The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter Three

Thinking back I can't imagine what possessed Mosley to take seven kids, six guys and one girl, on the road following the Christian Concert Series all the way to Halifax. He must have been pretty fed up with the ministry to put himself through so much hell. Sure, there was lots of bickering and complaining, but Mosley, being the only one with any experience driving a school bus, and where he got that I have no idea, had to listen to it while navigating that piece of shit through city streets and up and down the highway to find spots to turn around when we gave him bad directions, which happened frequently enough that he began to suspect we were doing it on purpose, all the while keeping an eye out for a bathroom Carrie could use and the burger joints we all needed. What a glutton for punishment.
We weren't long out of town before we discovered one of the many unusual aspects of traveling by bus. It only happened to the guys, for obvious reasons, and it happened to me first, of course. When you are in a relaxed state, sleeping for example, the constant vibration of the bus, the wheels on the road, the cracks in the blacktop, whatever, the body takes on a life of its own, if you follow my meaning. I was napping throughout the afternoon, bored silly by the view of field after field, and lulled into a state of somnolence by Mosley's books on tape, which he insisted on listening to, when through the cloud of sleep I could make out the sounds of laughter and I heard my name whispered over and over again. I cracked my eyes open to find the guys all looking at me, grinning like hyena's, and looked down to see a hat hanging neatly over the end of my penis, which was standing completely erect despite being under the cover of my pants and a sweater I'd thrown over myself. My eyes went straight to Carrie. I was completely mortified as I saw she was trying not to laugh and staring intently out the window at nothing. The howling went on for about twenty minutes and I have to admit I didn't handle myself very well, to the point that Mosley had to pull over to break up the fight I prompted by punching Rube in the head.
Crushed by the agonizing embarrassment of the situation I sulked in a chair in the back corner of the bus for the rest of the day, trying my best not to look at Carrie, who had written me off, I was guessing here, for being the biggest moron she'd ever seen, and I vowed that I wouldn't fall asleep again until I was sure everyone else had too. I didn't have to wait long, however, before the universality of our situation became apparent to all of us. This time it was Mark. Having fallen asleep he had developed the same condition I had only hours before and now he was swinging his fists in Gary's direction as Gary tried to hang anything he could on Mark's knob.
A quick pow-wow on the side of the road, with a probable explanation from Mosley, settled us all down but from then on when we wanted to sleep we would swivel our chairs to face the window so as not wake up with all manner of things hanging around down there.
We drove all through that night to get to our first gig with the Christian Concert Series, which was being held in a field outside of a tiny little town in northern Quebec, and which was scheduled to start at noon the following day. Things had been quiet for a couple of hours when Mosley jammed on the brakes so hard most of us went flailing to the floor, hardons and all. I peeked my head out the closest window and saw that it was almost dawn and I wondered if Mosley had fallen asleep at the wheel. He hadn't but he was sitting straight up in his bus driver's seat staring ahead with an intensity that scared the shit out of me. I climbed over the bodies of the others, noticing that Mark was still sleeping, and crouched down beside Mosley to ask him what was wrong. He just pointed out the front window of the bus and there, illuminated by the headlights was the biggest and strangest looking bird I had ever seen. It was fully four feet tall, with a fat, round body, supported by two legs so skinny it didn't seem possible that this things was standing on its own. It stared right at us.
"It's a heron." said Mosley and I thought he'd lost his mind because I'd never seen one so big before. It looked like it had walked out of a dinosaur picture book. It was perfectly still, as were we, until a noise behind stirred it and another one stepped into view behind the first.
"Open the door, Mosley." I said and he did. I got off the bus and stood there by the side of the road locked in a staring match with one of the birds.
"It's so beautiful." It was Carrie. She stood behind me and grabbed my hand as she pressed up against me in the chill of the morning. I completely forgot about the birds and said, "Yeah."
Then the horn sounded and I jumped about a foot and saw Gary leaning on it. Mosley pushed him out of the way and got off the bus. The birds weren't the slightest bit concerned by the honking horn but they slowly, very slowly, began to pick their way towards the side of the road and eventually disappeared into the long grass of the swamp that ran along the side of the highway. We stood there for a minute staring after them before Mosley whispered, "C'mon, before someone rear ends us.", and we climbed back on the bus. I sat down in my chair and everyone else did the same without a word, and as Mosley slipped the bus into gear I looked over at Carrie. She was looking out into the morning light, smiling very faintly and then she sighed and closed her eyes.

The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter two

Spring. Just saying it makes me feel giddy. There is a smell in spring air that lights up the blood, making it course a little stronger, a little quicker. The heavy jacket comes off and you feel naked outside without it on. There are still small patches of snow, clinging to life in the ditches, wads of decayed leaves are uncovered on the sidewalks and even the faint smell of a farmer's field thawing, that can carry miles on a spring breeze, can't dampen the enthusiasm of a sunny morning in April.
We were in Mosley's back yard where the bus was parked. It was a school bus he had picked up for next to nothing and where he was now inserted upside-down under the hood breathing a little life back into its filth encrusted engine. I had just arrived to find Gary and Rube handing Mosley the tools he needed as he shouted out for them, one by one. Mark came along right behind me and I caught a faint whiff of weed as he said hello.
Mosley jumped down from the front bumper and with a cackle of glee he ran up the stairs into the driver's seat of the decrepit bus. Amazingly the engine turned over and we all cheered and Gary reached into his ever present duffel bag and pulled out a six pack of Blue. We sat around the blue plastic picnic table while Mosley outlined the plans for us and then we went to work tearing out the seats of the bus.
Over the next two weeks we completely gutted it, lay plywood down on the floor, built a partition half way down and carpeted the front area. Mark's dad had supplied us with a half dozen old swivel chairs from the hotel he worked at for seating and with a ghetto blaster plugged into the cigarette lighter it was as road worthy as it was going to get.

After the successes of the last year, Mosley had come alive in a way he never thought possible. I guess he'd always had a dream of being a rock star but his parents had pushed him into the church and he had let it go until his teaching on the side gave him the idea of a lifetime. With three of his guitar students, a drummer he'd known for years and a reference from his wife's hairdresser about a certain dope smoking piano player, Mark that is, he had put together 'a little act', as he called it when he was preaching to his congregation. With close to thirty gigs under our belt and a leave of absence he was ready to spend the summer on the road in a bus we'd renovated into a home for us while we drove half way across the country with the Christian Concert Series, making stops in every town from Ottawa to Halifax and back. The fact that he was really the only Christian in the band didn't really matter much to Mosley; we kept our mouths shut and he did the talking. It would be fine.
With our leave date set for June 18 we were busy making final preparations when we hit a snag that put us all on our asses. Carrie announced she wasn't coming because she didn't have any 'personal space' on the bus. At first I had no idea what she was talking about because none of us had any personal space. To her though, it was a big deal.
Carrie had joined the band towards the end of last summer to help Mosley with the vocal chores, which she did wonderfully, but had turned out to be a bit of Prima Donna, not that I loved her any less for it. Eighteen is like that. Whenever we played a gig there was always a fuss about where she would change and "How come I don't get my own room?" complaints that I thought were just plain spoiled brat tactics. In retrospect I can see that my judgment was clouded by thoughts of sharing a changing room with her as I magnanimously offered to avert my eyes while she changed, if always a little too late. She had a point though. Not only did our new tour bus not have a bathroom, a thought none of us guys seemed to think was a big deal, but it had no partitions at all and it was pretty unlikely we were going to be able to get across the country without having to change clothes at least once.
Mosley, a good Christian man, came to her rescue by hammering together a little cubicle that we stuck in the back portion of the gear space so that if it was necessary she could have a little privacy. God bless him, but I would have quit right there if she'd actually refused to go with us. I didn't like the band that much and I cared for half the members even less. She was the only reason I'd stuck it out this long. She liked me too because, once we got know each other, she told me that she could talk to me, where as she couldn't with the other guys, especially Gary. With a few more years under my belt now I know I should have got off the bus right there, but in those days I didn't speak Woman and had no clue that she was telling me it was never gonna happen between us. We were friends, for Christ's sake. Love is deaf, dumb and stupid as well as blind.

There few things in my life that I remember with as much fondness as being on the road that summer, but the inconsistencies that are starting to rear their ugly little heads as I re-tell it you are a bit confusing to me. As I poke and prod my unreliable memory for the details of what happened next, it occurs to me that it wasn't as much fun as I remember. Well, I guess I'll let you be the judge.

The Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection-Chapter One

In the spring of 1982 I started to take bass lessons from a guy out of a church basement somewhere on Carling Avenue. I got a drive from Stittsville, where I lived, to Kanata and caught a bus, dragging my brand new $150 Newtron Bass, silmultaneously embarrassed and elated, the first because the case was bigger than I was and I couldn't help banging into people and having it fall over every time the driver cornered the bus, and the second because I was now, indisputably, a real musician.
It was an exciting time for music. Sprinsteen had just released 'The River' and Blondie was quickly rising up the charts. Dan Fogelberg was singing his swan song but the Police and Siouxsie and the Banshees were fresh and young. Yeah, Lionel Ritchie was crooning 'Endless Love' but The Stray Cats were doing 'This Ole House'.
I had never gone into the city this far by myself and I was pretty determined that I wasn't going to need any help getting there, so I was twenty minutes late for my first lesson. I got off the bus two stops early, afraid I was going to miss it and my teacher introduced himself, gave me some sheet music to learn and sent me home.
As the months wore on, my fingers toughening up and my shoulders filling out from lugging my bass around, I started to get pretty comfortable with the scales and simple songs my teacher gave me. One day as we were finishing up he asked me if I played in a band and I told him no. He offered me a spot in a band he was putting together from his students and I said yes before I even asked what kind of music they played. For two weeks before our first meeting I drew up list after list of what songs I wanted to do and one of them might have looked like this.

1.Pale Shelter-Tears for Fears
2.Don't Stand so Close to Me-The Police
3.Stand and Deliver-Adam Ant
4.Tempted-Squeeze
etc. etc.

I was pretty disappointed when the list of songs for the band actually looked like this.

1. Queen of Hearts-Juice Newton
2. Blue Bayou-Linda Ronstadt
3. I Love a Rainy Night-Eddie Rabbit
and unbelievably....
4. Endless Love-Lionel Ritchie and Diana Ross

I was in a band! I just couldn't tell anyone I knew about it. The name of the band was Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection and that was when I figured out that my teacher was also known as Reverend Mosley and he was an ordained minister. Since he pretty much decided what kind of events were held in his church's basement we were booked solid for the next six months, playing wedding receptions, bake sales, and the neighborhood Rummage Rally. Every gig I did counted as a successful lesson completed and so while I tried to fade into the background as much as I could, I was still getting credit for every time we played anywhere.

Our first gig outside of the church basement was, unbelievably, at the Chateau Laurier, at a reception held by one of Reverend Mosley's parishioners. We piled into Mosley's van and headed downtown. The gig went off without a hitch but when we came out to the van, which was parked in the Byward Market in front of a Deli, all the tires had been slashed and Mosley just about cried. The guitar player, Gary, entertained us with stories about a party he had gone to the night before and smoked cigarette after cigarette while we waited for a tow truck. I was hooked by life on the road, even though we were only on the road for about twenty minutes.

After the 'incident' with the van, which probably cost the church a penny or two, we stayed close to home, for a while anyway. I was getting to know the boys in the band pretty well, even though we were from all over different parts of the city, and even though I was known as the 'country boy', which rankled because I was the most urbane 17 year old in Stittsville. Gary used to bring a twelve of Blue to every gig and hide them in his duffel bag and we'd keep a bottle ready for a quick swig between songs while Mosley was talking to the audience. It was then that I found out that the geek who played piano, Mark something, smoked dope and he would disappear between sets to have a doob. I grew up in Stittsville, so it wasn't like I'd never smoked pot before, but we were playing in a church basement and at the time I worried about propriety and stuff like that.
That was also about the time that Mosley decided he need a little help in the singing department and introduced the band to Carrie. She was the daughter of one of his parishioners and could sing, apparently. We made all the appropriate noises about chicks in the band and all that but I could tell by looking around at the other guys that this was gonna be trouble. Gary had a look in his eyes that would have made a goat look like a priest. Even the horn section, Matt and Rube, the two biggest losers in dating history, were counting down the days until Hell froze over and they could actually get a chance with a real live girl. Me? I was in love.

Stay tuned as Reverend Mosley's Evangelical Connection change their sound and hit the road!

Abandoning Entanglements

"Abandoning things is superior, pursuing things is inferior."
So says Yen-t'ou.

I'm not so sure as I have abandoned quite a few things in my time and that empty tranquil state still eludes me. One of the first times I can remember having a 'zen' moment came while I was looking at a tree while I was waiting for a bus. It occurred to me that this particular tree had stood there long enough to have seen thousands of people rushing by, entangled in their own webs, consumed by thoughts that this tree would never be aware of and yet none of this made the slightest bit of difference to the tree whose sole delight was to be alive and breathing.
It ended shortly after I got on the bus and the guy sitting three seats over leaned into the aisle and puked on the floor. I got off immediately and waited for the next bus.
Yeah, I'm entangled, what are you going to do?

Do you remember sitting in the willow tree with me behind the house I grew up in? I had a friend who explained perspective to me by asking me to imagine the house I lived in and then he said, "Now back up so you can see the whole town." And then I backed up again so I could see the whole country and then the planet and then the solar system. It made me seem very small, sitting in my willow tree, and by association it made all of my tiny troubles seem insignificant.

"It is not that you sweep away ordinary feelings and bring into existence some holy understanding. When ordinariness and holiness exist no more, what is it?"-Daikaku

A Bird's Eye View

I looked up to see Gabriel's hounds heading south and knew that it was over. Inside for the season, inside to settle by the fire, for the hounds herald the change of season. Named because of their cries they were once thought to be the souls of unbaptized children, doomed to circle the heavens until judgment day, I prefer to think of them as weather vanes pointing south, away from the inevitable. My hounds lead me in circles, however, and I spend my time looking at the sky instead of at the ground.

She took my hand and squeezed it as hard as she could, which wasn't hard at all, and she smiled at me. I opened the car door and she got in, reclining, closing her eyes and falling asleep almost immediately. I drove carefully so she wouldn't wake up and as the sun came up I positioned the visor to shield her eyes.

I had the habit of getting up early, 6:30 or so, and driving into town to get a newspaper and a coffee which I would take to the small park. I would sit at the edge of the river and smoke a cigarette or two and wait for the world to wake up. The sound of the river calmed my fears and watching the ducks paddle back and forth settled my mind and helped me believe that the world was right and beautiful. She would ask me how my morning was as I helped her up and into the shower and I would say, "It was nice; quiet." I didn't tell her that I saw the hounds wheeling away from me, leaving the sky empty and grey. I did tell her about the ducks, though.

Journal

My toes were little cubes of ice and I wondered what would happen if I didn't find somewhere to get warm. I imagined myself toeless, unable to keep my balance, falling into some woman's lap and excusing myself by saying, "No toes, y'know." She would look at me with sympathy and offer to take me home, helping me to keep my balance as she had her driver tuck me into the back seat.

I thought if Dilly and I huddled together under a bush our body heat would keep us warm until the sun came up but he wasn't having any of it. Just the sort of dumb idea one comes up with at three in the morning, having missed all the buses home, with no money for a cab and too far from anywhere to walk.

There are times in my life when I find myself in situations that defy explanation. I have to admit that I was probably drunk on more than one of those occasions but then we all have our flaws so don't even think of laughing at mine. In about two minutes I could come up with plenty of reasons you should probably keep your mouth shut.

As I said, Dilly wasn't having any of the 'under a bush' thing. He just couldn't stomach the thought of cuddling up to me even if it meant not losing his toes. He's a stupid arse anyway. We were walking down Murray street when he spotted a bank machine entrance we could get warm in. For some reason lying under a bush in the park was more attractive to me than spending the night in the bank machine cubicle but I followed him in and sat down against the wall. He was asleep in about a minute and I sat there until dawn wondering how light was going to change our situation at all. We would still have no money, and it would still be cold out and we would still be too far from home.

As it started to get light out I kicked Dilly but he wouldn't wake up. I left him there and began to walk. I was cutting through the Rideau Centre when I saw a guy I used to work with a year ago, or so and I went over to talk with him. He was waiting for a bus and I asked him for enough money to get home. I was kind of surprised when he gave it to me and I thought briefly about asking for enough for Dilly too, but I decided not to push my luck. Dilly could find his own way home, stupid tool.

My mom was just getting up when I got home and she made me some breakfast before she left for work. I told her I didn't have to work today so she asked me to clean up a bit. I will, but not right now. Right now, as soon as I'm done writing this, I'm going to bed. I'm tired and pretty hung over too. I got twenty bucks from my mom, though, and Hatcher's got some pot. I'll give Kylie a call, later, and she if she wants to hang out. Two weeks until my birthday.

So Long, So Wrong

The road slowed, curved and was quickly hemmed in by a flanking white posted fence strung with cables on a wide shoulder of gravel pictured, remembered and stored for use at a later date and eventually reflected in the folk art of the countryside, tickling my dormant mind into remembrance years later, those posts standing guard around a graveyard of regret and shaded unhappiness still courting some half dead archetype and wounding it by association; no wonder it retaliates with such ferocity. It taught division and partitioned my mind, while hovering just beyond, the long and wide expanse of green grass I wish I could have run to for recourse, for re-ammunition or for sustenance lay open and inviting but too good and too far for me to reach by the time the car slowed and he jumped out, accusing and sure in his anger. I could have run, but I wasn't guilty. I could have hid but had nothing to hide. Now I wish I had thrown a rock at his car, subversive and small-minded fit his description of me much better than young and distracted, hiding from the tanks that were rolling into town on that hot sunny day in August, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Learning To Swim

I wish I could breathe under water. I can hold my breath for a really long time but it's just not the same.

The Sub-Idiot's Guide to Daydreaming

I was a little disappointed in how I scored on the math portion of a recent aptitude test and decided I needed to go back to school and brush up on my math. Really, sometimes I do get the most asinine ideas in my head. I got out a book I have called "The Idiot's Guide to Physics" which has a brush up chapter in algebra and other basic maths at the beginning. I'm not sure what you call someone who is dumber than an idiot but I need his guide, apparently. C'mon.

Chapter two study question.
An object has an initial velocity Vo and an acceleration a. How far does it travel in a time t. Hint: If a=6.0ft/s squared, Vo=6.0ft/s, and t=1.0x10's, then x=360ft.

I settled into the pool, careful not to spill my drink. What the hell! Even if I did that little man who runs all over the place for me will get me another one. The water was warm, fed by a spring gushing up from the earth, and filled with minerals that soothe away sore muscles and all the aches and pains. I noticed her looking at me from across the way and smiled at her in invitation. She smiled back and stood up and began to walk towards me. I was grateful for the "No clothing" sign posted beside me.

Chapter two study question:
Use unit analysis and the proper defining equation to express (1) 9.2x10 to the seventh miles in meters, (2) 1 day in seconds. Remember that all digits are significant in defining equations and only measured quantities limit the number of significant figures in your calculations.

The sun was warm and the grass was soft. What more could I want. I watched one cloud in particular as it passed over me against the backdrop of a sky so blue it reminded me of the ocean in Mexico. A frisbee careened over head and I heard laughing just before someone said, "Hey Thompson! You want another beer? And how do you want your steak done?"

Chapter two study question:
Disguise unity (1) using each of these equations and write the result: 6.0x10'mi/hr x 5280ft/mi x 1hr/60minutes x 1 min/60s, that is , 6.0x 10'mi/hr x 1 x 1 x 1.............yeah.
Whatever.
Now, where was I.

I'm drifting slowly but can't make out where I am and I realize it's because I'm in a cloud. I drop down and suddenly see the earth below me, hundreds of feet below me and its turning slowly in a wide arc. I can see a field and surrounding it, trees, and I realize its coming closer. The circles are becoming smaller and I suddenly know that I'm a bird and I'm flying. I push down hard with my wings and veer over the edge of the hill and the land drops away from me with a rush of vertigo. I'm not going to land just yet.

I'm Dog Tired

Swana Boli, in Nepal, is the 'Dog's Day'; every other day of the year is open season on dogs who are kicked, chased and generally despised. Cervantes wrote , in Don Quixote, that 'every dog has his day' and the Romans used to mark the high summer months because the dog star, Sirius, ascended during those months and they believed it contributed to the sun's heat. If it goes 'to the dogs', it has come apart and is good for nothing and you might need to eat 'dog grass' in order to relieve the intestinal cramping. "Dog Soldiers' who were caught 'dogging it' usually ended up living a 'dog's life' and sometimes the 'dirty dog's' were left to 'die like a dog'. Up until we started letting them sleep with us, lie on the couch and eat off our plates being a dog wasn't a great thing.

The point? Do I have to have a point?

Yesterday, this dog had his day, and I would like to thank everyone who had a hand in it, and in the celebrations last Saturday. That you all came together to help me mark the day has proven that to be a rich man all you need are friends and I'm going to work like a dog to keep it that way. Thank you all. Now, I'm just going to have a quick nap in front of the fireplace. What? I didn't do it. I'm not going out there, its too cold. On the floor? You want me to sleep on the floor? Ow! Ow! Ooooooooooooooooh.

Untitled

I dreamt of Pilate again. I don't know what it is about him that causes this unrestful sleep. At once above and in thrall to a political coup, he did what he thought prudent. This mystery tires me, leaving the gate wide for insurgence.

This night, like so many before, is full of enemy faces, leering from the shadows. I sit with my face in my hands waiting for the blow. Do not disappoint me. Still, my limited expectations don't relieve me of my expectations and you should know this: I am not who you think I am. By the light all is well, but the wonders of the darkness swell and multiply faster than my sensibilities can predict. And, like Pilate, I will give in, forsake rest, walk away from the disparities and succumb to the will I will not.

Math Sucks

I recently underwent a battery of aptitude tests and revisited a personal hell of my own. Math. As a language, mathematics has its own way of describing the world, one at which I was a poor student. As I sat trying desperately to remember how to express the volume of a cylinder I was tempted to yell out my usual response, "I'll never use this in the real world." As it turns out I could have, but wonder, like any devotee of Star Trek, how my life would have been different if the nuances of numbers had settled into a cohesive system in my brain.

I was also quite stunned, in a P.C. kind of way, when I was told that the vast majority of us actually reach our potential in relation to our employment. "Stupid is as stupid does." was what I was told. I'm no Occupational Therapist, but I was pretty surprised to find that for the most part the proof is in the data. There's an argument here, however, for a chicken and egg kind of debate, but what matters is the reality of the situation and that is that most of us have exactly the aptitude to do what it is we do. The key, not surprisingly, is reading and comprehension because if you can't read or understand the warning you'll likely stick your head in the chipper to see what's got it all bunged up. Not considering those who have perception issues, like dyslexia, the door closes on any who aren't paying attention in class as the single most important factor in determining someone's abilities in the workforce is reading and comprehension. Now before my conspiratorial back gets up I'd like to point out the most obvious flaw in this argument. The number of students entering University with below level language skills is unbelievable. I shudder to think about all those essays I wrote for people who currently exist as anomalous members of the test group. It also makes me wonder why I didn't just cheat in math class and go on to become a physicist.

Anomalies aside, it's important to remember that the language that O.T.s use to explain all of this is a close cousin to the language of math; statistics. It's fair to say that given my low aptitudes in that area, there's likely something going on here I just don't understand. I need to find someone to sit in for me during the next round.

The Divine Spark

I have heard God described as, quite simply, the passion that embraces a man when confronted by the mysterious connections he perceives. This state is euphoric, contemplative and wistful in that it never lasts. Put on a piece of music you like and let it carry you into that state and as you hang, suspended on another's imagination you will glimpse the passion of the author and meet his god. I have always been astounded that while we can barely perceive each other, let alone understand what others want from us, we can sometimes bridge this gap in a non-verbal way.

Even as filtered as our senses are, we receive an incredible volume of information every second we are alive. It divides our minds into rooms, categories and sub-sets and we sift through all of this and make judgments based on experience and genetics. Now, recall a moment when every sense you have was focused on a single thing. Something that pricked your mind to attention and held you, while you explored the feeling, the sensation and the experience. Somewhere in there is the passion, and you rarely come away from it without an awareness of something mysterious.

As advanced technologically as we are, no one has ever been able to quantify this experience and we hover somewhere between Heaven and earth because we can't explain it away. It may come to you while you're listening to music, or reading a book, or working on your car, or while you're jogging, or staring into the face of your child, or cooking the perfect omelet or while you're having sex (maybe that should have been first), but describing it runs a very distant second to experiencing it. Spiritual? Definitely. Divine? Maybe. Singular? Always. Fun? You bet!

Our efforts to simulate the experience have been ceaseless, simply because it can't be simulated. We will endure a lifetime of hangovers, both alcohol and drug induced, looking for a substitute so that we can command a spiritual bliss to descend on us on demand. Good Christians everywhere frown on the effort because if someone finds it, they, and God, will be out of a job. I wouldn't worry, though. Collectively, we couldn't find our asses with both hands.

The Devil and Evy the Cat

I took a mortgage out on my soul a while back and the interest is killing me. His eyes were two different colors, like Bowie's, and if not for the loathsome reputation, which had me on edge, I could have really liked him. As it was, the negotiations went smoothly and for awhile things were great. Time passed and for one reason or another I missed a payment or two. I was frying up some bacon after a night out when an apparition appeared to me and invited me to a little gathering in the bowels of hell. I was a little nervous but once the dust settled we came to an agreement I could live with, for a while.

It was apparent to the Father of Lies that he couldn't trust me. It's an element of human nature that causes us to be so dishonest with those we know are dishonest themselves. You don't see drug dealers and murderers getting their feelings hurt when someone lies to them. They don't lie awake all night wondering why somebody done them wrong, they just hire a thug or two to come by and pull your toenails out and crack your head once or twice. The Soul Reaver doesn't use such mundane tactics, however, and his reign is such that he can afford a certain sense of humor when it comes to punishing the wicked. He sent me a cat.

I was lulled into a false sense of security when, for the first couple of weeks, the cat seemed to be fairly normal and maybe even a little dumb. Small and wiry, his coat is black, of course, and his eyes weep a little, lending him an air of helplessness. I suppose its not fair to assume he even knows what he is. It may be that he thinks he's just a cat but it has become clear to me that he was spawned, not birthed. That he sometimes becomes a tool with which the Destroyer watches my every move, I don't doubt anymore. You'd know what I am trying express if you were to wake up in the middle of the night with this thing sitting on your chest staring at you; a portal through which the pure and deliciously malignant nature of the Waster of the Underworld can peek at you while you are completely defenseless and a little groggy.

"It's a kitten!" you cry, as he purrs into your psyche, lulling you into a submissive and relaxed state. When he stretches out you smile at how cute he looks, and when he misses the jump from the couch to the coffee table and tumbles to the floor with a self conscious squeak you say 'awww' and scoop him up to pat his battered head and smooth out the ruffled coat he spends hours grooming. It wasn't your toothbrush I caught him using the other morning. Who else could be re-programming the remote? We'll see how you feel when, with his prescience and devil-inspired foreknowledge he heads to the litter box seconds before the doorbell rings.

Having related all this, with the cat perched on my shoulder, I feel it necessary (and a little prudent) to tell you that when I received the Master of Dread, fed him some coffee and cake, the night before last, he denied ever having sent an agent into my life. "Do you really think I need a cat to keep a eye on you, Mike?" He laughed at my descriptions of the feline's destructive abilities and said, "He does sound fun." but denied any involvement in the matter.

Things are square, now, between me and the Blackest of Hearts and the cat remains. But you tell me. When the Great Deceiver tells you that cats are just cats, and that maybe I'm just a little bit paranoid, which he claims no responsibility for, who would you believe?

A Dog in Waiting

I always seem to get caught, on an open stretch of road and as the distant trees turn slowly and the world spins on it axis, perception seems to indicate that the world revolves around me and perhaps I can be forgiven, if this is nothing more than childish remembrances, too many trips spent looking out the back seat window, upside down and backwards, or, as has been observed clinically, an overbearing sense of self importance, and yet there I was again, wondering what I wanted, when clearly what you want should be more important to me while base shame, my beloved compatriot, you lie, a dog in waiting, forever willing to console and mortify with contractual servitude and a litany of offenses at the ready, you take charge and the trial begins, I standing in for any or all witnesses, charging ill-will and selfish certitude, when nothing in heaven and earth has been certain since time was invented to obscure the real reasons the world tips between this realm and that, drunken and enraged, but for no reason that I can perceive, this is the curse, perhaps, and nothing availed leaves nothing accomplished, much less attempted and again the pendulum re-invigorates my senses as I'm forced to duck and weave, the doing awaking nothing less than a full reversal and my own anger explodes in it's vacuum soundless, ineffective and rendered sterile in a blinding flash and, oh, there's my exit.

And I Did

"Wake Up."

It was a small town, maybe two or three thousand people. Every year they held a festival, in the square. A band played and we danced until dark when the lanterns were lit and one by one our names were read and our accomplishments applauded. Even to the lowest some consideration was payed and it was considered an offence to the town to ridicule any small achievement.

"Wake Up."

I didn't recognize her at first, while we chatted and exchanged pleasantries. She was very engaging and smiled freely; her attentiveness I found very attractive. Slowly her mannerisms and her familiar way encouraged recognition and I knew it was her. I looked into her face and found it radiant, unchanged and peacefully kind. She brushed away my apologies and I wondered at the changes in her and in myself.

"Wake Up."

I was between the walls, sliding sideways, dusty and a little claustrophobic but not afraid. I could see into the rooms and knew it was my grandfather's house. I wondered if the money box was still under the stairs leading to the attic. I wanted to go up, still anxious after all these years to go anywhere near the basement.

"Wake Up."

The cold plains stretched for miles in every direction. I ached from the ride, not entirely comfortable on the horse. I have never felt so free; the sky wide open and the view never-ending. I could smell the grass and the leather and when we stopped, I stretched and stamped the blood back into my legs, and felt alive and filled with anticipation.

"Wake Up." And I did.