Jane and John
______
through the magic of the Internet, new
old friendships abound, with the click
of a connection I found the key to
erstwhile friends, who, it turns out,
are now ballroom dancers, pictured
above
can you dig it
she suggested an Argentinian tango I
might like
I am countering with another
meanwhile watch also what they’re
doing on Avenida Florida in Buenos
Aires, where miracles, trust me,
happen, just click
Richard
psst: do try all of this at home
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
___________________________________
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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