scribblings

The only God that has ever presented itself to me is nature and that presentation has always occurred in my mind. If there is a bible, it is mathematics and it is a living doctrine that constantly evolves its rules and breaks dogma.

Scribblings

I try to identify all of the things I do each day, recognizing the rituals and beginning to make them sacred. Then, I attempt to let go of the exertion involved in doing these things and I, myself, become both interconnected and sacred. 

Alkor Durinbexl could sense the young elf’s presence in the weave again. The first time it had been a whisper, a light pluck on a harp string ever so gently, almost fragile. In the beginning he believed it was something from another realm. A force somewhere out in space and time that was touching his world, nothing to worry about because it was so weak. But, over the few years since his discovery, it had grown stronger and closer until it was almost a heartbeat, it’s pulse strengthening with each season’s arrival. This is what worried Alkor. If he was feeling it, then others surely were also. He knew he must find the child elf, for surely that’s what this was, and at least help the child in reverie skills. Teach the young one what could keep you hidden during the communion with the weave. He owed the kid that much just as an elf himself. Call it a bloodright. Maybe one more long winter here in the north and if the calling grew stronger Alkor knew he could use his own magic to find the young one. He wondered if he would be the first.

Janyce climbed the stairs and opening the door to Rai’s room she called the boy to dinner. She saw he was buried in a copy of Potien’s Healing Herbs and Forest Gums, yet again. She was always amazed at how long the young elf could study, hours at a time and then sometimes days on end. Every time a traveler came through Janyce and her husband traded the fine cheeses that was their business for anything the boy could read. They had begun to get a following of chubby, often inebriated mages and travelers that would bring anything remotely legible. Rai took it all and devoured it. Reading was the only thing that felt normal for him, that and what they called meditation. They were his “parents,” Janyce and Trudk, and they were always there for him. Their love and dedication to him and to each other was where Rai drew his strength from. But they were human. And he, clearly, was not. 

He knew he was an elf, obviously. He had glowing golden skin and hair that shone like a sun on the brightest of days during full summer. His almond shaped eyes were the truest blue of any ocean, cerulean, until his meditation - then they flashed to a deep green with rivers of black slicing out of the pupil. He was a light build but seemed stronger than he should be for his frame and age. And he was patient, he was always calm and rational. Always waiting for the next clue to move upon. Even as a child he felt he had a future. A destiny. But where was his past? Where was he born and to whom? He didn’t even know his surname. Where did he come from and why was he here now? So far away from anything, everything. By his eleventh year on the farm he was beginning to feel some strange power during his meditation in the evening while the others slept. He had learned to steady himself, to stay perfectly still much longer than his body wanted, to combine his mind with this weird sensation. Bending his own will to that of the weave. The weave, that was what they had called elven magic in the few books of lore he had read. 

Soon he had learned to call out upon it, this weave of magic, searching for another presence. A few times he had felt something but there was no communication, no answer or reply. Only feelings. And the feelings were so strange. Sometimes he felt a common joy, something of warmth and cheer, maybe even love, and sometimes he felt a great wisdom pulsating just below the surface. But lately, he had only felt a cold air, an icy dampness. A darkness. This darkness depressed his communion and always gave him the willies, interrupting his concentration for the evening. 

That night after Janyce’s dinner of lamb stew and braised collierberry flower he reached out again and finally, finally had what he considered a breakthrough. He had actually heard something, if you could describe it that way. A few words had somehow leaked into his mind like some sort of pervasive thought. The feeling that accompanied them was very odd though. The words felt trusting, almost sincere, but they were carried upon that cold wind, a chill breeze like the early coming of fall cutting through the fields. He had shivered as he immediately wrote them down – Stay Coming Help. He never made it back to the weave that evening and so in the morning he showed the scribed words to Janyce. He had hoped to see if she had any idea what they might mean. 

When Janyce saw the three simple words Rai had written she went into a panic. “What is it?” Trudk yelled over his eggs smothered in their finest goat cheese. “We must leave, now,” she called to her husband, “they’ve found him! We’ve failed!” Suddenly they were both in a shouting match for what to do first. Rai was doing as he was told and was in his room gathering as many books as he could stuff into his bag, worrying about what exactly was going on. He had never gone anywhere before that he could remember and it was starting to dawn on him that perhaps he had put his family in danger with his nighttime activity. He didn’t know how and he surely didn’t know why, but he could feel the danger now. Surely as the day is hot in the field, he could feel it now.

Suddenly there was an old elf standing next to him. He wore light, earthen colored robes that seemed to blend him into the wooden walls of the room. The best Rai could see him was when the elf spoke and as he did Rai noticed the elf had the palest, pearl white colored skin he had ever seen and with jet black hair that stood out so strongly against the old elf’s flesh the head appeared almost as a floating orb. Very out of place. “Are you listening, young one?” Alkor asked. “You must stand perfectly still and not say a word, not a peep, no matter what happens now! Not a move will you make,” the old elf spoke hurriedly. Rai seemed stuck in time. He tried to ask what was going on but barely whispered the first few words before remembering he must be quiet. That was when he heard the shouting and crashing downstairs. He could hear Janyce screaming now that someone had been killed. Before he could figure out who was no longer in this peril with them he heard something like the sound of an ax being sharpened on a short stone, only wetter. And then, a soggy thud.

There were footsteps rushing up the stairs and he realized that the orb head was gone now. Rai was standing perfectly still as the killers smashed into his room. A bag of books fell to the floor and one of the men shouted, “where is he?” The other came in and rushed to the window, peering outside. “He must’ve run, let’s go. He’ll not get far in the daylight,” spoke the beast of a man in the doorway. “You go,” said the one near the window gruffly, “I’ll check the house again and catch up.” Rai couldn’t even breathe he was so terrified. The man near the window turned and scanned the room again, then he moved, flipping the bed over with one clean swoop of his arm and kicking a bag of books in disgust. 

Rai could see him clear as a bell and understood now that the man couldn’t see him. He must be invisible. The man had nearly kicked Rai’s leg when he struck the bag and Rai panicked but held. He didn’t move at all. And neither did this man. Rai looked at the murderer now. His face was pockmarked with scars and unshaven, his breath smelled of rotten fruit and onions he stood so close. He was dressed in leather trousers and a black cloak, rugged boots that Rai realized were covered in the blood of the closest thing he’d ever known to family. He wanted to lash out at the man, hurt him, kill him if he could, but the man was moving away now. He exited the room leaving bloody boot prints and a terrible mess. Rai stood petrified, surrounded by some unknown and cruel twist of fate, not even crying yet. The crashing sounds continued for a few moments downstairs and then it became deathly quiet. 

In a flash Rai became aware of himself again. He could see his own body and feel the hot tears welling up in the elongated corners of his eyes. Alkor was slumped in a corner of the room and appeared exhausted as he spoke, “they’ll be back, or something worse when they don’t discover you easily. We must move and now!” As Alkor and Rai escaped the house Rai saw the bodies of Janyce and Trudk lifeless and discarded on the floor. Their blood had pooled together near the center of the room as if even in death they still sought each other’s warmth. 

Dear old man with his wife in the car,

I drove behind while you straddled the immovable dashing of white lines. Pavement was your lane. I slowed my breath, matching the pace of your brake lights glow. When I did pass you, I spoke to myself clearly and profanely about how your chin was so close, so, so close, to touching the wheel. I worried for us both. And I don’t know where you are going, but I do know where we are all headed. I hope we get there safe. This world is for all of us, but I like to hope that your destination is just a bit closer than mine.

  Today, I met a traveling jack that said he was going to hang himself. I asked why and he could only tell me he needed new ideas. I suspect he was both sober and unruly. The wind kept blowing my hair around and my seat was too high for giving solid advice so I offered to borrow his rope for a while. 

  James is an asshole. Anyone could figure this out through his ideas, his decisions and worst of all his actions.  When people told him things, anything at all, he would immediately tell others as if he were a playback recording but with ego. A sense of mockery always pervading his tone when he talked about them. If something good happened he would always look for credit, and if it was bad, well, he sure as shit would let as many people as would listen know it had nothing to do with him. James was always negative. He was one of those people you hated to speak to because he would come out of left field with some bullshit comment or a condescending remark. James began a lot of sentences with “It must be nice...”

  Last week as James walked on a dark street after leaving the speedway he turned a corner and found himself confronted with a young boy, probably 16 and pimpled so badly his face actually looked wrinkled, that immediately recognized an opportunity. “Hey man,” the kid said “you spare any change, man? I’m trying to get home on a city bus and I’m a little short.” The kid rubbed his hands on his stomach and shuffled from foot to foot. James smiled and replied “I got nothing, man. I just spent it all on these cigarettes,” as he retrieved the pack from the pocket inside his coat and put one to his lips. “How ‘bout one of those then?” the kid asked.

  James had been waiting for this. He knew it was coming. He spit the cigarette back into the pack and shoved them in his pocket. His eyes darted between the youth, the ground and then the sky before settling back on the kids face. Then, with all of his strength he punched him in the mouth. He had aimed there hoping not to get any puss from the kid’s acne on him. The boy immediately fell to the ground, hard, like a 145 pounds of gravel wrapped in baggy jeans and an extremely old north face jacket. James stood over him yelling “Fucking, fuck you, man. God damnit. I’m just trying to, to, what the fuck ever. Fucking beggar bitches.” The kid shuddered and then clearly began to shake. The tip of his nike shot out touching James’ pant cuff. James thought the kid must be having some kind of a seizure and that he’d better get the fuck out of there before the stupid shit died or something. He lit that same cigarette and continued the last two blocks to his apartment. The butt still wet from before and as he cursed at the soggy cold feeling on his lips he knew he should have just punched the damn kid after the first question.

In my late teens I had a friend that we called Leaf. I honestly don't know if that’s how he spelled it or not. I never wrote his name in all the years we were close. That's sometimes what it's like to be a teenage boy. The only thing that mattered was the right now or possibly that night. I wasn't keeping track of anything and we didn't have smartphones then. Leaf was a trip. He had a maroon car, something like a Monte Carlo or something. He worked for a flooring store before I even knew what linoleum was. He also smoked like 2 packs of unfiltered camels a day that I constantly ridiculed him for even though my parliament lights burned quicker.

            Remember those parliament lights with the recessed filters. They seemed so futuristic and cool when I smoked. That stiff paper pursed between your lips felt secure while the old filtered cigarettes were wet and mushy, like baby food carrots dribbling down your chin. Not so with the parliament lights. This time period also included the smoking tricks we would try to pull off. Flipping the cigarette into your mouth with either hand, sometimes even lit. Rolling the lit cig inside your mouth to hide it and then flipping it back out again. Oh and the smoke rings. 

Leaf and I had too many adventures to name but yesterday I recalled one that made me miss him something fierce. The first time I travelled to Colorado I went with Leaf in his purple Monte Carlo. We had some excellent weed and were determined to take it with us to smoke with our hosts during the visit. This was back in the day when an ounce of weed was a guaranteed trip to jail if found in your car or on “your person.” I remember getting high and coming up with all these great ideas on how we would transport it over so many state lines. We would build a stash spot into the underside of the dash or open the door frame up and slip it between the frames. We eventually settled on a canister that was designed to seal up with tennis balls inside and keep them fresh and bouncy. Perfect. We then strapped the weed holder to the undercarriage of the car and we were ready to roll.

            This held extremely well and even though we had inclement weather, rain and snow and ice on the roads, when we got to Durango the canister was still in place. I was so excited when we got it off the car’s body still freezing and now completely filthy on the surface. Unfortunately while the inside remained immune to the outside elements the inside world of the damn tennis ball holder had turned into a humid swamp. The greens of the herb now moldy with a patchy white sickness that stuck like splattered dry paint and resisted removal much the same. I’m sure our friends chuckled and lorded their ideas of how to travel with marijuana, but I don’t remember them. I simply remember how it felt to have lost this precious weed and the money we had spent on it. Tennis ball canister, tape, screws, metal perforated hanging strap and all. Fucking shit.

            Sure, we tried to smoke some of it but our lot was elitist and considered it beneath them when so many other options existed that weren’t from a state that everyone was running away from. This was just another experience in life that reminded me you can never really hold on to anything for too long and trying usually just leads to grief. I think of Leaf often still. He left me out west and to this day I have never seen him again. I know I shouldn’t be hanging on but I do. Supposedly he moved to Texas, got married and maybe has kids. I bet he still smokes though.