Holiday

It started about three weeks ago. I got the call and I couldn't resist. Lord, I tried, but I answered anyway. 

I pulled the door open and stepped inside. I waited until my eyes adjusted, leaning on the front counter. 

"Just sit anywhere, sweetheart."

She brushed past me with a pot of coffee in her hand. The smell of it kick-started a rumble in my stomach that I was sure everyone in the place could hear. I picked my way down the crowded counter and found a booth. Why here? It was too crowded and I don't like being this near to people. I could feel filth emanating from every one of them. The guy sitting at the next booth reeked of alcohol and stale cigarettes. I tried to fight off the revulsion, telling myself to calm down. I don't do well in confined spaces.

"You're so fucking uptight I can smell it on you," the man in the next booth said in hoarse whisper. "You need to relax." It was him.

"What the hell happened to you?" I asked him, "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well, things haven't been going so well. I need you to do something for me," he said with a grin.

I stared at him, wondering if there was even a remote chance I could get myself out of this situation.

"Not a chance," he said. "I'm a god, remember?"

"Well, what could the great almighty Pan need with me. Run out of booze? Need a whore or two?" 

"After all I've done for you, this is the thanks I get?" He tried to look hurt but succeeded only in looking like he was trying to pass a gall-stone. 

"You're not a god, you're a figment of my imagination. You're a dream that torments me periodically. You're too much pizza and gravy, that's what you are." I'm not sure if I was castigating him or myself.

"Yourself. I'm a dream, remember?" he said dryly.

"Why me?" I whined. Its another one of those things I dislike about myself. 

"I'm not fond of it either," Pan said, "regardless, you're all I have for the time being. The fact that you're crazy is an inconvenience but I can work around that, too."

He stood up and the diner dissolved into a pastoral setting and I found myself leaning against a tall tree, heavy with leaves and a pear shaped fruit. I reached up for one, only to have my hand slapped down. Pan appeared before me, no longer looking like a homeless man but worse. His fur was matted and in it bits of meat and twigs mixed with dribbled wine and unidentifiable detritus. 

"Pay attention. I have a plan. I have no intention of hiding in here any longer and you, my squirrely little friend are going to help me."

I sighed a heavy peal of resignation. He was right. I'm completely crazy and whenever one of these apparitions decides to take control, I can't seem to stop them. Pan was particularly bad news for me. I wondered, briefly, what life would be like if I wasn't nuts, but that thought dissolved when Pan asserted himself.

I woke up this morning in a motel. Apparently, I'm in Syracuse. The headache is only now just wearing off and I have to find a way home. I've got no money, of course. He spends it all and leaves me none. I hate him, sometimes. I really do.

On the up side, it seems that I'm married now. I think she's a dancer. She snores like an ox but she smells very nice. I wonder if she's ever been to Canada.

Do It Again

Jackson moved into the light, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. Somewhere in front of him a voice spoke, saying, "Not this time."
He nodded and shuffled off to the corner, trying not to let the others see his disappointment. He leaned against the rough stone that defined the cell and, with his back to the others, shook loose a sob coated in phlegm and bitter tears.
"Jackson?" It was Raleigh. He felt her hand on his back and the touch provoked more tears and he turned and buried his face in her shoulder.
"Maybe the old man can help, this time."

There was a garden in which people gathered and reminisced about life and love, dreaming of the day when they could return. They swapped stories of their past lives and the people they knew and had known as they strolled past the fig tree that defined the centre of the world.
Underneath the tree, the breeze that silently swept away the bad memories was warm and encouraged serenity, calm and reflection, and it was here that they found the old man. He was always here, chatting away the days under the protective arms of the tree, usually surrounded by a crowd of advice-seekers, acolytes and admirers. They drifted away as Jackson approached, without looking at him, without saying anything. He was getting used to the way they ignored him. Only Raleigh and the old man spoke to him.
"What is it this time?" the old man said as Jackson slumped beside him on the bench.
"Why won't they take me?" Jackson said.
"How many times do I have to tell you, you're just not ready," the old man said patting Jackson on the knee, "You stink of regret and sorrow, you ooze a melancholy sap from every pore of your body and you can't look anyone in the eye. No one wants to be near you, except Raleigh, and she's as bad as you. You're just not ready. You need to take some time off, go on a retreat or something. You need to relax."
Jackson nodded his head but held on tight to his desire. The old man sighed and sat back. He absently picked at the hem of his robe and then clasped his hands together, his thumbs pointing up. He up-ended his church and said, "And there are all the people," with a giggle to himself.
Jackson stirred beside him.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing, Jackson, I didn't say anything." The old man sat forward once again and turned to face him.
"You just don't get it, son. The whole idea is that you go back with a clear conscience and an empty mind. You don't have room in yours for a mote of dust, you're so cluttered and confused. What is it that you can't let go of? What's made you so sad, so heavy? It's only life. You go, you get to see some neat stuff, you stock up on some anecdotes and you come back. I don't understand what the problem is."
Jackson shuddered to attention.
"Only life?" he said, "That's what I can't understand. You say it's only life but it's so much more than that. It's meaningful and grand, sad and sorrowful. It's intense and ripe, it's catastrophic and it's elemental. It's the most profound experience I've ever had. It's not some sort of divine amusement park carousel that you climb on for fun. Everyone around here thinks it's such a gas to be born and to live, when it's the most precious gift any of us has ever experienced."
"An amusement park carousel? I like that. Jackson, you have quite a way with words," the old man beamed at him.
Jackson refused to be baited however, and sat silently until the old man relented.
"Alright," he said, with a grumble, "One more, but I'm not kidding when I tell you that if you don't lighten up this time around I'm going to be very displeased with you when you get back."
Jackson jumped up even before the old man had finished speaking and ran to the gate. As he jostled his way to the front of the line, the old man turned his attention to Raleigh.
"And you. What's your problem?"
"Me? I got no problem, old man. I just came by to say 'Hey'."
"Why don't I believe you?" said the old man.
"Because you're a suspicious old coot, that's why. But thanks for letting Jackson go back," she said with a small smile, "He really does take things so seriously. Maybe this time he'll have more fun. He's such a lump when he's here. I like him, though."
The old man clapped his hands together and laughed, "Oh, good," he said, "That makes my day."
"Don't make fun of me," she cried and launched herself into the old man's lap.
"Never," he said with a laugh as he wrapped her in his arms. He sighed as she lay her head on his shoulder, and thought once again of Jackson. His normally bright luminescence was dulled for a moment.
"I like him too, my girl" he said in a quiet voice, "I like him, too."

Manitoba, 1976

At 5:23 the sky is a deep blue/black and the air is cool, slightly tainted with the smell of yesterday; not awake to the desires of the new day. You sleep through everything.

I leave the car idling and go into the supermarket, with you safe under the effects of too much alcohol and pot. The secretive whispers that escape your lips leave me curiously unruffled because I understand the tone, if not the meaning. It's been three days of silence, impressed upon me by the empty horizon and the memory of loss.
The lights in here are bright and unforgiving. I realize that I must look exactly like I feel, and impishly decide to strut a little more and slouch a little less.
"Can I help you?' a girl says from behind the counter which is strewn with the evidence of too few customers. Three or four magazines lie on their backs, portraying a world of luxury studded with the embarrassments of a public life. An empty bag of potato chips spins on its axis as I breeze past and answer, "Not unless you've got a cure for needless suffering, or a remedy for heartache," I say.
"Pardon me?"

I hate driving at night. My eyes have never been good and the twinkling of far off houses, the lights left on for safety and to fend of the riot of night, only confuse my depth-perception. Everything seems more relevant in the pre-dawn hours, before the sun can burn away the melancholy of sleeplessness. That should be a bumper sticker, I think, while looking for a box of crackers that doesn't have the words 'low salt' on the front.
In the middle of the aisle sits a man, with his back to me, on an upended box, pricing cans of soup to put on the shelf. The snickering recoil of his gun is the only thing I can hear above the music being piped down from the speakers above. He looks up at me as I approach and, suddenly self-conscious, straightens his back as the gun's patter picks up speed.
"Morning," I grunt and he nods in return.
"Can I help you find something?" he says, and I pause, wondering what it is that I'm looking for.

The sun flashes across the dash, as I crest the hill, leaving another town behind and before the light of day can identify me, or you for that matter. We're beyond all that now, I think. You murmur in your sleep and try to turn away from the light, but not before you crack one eye open and say, "Where are we?"
I don't answer and you are asleep again before the question can settle there between us, awkward and undisguised, looking for all the world like a guilty child, born into a family of want.

The Mountain Stream

The trail wound down to the bottom of the gorge and without a second thought I walked straight into the stream that snaked across the bottom. The girls squealed in excitement when they saw the water but had second thoughts about stripping down and diving in as C.G., and the hulking, brooding man-child he was baby-sitting, broke from the cover of the trees. Instead, they walked along the bank until they found a good place to sit and dangle their feet. They are Patience and Faith, not Wanton and Lurid. I quite like them.
I call them my Lotus Eaters because of their endless ease and because they've never shared a bad thought between them. They've followed me around for most of my life, making repeated attempts to steal me away from the others and they sometimes wake me in the middle of the night to talk to me about the way I behave. They are as good as it gets. They show me the world as I would like it to be, but I'm a suspicious sort and they get frustrated with my negativity. And with Pan.
I saw them tense as Pan strode by. He makes no pretense about what he'd like to do to each one of them.

They are all with me now. They are my advisers, my mentors and my agents provocateurs. They are a motley collection of random thoughts and, at the same time, an organised team of interpreters.
There was a time when they were completely unaware of each other. It was in a time of complete disorder and confusion that I assembled them and brokered a truce. I asked them to come together for the purpose of finding someone I lost many years ago. I brought them together to track him through time and space, memory and forgetfulness, suffering, torment and grief. He's been missing for some time and I need him now, more than ever.

Ikkyu squatted at the edge of the stream and siphoned water for his kettle. As he set about building a small fire, I was, once more, impressed with the economy of his movements. He does everything with purpose and his temper is serene even in the face of danger. His musings are always concise and to the point and he never lets the boisterous attitudes of his forced compatriots interrupt the smooth flow of his thoughts.
"What is this place?" he said to me as he set the kettle in the flames.
"This is where I last saw him. Maybe twenty-five years ago?" I looked at the girls, and they nodded. They were here, too, although it wasn't me they were shadowing at the time. They followed me home that night, abandoning their post, thinking that I needed them more than the man who brought me here.
"And the one we're looking for?" Ikkyu watched me wince at the memory.
"This was the last place I saw him. I was hoping to find a clue or something." I looked around, not knowing how to begin to search.
I turned at the sounds of a scuffle and saw C.G. duck a swing from the animal he was shepherd to. This where he was born. He sprang into being at the edge of this stream, fully formed and raging. I couldn't control him then either. The flush of memory had provoked a fit of anger and C.G. was losing control of his charge. I watched impassively, as the Doctor tried in vain to soothe the beast, but the words he whispered into his ear had little effect and it wasn't until Pan held out something to him, that the child quieted and became subdued. I couldn't see what it was that the god had produced and so I stood to get a better view. The billowing form of the child began to deflate somewhat as he was held in check, mesmerized by a small mirror that he grasped in his massive fists. Pan turned to me then, and said, "You're an idiot. Get off your ass and get that old man moving or there's going to be trouble. This quack," he pointed to C.G., "doesn't know shit. Bringing us here was a foolish idea."
I looked at the Doctor and he was nodding his head.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought it might be helpful, but I didn't anticipate this reaction."
They all stood, staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision, and I looked from face to face.
The girls were frightened and fidgeted, holding hands and leaning on each other for support. The Doctor sat on his haunches, breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to control my rage. Pan stood in the middle of the stream, his hands on his hips and with a look of disgust on his face. Even the two headed dog was quiet, both heads avoiding my eyes.
From behind me, I heard Ikkyu clear his throat.
"Well," he said calmly, "I've finished my tea. We can go now." and he stood up, packing away the kettle.

I was sixteen the last time I was here and it looks exactly as I remember it. The stream that starts somewhere in the mountains above me, wanders down the valley and underneath the thick forest that covers both banks. It is beautiful. We camped here, after a long day of paddling. I was exhausted.
In the middle of the night, I woke to the sounds of some animal prowling around just outside the door of the tent and I sat up, trying to separate the sounds of the night from the chattering in my head.
The girls found me then, and soothed my fears, pushing me towards sleep and when I woke up all was quiet. I could sense him, then. The brutish beast that had been born by the coals of a fire left untended. He was awake, too, and I felt a terrifying realization grow inside me as I discovered that with the arrival of this beast, something else had left me. I'm still looking for him.
The connection I had, for so long unrecognized, to the world around me was shattered and in the aftermath I was disconsolate; the only comfort I felt coming from Patience and Faith, who upon discovering me in that fragile state, held me and wiped the tears away, telling me that I could survive this, that I would survive this. I did, barely. But it marked a new passage in my life, a new method to be learned. Without trust, my psyche splintered into pieces and the disparate aspects, previously held together by a common goal, came to me, one by one, to demand a reckoning.

They needed an answer. I thought this might be a good place to start.

Tempus Fugit

I woke up this morning to one of those startling realizations akin to remembering that there's a math test this morning and I haven't even cracked a book. As I swung crazily between dreams of exalted idolatry and being chased by a really big toad with a taste for blood, a thought careened into existence and demanded to be recognized.
"Last week went by very quickly," it mused.
"So?" I said, "they all do," I answered. "Leave me alone or help me with this big fucking frog."

I woke up feeling relieved that the frog was gone but unnerved that that persistant thought was still with me. I aquiesed and said, "All right, let's have it."

The memories of my childhood reside in a portion of my brain that is overstuffed, dusty and mostly ignored. If I need something I can push open the door and, after a sneeze or two, find what I'm looking for and get on with my day. The vault that contains my more recent doings is closer and doesn't seem so busy. The one that holds last weeks agenda is pretty near empty and if you whistle into the cool air you'll hear an echo. The point is that while every day was an EVENT when I was seven, most things don't register these days, unless it's really big.
With little experience in deciding what needed cataloguing, my seven year old brain made copies of everything and filed it away. As I get older, and more cynical I might add, the need to examine everything is less critical. As a by-product, I have less and less to mark the passage of time. When I pause to wonder what I had for dinner last Thursday, my brain makes a big show of trying to find it, knowing all the while that it never added that to the records, having already filed thousands of reports that went unheeded. If no one is going to come looking for it, then why do all that paper-work?
Caught with it's pants down, my brain makes a few suggestions and hastily changes the subject. The net effect of this phenomenon is that I can't remember Thursday, at all. I can't remember most of last week. Most of April is gone too. Sure, I can tell you that it's 2007 but if you need a detailed itinerary, giving evidence of my whereabouts for 2006 you're out of luck. Where has the time gone?

The interupptive thought smiled to itself, knowing that it had triggered a domino-like effect, and it sat back to watch it's trickle-down. I wished briefly that I was still asleep, even if that meant dodging the corrosive spit of a two hundred pound amphibian.

Taken to it's logical conclusion, it seems likely that by the time I'm eighty-two, I will have forgotten decades worth of doings. My grandfather lived in a reality that looked a lot like 1972 for the last decade of his life, simply because his brain thought, "What's the use? He'll never come looking for '86." His inner librarian was on holiday and so it took him completely by surprise when he turned ninety and I heard him say, "So short, so short." He was refering to the impression that without his knowing it, life had carried on without him.
And maybe that's a good thing. If everything we ever did was stored away, easily accesible and readily remembered, life would be long but we would all die of exaustion before we hit sixty.
On the other hand, a long and well documented life would prevent the often-heard, little-understood cries of remorse for not paying more attention to things as they happen. If life is so precious, why is it that so many of us can't remember what we did with the biggest part of it? Just because we've done it before doesn't mean it isn't worth taking note of it. What we had for dinner last night was probably pretty good, but even if it wasn't shouldn't we log that so we never have to eat it again?