrete “a-hem” from behind took her by surprise.  Wheeling around she met the steely eyes of a tall, well-formed white-haired gentleman whose summer jacket sported a Nazi armband while the SS thunderbolt insignia hovered over his right pocket.  She shuddered, stammering at him in English explaining her errand even as she noted the giveaway bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm.  When he discovered her purpose he exclaimed, “Ja, sie ist meine Frau!” And then directed her in excellent English to the villa next to this estate where the good Frau, so eagerly sought after by this charming young English lady, was in residence.  He smiled broadly, bowed with a sharp click of the heels explaining that Der Fuehrer’s SS was having its annual birthday party, “Ja?” and then bade her a hearty Prussian farewell.

[Yich! Screamed her Imp!]

Lilly scampered as fast as she could to the moped, weaving an uneven trail out the main gate, not sure whether she was hallucinating or was caught up in an entirely weird charade — a crack in recent time, perhaps. After all this was 1969, not 1945.  She felt violently nauseated and dizzy as she raced erratically back to the ferry landing.  She wanted nothing to do with any nearby Nazi Frau!  Panic nipped at her heels relentlessly whispering “Go home! Return to Sussex! Go home — now!”

[VA! Go! urged her Imp.]

Not having a political bent she had never known that Spain’s dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had given protection to well-heeled ex-Nazis for six months out of the year, many of them congregating on the Island of Formentera in the Balearics, provided they left Spain for the remaining six months.  The latter was a most happy arrangement for the former Nazis (sic) as they flew out to South America to join wartime comrades in various sunny mountain venues where many German immigrants had settled long ago.

Lilly found the whole experience too overwhelming to even consider remaining in Ibiza for the balance of the summer and so gave immediate notice.   To top it off, “bloody” Aaron hadn’t written her once while she was in Ibiza.  “He’s probably moping around, slopping up the beer every night at their favorite local pub.

[You bet!” snickered the Imp]

Ruminating upon that obvious fact closed the chapter on Ibiza for Lilly.

Within a week she was off to Valencia by ferry to begin the long drive back to England.  She had indulged in the luxury of a small rented car and after enjoying several days in citrus-scented Valencia had driven west to Cordoba, where she lost herself amongst the Grand Mosque’s many dimly lit arches.  Her little soul tried to absorb the voice of God repeated over and over in stony arabesques — a sibilant echo reduced to sacred dreams captured within fading afternoon sunlight — but without success.  The Imp pursued her relentlessly interfering with her ability to focus and concentrate, much less meditate on anything spiritual.  She guessed it was her lack of readiness, still being on Life’s “up” curve and years away from the downward plunge.

[“You’re physically hungry and need a lusty MAN!” screamed the Imp jumping madly up and down.]

Ruminating thusly, her Imp chased her further into those arched depths receding with every step into a dull gray gloom.  Sad to say, a huge Baroque Catholic Cathedral had been constructed right in the middle of the mosque where the Moslem holy center had been walled in up to ten feet high, lit by one low wattage bulb illuminating its unwanted heart.  Against her High Church instincts she made herself enter the cathedral to view some of the world’s finest choir stalls still in existence, though the sight only made her long to shorten her journey.

So it was she fled feeling relentlessly haunted, rapidly sifting through the Ibiza experience seeking deeper meanings slowly simmering away on some obscure back burner.

One late afternoon Lilly found unexpected calmness awaiting her upon her arrival in Granada after the drive south-east from Cordoba.  Inexplicable as it was, sight of The Alhambra’s high walls and square tower — that fortress upon a hill set amongst its intricate gardens — functioned to open a gate back into her own secret garden, deserted so very long ago.  Her race away from recent events anticipated a rapid return to familiar English rural settings with long days and flowered summer days in store.  Fortuitously it seemed, a recent vivid dream seemed to anticipate her return to England.  There in the dream she was found standing upon an Ibithincan Island ridge of an early February morn staring in wonder down into a cupped valley resplendent in almond blossoms from rim to rim. A great white flowered blanket set undulating in a chilly breeze off the Mediterranean, yearning for winter’s end, mild though it was. The dream held her longing for a lush flowered countryside dripping in dew, vibrating to spring’s gentle breath.

Her Imp was happily smiling as she parked her rental car near the Parador and continued to do so even as she inquired within whether they could accommodate her this evening. “Yes, Madam,” came the reply. “You have been favored by the Gods”, they said, as there had just been a cancellation and she was most welcome.

Looking about the ornate lobby with its high paneled ceiling and dark carved wall fixtures — the whole setting replete with well-used leather furniture — she shivered uncontrollably recalling her unnerving experience back on Formentera.  Even now she still awoke in the early morning hours — heart racing — her mind claimed by the same nightmarish dream.  She relived an early childhood memory of being caught with her hysterical Mum in a Luftwaffe bombing raid over London at dusk.  All those brilliant images, the sounds and smells of cordite, melded grotesquely into her recent encounter with the surreal Nazi SS birthday celebration.  The sounds and smells of war, hot blood flowing ‘midst acrid dust and smoke, seemed to blend with her father’s many tales of bare survival in a German prisoner of war camp where the only decent food to be had was Komissbrot, a dark, heavy rye bread — Commissary Bread.  Then there were the tales of attempted escape followed by selective brutal punishment to set an example for any men contemplating further escapades.

While she could make peace with those early memories she couldn’t forget her tall, blond Hippy friend on the beaches of Ibiza who along with his friends sunned many a day in the buff to the absolute horror of good Catholic Spanish citizens.  To them uncovered human flesh was a

“dis-grace” and one simply did not swim in the ocean — ever.  “I presume they must have sex by the numbers and only briefly — assuming the Missionary Position of course” she thought.  For her, carnal pleasure was forever a sin to be indulged in solely to plant seed within the furrow,

a procreative act only, despite Aaron’s wistful complaints. This flaunting of unclean bodies — so many of them advertising U.S passports — finally stimulated the local Guardia Civil to ferocious action.

One afternoon they deliberately selected her Hippy John to be treated as an example, arresting him on a crowded weekend, hauling him off to the depths of policia Headquarters where they shaved off his long hair down to the scalp and pulled out all his teeth without benefit of anesthetic.  Following that rude process they informed him that he had exactly 48 hours to leave Spain or they would have him arrested and held for trial.  She found him afterwards in shock, bleeding, his eyes glazed over — a white skull gasping uncontrollably, unable to comprehend such deliberate cruelty.

[Her Imp wept!]

Lilly wriggled uncomfortably, remembering dark Spanish peasant eyes set in expressionless faces topped by shiny, black tri-pointed hats watching all aliens.  Watching and judging them every moment of the day, even appearing suddenly at night outside one’s window at the Finca to check out private activities, especially when a party was in full roar.

It wasn’t long before the Hip population dropped precipitously and eventually faded into a respectable middle class Bohemia. Poor John, she thought. Her brief summer affair with him had awakened her desire for romantic interludes — that carefree plunge into the mysterious and unpredictable — possibly even dangerous.

[Her Imp leaped about gleefully anticipating further “naughty but nice” adventures.]

Really though, John was such a little puppy, in truth innocent of all evil intent and only desiring to live as simply as he could.  It was all so sad.  She missed his soft kisses and gentle “embrazos” given without any further expectation, that is: “No sex — no hanky-panky!” He tacitly agreed to her boundaries on that issue.  However, comparing John and Aaron, she knew perfectly well she would eventually settle for practical, logical, ever steady Aaron.  He would be her “r-r-rock” to which she could turn in years to come, though she forever fought his possessiveness — his obsession with her.

Sometimes she thought of him as a large limpet — another sucking gastropod — one amongst so many dependent males encountered so far.

A moment’s overwhelming dizziness captured her as she stumbled into the nearest chair, its cold leather and pungent aroma pulling her back to the present.  “No, she must exercise some discipline and bury the past — good and bad!”  So spoke her Puritan instincts.  It was quite over with and yet — those feelings and fears lay just below the surface of her mind.  It’s her Aaron she should be thinking of now, a dark, curly-haired Scots lad whose milk white face surrounded black eyes of such depth as to put her down in a swoon.  Really put her down flat on her back, if she wasn’t careful, that is.  Perhaps that’s why she came to Spain for the summer, to test how she felt about dark men — about men in general.  She knew her Aaron had hot Spanish blood in him — courtesy of an amorous stranded Armada crewmember — an obvious fact when he pulled her close to his tense body for a long, long swiveling embrace.

[“Absolutely breathtaking wasn’t it, dear?” chortled her Imp.]

“Now, now Lilly, you really must control yourself.  Take a cold shower! Go for an extended walk in the gardens of the Alhambra and immerse thyself in only this present moment!” So erupted the inner guardian, to her Imp’s dismay.  Giggling a bit she felt her face warmly flushed and envisioned a mirror-imaged schoolmistress’s finger shaking at her own reflection.

[Her Imp lay about panting!]

Afternoon sunlight was waning towards the west when Lilly finally entered the Alhambra gardens to stroll in wonder observing Moorish engineering evident all about.  Water flowed everywhere to counter memories of endless hot, dry, desert days.  Pools in all sizes abounded throughout that great complex garden, as did little level stone bridges across singing rivulets while every vista held a fountain centered down some pebble-strewn path.  Looking South could be seen the Sierra Nevada Mountains, their snow-covered slopes providing a rich source of water for these gentle pleasures.  She sighed, turned a corner and gasped in utter delight.  Before her lay a series of wide sloping steps leading to a lower herb garden.  Along each side of the descending stairway stood a thick waist-high granite balustrade, the carved central channel carrying a continuously flowing stream of water.  She envisioned harem ladies, faces draped below the eyes, taking their daily walk on a hot summer’s afternoon, trailing bejeweled fingers through cool mountain waters, their tinkling conversation ebbing and flowing as in a well-stocked dovecote.  Then she remembered a recent documentary on the Alhambra filmed at night, the whole building emptied of tourists. Rooms, courts, corridors and all the gardens were lit in soft yellow light playing amongst carved shadows as the camera eye roved in cautious query from view to view, each scene accompanied by Manuel de Falla’s “Nights in the Gardens of Spain”. Such glorious music captured voices whose echoes still dimly reflected from these ancient walls — rushed down long passageways into cool courtyards to hide in private nooks claiming garden views, or a distant snow-covered range.

Dusk had fallen by the time Lilly returned to the Parador in a mood so peacefully centered that recent events only fluttered at the very edge of awareness.  A desk clerk informed her that one of the finest Flamenco groups in Granada had recently returned from a tour of South America and was to appear this evening at an old tavern high in the hills, just below the gypsy caves.  Could he reserve a table for her — the late evening performance, perhaps?  She dreamily agreed and later found herself with an assorted group of tourists winding their way up the hillside in a decrepit school bus that had seen better days many, many years ago.

[Her Imp was put-putting like an old motorboat, imitating a certain fictional Toady.]

Once seated in the tavern — actually an old nondescript building hanging to the hillside just below the road — she began to absorb the ambience emitted by a lingering suffusion of fine wood dust and stale red wine.  Walls between the roadside rooms had been knocked out, the resulting space having been converted into a small seating area with a raised platform to the rear. Looking about she noted a series of small tables, variously shaped, covered with oilcloth on which had been placed old wax covered wine bottles converted to candle holders, a small glass of real flowers, and an ashtray.  Chairs were of mixed vintage with well-used benches set against the walls whose few windows could do with a good scrub, not to speak of the occasional wall hanging loosely draped here and there.  The small stage, actually a raised platform whose well worn planks spoke of many an evening’s heavy pounding, seemed less than spacious, the forward area presenting several stools at each end of the stage.  Above the entranceway facing the stage were a series of spotlights and that was the entire assembly.

[Her Imp yawned!]

She thought how very drab it all seemed until she began to study the patrons, most of whom were older men of a comfortable age, immaculately dressed and incredibly polite, radiating a proud dignity requiring appropriate recognition from anyone approaching. Yet she felt a missing essence, an unknown possibility that lay somewhere behind the stage waiting for an exact moment to make its appearance.  Now and then dark faces would peek out at the house assessing the crowd while waiters wearing indifferent tunics distributed large flagons of sangria to each table and the men engaged each other in mellifluous conversation while dense clouds of smoke from strong cheroots formed over their heads.

A tall, well-tanned gentleman of strong features seated himself at her table, smiling indifferently and offered her a long black cigar, an offer which she briskly declined establishing a clear line across their little joint domain. She prided herself on maintaining unassailable boundaries to accompany her northern coolness, her inbred certitude — at least on the surface.

[“You idiot!” screamed the Imp]

Shortly there appeared from backstage a plump, swarthy little man carrying a sumptuous old guitar, his great black eyes darting about the room like an insect’s antenna, noting old customers with a slight bow, the number of tourists and how many were potential hazards with their invasive flash cameras.  He strummed his precious instrument while carefully tuning each string, then looking back over his shoulder, and with a toss of his mane, summoned another guitarist. He was a younger man whose high tenor voice accompanied the squat little man’s rumbling, raspy growl as they began the evening’s entertainment with long melancholy runs vaguely reminiscent of a subdued Portuguese Fado — that sad wailing lament for imperial days long past.  From the back of the still dark stage came a soft drumming cadence and forward into the spotlight moved a young woman of great physical beauty, scantily clad, her clear white complexion set off by intense red/ black makeup.  She danced a mixture of flamenco, ballet and soft-shoe slaps, none of which seemed to phase male conversation that continued at a low level throughout the room, though their eyes fondled her every curve.

[Lilly’s Imp giggled delightedly!]

Successive dancers drew more attention as their advancing age and increasing skill fed a growing tension when, shortly after midnight, the lights dimmed, the guitars fell silent for a moment and then burst into a grand rush of sound. Up came the spots and from the back of the stage a tall tree of a woman moved forward in a steady demanding heel clatter. (pop-pop-a-pop-pop)  Abruptly, all talking ceased.  She stood center front, never casting a look at the assembled — merely a swift glance aside to the lead guitarist. Her face was that of a woman well past middle age, a woman whose branches had survived many a storm, though the wounds inflicted were readily apparent.  She wore no makeup and her still jet-black hair formed a nimbus about her face.  Strong hands brushed back a few strands now and then and she smoothed the long dress over her thighs before erupting into an intricate foot pounding challenge to all wandering spirits — to all those who would dare take from her bounty without bowing to her will.

Lilly cringed in her presence feeling utterly reduced.  Then a wave of vertigo doubled her vision.  Naturally it was all due to the smoke-filled, packed room and a certain male mustiness topped off by her table partner’s generous servings of sangria. That was simply it, of course — “Absolutely nothing else!” she muttered to herself.

[Her Imp smirked!]

A second spot flared on to capture a slim, well-formed youth dressed in clinging black tights to set off his powerful thighs and narrow waist above which he wore a pure white flaring bolero. His heavy curls whirled about his head as he lustily danced the prancing stallion approaching his chosen mare.  Lilly could swear his luscious buns actually quivered in expectation of conquest.  “Oh, how silly!” she exclaimed aloud, her table partner eyeing her coolly, one eyebrow raised in juicy speculation.  She could feel the blood rushing up her neck.  She dared not look at him.

[Her Imp rolled about convulsed with laughter!]

On and on the frenetic dancing continued until in the early morning hours a shift of mood seemed to pervade the room.  This tall tree of a woman danced more seductively with a suggestion of a smile forming about her lips as the young stallion pounded out his fierce need unrelentingly.  As before a familiar crescendo, the room held its collective breath — the two coming face to face for their climactic encounter.  Arms akimbo she lifted her face to look directly into his eyes, her hot accepting smile a prelude to… and then, the unexpected.  She lifted her arm to flick a long sweat-saturated curl hanging over his forehead, the drops forming a glittering, slow moving arc in the spotlight.  Their bodies momentarily froze.  The music faded as his lips formed a shy, boyish smile.  With this the whole room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief even as two young ladies swooned away — Lilly folding up on the table, quite overcome.

[Her Imp couldn’t stop hooting and clapping!]

In years to come our very proper Lilly rarely spoke of her visit to Granada and only then with such – such a numinous yearning bursting from her face that one had to retreat into an inner haven — seeing her reach tentatively into the air — as if to recapture an image — long gone missing.

–o0o—

An English summer awaited Lilly this year following her somewhat pretentious graduation from the London “Institute of Cosmetic Design & Floral Happenings”.  That particular prospect barely set her flesh aquiver since weather projections indicated the island would be drenched more than usual and she ached for a dry expanse brimming with sun. Her Aaron thought she was acting a bit daft while using her school finish date as pretext to push forward his plea that they soon marry and set up their own nest.  That is, of course, just as soon as she located a position in a posh London Beauty Salon. Hardly an intriguing future she thought, though the “lolly” would be most welcome after all her scrimping just to make do.

[“Blessed Mary, quite contrary! -- it all sounds so rational, so organized and so -- so utterly boring!” screamed her inner Imp.  “Why don’t you jump the traces for once in your life – just once?  Follow your whimsy – digress from the plan. I dare you!” he shouted, rubbing his hairy palms in hopeful expectation she’d take the bait.]

Lilly shuddered at the idea.  All her conventional fears, preached from High Church pulpits, dictated she obey masculine rules — Aaron’s rules — and remain in the groove she had been digging for herself.  However the Imp wouldn’t cease his chatter, his incessant clamor.  That little bug-eyed, leering, almost salacious face tagged along in her dreams giving her no peace.  She was losing sleep resisting newly discovered anger, seen in her dream flashes as a shroud surrounding her bothersome Imp.  Lord, what to do!

The morning after her launch into the working world, and without giving it too much thought, she casually inquired at a local employment agency as to whether they had any summer positions available in Spain for newly licensed cosmetologists.  “Well, yes, they did, actually.”  One in particular caught her eye. A brief summer spot in a well-established Women’s Salon located on Ibiza in the Balearic Islands.  Lilly made a grab for it and was accepted sight unseen to begin her duties just a week hence.  Then the reaction set in.  Aaron would be absolutely furious!  Well, that’s his problem and for once I don’t care, she thought.  I want – I need a change, some sun, a time away from Merry Old England and in particular London’s diesel smog, the crowds, life’s insane pace — all those fusty bodies.  In short order she booked for Barcelona by bus and thence by overnight ferry for Ibiza where she was happy to meet her employer, an English lady of considerable hauteur.

After a month’s familiarization with salon routine, Lilly was approached cautiously by her employer, who had a special assignment in mind.  It seems she had just received a request from a certain wealthy German Frau for a complete “make over” who was resident on the island of Formentera, just a short ferry ride from Ibiza.  However, the doughty Frau requested that she be attended and “done up” at the villa — if you please.   Lilly would have to take her newly acquired moped and all necessaries in a company kit bag.  So, off she went one early morning and before many hours found her self buzzing along on macadam through a stunted pine forest, past large estates all secured by high walls topped with glass or surrounded by impressive wrought iron fences, behind which lurked equally impressive guard dogs.  She thought all this “security” was rather peculiar, as she had never heard any gossip about the island. Evidently its inhabitants were not accepted topics for speculative discussion.

Though she had been given the general location and description of the villa, there were no residence markings, no names or numbers anywhere apparent. Thus she had to do a bit of guessing.  So it was Lilly finally found what appeared to be the correct estate and was passed through the entry gate by a short uniformed guard who, it seems, spoke only German.  The circular driveway ended at a rather impressive main entrance where the tall iron-studded door stood slightly ajar.  She had noticed a number of old faces peering at her from various 2^nd story windows only to disappear without any expression — almost dismissively abrupt.

[Her Imp growled.]

Odd that.  And then there was a low hum of many voices floating towards her from the main house.  She approached the imposing door, moving it a trifle further open and forthwith received a thumping shock.  Before her lay a great hall lit by crystal chandeliers with some 200 souls gathered, almost all the aging men tarted out in Nazi SS dress uniforms — no “tutus” allowed with this crowd.

On the wall facing her hung an immense swastika flag with an attached SS banner gently rippling in an early afternoon breeze.  Blond lads wearing Lederhosen were scurrying about filling glasses and attending various gastronomic needs, consulting tables that circled the room laden with rare food and drink. To one side a small orchestra was warming up while champagne was being served.

Lilly lingered long enough to register the scene in detail even as her instincts told her to vacate premises as quickly as possible — in a word, “Scram!” as those Americans would say.  However, a discrete “a-hem” from behind took her by surprise.  Wheeling around she met the steely eyes of a tall, well-formed white-haired gentleman whose summer jacket sported a Nazi armband while the SS thunderbolt insignia hovered over his right pocket.  She shuddered, stammering at him in English explaining her errand even as she noted the giveaway bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm.  When he discovered her purpose he exclaimed, “Ja, sie ist meine Frau!” And then directed her in excellent English to the villa next to this estate where the good Frau, so eagerly sought after by this charming young English lady, was in residence.  He smiled broadly, bowed with a sharp click of the heels explaining that Der Fuehrer’s SS was having its annual birthday party, “Ja?” and then bade her a hearty Prussian farewell.

[Yich! Screamed her Imp!]

Lilly scampered as fast as she could to the moped, weaving an uneven trail out the main gate, not sure whether she was hallucinating or was caught up in an entirely weird charade — a crack in recent time, perhaps. After all this was 1969, not 1945.  She felt violently nauseated and dizzy as she raced erratically back to the ferry landing.  She wanted nothing to do with any nearby Nazi Frau!  Panic nipped at her heels relentlessly whispering “Go home! Return to Sussex! Go home — now!”

[VA! Go! urged her Imp.]

Not having a political bent she had never known that Spain’s dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had given protection to well-heeled ex-Nazis for six months out of the year, many of them congregating on the Island of Formentera in the Balearics, provided they left Spain for the remaining six months.  The latter was a most happy arrangement for the former Nazis (sic) as they flew out to South America to join wartime comrades in various sunny mountain venues where many German immigrants had settled long ago.

Lilly found the whole experience too overwhelming to even consider remaining in Ibiza for the balance of the summer and so gave immediate notice.   To top it off, “bloody” Aaron hadn’t written her once while she was in Ibiza.  “He’s probably moping around, slopping up the beer every night at their favorite local pub.

[You bet!” snickered the Imp]

Ruminating upon that obvious fact closed the chapter on Ibiza for Lilly.

Within a week she was off to Valencia by ferry to begin the long drive back to England.  She had indulged in the luxury of a small rented car and after enjoying several days in citrus-scented Valencia had driven west to Cordoba, where she lost herself amongst the Grand Mosque’s many dimly lit arches.  Her little soul tried to absorb the voice of God repeated over and over in stony arabesques — a sibilant echo reduced to sacred dreams captured within fading afternoon sunlight — but without success.  The Imp pursued her relentlessly interfering with her ability to focus and concentrate, much less meditate on anything spiritual.  She guessed it was her lack of readiness, still being on Life’s “up” curve and years away from the downward plunge.

[“You’re physically hungry and need a lusty MAN!” screamed the Imp jumping madly up and down.]

Ruminating thusly, her Imp chased her further into those arched depths receding with every step into a dull gray gloom.  Sad to say, a huge Baroque Catholic Cathedral had been constructed right in the middle of the mosque where the Moslem holy center had been walled in up to ten feet high, lit by one low wattage bulb illuminating its unwanted heart.  Against her High Church instincts she made herself enter the cathedral to view some of the world’s finest choir stalls still in existence, though the sight only made her long to shorten her journey.

So it was she fled feeling relentlessly haunted, rapidly sifting through the Ibiza experience seeking deeper meanings slowly simmering away on some obscure back burner.

One late afternoon Lilly found unexpected calmness awaiting her upon her arrival in Granada after the drive south-east from Cordoba.  Inexplicable as it was, sight of The Alhambra’s high walls and square tower — that fortress upon a hill set amongst its intricate gardens — functioned to open a gate back into her own secret garden, deserted so very long ago.  Her race away from recent events anticipated a rapid return to familiar English rural settings with long days and flowered summer days in store.  Fortuitously it seemed, a recent vivid dream seemed to anticipate her return to England.  There in the dream she was found standing upon an Ibithincan Island ridge of an early February morn staring in wonder down into a cupped valley resplendent in almond blossoms from rim to rim. A great white flowered blanket set undulating in a chilly breeze off the Mediterranean, yearning for winter’s end, mild though it was. The dream held her longing for a lush flowered countryside dripping in dew, vibrating to spring’s gentle breath.

Her Imp was happily smiling as she parked her rental car near the Parador and continued to do so even as she inquired within whether they could accommodate her this evening. “Yes, Madam,” came the reply. “You have been favored by the Gods”, they said, as there had just been a cancellation and she was most welcome.

Looking about the ornate lobby with its high paneled ceiling and dark carved wall fixtures — the whole setting replete with well-used leather furniture — she shivered uncontrollably recalling her unnerving experience back on Formentera.  Even now she still awoke in the early morning hours — heart racing — her mind claimed by the same nightmarish dream.  She relived an early childhood memory of being caught with her hysterical Mum in a Luftwaffe bombing raid over London at dusk.  All those brilliant images, the sounds and smells of cordite, melded grotesquely into her recent encounter with the surreal Nazi SS birthday celebration.  The sounds and smells of war, hot blood flowing ‘midst acrid dust and smoke, seemed to blend with her father’s many tales of bare survival in a German prisoner of war camp where the only decent food to be had was Komissbrot, a dark, heavy rye bread — Commissary Bread.  Then there were the tales of attempted escape followed by selective brutal punishment to set an example for any men contemplating further escapades.

While she could make peace with those early memories she couldn’t forget her tall, blond Hippy friend on the beaches of Ibiza who along with his friends sunned many a day in the buff to the absolute horror of good Catholic Spanish citizens.  To them uncovered human flesh was a

“dis-grace” and one simply did not swim in the ocean — ever.  “I presume they must have sex by the numbers and only briefly — assuming the Missionary Position of course” she thought.  For her, carnal pleasure was forever a sin to be indulged in solely to plant seed within the furrow,

a procreative act only, despite Aaron’s wistful complaints. This flaunting of unclean bodies — so many of them advertising U.S passports — finally stimulated the local Guardia Civil to ferocious action.

One afternoon they deliberately selected her Hippy John to be treated as an example, arresting him on a crowded weekend, hauling him off to the depths of policia Headquarters where they shaved off his long hair down to the scalp and pulled out all his teeth without benefit of anesthetic.  Following that rude process they informed him that he had exactly 48 hours to leave Spain or they would have him arrested and held for trial.  She found him afterwards in shock, bleeding, his eyes glazed over — a white skull gasping uncontrollably, unable to comprehend such deliberate cruelty.

[Her Imp wept!]

Lilly wriggled uncomfortably, remembering dark Spanish peasant eyes set in expressionless faces topped by shiny, black tri-pointed hats watching all aliens.  Watching and judging them every moment of the day, even appearing suddenly at night outside one’s window at the Finca to check out private activities, especially when a party was in full roar.

It wasn’t long before the Hip population dropped precipitously and eventually faded into a respectable middle class Bohemia. Poor John, she thought. Her brief summer affair with him had awakened her desire for romantic interludes — that carefree plunge into the mysterious and unpredictable — possibly even dangerous.

[Her Imp leaped about gleefully anticipating further “naughty but nice” adventures.]

Really though, John was such a little puppy, in truth innocent of all evil intent and only desiring to live as simply as he could.  It was all so sad.  She missed his soft kisses and gentle “embrazos” given without any further expectation, that is: “No sex — no hanky-panky!” He tacitly agreed to her boundaries on that issue.  However, comparing John and Aaron, she knew perfectly well she would eventually settle for practical, logical, ever steady Aaron.  He would be her “r-r-rock” to which she could turn in years to come, though she forever fought his possessiveness — his obsession with her.

Sometimes she thought of him as a large limpet — another sucking gastropod — one amongst so many dependent males encountered so far.

A moment’s overwhelming dizziness captured her as she stumbled into the nearest chair, its cold leather and pungent aroma pulling her back to the present.  “No, she must exercise some discipline and bury the past — good and bad!”  So spoke her Puritan instincts.  It was quite over with and yet — those feelings and fears lay just below the surface of her mind.  It’s her Aaron she should be thinking of now, a dark, curly-haired Scots lad whose milk white face surrounded black eyes of such depth as to put her down in a swoon.  Really put her down flat on her back, if she wasn’t careful, that is.  Perhaps that’s why she came to Spain for the summer, to test how she felt about dark men — about men in general.  She knew her Aaron had hot Spanish blood in him — courtesy of an amorous stranded Armada crewmember — an obvious fact when he pulled her close to his tense body for a long, long swiveling embrace.

[“Absolutely breathtaking wasn’t it, dear?” chortled her Imp.]

“Now, now Lilly, you really must control yourself.  Take a cold shower! Go for an extended walk in the gardens of the Alhambra and immerse thyself in only this present moment!” So erupted the inner guardian, to her Imp’s dismay.  Giggling a bit she felt her face warmly flushed and envisioned a mirror-imaged schoolmistress’s finger shaking at her own reflection.

[Her Imp lay about panting!]

Afternoon sunlight was waning towards the west when Lilly finally entered the Alhambra gardens to stroll in wonder observing Moorish engineering evident all about.  Water flowed everywhere to counter memories of endless hot, dry, desert days.  Pools in all sizes abounded throughout that great complex garden, as did little level stone bridges across singing rivulets while every vista held a fountain centered down some pebble-strewn path.  Looking South could be seen the Sierra Nevada Mountains, their snow-covered slopes providing a rich source of water for these gentle pleasures.  She sighed, turned a corner and gasped in utter delight.  Before her lay a series of wide sloping steps leading to a lower herb garden.  Along each side of the descending stairway stood a thick waist-high granite balustrade, the carved central channel carrying a continuously flowing stream of water.  She envisioned harem ladies, faces draped below the eyes, taking their daily walk on a hot summer’s afternoon, trailing bejeweled fingers through cool mountain waters, their tinkling conversation ebbing and flowing as in a well-stocked dovecote.  Then she remembered a recent documentary on the Alhambra filmed at night, the whole building emptied of tourists. Rooms, courts, corridors and all the gardens were lit in soft yellow light playing amongst carved shadows as the camera eye roved in cautious query from view to view, each scene accompanied by Manuel de Falla’s “Nights in the Gardens of Spain”. Such glorious music captured voices whose echoes still dimly reflected from these ancient walls — rushed down long passageways into cool courtyards to hide in private nooks claiming garden views, or a distant snow-covered range.

Dusk had fallen by the time Lilly returned to the Parador in a mood so peacefully centered that recent events only fluttered at the very edge of awareness.  A desk clerk informed her that one of the finest Flamenco groups in Granada had recently returned from a tour of South America and was to appear this evening at an old tavern high in the hills, just below the gypsy caves.  Could he reserve a table for her — the late evening performance, perhaps?  She dreamily agreed and later found herself with an assorted group of tourists winding their way up the hillside in a decrepit school bus that had seen better days many, many years ago.

[Her Imp was put-putting like an old motorboat, imitating a certain fictional Toady.]

Once seated in the tavern — actually an old nondescript building hanging to the hillside just below the road — she began to absorb the ambience emitted by a lingering suffusion of fine wood dust and stale red wine.  Walls between the roadside rooms had been knocked out, the resulting space having been converted into a small seating area with a raised platform to the rear. Looking about she noted a series of small tables, variously shaped, covered with oilcloth on which had been placed old wax covered wine bottles converted to candle holders, a small glass of real flowers, and an ashtray.  Chairs were of mixed vintage with well-used benches set against the walls whose few windows could do with a good scrub, not to speak of the occasional wall hanging loosely draped here and there.  The small stage, actually a raised platform whose well worn planks spoke of many an evening’s heavy pounding, seemed less than spacious, the forward area presenting several stools at each end of the stage.  Above the entranceway facing the stage were a series of spotlights and that was the entire assembly.

[Her Imp yawned!]

She thought how very drab it all seemed until she began to study the patrons, most of whom were older men of a comfortable age, immaculately dressed and incredibly polite, radiating a proud dignity requiring appropriate recognition from anyone approaching. Yet she felt a missing essence, an unknown possibility that lay somewhere behind the stage waiting for an exact moment to make its appearance.  Now and then dark faces would peek out at the house assessing the crowd while waiters wearing indifferent tunics distributed large flagons of sangria to each table and the men engaged each other in mellifluous conversation while dense clouds of smoke from strong cheroots formed over their heads.

A tall, well-tanned gentleman of strong features seated himself at her table, smiling indifferently and offered her a long black cigar, an offer which she briskly declined establishing a clear line across their little joint domain. She prided herself on maintaining unassailable boundaries to accompany her northern coolness, her inbred certitude — at least on the surface.

[“You idiot!” screamed the Imp]

Shortly there appeared from backstage a plump, swarthy little man carrying a sumptuous old guitar, his great black eyes darting about the room like an insect’s antenna, noting old customers with a slight bow, the number of tourists and how many were potential hazards with their invasive flash cameras.  He strummed his precious instrument while carefully tuning each string, then looking back over his shoulder, and with a toss of his mane, summoned another guitarist. He was a younger man whose high tenor voice accompanied the squat little man’s rumbling, raspy growl as they began the evening’s entertainment with long melancholy runs vaguely reminiscent of a subdued Portuguese Fado — that sad wailing lament for imperial days long past.  From the back of the still dark stage came a soft drumming cadence and forward into the spotlight moved a young woman of great physical beauty, scantily clad, her clear white complexion set off by intense red/ black makeup.  She danced a mixture of flamenco, ballet and soft-shoe slaps, none of which seemed to phase male conversation that continued at a low level throughout the room, though their eyes fondled her every curve.

[Lilly’s Imp giggled delightedly!]

Successive dancers drew more attention as their advancing age and increasing skill fed a growing tension when, shortly after midnight, the lights dimmed, the guitars fell silent for a moment and then burst into a grand rush of sound. Up came the spots and from the back of the stage a tall tree of a woman moved forward in a steady demanding heel clatter. (pop-pop-a-pop-pop)  Abruptly, all talking ceased.  She stood center front, never casting a look at the assembled — merely a swift glance aside to the lead guitarist. Her face was that of a woman well past middle age, a woman whose branches had survived many a storm, though the wounds inflicted were readily apparent.  She wore no makeup and her still jet-black hair formed a nimbus about her face.  Strong hands brushed back a few strands now and then and she smoothed the long dress over her thighs before erupting into an intricate foot pounding challenge to all wandering spirits — to all those who would dare take from her bounty without bowing to her will.

Lilly cringed in her presence feeling utterly reduced.  Then a wave of vertigo doubled her vision.  Naturally it was all due to the smoke-filled, packed room and a certain male mustiness topped off by her table partner’s generous servings of sangria. That was simply it, of course — “Absolutely nothing else!” she muttered to herself.

[Her Imp smirked!]

A second spot flared on to capture a slim, well-formed youth dressed in clinging black tights to set off his powerful thighs and narrow waist above which he wore a pure white flaring bolero. His heavy curls whirled about his head as he lustily danced the prancing stallion approaching his chosen mare.  Lilly could swear his luscious buns actually quivered in expectation of conquest.  “Oh, how silly!” she exclaimed aloud, her table partner eyeing her coolly, one eyebrow raised in juicy speculation.  She could feel the blood rushing up her neck.  She dared not look at him.

[Her Imp rolled about convulsed with laughter!]

On and on the frenetic dancing continued until in the early morning hours a shift of mood seemed to pervade the room.  This tall tree of a woman danced more seductively with a suggestion of a smile forming about her lips as the young stallion pounded out his fierce need unrelentingly.  As before a familiar crescendo, the room held its collective breath — the two coming face to face for their climactic encounter.  Arms akimbo she lifted her face to look directly into his eyes, her hot accepting smile a prelude to… and then, the unexpected.  She lifted her arm to flick a long sweat-saturated curl hanging over his forehead, the drops forming a glittering, slow moving arc in the spotlight.  Their bodies momentarily froze.  The music faded as his lips formed a shy, boyish smile.  With this the whole room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief even as two young ladies swooned away — Lilly folding up on the table, quite overcome.

[Her Imp couldn’t stop hooting and clapping!]

In years to come our very proper Lilly rarely spoke of her visit to Granada and only then with such – such a numinous yearning bursting from her face that one had to retreat into an inner haven — seeing her reach tentatively into the air — as if to recapture an image — long gone missing.

–o0o—

An English summer awaited Lilly this year following her somewhat pretentious graduation from the London “Institute of Cosmetic Design & Floral Happenings”.  That particular prospect barely set her flesh aquiver since weather projections indicated the island would be drenched more than usual and she ached for a dry expanse brimming with sun. Her Aaron thought she was acting a bit daft while using her school finish date as pretext to push forward his plea that they soon marry and set up their own nest.  That is, of course, just as soon as she located a position in a posh London Beauty Salon. Hardly an intriguing future she thought, though the “lolly” would be most welcome after all her scrimping just to make do.

[“Blessed Mary, quite contrary! -- it all sounds so rational, so organized and so -- so utterly boring!” screamed her inner Imp.  “Why don’t you jump the traces for once in your life – just once?  Follow your whimsy – digress from the plan. I dare you!” he shouted, rubbing his hairy palms in hopeful expectation she’d take the bait.]

Lilly shuddered at the idea.  All her conventional fears, preached from High Church pulpits, dictated she obey masculine rules — Aaron’s rules — and remain in the groove she had been digging for herself.  However the Imp wouldn’t cease his chatter, his incessant clamor.  That little bug-eyed, leering, almost salacious face tagged along in her dreams giving her no peace.  She was losing sleep resisting newly discovered anger, seen in her dream flashes as a shroud surrounding her bothersome Imp.  Lord, what to do!

The morning after her launch into the working world, and without giving it too much thought, she casually inquired at a local employment agency as to whether they had any summer positions available in Spain for newly licensed cosmetologists.  “Well, yes, they did, actually.”  One in particular caught her eye. A brief summer spot in a well-established Women’s Salon located on Ibiza in the Balearic Islands.  Lilly made a grab for it and was accepted sight unseen to begin her duties just a week hence.  Then the reaction set in.  Aaron would be absolutely furious!  Well, that’s his problem and for once I don’t care, she thought.  I want – I need a change, some sun, a time away from Merry Old England and in particular London’s diesel smog, the crowds, life’s insane pace — all those fusty bodies.  In short order she booked for Barcelona by bus and thence by overnight ferry for Ibiza where she was happy to meet her employer, an English lady of considerable hauteur.

After a month’s familiarization with salon routine, Lilly was approached cautiously by her employer, who had a special assignment in mind.  It seems she had just received a request from a certain wealthy German Frau for a complete “make over” who was resident on the island of Formentera, just a short ferry ride from Ibiza.  However, the doughty Frau requested that she be attended and “done up” at the villa — if you please.   Lilly would have to take her newly acquired moped and all necessaries in a company kit bag.  So, off she went one early morning and before many hours found her self buzzing along on macadam through a stunted pine forest, past large estates all secured by high walls topped with glass or surrounded by impressive wrought iron fences, behind which lurked equally impressive guard dogs.  She thought all this “security” was rather peculiar, as she had never heard any gossip about the island. Evidently its inhabitants were not accepted topics for speculative discussion.

Though she had been given the general location and description of the villa, there were no residence markings, no names or numbers anywhere apparent. Thus she had to do a bit of guessing.  So it was Lilly finally found what appeared to be the correct estate and was passed through the entry gate by a short uniformed guard who, it seems, spoke only German.  The circular driveway ended at a rather impressive main entrance where the tall iron-studded door stood slightly ajar.  She had noticed a number of old faces peering at her from various 2^nd story windows only to disappear without any expression — almost dismissively abrupt.

[Her Imp growled.]

Odd that.  And then there was a low hum of many voices floating towards her from the main house.  She approached the imposing door, moving it a trifle further open and forthwith received a thumping shock.  Before her lay a great hall lit by crystal chandeliers with some 200 souls gathered, almost all the aging men tarted out in Nazi SS dress uniforms — no “tutus” allowed with this crowd.

On the wall facing her hung an immense swastika flag with an attached SS banner gently rippling in an early afternoon breeze.  Blond lads wearing Lederhosen were scurrying about filling glasses and attending various gastronomic needs, consulting tables that circled the room laden with rare food and drink. To one side a small orchestra was warming up while champagne was being served.

Lilly lingered long enough to register the scene in detail even as her instincts told her to vacate premises as quickly as possible — in a word, “Scram!” as those Americans would say.  However, a discrete “a-hem” from behind took her by surprise.  Wheeling around she met the steely eyes of a tall, well-formed white-haired gentleman whose summer jacket sported a Nazi armband while the SS thunderbolt insignia hovered over his right pocket.  She shuddered, stammering at him in English explaining her errand even as she noted the giveaway bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm.  When he discovered her purpose he exclaimed, “Ja, sie ist meine Frau!” And then directed her in excellent English to the villa next to this estate where the good Frau, so eagerly sought after by this charming young English lady, was in residence.  He smiled broadly, bowed with a sharp click of the heels explaining that Der Fuehrer’s SS was having its annual birthday party, “Ja?” and then bade her a hearty Prussian farewell.

[Yich! Screamed her Imp!]

Lilly scampered as fast as she could to the moped, weaving an uneven trail out the main gate, not sure whether she was hallucinating or was caught up in an entirely weird charade — a crack in recent time, perhaps. After all this was 1969, not 1945.  She felt violently nauseated and dizzy as she raced erratically back to the ferry landing.  She wanted nothing to do with any nearby Nazi Frau!  Panic nipped at her heels relentlessly whispering “Go home! Return to Sussex! Go home — now!”

[VA! Go! urged her Imp.]

Not having a political bent she had never known that Spain’s dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had given protection to well-heeled ex-Nazis for six months out of the year, many of them congregating on the Island of Formentera in the Balearics, provided they left Spain for the remaining six months.  The latter was a most happy arrangement for the former Nazis (sic) as they flew out to South America to join wartime comrades in various sunny mountain venues where many German immigrants had settled long ago.

Lilly found the whole experience too overwhelming to even consider remaining in Ibiza for the balance of the summer and so gave immediate notice.   To top it off, “bloody” Aaron hadn’t written her once while she was in Ibiza.  “He’s probably moping around, slopping up the beer every night at their favorite local pub.

[You bet!” snickered the Imp]

Ruminating upon that obvious fact closed the chapter on Ibiza for Lilly.

Within a week she was off to Valencia by ferry to begin the long drive back to England.  She had indulged in the luxury of a small rented car and after enjoying several days in citrus-scented Valencia had driven west to Cordoba, where she lost herself amongst the Grand Mosque’s many dimly lit arches.  Her little soul tried to absorb the voice of God repeated over and over in stony arabesques — a sibilant echo reduced to sacred dreams captured within fading afternoon sunlight — but without success.  The Imp pursued her relentlessly interfering with her ability to focus and concentrate, much less meditate on anything spiritual.  She guessed it was her lack of readiness, still being on Life’s “up” curve and years away from the downward plunge.

[“You’re physically hungry and need a lusty MAN!” screamed the Imp jumping madly up and down.]

Ruminating thusly, her Imp chased her further into those arched depths receding with every step into a dull gray gloom.  Sad to say, a huge Baroque Catholic Cathedral had been constructed right in the middle of the mosque where the Moslem holy center had been walled in up to ten feet high, lit by one low wattage bulb illuminating its unwanted heart.  Against her High Church instincts she made herself enter the cathedral to view some of the world’s finest choir stalls still in existence, though the sight only made her long to shorten her journey.

So it was she fled feeling relentlessly haunted, rapidly sifting through the Ibiza experience seeking deeper meanings slowly simmering away on some obscure back burner.

One late afternoon Lilly found unexpected calmness awaiting her upon her arrival in Granada after the drive south-east from Cordoba.  Inexplicable as it was, sight of The Alhambra’s high walls and square tower — that fortress upon a hill set amongst its intricate gardens — functioned to open a gate back into her own secret garden, deserted so very long ago.  Her race away from recent events anticipated a rapid return to familiar English rural settings with long days and flowered summer days in store.  Fortuitously it seemed, a recent vivid dream seemed to anticipate her return to England.  There in the dream she was found standing upon an Ibithincan Island ridge of an early February morn staring in wonder down into a cupped valley resplendent in almond blossoms from rim to rim. A great white flowered blanket set undulating in a chilly breeze off the Mediterranean, yearning for winter’s end, mild though it was. The dream held her longing for a lush flowered countryside dripping in dew, vibrating to spring’s gentle breath.

Her Imp was happily smiling as she parked her rental car near the Parador and continued to do so even as she inquired within whether they could accommodate her this evening. “Yes, Madam,” came the reply. “You have been favored by the Gods”, they said, as there had just been a cancellation and she was most welcome.

Looking about the ornate lobby with its high paneled ceiling and dark carved wall fixtures — the whole setting replete with well-used leather furniture — she shivered uncontrollably recalling her unnerving experience back on Formentera.  Even now she still awoke in the early morning hours — heart racing — her mind claimed by the same nightmarish dream.  She relived an early childhood memory of being caught with her hysterical Mum in a Luftwaffe bombing raid over London at dusk.  All those brilliant images, the sounds and smells of cordite, melded grotesquely into her recent encounter with the surreal Nazi SS birthday celebration.  The sounds and smells of war, hot blood flowing ‘midst acrid dust and smoke, seemed to blend with her father’s many tales of bare survival in a German prisoner of war camp where the only decent food to be had was Komissbrot, a dark, heavy rye bread — Commissary Bread.  Then there were the tales of attempted escape followed by selective brutal punishment to set an example for any men contemplating further escapades.

While she could make peace with those early memories she couldn’t forget her tall, blond Hippy friend on the beaches of Ibiza who along with his friends sunned many a day in the buff to the absolute horror of good Catholic Spanish citizens.  To them uncovered human flesh was a

“dis-grace” and one simply did not swim in the ocean — ever.  “I presume they must have sex by the numbers and only briefly — assuming the Missionary Position of course” she thought.  For her, carnal pleasure was forever a sin to be indulged in solely to plant seed within the furrow,

a procreative act only, despite Aaron’s wistful complaints. This flaunting of unclean bodies — so many of them advertising U.S passports — finally stimulated the local Guardia Civil to ferocious action.

One afternoon they deliberately selected her Hippy John to be treated as an example, arresting him on a crowded weekend, hauling him off to the depths of policia Headquarters where they shaved off his long hair down to the scalp and pulled out all his teeth without benefit of anesthetic.  Following that rude process they informed him that he had exactly 48 hours to leave Spain or they would have him arrested and held for trial.  She found him afterwards in shock, bleeding, his eyes glazed over — a white skull gasping uncontrollably, unable to comprehend such deliberate cruelty.

[Her Imp wept!]

Lilly wriggled uncomfortably, remembering dark Spanish peasant eyes set in expressionless faces topped by shiny, black tri-pointed hats watching all aliens.  Watching and judging them every moment of the day, even appearing suddenly at night outside one’s window at the Finca to check out private activities, especially when a party was in full roar.

It wasn’t long before the Hip population dropped precipitously and eventually faded into a respectable middle class Bohemia. Poor John, she thought. Her brief summer affair with him had awakened her desire for romantic interludes — that carefree plunge into the mysterious and unpredictable — possibly even dangerous.

[Her Imp leaped about gleefully anticipating further “naughty but nice” adventures.]

Really though, John was such a little puppy, in truth innocent of all evil intent and only desiring to live as simply as he could.  It was all so sad.  She missed his soft kisses and gentle “embrazos” given without any further expectation, that is: “No sex — no hanky-panky!” He tacitly agreed to her boundaries on that issue.  However, comparing John and Aaron, she knew perfectly well she would eventually settle for practical, logical, ever steady Aaron.  He would be her “r-r-rock” to which she could turn in years to come, though she forever fought his possessiveness — his obsession with her.

Sometimes she thought of him as a large limpet — another sucking gastropod — one amongst so many dependent males encountered so far.

A moment’s overwhelming dizziness captured her as she stumbled into the nearest chair, its cold leather and pungent aroma pulling her back to the present.  “No, she must exercise some discipline and bury the past — good and bad!”  So spoke her Puritan instincts.  It was quite over with and yet — those feelings and fears lay just below the surface of her mind.  It’s her Aaron she should be thinking of now, a dark, curly-haired Scots lad whose milk white face surrounded black eyes of such depth as to put her down in a swoon.  Really put her down flat on her back, if she wasn’t careful, that is.  Perhaps that’s why she came to Spain for the summer, to test how she felt about dark men — about men in general.  She knew her Aaron had hot Spanish blood in him — courtesy of an amorous stranded Armada crewmember — an obvious fact when he pulled her close to his tense body for a long, long swiveling embrace.

[“Absolutely breathtaking wasn’t it, dear?” chortled her Imp.]

“Now, now Lilly, you really must control yourself.  Take a cold shower! Go for an extended walk in the gardens of the Alhambra and immerse thyself in only this present moment!” So erupted the inner guardian, to her Imp’s dismay.  Giggling a bit she felt her face warmly flushed and envisioned a mirror-imaged schoolmistress’s finger shaking at her own reflection.

[Her Imp lay about panting!]

Afternoon sunlight was waning towards the west when Lilly finally entered the Alhambra gardens to stroll in wonder observing Moorish engineering evident all about.  Water flowed everywhere to counter memories of endless hot, dry, desert days.  Pools in all sizes abounded throughout that great complex garden, as did little level stone bridges across singing rivulets while every vista held a fountain centered down some pebble-strewn path.  Looking South could be seen the Sierra Nevada Mountains, their snow-covered slopes providing a rich source of water for these gentle pleasures.  She sighed, turned a corner and gasped in utter delight.  Before her lay a series of wide sloping steps leading to a lower herb garden.  Along each side of the descending stairway stood a thick waist-high granite balustrade, the carved central channel carrying a continuously flowing stream of water.  She envisioned harem ladies, faces draped below the eyes, taking their daily walk on a hot summer’s afternoon, trailing bejeweled fingers through cool mountain waters, their tinkling conversation ebbing and flowing as in a well-stocked dovecote.  Then she remembered a recent documentary on the Alhambra filmed at night, the whole building emptied of tourists. Rooms, courts, corridors and all the gardens were lit in soft yellow light playing amongst carved shadows as the camera eye roved in cautious query from view to view, each scene accompanied by Manuel de Falla’s “Nights in the Gardens of Spain”. Such glorious music captured voices whose echoes still dimly reflected from these ancient walls — rushed down long passageways into cool courtyards to hide in private nooks claiming garden views, or a distant snow-covered range.

Dusk had fallen by the time Lilly returned to the Parador in a mood so peacefully centered that recent events only fluttered at the very edge of awareness.  A desk clerk informed her that one of the finest Flamenco groups in Granada had recently returned from a tour of South America and was to appear this evening at an old tavern high in the hills, just below the gypsy caves.  Could he reserve a table for her — the late evening performance, perhaps?  She dreamily agreed and later found herself with an assorted group of tourists winding their way up the hillside in a decrepit school bus that had seen better days many, many years ago.

[Her Imp was put-putting like an old motorboat, imitating a certain fictional Toady.]

Once seated in the tavern — actually an old nondescript building hanging to the hillside just below the road — she began to absorb the ambience emitted by a lingering suffusion of fine wood dust and stale red wine.  Walls between the roadside rooms had been knocked out, the resulting space having been converted into a small seating area with a raised platform to the rear. Looking about she noted a series of small tables, variously shaped, covered with oilcloth on which had been placed old wax covered wine bottles converted to candle holders, a small glass of real flowers, and an ashtray.  Chairs were of mixed vintage with well-used benches set against the walls whose few windows could do with a good scrub, not to speak of the occasional wall hanging loosely draped here and there.  The small stage, actually a raised platform whose well worn planks spoke of many an evening’s heavy pounding, seemed less than spacious, the forward area presenting several stools at each end of the stage.  Above the entranceway facing the stage were a series of spotlights and that was the entire assembly.

[Her Imp yawned!]

She thought how very drab it all seemed until she began to study the patrons, most of whom were older men of a comfortable age, immaculately dressed and incredibly polite, radiating a proud dignity requiring appropriate recognition from anyone approaching. Yet she felt a missing essence, an unknown possibility that lay somewhere behind the stage waiting for an exact moment to make its appearance.  Now and then dark faces would peek out at the house assessing the crowd while waiters wearing indifferent tunics distributed large flagons of sangria to each table and the men engaged each other in mellifluous conversation while dense clouds of smoke from strong cheroots formed over their heads.

A tall, well-tanned gentleman of strong features seated himself at her table, smiling indifferently and offered her a long black cigar, an offer which she briskly declined establishing a clear line across their little joint domain. She prided herself on maintaining unassailable boundaries to accompany her northern coolness, her inbred certitude — at least on the surface.

[“You idiot!” screamed the Imp]

Shortly there appeared from backstage a plump, swarthy little man carrying a sumptuous old guitar, his great black eyes darting about the room like an insect’s antenna, noting old customers with a slight bow, the number of tourists and how many were potential hazards with their invasive flash cameras.  He strummed his precious instrument while carefully tuning each string, then looking back over his shoulder, and with a toss of his mane, summoned another guitarist. He was a younger man whose high tenor voice accompanied the squat little man’s rumbling, raspy growl as they began the evening’s entertainment with long melancholy runs vaguely reminiscent of a subdued Portuguese Fado — that sad wailing lament for imperial days long past.  From the back of the still dark stage came a soft drumming cadence and forward into the spotlight moved a young woman of great physical beauty, scantily clad, her clear white complexion set off by intense red/ black makeup.  She danced a mixture of flamenco, ballet and soft-shoe slaps, none of which seemed to phase male conversation that continued at a low level throughout the room, though their eyes fondled her every curve.

[Lilly’s Imp giggled delightedly!]

Successive dancers drew more attention as their advancing age and increasing skill fed a growing tension when, shortly after midnight, the lights dimmed, the guitars fell silent for a moment and then burst into a grand rush of sound. Up came the spots and from the back of the stage a tall tree of a woman moved forward in a steady demanding heel clatter. (pop-pop-a-pop-pop)  Abruptly, all talking ceased.  She stood center front, never casting a look at the assembled — merely a swift glance aside to the lead guitarist. Her face was that of a woman well past middle age, a woman whose branches had survived many a storm, though the wounds inflicted were readily apparent.  She wore no makeup and her still jet-black hair formed a nimbus about her face.  Strong hands brushed back a few strands now and then and she smoothed the long dress over her thighs before erupting into an intricate foot pounding challenge to all wandering spirits — to all those who would dare take from her bounty without bowing to her will.

Lilly cringed in her presence feeling utterly reduced.  Then a wave of vertigo doubled her vision.  Naturally it was all due to the smoke-filled, packed room and a certain male mustiness topped off by her table partner’s generous servings of sangria. That was simply it, of course — “Absolutely nothing else!” she muttered to herself.

[Her Imp smirked!]

A second spot flared on to capture a slim, well-formed youth dressed in clinging black tights to set off his powerful thighs and narrow waist above which he wore a pure white flaring bolero. His heavy curls whirled about his head as he lustily danced the prancing stallion approaching his chosen mare.  Lilly could swear his luscious buns actually quivered in expectation of conquest.  “Oh, how silly!” she exclaimed aloud, her table partner eyeing her coolly, one eyebrow raised in juicy speculation.  She could feel the blood rushing up her neck.  She dared not look at him.

[Her Imp rolled about convulsed with laughter!]

On and on the frenetic dancing continued until in the early morning hours a shift of mood seemed to pervade the room.  This tall tree of a woman danced more seductively with a suggestion of a smile forming about her lips as the young stallion pounded out his fierce need unrelentingly.  As before a familiar crescendo, the room held its collective breath — the two coming face to face for their climactic encounter.  Arms akimbo she lifted her face to look directly into his eyes, her hot accepting smile a prelude to… and then, the unexpected.  She lifted her arm to flick a long sweat-saturated curl hanging over his forehead, the drops forming a glittering, slow moving arc in the spotlight.  Their bodies momentarily froze.  The music faded as his lips formed a shy, boyish smile.  With this the whole room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief even as two young ladies swooned away — Lilly folding up on the table, quite overcome.

[Her Imp couldn’t stop hooting and clapping!]

In years to come our very proper Lilly rarely spoke of her visit to Granada and only then with such – such a numinous yearning bursting from her face that one had to retreat into an inner haven — seeing her reach tentatively into the air — as if to recapture an image — long gone missing.

–o0o—

An English summer awaited Lilly this year following her somewhat pretentious graduation from the London “Institute of Cosmetic Design & Floral Happenings”.  That particular prospect barely set her flesh aquiver since weather projections indicated the island would be drenched more than usual and she ached for a dry expanse brimming with sun. Her Aaron thought she was acting a bit daft while using her school finish date as pretext to push forward his plea that they soon marry and set up their own nest.  That is, of course, just as soon as she located a position in a posh London Beauty Salon. Hardly an intriguing future she thought, though the “lolly” would be most welcome after all her scrimping just to make do.

[“Blessed Mary, quite contrary! -- it all sounds so rational, so organized and so -- so utterly boring!” screamed her inner Imp.  “Why don’t you jump the traces for once in your life – just once?  Follow your whimsy – digress from the plan. I dare you!” he shouted, rubbing his hairy palms in hopeful expectation she’d take the bait.]

Lilly shuddered at the idea.  All her conventional fears, preached from High Church pulpits, dictated she obey masculine rules — Aaron’s rules — and remain in the groove she had been digging for herself.  However the Imp wouldn’t cease his chatter, his incessant clamor.  That little bug-eyed, leering, almost salacious face tagged along in her dreams giving her no peace.  She was losing sleep resisting newly discovered anger, seen in her dream flashes as a shroud surrounding her bothersome Imp.  Lord, what to do!

The morning after her launch into the working world, and without giving it too much thought, she casually inquired at a local employment agency as to whether they had any summer positions available in Spain for newly licensed cosmetologists.  “Well, yes, they did, actually.”  One in particular caught her eye. A brief summer spot in a well-established Women’s Salon located on Ibiza in the Balearic Islands.  Lilly made a grab for it and was accepted sight unseen to begin her duties just a week hence.  Then the reaction set in.  Aaron would be absolutely furious!  Well, that’s his problem and for once I don’t care, she thought.  I want – I need a change, some sun, a time away from Merry Old England and in particular London’s diesel smog, the crowds, life’s insane pace — all those fusty bodies.  In short order she booked for Barcelona by bus and thence by overnight ferry for Ibiza where she was happy to meet her employer, an English lady of considerable hauteur.

After a month’s familiarization with salon routine, Lilly was approached cautiously by her employer, who had a special assignment in mind.  It seems she had just received a request from a certain wealthy German Frau for a complete “make over” who was resident on the island of Formentera, just a short ferry ride from Ibiza.  However, the doughty Frau requested that she be attended and “done up” at the villa — if you please.   Lilly would have to take her newly acquired moped and all necessaries in a company kit bag.  So, off she went one early morning and before many hours found her self buzzing along on macadam through a stunted pine forest, past large estates all secured by high walls topped with glass or surrounded by impressive wrought iron fences, behind which lurked equally impressive guard dogs.  She thought all this “security” was rather peculiar, as she had never heard any gossip about the island. Evidently its inhabitants were not accepted topics for speculative discussion.

Though she had been given the general location and description of the villa, there were no residence markings, no names or numbers anywhere apparent. Thus she had to do a bit of guessing.  So it was Lilly finally found what appeared to be the correct estate and was passed through the entry gate by a short uniformed guard who, it seems, spoke only German.  The circular driveway ended at a rather impressive main entrance where the tall iron-studded door stood slightly ajar.  She had noticed a number of old faces peering at her from various 2^nd story windows only to disappear without any expression — almost dismissively abrupt.

[Her Imp growled.]

Odd that.  And then there was a low hum of many voices floating towards her from the main house.  She approached the imposing door, moving it a trifle further open and forthwith received a thumping shock.  Before her lay a great hall lit by crystal chandeliers with some 200 souls gathered, almost all the aging men tarted out in Nazi SS dress uniforms — no “tutus” allowed with this crowd.

On the wall facing her hung an immense swastika flag with an attached SS banner gently rippling in an early afternoon breeze.  Blond lads wearing Lederhosen were scurrying about filling glasses and attending various gastronomic needs, consulting tables that circled the room laden with rare food and drink. To one side a small orchestra was warming up while champagne was being served.

Lilly lingered long enough to register the scene in detail even as her instincts told her to vacate premises as quickly as possible — in a word, “Scram!” as those Americans would say.  However, a discrete “a-hem” from behind took her by surprise.  Wheeling around she met the steely eyes of a tall, well-formed white-haired gentleman whose summer jacket sported a Nazi armband while the SS thunderbolt insignia hovered over his right pocket.  She shuddered, stammering at him in English explaining her errand even as she noted the giveaway bulge of a shoulder holster under his left arm.  When he discovered her purpose he exclaimed, “Ja, sie ist meine Frau!” And then directed her in excellent English to the villa next to this estate where the good Frau, so eagerly sought after by this charming young English lady, was in residence.  He smiled broadly, bowed with a sharp click of the heels explaining that Der Fuehrer’s SS was having its annual birthday party, “Ja?” and then bade her a hearty Prussian farewell.

[Yich! Screamed her Imp!]

Lilly scampered as fast as she could to the moped, weaving an uneven trail out the main gate, not sure whether she was hallucinating or was caught up in an entirely weird charade — a crack in recent time, perhaps. After all this was 1969, not 1945.  She felt violently nauseated and dizzy as she raced erratically back to the ferry landing.  She wanted nothing to do with any nearby Nazi Frau!  Panic nipped at her heels relentlessly whispering “Go home! Return to Sussex! Go home — now!”

[VA! Go! urged her Imp.]

Not having a political bent she had never known that Spain’s dictator, Generalissimo Francisco Franco, had given protection to well-heeled ex-Nazis for six months out of the year, many of them congregating on the Island of Formentera in the Balearics, provided they left Spain for the remaining six months.  The latter was a most happy arrangement for the former Nazis (sic) as they flew out to South America to join wartime comrades in various sunny mountain venues where many German immigrants had settled long ago.

Lilly found the whole experience too overwhelming to even consider remaining in Ibiza for the balance of the summer and so gave immediate notice.   To top it off, “bloody” Aaron hadn’t written her once while she was in Ibiza.  “He’s probably moping around, slopping up the beer every night at their favorite local pub.

[You bet!” snickered the Imp]

Ruminating upon that obvious fact closed the chapter on Ibiza for Lilly.

Within a week she was off to Valencia by ferry to begin the long drive back to England.  She had indulged in the luxury of a small rented car and after enjoying several days in citrus-scented Valencia had driven west to Cordoba, where she lost herself amongst the Grand Mosque’s many dimly lit arches.  Her little soul tried to absorb the voice of God repeated over and over in stony arabesques — a sibilant echo reduced to sacred dreams captured within fading afternoon sunlight — but without success.  The Imp pursued her relentlessly interfering with her ability to focus and concentrate, much less meditate on anything spiritual.  She guessed it was her lack of readiness, still being on Life’s “up” curve and years away from the downward plunge.

[“You’re physically hungry and need a lusty MAN!” screamed the Imp jumping madly up and down.]

Ruminating thusly, her Imp chased her further into those arched depths receding with every step into a dull gray gloom.  Sad to say, a huge Baroque Catholic Cathedral had been constructed right in the middle of the mosque where the Moslem holy center had been walled in up to ten feet high, lit by one low wattage bulb illuminating its unwanted heart.  Against her High Church instincts she made herself enter the cathedral to view some of the world’s finest choir stalls still in existence, though the sight only made her long to shorten her journey.

So it was she fled feeling relentlessly haunted, rapidly sifting through the Ibiza experience seeking deeper meanings slowly simmering away on some obscure back burner.

One late afternoon Lilly found unexpected calmness awaiting her upon her arrival in Granada after the drive south-east from Cordoba.  Inexplicable as it was, sight of The Alhambra’s high walls and square tower — that fortress upon a hill set amongst its intricate gardens — functioned to open a gate back into her own secret garden, deserted so very long ago.  Her race away from recent events anticipated a rapid return to familiar English rural settings with long days and flowered summer days in store.  Fortuitously it seemed, a recent vivid dream seemed to anticipate her return to England.  There in the dream she was found standing upon an Ibithincan Island ridge of an early February morn staring in wonder down into a cupped valley resplendent in almond blossoms from rim to rim. A great white flowered blanket set undulating in a chilly breeze off the Mediterranean, yearning for winter’s end, mild though it was. The dream held her longing for a lush flowered countryside dripping in dew, vibrating to spring’s gentle breath.

Her Imp was happily smiling as she parked her rental car near the Parador and continued to do so even as she inquired within whether they could accommodate her this evening. “Yes, Madam,” came the reply. “You have been favored by the Gods”, they said, as there had just been a cancellation and she was most welcome.

Looking about the ornate lobby with its high paneled ceiling and dark carved wall fixtures — the whole setting replete with well-used leather furniture — she shivered uncontrollably recalling her unnerving experience back on Formentera.  Even now she still awoke in the early morning hours — heart racing — her mind claimed by the same nightmarish dream.  She relived an early childhood memory of being caught with her hysterical Mum in a Luftwaffe bombing raid over London at dusk.  All those brilliant images, the sounds and smells of cordite, melded grotesquely into her recent encounter with the surreal Nazi SS birthday celebration.  The sounds and smells of war, hot blood flowing ‘midst acrid dust and smoke, seemed to blend with her father’s many tales of bare survival in a German prisoner of war camp where the only decent food to be had was Komissbrot, a dark, heavy rye bread — Commissary Bread.  Then there were the tales of attempted escape followed by selective brutal punishment to set an example for any men contemplating further escapades.

While she could make peace with those early memories she couldn’t forget her tall, blond Hippy friend on the beaches of Ibiza who along with his friends sunned many a day in the buff to the absolute horror of good Catholic Spanish citizens.  To them uncovered human flesh was a

“dis-grace” and one simply did not swim in the ocean — ever.  “I presume they must have sex by the numbers and only briefly — assuming the Missionary Position of course” she thought.  For her, carnal pleasure was forever a sin to be indulged in solely to plant seed within the furrow,

a procreative act only, despite Aaron’s wistful complaints. This flaunting of unclean bodies — so many of them advertising U.S passports — finally stimulated the local Guardia Civil to ferocious action.

One afternoon they deliberately selected her Hippy John to be treated as an example, arresting him on a crowded weekend, hauling him off to the depths of policia Headquarters where they shaved off his long hair down to the scalp and pulled out all his teeth without benefit of anesthetic.  Following that rude process they informed him that he had exactly 48 hours to leave Spain or they would have him arrested and held for trial.  She found him afterwards in shock, bleeding, his eyes glazed over — a white skull gasping uncontrollably, unable to comprehend such deliberate cruelty.

[Her Imp wept!]

Lilly wriggled uncomfortably, remembering dark Spanish peasant eyes set in expressionless faces topped by shiny, black tri-pointed hats watching all aliens.  Watching and judging them every moment of the day, even appearing suddenly at night outside one’s window at the Finca to check out private activities, especially when a party was in full roar.

It wasn’t long before the Hip population dropped precipitously and eventually faded into a respectable middle class Bohemia. Poor John, she thought. Her brief summer affair with him had awakened her desire for romantic interludes — that carefree plunge into the mysterious and unpredictable — possibly even dangerous.

[Her Imp leaped about gleefully anticipating further “naughty but nice” adventures.]

Really though, John was such a little puppy, in truth innocent of all evil intent and only desiring to live as simply as he could.  It was all so sad.  She missed his soft kisses and gentle “embrazos” given without any further expectation, that is: “No sex — no hanky-panky!” He tacitly agreed to her boundaries on that issue.  However, comparing John and Aaron, she knew perfectly well she would eventually settle for practical, logical, ever steady Aaron.  He would be her “r-r-rock” to which she could turn in years to come, though she forever fought his possessiveness — his obsession with her.

Sometimes she thought of him as a large limpet — another sucking gastropod — one amongst so many dependent males encountered so far.

A moment’s overwhelming dizziness captured her as she stumbled into the nearest chair, its cold leather and pungent aroma pulling her back to the present.  “No, she must exercise some discipline and bury the past — good and bad!”  So spoke her Puritan instincts.  It was quite over with and yet — those feelings and fears lay just below the surface of her mind.  It’s her Aaron she should be thinking of now, a dark, curly-haired Scots lad whose milk white face surrounded black eyes of such depth as to put her down in a swoon.  Really put her down flat on her back, if she wasn’t careful, that is.  Perhaps that’s why she came to Spain for the summer, to test how she felt about dark men — about men in general.  She knew her Aaron had hot Spanish blood in him — courtesy of an amorous stranded Armada crewmember — an obvious fact when he pulled her close to his tense body for a long, long swiveling embrace.

[“Absolutely breathtaking wasn’t it, dear?” chortled her Imp.]

“Now, now Lilly, you really must control yourself.  Take a cold shower! Go for an extended walk in the gardens of the Alhambra and immerse thyself in only this present moment!” So erupted the inner guardian, to her Imp’s dismay.  Giggling a bit she felt her face warmly flushed and envisioned a mirror-imaged schoolmistress’s finger shaking at her own reflection.

[Her Imp lay about panting!]

Afternoon sunlight was waning towards the west when Lilly finally entered the Alhambra gardens to stroll in wonder observing Moorish engineering evident all about.  Water flowed everywhere to counter memories of endless hot, dry, desert days.  Pools in all sizes abounded throughout that great complex garden, as did little level stone bridges across singing rivulets while every vista held a fountain centered down some pebble-strewn path.  Looking South could be seen the Sierra Nevada Mountains, their snow-covered slopes providing a rich source of water for these gentle pleasures.  She sighed, turned a corner and gasped in utter delight.  Before her lay a series of wide sloping steps leading to a lower herb garden.  Along each side of the descending stairway stood a thick waist-high granite balustrade, the carved central channel carrying a continuously flowing stream of water.  She envisioned harem ladies, faces draped below the eyes, taking their daily walk on a hot summer’s afternoon, trailing bejeweled fingers through cool mountain waters, their tinkling conversation ebbing and flowing as in a well-stocked dovecote.  Then she remembered a recent documentary on the Alhambra filmed at night, the whole building emptied of tourists. Rooms, courts, corridors and all the gardens were lit in soft yellow light playing amongst carved shadows as the camera eye roved in cautious query from view to view, each scene accompanied by Manuel de Falla’s “Nights in the Gardens of Spain”. Such glorious music captured voices whose echoes still dimly reflected from these ancient walls — rushed down long passageways into cool courtyards to hide in private nooks claiming garden views, or a distant snow-covered range.

Dusk had fallen by the time Lilly returned to the Parador in a mood so peacefully centered that recent events only fluttered at the very edge of awareness.  A desk clerk informed her that one of the finest Flamenco groups in Granada had recently returned from a tour of South America and was to appear this evening at an old tavern high in the hills, just below the gypsy caves.  Could he reserve a table for her — the late evening performance, perhaps?  She dreamily agreed and later found herself with an assorted group of tourists winding their way up the hillside in a decrepit school bus that had seen better days many, many years ago.

[Her Imp was put-putting like an old motorboat, imitating a certain fictional Toady.]

Once seated in the tavern — actually an old nondescript building hanging to the hillside just below the road — she began to absorb the ambience emitted by a lingering suffusion of fine wood dust and stale red wine.  Walls between the roadside rooms had been knocked out, the resulting space having been converted into a small seating area with a raised platform to the rear. Looking about she noted a series of small tables, variously shaped, covered with oilcloth on which had been placed old wax covered wine bottles converted to candle holders, a small glass of real flowers, and an ashtray.  Chairs were of mixed vintage with well-used benches set against the walls whose few windows could do with a good scrub, not to speak of the occasional wall hanging loosely draped here and there.  The small stage, actually a raised platform whose well worn planks spoke of many an evening’s heavy pounding, seemed less than spacious, the forward area presenting several stools at each end of the stage.  Above the entranceway facing the stage were a series of spotlights and that was the entire assembly.

[Her Imp yawned!]

She thought how very drab it all seemed until she began to study the patrons, most of whom were older men of a comfortable age, immaculately dressed and incredibly polite, radiating a proud dignity requiring appropriate recognition from anyone approaching. Yet she felt a missing essence, an unknown possibility that lay somewhere behind the stage waiting for an exact moment to make its appearance.  Now and then dark faces would peek out at the house assessing the crowd while waiters wearing indifferent tunics distributed large flagons of sangria to each table and the men engaged each other in mellifluous conversation while dense clouds of smoke from strong cheroots formed over their heads.

A tall, well-tanned gentleman of strong features seated himself at her table, smiling indifferently and offered her a long black cigar, an offer which she briskly declined establishing a clear line across their little joint domain. She prided herself on maintaining unassailable boundaries to accompany her northern coolness, her inbred certitude — at least on the surface.

[“You idiot!” screamed the Imp]

Shortly there appeared from backstage a plump, swarthy little man carrying a sumptuous old guitar, his great black eyes darting about the room like an insect’s antenna, noting old customers with a slight bow, the number of tourists and how many were potential hazards with their invasive flash cameras.  He strummed his precious instrument while carefully tuning each string, then looking back over his shoulder, and with a toss of his mane, summoned another guitarist. He was a younger man whose high tenor voice accompanied the squat little man’s rumbling, raspy growl as they began the evening’s entertainment with long melancholy runs vaguely reminiscent of a subdued Portuguese Fado — that sad wailing lament for imperial days long past.  From the back of the still dark stage came a soft drumming cadence and forward into the spotlight moved a young woman of great physical beauty, scantily clad, her clear white complexion set off by intense red/ black makeup.  She danced a mixture of flamenco, ballet and soft-shoe slaps, none of which seemed to phase male conversation that continued at a low level throughout the room, though their eyes fondled her every curve.

[Lilly’s Imp giggled delightedly!]

Successive dancers drew more attention as their advancing age and increasing skill fed a growing tension when, shortly after midnight, the lights dimmed, the guitars fell silent for a moment and then burst into a grand rush of sound. Up came the spots and from the back of the stage a tall tree of a woman moved forward in a steady demanding heel clatter. (pop-pop-a-pop-pop)  Abruptly, all talking ceased.  She stood center front, never casting a look at the assembled — merely a swift glance aside to the lead guitarist. Her face was that of a woman well past middle age, a woman whose branches had survived many a storm, though the wounds inflicted were readily apparent.  She wore no makeup and her still jet-black hair formed a nimbus about her face.  Strong hands brushed back a few strands now and then and she smoothed the long dress over her thighs before erupting into an intricate foot pounding challenge to all wandering spirits — to all those who would dare take from her bounty without bowing to her will.

Lilly cringed in her presence feeling utterly reduced.  Then a wave of vertigo doubled her vision.  Naturally it was all due to the smoke-filled, packed room and a certain male mustiness topped off by her table partner’s generous servings of sangria. That was simply it, of course — “Absolutely nothing else!” she muttered to herself.

[Her Imp smirked!]

A second spot flared on to capture a slim, well-formed youth dressed in clinging black tights to set off his powerful thighs and narrow waist above which he wore a pure white flaring bolero. His heavy curls whirled about his head as he lustily danced the prancing stallion approaching his chosen mare.  Lilly could swear his luscious buns actually quivered in expectation of conquest.  “Oh, how silly!” she exclaimed aloud, her table partner eyeing her coolly, one eyebrow raised in juicy speculation.  She could feel the blood rushing up her neck.  She dared not look at him.

[Her Imp rolled about convulsed with laughter!]

On and on the frenetic dancing continued until in the early morning hours a shift of mood seemed to pervade the room.  This tall tree of a woman danced more seductively with a suggestion of a smile forming about her lips as the young stallion pounded out his fierce need unrelentingly.  As before a familiar crescendo, the room held its collective breath — the two coming face to face for their climactic encounter.  Arms akimbo she lifted her face to look directly into his eyes, her hot accepting smile a prelude to… and then, the unexpected.  She lifted her arm to flick a long sweat-saturated curl hanging over his forehead, the drops forming a glittering, slow moving arc in the spotlight.  Their bodies momentarily froze.  The music faded as his lips formed a shy, boyish smile.  With this the whole room seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief even as two young ladies swooned away — Lilly folding up on the table, quite overcome.

[Her Imp couldn’t stop hooting and clapping!]

In years to come our very proper Lilly rarely spoke of her visit to Granada and only then with such – such a numinous yearning bursting from her face that one had to retreat into an inner haven — seeing her reach tentatively into the air — as if to recapture an image — long gone missing.

–o0o—