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Category: in search of God

October 31, 2008

upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”

                  “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”, c.1558

                            Pieter Bruegel, the Elder

                                    (1525-1569)

                                     __________

                                                                                                                                                                      upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”                                             

                                                                                                                                      what is a poem, the question came up around my earlier errant composition, was what I’d written a poem, though one could be made out between the, dare I say, ivied even cracks
 
something that rhymes, my mom answered when I asked, which mine of course didn’t
 
though mellifluous and rhythmic maybe, and peppered here and there with inventive and artful devices – metaphors, alliteration, onomatopeia, the like, the meat and potatoes, the very stuff, I think, of poems – I still didn’t rhyme, don’t rhyme, and run a sentence on mostly much too long for a proper pentameter
 
like, I guess, a prose poem 
 
or maybe even just prose
 

but about the Bruegel

 

at the back a radiant sun dominates the picture, sheds not only light but life on everything, the sky is thick with grays and blue and takes on actual dimension, whereas a more silken application of paint to the sun makes that orb evanescent, a portal into heaven, a source instead of a force, an opening instead of an engine
 
in the foreground a farmer ploughs his field, another tends his sheep, life is going on despite the splendour 
 
no one notices Icarus either, the flailing figure in the waves, bottom right, drowning, despite the might of the myth, the potency, the poignancy, of the poetry
 
but who notices even poetry 
 
 
across a stretch of water to the horizon and to at its edge the resplendent sun, ships with sails, indeed medieval galleons, sit in the placid harbour of a city in the blue crook of, upper left, a range of mountains, the City of God of Augustine maybe for its iridescent pastels, for its sunlit gold maybe the gilded Greek Atlantis  
                                                                                                                                                                       above the flailing Icarus a ship is setting joyful sail out towards the promise of the blazing sun, the way seems clear

there will be other, it appears, Icaruses

                                                                                                                                                               medieval caricaturization and perspective inextricably of course obtain throughout

 

 

           

 

   

    __________________________________________

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August 16, 2008

over a late lunch

for Wendy, who’s eyes glowed golden when she listened

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    over a late lunch:

after twenty-eight years, Proust, I said, has given me the answer to essentially everything

we’d met, a friend and I, over a late lunch, and I was keeping her abreast

he says your impressions are your only Truth, I said, what wells from the core of you, instinct, is your only sure reality, your fount of Truth, your work of art, its representation, is your duty to the world, to partake in the community that has found the way to do it is your mission, he says it is a most difficult path to follow, and most eschew it, gesundheit

but, he says, without it your unique contribution to what we can ever know as Truth will be lost, a resplendent soul, all souls of course are resplendent, returned to merely and tragically dust

I’m inspired to write, I said, more than ever, I think like a divine purpose

twenty-eight years, I pointed out, I thought maybe never, though I suspected Proust if anyone might come pretty close, closer than anyone, if anyone could indeed supply such an answer

Proust talks about memory though, it is the issue that transports him, it is the nebulous area that, in a moment of suspension of time when a device, a detail, will provoke an evocation of another time, another place – a perfume, a sound, a taste, might do it, any sensuous reality – another dimension is exposed, where time and space have been effectively bypassed, again eschewed, again gesundheit, sidetracked, and you are transported 

but what I want to talk about is miracles, what do you think of that, I asked, aware by now I might be being way too out there

that’s wonderful, she replied, her eyes were warm and to me glowed golden

that’s where I’m most comfortable, I continued, I want to describe that place where two realities coincide, this one and another, where everything is the same but different, where everything shimmers with a kind of heightened and iridescent energy, where usually there’s only real life

I want to show that these aren’t simply coincidences, unusual but isolated events, but rather revelations, answers to our most profound questions if we only allow, moments of patent lucidity and grace

how am I doing, I again cautiously asked, aware I might be flying off the handle, again be going too far

but there was no hint of any impatience, distress, incredulity, just warmth and thoughtful interest

I don’t think anyone else has ever written about that, I said, yes, the miraculous is inherent in any work of art but not as its prime subject, usually it is felt as its consequence, the source of the art itself, not its story

I felt on firmer ground now, back at the topic of writing, not the meaning of life, miracles, transcendence

I can do that, I said, I can do that, certain I could

              

_______________________________________                                                                                                                                           

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July 30, 2008

July 8, 2008

                                                                                                                                        for my mom and for, of course, my father 

                                                                                                                                    July 8, 2008:

for reasons salacious perhaps the previous day, or perhaps because all by himself my father could, sui generis, transport himself in a mystical leap of his otherworldly essence quite independently of any other merely material considerations and imbue me readily with his radiant spirit, I awoke the next morning, his birthday, thus imbued, radiant of spirit, in a mood ready to celebrate

I read of course my Proust first, my morning prayer, followed with a few pages of Thoreau’s inspired “Walden” for poise, purpose and poetry

my morning coffee steamed at my side, golden and aromatic, my eiderdown pillow plushly propped up my back, a feather bedspread lightly cushioned my upturned knees where my book lay, a finger slowly savouring each flip of each precious page, while a bird at my window surely sang precise notes to the morning sun

then up from my devotions I called my mother to find out if she’d herself remembered, she hadn’t, the date, she remorsefully said, had entirely slipped her by

no matter, I retorted, allowing for no recriminations, tonight we’ll celebrate, it had been nineteen years at least since the last time

she set about her day, I mine, until we’d meet for dinner

                                                                                                                              meanwhile I called my sister, who’d of course remembered, sang even her song of his that she recalled he would sing apparently always at his birthday, my mom remembered it too when I asked, o it’s the eighth of July and Easter Sunday too, to indicate a day of high celebration

my nephew was not home but I left him, and his, loving words

my aunt then, and then another aunt, his only remaining sisters able to answer the phone, another would not be easily reached at her nursing home, might not have remembered even her brother, I did not try

I drew the line as well at cousins, they are dispersed and abound

but a friend who’d lost herself a father only a year earlier, I made a point of calling, in sympathetic communication, she was not home, I told her machine instead she was an angel, she’d hear when she got home 

but already there was a buzz, and I’d been busy setting it, to my already glowing delight

                                                                                                                                   along the street as I made my way to a dentist’s appointment I thought, my dad will appear today, somehow, he always does when I call, when I listen, and cocked an ear, kept an eye out, sharpened all my even extrasensory senses

but right then and there only the trees, as far as I could tell, were imparting, though mostly only to heaven, the leafy poems that they were writing there, about life, about the seasons, about transformation, about time, while we under their shelter and shade are busy especially running errands, leaving the patterns of their intricate shadows unnoticed mostly on our walk, walks, scrutable of course but for many hieroglyphic, esoteric, arcane, like for many for that matter many of our standard poems

I marveled at their rhythm, rejoiced at their rhyme, stood still to contemplate their wisdom, stood reverent before their poise and grace, at which they sibilantly sighed of course, sending me so inspired along

in all of this however I could only indiscriminately yet detect a father, my father

I pressed stalwartly on

                                                                                                                                 today’s my father’s birthday, I blurted out to my dentist when he asked how I was, before I could even think of what I was saying

forthwith both he and his assistant put a cloud of dark condolence on, a pall was cast over each their ebullience, I felt the sun leave in an instant each their spirit, but I would have none of it, my father brought only joy, had been offering me only that for years now, I thought their response perhaps instinctive, certainly and graciously full of heart, but off the mark, there was no reason whatsoever to court sadness, none at all

I explained my relation to my father

before he died, dad, I said, let me know from the other side, I am your son, I’ll hear you, later of course I heard, often when I would be praying for something

at first I’d bargain, I’ll do this for that, I’d ply, then one day when my mom could not, she said, quite make out that he was there for her, like a revelation I replied, like a very inspiration I stated, ask for something, he’ll have to answer you, you’ll know then, and not only you’ll know but he’ll be overjoyed to be able to help you, to be with you, for you to be with him, for you to recognize he’s there, whereupon of course I was overwhelmed by tears of utter gratitude and wonder, I’d lived long with this truth already, but had never put it into words  

                                                                                                                                        a drill sat poised at my mouth, I suddenly noted, but hushed apparently by the Elysian nature of my account, Elysium, that mythic abode of the honourable dead, I deferred but was encouraged to tell on, therefore, aware that my teeth were presently to be done, briefly as I could, I recounted from my store representative miracles, though I warned, my miracles abound, I see them everywhere, to be at the foot of not one but two rainbows, for instance, with someone at that point who needed one, hadn’t been too sure of any till now, how much of a miracle was that, and that was an essentially easy one, others were intricate, textured and subtle, not as crisp, clear, iridescent as two incontrovertible rainbows

a burning bush, yes, a burning bush, a tree as though on fire, after a walk I had with God, fiery orange and bristling, or the purple aura of buds, their nascent energy, gleaming in the dewdrops along a brittle branch not quite recovered still from hard winter another night as I walked home, when God wasn’t there for me especially, just omnipresent as usual, they were catching the pulse and colour of yet unborn blooms, the glowing advent of their pink and precious incarnation

                                                                                                                                       but these I didn’t even bring up

I told of a dinner in Vienna when my dad showed up in the guise of a melody, a “serenata” my mom would listen to when he passed away, with birds in it, the twitter of birds to decorate with garlands of their own ornithological music a pastoral piece for Classical orchestra, it has remained for nineteen years on her turntable, but nowhere anywhere else had I ever heard it before, she among only a few family and friends, who’d been moved by her being moved mostly

we’d been separately to the same restaurant in Vienna many years earlier, at separate times, a memorable historical place, the oldest in Vienna, the fare hearty and traditional, the service inspired, superb, the atmosphere scintillating, we’d contrived my mother and I to return together when it was happening I would be there, and she would meet me for the occasion

we were chatting over wine when my mother raised a finger to the music that was playing lightly, it was my father, a thousand miles away from home, joining us, we raised our hearts to love and basked as warmly in the golden moment as in its candlelight

the time in Buenos Aires also when a stone angel had become a man, a man become an angel, for where is the divide, I always ask, between the two, a mime so good, so convincing, I’d mistaken him for a sculpture, who’d then incrementally begun to move when a girl dropped a coin in an adjoining coin box for him, which indeed had puzzled me on what I’d thought was public art

a friend had asked if I had a coin, which he gave to a young girl for the coin box, a beautiful, in and of itself, act, I’d thought, of saintly charity, she dropped it in, the figure to my consternation moved, I trembled, beheld amazed the transsubstantiation  

                                                                                                                                         but it was time to return to my teeth

those are just the bare bones, I said, of those miracles, they become resplendent even more in more detail, and I let him enter my mouth, then, gagged and throttled, did not prevent him, couldn’t’ve, wouldn’t’ve, from wondering aloud about some of his own perhaps similar instances, old ladies, he said, mostly, who’d on occasion flit by, in the corner of an eye, that he’d noted and dismissed as too improbable, ask them instead for something next time, I said, you’ve excluded the possibility of their being for too long, time for something different

it was                                                                                                                                    

what’s got a hold of me, I suddenly wondered, there in the dentist’s chair, blathering away despite even the dental paraphernalia hanging or hovering at my mouth, and with such insistence, and all morning

in Homer the Olympian gods speak and act through people, take over their spirit, get them to do their bidding on earth

this was my father, I suddenly saw, with more delight than consternation, laying claim to my filial respect and heart

I’m doing the Lord’s work here, I merrily gurgled, I’m doing the work of the Lord, for it had been a short step only a while back already now from my dad to my Creator, from my dad to my God, who shimmered interchangeably according to the occasion, according to the ground for my call

I was elated, thought this might be even grace, why not, I am as well a child of God, I countered, we all are

later I knew it was

                                                                                                                                     but let me step back

we had a wonderful dinner, my mom and I, beneath an only blue sky on the ivied terrace of an Italian restaurant, drank expensive wine, ate succulent antipasto, pasta, toasted the idyllic night, walked home along inspired streets of summer

I’ve thought, what could he have been trying to say apart from hello, how are you, and maybe, not maybe but surely, o it’s the eighth of July and Easter Sunday too, celestial messages ought to be weightier than that, I reasoned, loftier

I believe that what he was trying to say was, there is a heaven, there’s heaven, purpose and hope, that July the eighth was Easter Sunday too, in fact, a day of also revelation, as all days are if you want them to

                                                                                                                                          so spake, I believe, my father

                     

 

    ___________________________________

                                                                                                                                 

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May 31, 2008

finding miracles

these earlier “back tracks“, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while

please enjoy

                        _______________________

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        November 9, 2006

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  this has been a year of only a clutch of miracles

of course they always abound, but some years, beset by crushing ordeals, miracles seem few and far between, and pale and falter beside the anguish and despair you suffer

 yesterday I marvelled at the colours of the leaves, the reds, the golds, the purples, that still and magnificently clung to the branches of much thinner trees now that they had lost the weight and splendour of their foliage

the sun upon the colours made them quiver, gleam, glimmer

look, I told my walking mate, a painting, and spread my arm across the panoply that contained what I saw

Monet, he replied

indeed, I said, but also Klimt, the gold, the glitter

I could barely listen on for the wonder

and Van Gogh for the branches, I continued, caught up in my world of live Impressionism, crotchety, angular, mad, I described

and there are millions of these leaves, I went on, transported beyond Impressionism into verily awe, not two of them alike, an infinity of numbers

that’s a miracle

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     a day earlier a friend had come over to lunch, after which we’d amble on over to the art gallery for an exhibit that was on

a gull sat on the ledge of my window, at my aerie on the twelfth floor

maybe it’s your father, she said

maybe, I replied, but couldn’t then and there make the connection

it stayed long enough for her to mention it again after I’d gone on for some time more, she was facing the window, I was not, I’d returned to our conversation

the gull looked in, on, curious, spirited

but I still saw just a gull
                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

last   evening I remembered that it would’ve been my parents anniversary had my father survived, called my mom, asked her out, we had dinner nearby, the date had slipped me by

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            later still I remembered about the gull, who perhaps had not forgotten

            

                                                                                                              

                              _________________________________________

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April 20, 2008

dinner out

                       
                                 The Birth of Venus, c.1482-1486
                                                                                                                                        
                                              Sandro Botticelli
                                                                                                                                     
                                                (c.1445-1510)
                                 ___________________________
                                                                                                                                                   
                                                                                                                                       these earlier “back tracks”, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while
                                                                                                                                      please enjoy                                                                                  
                                     
                                    ____________________ 
                                                                                                                                dinner out:
                                                                                                                                     the night was clear, a slender moon shone in an indigo sky, I thought instead of staying in and watching Rock Hudson, Doris Day, Tony Randall, and a gay-as-a-goose Paul Lynde in “Pillow Talk” in German I´d venture out instead the day after all after Christmas to find a place to eat, preferably something Italian, I had in mind a restaurant I´d visited when I’d been in Dresden last that might be open, it was
                                                                                                                                        a place for one, I asked somewhat meekly, if you have one, and pointed to a table in a corner that seemed unoccupied, I´d worried about reservations on the special occasion that was that night, but the table was free, and rendered somewhat grudgingly, I suspected, where a couple at least would´ve been more, to their mind, worthy
                                                                                                                                        I sat at a table that could’ve been cleaner, whisked it off with a brush of my hand, a candle on the checked red and white tablecloth in the very colours of Christmas in the otherwise dim light made me overlook the slight if unconscionable inconvenience
                                                                                                                                     cutlery arrived and a soft but sturdy napkin, on a silver platter no less, that I felt would duly resolve the remiss, I spread the serviette, folded primly under, on my lap, sipped an excellent Valpolicella while I waited for the main service, a green salad that I would have, I asked, in concert with the fettucine, not on the same plate of course, I had to explain, but that I would enjoy at its side, a delicious pasta with salmon and yellow asparagus in a light cream sauce
                                                                                                                                        I was left to my own private devices, the restaurant was full, the staff busy, I savoured the endives, the steaming and succulent main course, indifferent to the indifferent service, but precise nevertheless about a second glass of wine
                                                                                                                                      out of nowhere, or out of a fantasy perhaps, once many of the early diners had departed and many of the tables had been cleared, a woman, or rather a vision, had arrived, was seated across from me alone at her own private table, I was entranced, I rarely see women eat alone in any even moderately elegant restaurants, they´ve always expressed fear and modesty, I´ve always thought that so impractical
                                                                                                                                      she seemed alone, so conscientious, so present yet so dependent upon the courtesy and good will of her suitors, whoever they might turn out to be, I saw Botticelli´s Venus being born from the waters, aquiver but unaware yet of any possible adversity
                                                                                                                                      the waiter, an older gentleman, who´d been merely polite to me, tended attentively to her graces, she opened to him a defenseless smile trusting his recommendations, she turned her neck, nubile as a swan´s, back to the menu´s pages pondering them closely as though they were priceless art, pointing out with a querying finger an item, hoping tentatively for clarification
                                                                                                                                      he was of course obsequious
                                                                                                                                  
                                                                                                                                    later she sipped her wine, tasted her food with elegance, poise, poetry
                                                                                                                                        I watched mesmerized
                                                                                                                                        
what should I do, what should I say, I wondered, should I let the moment pass, knowing full well that I could never tell this story if I were simply to walk away
                                                                                                                                        I practiced my German rendition as I savoured my second glass of red wine, the waiter had taken my fee, been politely inquisitive about my whereabouts, Vancouver, I of course replied, on the Canadian Pacific, where they´ll soon hold the Winter Olympics, so far from home it´s a surprise to find that some have no idea
                                                                                                                                        I sipped my last drop, stood up, but the server had returned to her table, I sat back, waited for him to move away
                                                                                                                                          I left my coat at my table, boldly crossed over to her side, excuse me, I started in German, entschuldigen Sie mich bitte, if I could have a moment of your time, German, French, English, I will speak what I must, but I suspected that so bold an apparition would speak English, my muses would have created that, or maybe some arcane but serendipitous nevertheless cultural affinity
                                                                                                                                        I don´t wish to offend you, I said, and I´ll be gone in just a moment, but I´ve seen you, watched you from my distance eating all alone the day after Christmas, I think I´m something of a poet, I´ve seen your grace, your poise, your poetry, you are a poem to me, I needed to tell you that, I thought this would bring you some enjoyment, I hope you will forgive me if I´ve been too brash
                                                                                                                                    thank you, she said, thank you, her eyes gleamed, shimmered, her hair soft, I´m sure, as sunlight, glowed in the golden candlelight, I noticed her russet freckles
                                                                                                                                        I took my leave, turned my back to her as I donned my scarves and winter coat against the winter cold, moved towards the door
                                                                                                                                          I waved a last goodbye, she waved back
    
  
      
       __________________________________
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April 10, 2008

Raphael – The Sistine Madonna

  Raffael 051.jpg                 

                          Sistine Madonna, c.1512-1514

                                         Raphael

                                      (1483-1520)

                             _______________________

                                                                                                                                      in my search for what is beautiful, in my unending, my unyielding quest for the sublime, I’ve come upon many things that ‘ve been awesome, before the Venus de Milo I trembled, stood silent, reverent before her incandescent aura, in consternation before her shimmering grace, marvelled that time alone, I supposed, and magnificence could so irradiate, create actual energy
 
in Dresden the Sistine Madonna did the same, the only other work ever to so palpably illuminate

during the late Beethoven string quartets I cried, especially the fourteenth, but who wouldn’t, they are masterpieces
 
on first looking into Homer I confirmed indeed the promise of Keats, nearly subscribed to the gods of Olympus, would’ve converted to their convincing myths, but Proust finally remains my true religion, the reflection of all I believe, the poet aspiring to be a philosopher, the philosopher aspiring to be a poet, where Truth and Beauty inextricably intermix, interweave and inspire  

for a while I had my doubts, art, music, literature seemed seductive enough, even important, but not urgent, not necessary, there would be life without art, I rued, but hadn’t been able to pursue it further

then in a revelation someone somewhere said, without art there would be no civilization, and I regained forthwith my faith

earnestly I’ve returned to its service

                                                                                                                                     yours in art                                                                                                                                                                    richibi

 

      _______________________________

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April 4, 2008

1, e. e. cummings

among poets one of my favourites is e. e. cummings, who famously eschewed – gesundheit – capitals, even in the spelling of his own name

for years for my own reasons I did the same, I felt that capitals usurped a power, an authority, they too often could not justify, I was left with “God” and “I” as worthy and warranted entities, often even “God” wouldn’t cut it, and was relegated to the more pedestrian lower case “god”, which led of course to “gods”, and incidentally to a more luxuriant and panoplied pantheon, a heaven richer in colour and idiosyncracies than our own culture’s usual abnegations

this process had me probing each item’s validity in order to make some sense of my too fleeting world

there are still not many capitals in my compositions
 

e. e. cummings does many more things with language than I do, but I cannot tell you where any of his impulses come from, I am left with only his poems

but a poem should need nothing else

most of his poems for me don’t, in order to enchant
                                                                                                                                                                      here’s something I came upon serendipitously as I waited on a friend in a bookstore, I thought I’d pass the few minutes I had to wait browsing through books of poems, one takes just that much time to savour a poem, not much more usually than a glass of wine, sometimes they’re even memorable

this poem is taken from a chapter entitled “Erotic Poetry” in a collection edited by Richard Kostelanetz called “AnOther”

which I  bought

it is the first poem in that section, and titled merely “1”

                                                                                                                                                                         1
                                                                                                                                                                        out of bigg

est the knownun
barn
‘s
on tiptoe darkne

ss

boyandgirl
come
into a s
unwor

ld 2 to

be blessed by
floating
are
shadows of ove

r us-you-me a

n
g
el
l

s
 

e. e. cummings  (1894-1962)

                                                                                                                                                                     

this kind of thing has a precedent of course in the work of James Joyce (1882-1941), his “Finnegan’s Wake” goes on for several hundred pages in this manner, and left me for one in the dust

in music Arnold Schönberg (1874-1951) was also deconstructing his medium, breaking down musical notation into seemingly random organizations of sound, atonality eschewed – gesundheit – most all of the rules of earlier composition, presciently making way however for everything from the shrieking guitar
meanderings of Jimi Hendrix to the vocal pyrotechnics and eccentricities of Prince through the clanging and oracular pronouncements of Pink Floyd

neither Joyce nor Schönberg can be easily dismissed

nor e. e. cummings
 

all the very best

richibi

  

   __________________________________

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March 10, 2008

the stone angel

these earlier “back tracks”, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while

please enjoy

__________________

for Greg, its champion

the stone angel:

miracles are of course in the eye of the beholder, like beauty, truth, and love

I remember being told by my mother about the wife of a cousin of my father, she was notoriously unattractive, indeed downright ugly, everyone said, her daughter later worked for my father in our family’s store, she was cheerful, industrious, and eager to be working there, one day when her mom came in her daughter called out to her mom as she entered, hi beautiful and altered forever my conception of beauty

miracles are also such entities, they happen in the heart and in the soul, without these there are merely serendipitous circumstances bereft of either reason or wile

but to the wide-eyed innocent still dazzled by the glory of a sunrise, the splendour of a sunset, the iridescent grace and beauty of a shimmering rainbow stretching its improbable arc across a sun-strewn sky, hot on the heels of routed clouds and blustering but receding thunder, miracles are a sign of heaven, the consequence, the stardust, of faith

we’d been headed out to dinner after a day of taking in Buenos Aires, making our way along one of its more popular streets, Avenida Florida is closed to traffic but teems with the to and fro of shoppers, tourists, merchants, and of course minstrels, entertainers, we’d seen a pair of men dancing the tango together for coins, each in a formal though somewhat worn-out black suit, young novices, a girl in black as well, in mesh, sultry hose, dark, beautiful and mysterious, stood to the side awaiting her moment, we thought they were probably students of tango, their steps were informed but not quite yet smooth and silken as the dance requires

Greg had been telling me about a mime who’d done magic for children, they would drop a coin into a box for her and she would then somehow make a light glow in their palm as she dropped something into it

I’d listened inattentively, making my way through the crowd instead, that flowed like a turbulent river all around and kept me alert especially to its currents

look, Greg said, it was a stone angel he was pointing at, a charcoal statue about the size of a man, the wings hadn’t been intricately described but they were the right size and spread convincingly above the reverent posture, the head was bent forward somewhat in prayer, the hands piously enfolded, a stone tunic fit the shape and turns of the heavenly body as though it were indeed cloth, the feet, the articulated toes, rested mystically upon the charcoal pedestal

I don’t remember seeing that there, I said to Greg, we’d been along that street before but I’d also always paid more attention to the traffic than the storefronts, and wasn’t unduly surprised that I’d missed maybe even this angel

do you have any change, Greg asked, I noticed a box at the foot of the angel, also charcoal, part of the sculpture, though I thought it strange in fact on public art

no, I said instinctively, careful not to squander my meagre pot, but when he asked again after I’d further considered, rued my initial ungenerous response, I dredged up a few pesos from an alternate pocket

Greg held out the coin to a little girl who stood nearby with her mother, offered it for her to take, whereupon she came by, accepted the change, then proceeded to the sculpture, and dropped the offering into the box for donations, then withdrew

but by then the angel had quivered, was coming to splendid life, and like a revelation had begun to unfold

of course this was a man, I understood in the very moment, but a man in the guise of an angel, which of course is an angel in the guise of a man, for where does the line begin or end which divides them

with a wave of his hand he beckoned the little girl back, she returned and in her palm which he held in his own blessed hand he bestowed a gift, which didn’t glow, I incidentally thought, but must nevertheless be wondrous

already I quivered, frozen in awe, but quaking like a leaf in a mystical wind

the little girl turned around to Greg, held out the gift in her little palm to give it safely and dutifully back to him, but when she opened her hand for him to retrieve the holy thing he merely touched it back again enclosing it there for her to keep, the act itself of another angel, spontaneously selfless, selflessly spontaneous, munificent

by this time of course there were tears in my eyes, I’m a sucker for the acts of angels, but the angel himself had been observing the kindness being proferred in his name, he signalled Greg over and bestowed upon him a gift which again he retrieved from a breast pocket stitched in the stone above his heart

Greg returned with a miniature silver crucifix that gleamed and glistened in his palm, not a glow, incidentally, but an incandescence, and indeed wondrous

but the angel was not about to leave me out and beckoned that I might too receive this blessing so that I advanced to receive also my little cross, he must’ve recognized my fervent admiration, my dumbfounded awe, and would honour me also, I gathered, with his favour

others followed suit, deposited their pesetas, received their little crosses from an always consummate angel, calm, poised, respectful, and profoundly inspirational always, until the wave of them wore off

I still quavered as though the earth had moved, like any creature stunned by for instance lightning, like any one of us before a force of nature starkly and grandly manifested, there is so much we overlook

but driven by finally logic and the practicality of moving on – even mystical experiences are finite – we wended our way forward toward our dinner out, but only a few yards on, meters if you will, out from where we’d had our visitation, I felt I’d left something wholly unfinished, wholly unsaid, asked Greg to return and with me, for me, tell the angel he’d been miraculous, magnificent, that I’d been so very much inspired, in Spanish, for all I could speak was English, and Greg was versed in their tongue

in his ear Greg spoke a fervent Spanish, he’d been there too, was also eager, I slipped a larger, more appropriate amount, I thought, into the coin box, more in keeping with the experience

but the angel didn’t move

he probably didn’t hear, Greg later pointed out, paper won’t sound like change will

but unresponsive to Greg too, I’d wondered, who’d poured his Spanish heart into the angel’s ear, maybe wax from the makeup, he’d thought

for a moment then the angel remained a sculpture, still, and in character, and of stone

then with deep generous eyes that slowly he opened, heavy with the weight, I thought, of maybe the very world, he peered deep into my own

beautiful, I responded, beautiful, the only word I could utter in exalted admiration

then in English, clear and reverberant, like an oracle, I thought, for us all to understand and behold, he replied, simply but wondrously, cryptically enough indeed but with great portent, thank you

to which I could only add, amen

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