Henna Girls

I watched the two of them for a while. They communicated an easy relationship between each other that I assumed was forged on the road, in their tent, in the face of the threat of abuse and suspicion heaped on them by the residents of this town, who were probably not as accepting of these two girls as they might have been, had they been their daughters, traveling around the countryside with a henna booth they set up every weekend in a new town.
They looked like sisters, but that's a guess and it may be that their identical dress just stretched that association over the two of them, like the blanket they shared as the sun went down and the wind picked up. They spoke only when they needed to and then it was only to the little girls and the young teenagers who wanted that temporary tattoo, perhaps as a test run for the real thing.
They stood in line at the stand that fed them, along with the rest of us, a poor diet of thin and protein-less hamburgers, French fries and poutine and also deep-fried chocolate bars and pop. Side by side, they were in constant contact with each other. A hand on the other's arm, their shoulders touching or their hips pressed together, as if the touch made them a single unit, more able to withstand the press of so many townspeople, who they feared as much as they needed. Their faces were marked by their loneliness and their movements were cat-like and they often turned, back to back, when they found themselves in a crowd of more than two or three people, until they had navigated their way back to the safety of their booth.
It was a small cube, hung with saris and sheets of samples with a table in the middle and a chair for those who wouldn't sit on the ground with them while they scrawled their designs on arms and backs and shoulders. When there was no one looking at the fairies, dragons and Celtic ribbons that could be etched into their skin, they sat huddled together in the back corner whispering to each other and every now and again they would peer around as if trying to find out where they were simply by reading the expressions in faces and the set of shoulders.

On the last day, Sunday, I walked past them and saw that they were folding their sheets and their table into small transportable packages that could be carried in little more than a couple of knapsacks and a carrying case and were getting ready to leave this strange place, where we came every year to watch the horse shows and to see the loud and obnoxious smash up derby, the local bands who wailed into their sleep, the constant barrage of AC/DC from the mid-way, the steady stream of locals who pitied and despised them, and I wondered how long a life like that can last before being swept into oblivion, translated into a cloud of exclusion and blown away like dust, the smell of freedom lost in a crowd, to be replaced the next year by whatever fashion would make them the few dollars they needed to keep on moving, to start and re-start their lives on a daily basis, always fresh to the cynical eye and appearing like a forgotten memory that begins in the mind and delivers a systematic dissolution to what it is to be alone and roaming the country with nothing but a change of clothes and a longing for new experiences.

Then, as I walked away, I noticed a sticker on the folded table that was waiting to be loaded into a beat up old car and it made me re-consider my tendencies towards overly dramatizing life's simple curiosities. It was about two inches, squared, and it said, "Carpe Deum". Not "Carpe Diem"-"pluck the day", which is a mantra so many of us use to dislodge ourselves from the habit of life, but "Carpe Deum"-which translates to "Take all that is holy from this moment." and I felt a shiver run through me. The gentle twist of perception that tweaks your nose and makes you realize that as simple as things seem there are layers of understanding and recognition that most of us will never bother to uncover in each other.
I stood staring at the two girls as they loaded up their traveling mysteries and wondered if God was having a bit of a laugh at my expense. Then again, it could have been the gentlest kick in the ass from someone who just wanted me to see something beautiful in that field, something outside of my experiences and something sublime in the way the fair collapsed around me and left me wondering why I was standing in the middle of an empty field looking up into the sky.

Watch Your Speed

"Trouble ahead, trouble behind."

"You must be getting tired of driving.", she said. And I had to admit that I was, a little. "Casey Jones" was playing and I thought about him, and wondered if he knew he was going to die, considering what the next few seconds held for him. I'll bet that, even knowing that this was the end, he was tempted to just gun it and try to crash through. Maybe. Or maybe he just held on, hoping he would survive.

"And you know that notion just crossed my mind."

In another time, in another place, I sat and listened to the Dead and wondered that I had never heard it before. I was in love and loved everything she did. That was before the long sleep overcame me and I dreamt the years away, focused on the strange images sinking below the horizon behind me, trapped within the billowing steam, and heard the cacophonous voices that fed me pellets of compressed sorrow and distilled fear. That was before I slowed down to get my bearings and noticed she was gone.

The car jumped ahead, bringing me back, and I wondered again about the brakes. A little too soft for my liking but then I considered that sometimes coming to crashing stop, if you survive, re-invents the landscape and mountains are formed from the plowing gravel, valleys are revealed in the aftermath of disaster, and if you strike out for the nearest hill you'll likely see something you hadn't noticed before. You just don't want to look back at the wreckage.

"The trouble with you
Is the trouble with me
Got two good eyes
But we still don't see."

The Getaway

I wonder if you'll understand what I mean when I say it's not the arriving, it's the getting there. I've been told that the sublime pleasure I feel while I'm behind the wheel has more to do with getting away from something than getting anywhere. I suppose I can accept that diagnosis.

An old memory settled over my eyes and, long before I took the corner, I was once again huddled in the back seat of one of those giant cars people drove in the seventies. The persistent smell of cigarettes from the front seat, the whine of over inflated tires on scorched asphalt and the occasional squeal from my sister developed into an aural backdrop to the repetitive wave and glide of the countryside as it streamed by, faster than the legal limit, and I saw the world as a mutable companion to my aspirations and kept it locked up and fed it a diet of lonely whimsy and cotton mouthed sentiments. Lulled into a hypnotic state by the rise and fall of wires strung across the world, the fanciful explanations I gorged on would come back up as bitter truth when the car stopped and the weekend arrived. From my perspective, it was over when the doors opened and the supplies and coolers piled out, the tent went up and the obligatory exploration of the washroom and shower building was begun. We hadn't left anything behind, though, or had tried but had been beaten to the site by spirits of disagreement, regret and accusatory recrimination and they had taken most of the room, leaving us with the beach and maybe the playground. The disappointment I felt eroded the anticipation as quickly as waves will a sand castle, built too close to the water, but perfectly symmetrical and aligned with the sun, one door and a spire for everyone and one in the middle for a lookout. Lookout.

Where can I go now? Does it even matter? As long as the drive deepens my reveries and opens the door to possibilities beyond the mundane act of getting from point A to point B, I will drive and maybe stop at a country store for a drink and a pack of cigarettes but unless you see something that looks different from where we've been I don't think I'll pull over just yet.

Waiting For Something To Happen

The sun had disappeared behind the buildings that hemmed us in and a slight breeze carried the scent of food to me. Roasted meats, the spices of desire and courage, the aromas of honey and garlic and I could swear I tasted salt in the air. All around, the pleasant lilt of conversation levitated us and from that height I caught her eye. I searched those eyes for something beyond this moment, for something I could use to tightrope myself out of here, and I saw the reflected light of the river, deep and dark and so faint I might not have seen it but for the clear transmission of her gaze. I answered a dozen questions, habitually smiling, while I floated a raft into the night, past villages asleep in the current, but for a single sentry who neither waved nor acknowledged me until at last he was swallowed by the trees and I sailed on.

Take That as a Compliment

Every now and again I get a lesson in perspective, even when I don't particularly want one. I was recently informed, in a matter-of-fact way, that I wasn't invited when some of my single girl friends decided to have a night on the town. They explained that they didn't want me fouling up their chances with potential partners by being an unknown element in their midst. According to my friends, men aren't interested in them because I'm sitting with them. On the flip side women aren't interested in me unlesss I'm sitting at a table with other women. If you think about it this makes perfect sense, in a very weird way.

When I walk into a bar and see that guy sitting alone at a table, looking around at girls and trying to appear relaxed, the first thing I think is, "Go home, man. It's not going to happen tonight."

In that group of guys over there, the one who's waving his arms and telling a joke and generally being over-bearing should go home, too.

You. Yeah, you. If you're going to wear that jacket, buy some shoes that match. Go home.

Excuse me. Yeah, most girls don't care if you can keep the pool table all night long. They do care if you can kick some ass, but aren't going to be your personal cheering squad. Go home.

The curious thing about women is that they aren't interested in guys who appear, and are very obviously single. They want that guy, there. The one sitting in the middle of the table of girls. If other women find him interesting you might, too.

My single girl friends have forgotten one very important thing about men. We can tell if your single, even when you're surrounded by guys. If you've haven't met the right man, it isn't because you're sitting with me.

Of course, I've left out one very salient point and that is that they weren't going out to find husbands or boyfriends, or meaningful relationships. They had something else on their minds.

Mmmm. Now where can I meet girls like that?

The Trinity of Defeat

Three waves of attackers pushed the General and his troops to the edge of the Nedorack Escarpment and rather than be taken prisoner, some of his men thought it would be better to leap to their deaths. When the General realized what was happening he gave up all hope of a rout and was captured soon after. His treatment at the hands of his life-long enemies was fair if not luxurious. He was given his own tent and a servant but surrounded twenty four hours of every day by the leathery faces of Rossiter's guerrillas and forced to endure the humiliation of carrying his own belongings on the four day hike to the capital, now under Rossiter's control.
On his arrival in the city, his city, he was unceremoniously dumped into a cell at the base of the Mercy Tower and forgotten. During the first week he waited for the arrival of Rossiter, sure he would be mocked and humiliated, but the usurper never came. The General was awake at dawn every morning, so as to have time to carefully dress and clean his appearance, as well as he was able, to receive his nemesis, carefully combing his moustaches and arranging the medals on his chest to make the best of his situation, knowing that his very life might depend on how he presented to his captors. It was customary, in those days, so long gone, to ransom prisoners to fund the movement, and so the General was confused when, after three months had gone by, he was still locked in his cell.
The General began a morning routine of strenuous exercise when the waistcoat of his uniform began to get a little snug. This was due to the regular appearance of heaping mounds of food which, at first, had been welcomed by the nearly starved General, but now was the cause, along with the narrow confines of his cell, of his steadily deteriorating physical condition. At sixty-three the General had been amongst the fittest of his men, but now, as his stomach grew to accept the sumptuous meals that arrived in the morning, mid-afternoon and evening he began to take on a more rotund profile.
His captors began to leave the un-eaten portions of food at the door and would not replace them unless he had finished every thing on the plate. On the first occasion, as the half eaten food was left for three days without being replaced, the General realized too late that he would have to eat the rotted meat, the stale and infested bread and drink in order to receive fresh sustenance and considered for the first time that his enemy's plan for him was more diabolical than he had imagined.
He was sick for three days, and when the fever had left him dry, and his stomach and bowels had been purged of the organisms of disease, a heaping plate of beef appeared, with freshly steamed potatoes and a half litre of creamed corn which he ate to the last morsel. Six hours later another meal was served and the General declared a new war, rising ever earlier to combat his enemy, his ever expanding stomach.
Three long years passed for the General, and despite the steady consumption of what could easily have fed a small family on a daily basis, he was able to maintain the rough approximation of a fit man, even at sixty-six years of age. His exercise routine was now so rigorous that it was not uncommon for him to do 3,000 sit ups in one day, to jog in place for hours at a time or to spend an entire evening doing push-ups instead of sleeping. He would not let his captors find him bloated and obese, and so gave over all of his time to maintaining his physical condition.
Time was not on the mighty General's side, however, and despite his efforts he soon began to lose the war all over again. At first, it was simply the dampness of the cell that made his knees ache and unable to bend them and the cold of the mornings which made the muscles in his body contract and then shriek loudly in his head as he rose to stretch them out but soon it was the fatigue that came over him after a meal and the sedative effect of the high levels of proteins he consumed. Bite by bite the General began to lose ground and in the end he was longer able to stave off the attack on his constitution and it occurred to him that he was losing the battle.
On the morning they came for him he was reclining on his bed, breathless from the three dozen eggs he had just consumed, swollen with the three litres of goat's milk he had washed them down with, and formulating a plan of attack to relieve him of the three pounds of bacon lying in wait somewhere below.
The door to his cell opened and two large-chested soldiers rushed at him, while a third held a bayonet to his chest, and they forced his rotund form into a uniform that no longer fit and then jostled him out of the cell and into the courtyard at the base of the Mercy Tower. The courtyard was full of the people he had ruled so mightily for years and he wondered what this could mean. Had his forces taken back the city? Were they come to liberate their captive General and restore him to his rightful place as their leader? Why do they hiss at me? What is it they are saying? "Death to the tyrant"?
The bewildered General stood in the middle of courtyard turning to look into the faces of his beleaguered people. They were cursing at him and some began to pelt him with clods of dirt and to spit at him. He turned from them, towards the great balcony of the palace, which flanked the courtyard on its northern edge and saw that his questions would remain unanswered for now. Seated on the tall throne, surrounded by officials, some of whom the General recognized as his own administration, was Rossiter, his enemy.
Rossiter stood and the crowd quickly quieted down. The General looked around again and saw that this upstart, this usurper had the loyalty of his people and he wondered how it was that, in the time he was imprisoned, as long as it had been, that they had turned from him so completely.
A voice boomed out across the square and the General turned again to the balcony to see Rossiter gesture across the courtyard at him.
"My people, look at your cowardly General. While you have suffered mightily because of his unwillingness to lay down his claims to this throne, he has been hiding deep in the jungle, hoarding your crops, stolen by his imperialist dogs, and has gorged himself on the fruits of your labours. A surprise attack on his hiding place this morning found your General in a stupor from the massive amounts of your food that he consumes on a daily basis. Look at his swollen belly, at the flesh that hangs from his arms, at the layers of fat that wrap him in comfort while you wither under his constant raids and attacks on your properties. Is this what you call out for? Is this the rule you desire? Tonight there will be a feast like none of you have seen in years, made from the plundered stocks we have found hidden in his jungle fortress. All of you shall dine tonight, like your General has dined, for free and until you are full. But don't anyone think that this offering has come to you without a price. For three years you have starved while he has eaten his fill. For three years you have watched your families fade before your eyes while he has outgrown his frame. For three years you have endured his tortuous appetite while you ate dirt and drank sand. Tonight, we take back what we have lost and as for this General, I leave his punishment up to you."
Rossiter turned and left the balcony, and at a prearranged signal, the guards who had stood between the General and his people filed out of the square, and for a moment the General stood staring at the receding backs of his enemies until he realized that he had been utterly beaten and out maneuvered by Rossiter and his rebels. Bewildered and confused, he looked to his people and saw only hatred and vengeance in their faces, and as they closed on him he knew, for the third time in his life, the humiliation of defeat.

The Dark Lord and the Little Woman

Hermes entered the hall to see Hades sitting with Persephone at his side. She was radiant, clothed in mystery and darkness, with wraiths circling her and the living ghosts serving her. She smiled at Hermes and he lowered his head in acknowledgment while Hades, who was never very stable, noticed this communication and stood to move in front of his young bride.
"All right, Hermes, what do you want?", said the Lord of the Underworld.
"Gimme a second, you old windbag. Persephone, are you all right?"
"Hermes." The dread queen poked her head out from behind her husband. "Be nice or I'll kick your ass. You know I can."
"You can kick my ass whenever you want, sweet thing, but what I want to know is did he hurt you?", Hermes said with a nod to Hades.
"Of course not. He's been very nice to me. Even when he was being very naughty to me.", she smiled at him and Hermes felt his knees weaken.
"Can we get on with this, Hermes.", said Hades, "What does my little brother want?"
"What does he want? He's losing his patience, man. Demeter is making his life miserable and he's about ten minutes from losing it altogether. If that happens then he's going to come down here and tear you a new one. Brother or not, she's his wife, and you'll lose. Decide now, oh Master of Regret or you'll be only God on Olympus to need his own ministrations."
"Shit. Really? Is he pissed?", said Hades, looking a little worried now.
"Pissed? He's beyond pissed my friend. You know what Demeter's like. He'd rather take on the Titans all over again, by himself, than go home to that woman."
"Hades." Persephone wriggled out form under his arm and looked up into his cloudless eyes, "You're not afraid of my dad, are you?"
"Afraid? Of Zeus? No, not really." Hermes smirked and Hades shot him a look that might have sent him to the bottom of Phlegathon had he not been under the protection of Zeus.
"I don't want to go, Hades, I want to stay here with you.", she whined into his ear.
"If your father comes down here, there's not going to be any here, anymore.", said Hermes, "I'm sorry Persephone but you're in a heap of shit right now."
"But I don't want to go.", she cried, "You can't make me." Persephone whirled around and ran for the door, trailed by her demon spawn and a gaggle of ghosts. " I hate you. I hate you all."
"Oh for Christ's sake. Persephone, come back here. Shit." Hades stood with his head down and then turned to Hermes but before he could say anything Hermes put up a hand.
"Look, man. That was for her. Zeus told me to make a big deal of the pain and punishment part but he just wants you to listen to reason. He can't hold back Demeter for much longer. If she finds you with Persephone then you really might be in some serious trouble. It might be politic to consider giving her back."
Hades looked up at Hermes sadly and said, "She's really driving me nuts, man. She's as spoiled as they come. 'I want this' and 'Get me that.' I can't take much more of this. If I didn't think they'd flay me alive for it I would have booted her out of here months ago. And the stories she tells. She's a bigger bullshitter than you are, Hermes."
"Thanks. I appreciate that. Look, she is a bit of a handful, but you love her, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so. I just don't know if I can live with her."
"Well, we'll just have to figure something out.", and he sat down on the Dread Lord's throne and looked up at the ceiling of the cavern. "You really do have a morbid sense of style, Hades. You should try painting this place, y'know. Spruce it up a bit."
"Can we try a little more thinking and a little less criticism. What am I going to do. I can't take on Zeus with his hordes of star struck followers. This was her idea as much as mine. Why do I have to take all the blame.", Hades kicked at a rock near his foot and planted it into the wall beside Hermes' head.
"Hey, for fuck's sake, Hades, watch it.", said Hermes, sitting forward, "Alright, I've got something. Have you got any pomegranate around here?", he asked.
"You can have anything you want. Why?", said the God of the Dead, absently.
"Think, you moron. If you feed her some she'll be bound to you. It fits perfectly. You do what Zeus wants but you throw in a little of that devil Hades spice and the girl has to come back every six months, or so. Everyone knows what pomegranate seeds do but it might solve the issue. Zeus doesn't have to obliterate you, Demeter gets her daughter back and you only have to put up with the wife for six months out of the year. She'll do it, too. For some reason she's really taken with you.", Hermes smiled and spread his hands.
Hades thought about that for a moment. "It's the demons, actually. They love her and they'll do anything for her. I think she's way more evil than me. They like evil, the little bastards."
"So? What do you think? Are we good?", asked Hermes.
Hades leaned back and smiled wickedly at Hermes and said, "We're better than good, we're golden."

To Infinity and Beyond

He came when I beckoned and sat on the couch, stroking Evy under the chin, and listened quietly to what I had to say. When I offered him a drink he said, "I've been dead now for forty years. What do I need with a drink?"
"Sorry. You used to drink."
"O.K.", he said, "I'll have sherry."
"How about a beer?", thinking I should really stock up on sherry, then realized that keeping a stocked liquor cabinet for the rare appearance of the dead is a little more crazy than I'm comfortable with.
"What do you want?"

He was in a bad mood; not surprising as he always appears ready to reflect my own state. I told him about the dreams. I asked him why the dead visit periodically and what it is they want?
"Well,", he said expansively, jostling Evy from her repose as he shifted his weight on the couch, "It is my belief that, if there is an afterlife at all, it is essentially a cessation of consciousness. As much as the unconscious mind offers clues to our existence in life, so does the conscious mind provide fodder for it's deep dwelling progenitor. Without consciousness the unconscious mind has lost its inside man, so to speak. The unconscious mind, if it survives at all after the bodily death, remains at an impasse and at times seeks the world of the living for further illumination. I believe this is the basis for the oriental belief in re-incarnation."
I thought about that for a moment and then said, "They've pulled over on the highway, before reaching their destination, and flag us down from time to time to get a look at the map."

C.G. sighed and sat back on the cat, who took a swipe at him and promptly lost his balance and fell off the couch. He gloomily looked back at C.G. and decided he should be ignored.
"Your ability to suck the life out of my work astounds me.", he said crustily .
"I was taught that when I die all the secrets of the cosmos will be revealed to me.", I accused.
"Yeah, and you'll sit at God's feet eating an endless ham and cheese sandwich, getting a foot rub from some beautiful, blonde bimbo. What is it they want, in your dreams? Do they ever impart secrets from the beyond? Do they come encircled by angels, with fanfares and hallelujahs? Or do they appear, pretty much the same as the were in life, asking about friends and family, wondering who's made it to the world cup and who won the cold war?"
"The cold war? You have been dead for a while.", I said.
"My point, exactly. You are living, my friend. The path to wholeness is essentially supplying the unconscious mind with all the information it can acquire. This has nothing to do with nice cars or big houses, but your relation to the infinite. The unconscious mind is your link to the infinite, but it's a two way street. Your waking mind is limited by what you see, hear, smell and touch but this contact is essential for growth as a whole. If you learn this you will understand that you are both limited and eternal and you will become conscious of the eternal.
"Uh-would you like another beer?"
"You're an idiot and I've got work to do. Do me a favour, would you? Consider this. Just as our unconscious affects us, so the increase in our consciousness affects the unconscious. The sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. Your being here poses a question which only you, throughout your life, can answer."
"Oh.", I said, standing up. "Thanks for coming by." And he was gone.

I sat there for a while, thinking about what he had said, and wondered if it wasn't more simple than that. Maybe I dream about dead people because I miss them and wish that they were still around so I could talk to them.

However, if he's right, and real reason that I'm here and they are not is because I don't know the answer to the question I pose, then I guess I've got work to do, too.