Souls Among The Ruins

The forlorn remains took me by surprise, that day I came back the same way I went out. There they were, at the bottom of a hairpin turn that I had negotiated about an hour before. So intent on making the turn looking right, the ruins passed unnoticed on the left. It was not until I came back down the hill that I saw the two chimneys thrusting up from a lion’s mane of grass, sprouting at the elbow of the turn. I gasped, thoroughly surprised, and actually screeched to a halt. The brief yelp of tires on pavement sounded loud as howler monkeys in the quiet air of a drowsy afternoon. Fortunate I was that no one was coming down behind me. I pulled the car over to the shoulder, stepping out into the breeze.

The air was cool and faintly humid. The sun played hide and seek with fast moving flocks of clouds while the rustle of leaves and grass whispered in my ear, urging me forward into what used to be the front yard of a home. Is it trespassing when there are no walls, no doors?

Standing there, pondering the outlines of history slowly crumbling into the earth, a slow wash of uneasiness spread through my gut. I felt as if someone was watching me from just inside the trees that ringed the foundation. I shivered.

The sun moved a degree or two of arc as I stood there watching.  A gust of wind tousled the leaves and a burst of purple caught my eye. It was there next to the far chimney, and something was moving amongst the greenery. I made my way carefully around the top of the foundation, hoping the brick and tile would not collapse under my boots. It was as I stood behind the chimney that I saw the beautiful purple flowers on a bush growing next to the stack.

The bush appeared to be alive, moving not just under the influence of the breeze. I inched forward to get a closer look. The bush was bedecked with numerous butterflies, flitting softly among the purple blossoms. The breath caught in my throat. Beautiful, so beautiful, the colors of vibrating gemstones in the slow strobe of the afternoon sun. I crouched carefully beside the chimney, the blossoms caressing the tips of my boots. Scarcely breathing, I relaxed under the hypnotic influence of the butterflies. Then I understood. Then I knew. I realized I had been watched, from the moment my feet hit the pavement of the hairpin turn.

The walls were gone, long ago. The charred bones of the house lay in a shallow grave with a lid of clay and leaves. The plaster bits slowly succumbing to an impassive sun and the relentless turn of the clock, the chimneys like the ragged fingers of a giant beckoning to me…

Come and see, you who hurry, and greet the souls of those who called this home…

There was beauty here, once, and life.

I see the butterflies, and know Truth.

Corona Borealis, My Heart

Hers is a mind that knows nothing of spreadsheets and billables and contracts. As I stood there watching corn silk hair waft about in the wind, I told myself this is as it should be.

A mind like the second coming of the Hope Diamond, sharp, brilliant and captivating. Me, I felt dull and lifeless next to her. Picture a comet on the outbound swing of its trajectory. Time and distance pile up and the sphere of ice and rock grows colder and dimmer, the glory of its tail fading into the intergalactic black. The comet is servant to gravity, and the sun doesn’t know its own strength. It gazes upon those who orbit with the wonder of a child, fascinated and reaching out with invisible arms to pull them in.

Just like me, that sunny fall day in a small patch of pumpkins. She carries her treasure, confident it is the finest in the field, and I cannot refute her claim. The sun clutches the orangey globe, a solar presence writ in miniature.

The wind kicks up, hay and leaves awhirl around the shining brow of my queen. She turns to me with that megawatt smile, her eyes wide open and gazing at me. My heart leaps, the Universe unfolds around me as her gravity pulls me in. I dive headfirst into an azure sky studded with diamonds. She laughs as a crown of light rises from her brow, into the blue…

…My God, she’s full of stars…

Half An Onion: A Tale of a Small Miracle

The drive home took nearly forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes I'll never get back. Fatigue was too deep in my marrow for me to gripe about it. I was in a state of fugue. My eyes were open and I was driving safely, by all appearances. My mind was off somewhere else.

Apparently in the kitchen.

Arriving home, I quickly set my briefcase and lunchbag and camera down. I kicked off my shoes and slid into my bedraggled slippers, shuffling into the kitchen. I had no idea what to have for dinner. The kitchen god smiled, though, and opportunities fell out of the pantry and into my waiting hands.

Half an onion.

Two cloves of garlic.

Salt.

Small quantity of peppered bacon.

Half cup long grain rice.

Quart of chicken broth.

A can of pinto beans.

Bay leaf.

Pinch of dried thyme.

Fresh ground black pepper.

Quarter teaspoon smoked paprika.

Pinch of cayenne.

Two carrots.

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, as I sliced the bacon into small pieces, setting them to brown in my trusty saucier. I held the onion and cut it into large dice. The bacon was getting fragrant.

A knot unloosened in my belly. I may have actually chuckled.

The bacon was crisp, so I scooped it out of the pan. The grease I spooned off until I had just enough. The onions hit the pan, and oh, smelled so good. I laughed. They fried gently, crispy brown on the edges. The garlic made nice with it, turning over in the pan. I was smiling broadly now. At that right time, in went the rice. I spooned it over and over, getting it good and coated. Just about the time it smelled nutty, that moment, I poured in the chicken broth to sizzle and bubble. A quick stir, and I tipped in the pintos.

I was whistling now.

A squall of herbs and spices: bayleafthymeblackpepperpaprikacayenne, mmm, mmm, so nice to get lost in THAT storm. The little flecks of goodness swirled around and around as the liquid came to the boil. I was hopping a little, almost...dancing.

On went the lid, down went the flame, and few minutes to simmer. I reckoned twenty would just about do it. At about the ten minute mark, I sliced the carrots medium-thick and put them in the simmering broth.

My kitchen smelled delicious. Somewhere, I heard the tinny clank of a rusty lock being slipped from the door to the cage. I growled softly, spoon in hand.

Cook 'til its done, that's the key. I pulled my big white pasta-cum-soupbowl-cum-allpurpose dish from the cupboard between the stove and the sink. My glass of iced tea stood patiently sweating, awaiting the reunion with the bowl of...soup? stew? I was about to ladle up.

Off with the lid, and a fragrant cloud of steam gently caresses my face and nose. Breathing deep, I feel slightly dizzy, uncoiling like a watch spring finally run down. I ladled up a big helping of whatever it was I just made, and took it outside to my humble patio. The tea gladly tagged along.

I sat down to my repast, joined by the soft whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves. I stuck the spoon in to bring a big mouthful of goodness to my waiting gullet. I paused. Sitting there, alone on the patio with book, bread and soup, I suddenly realized I was witness to a miracle.

Small, humble, but a miracle just the same. I put the spoon in my mouth, closed my eyes and sighed. Half an onion and some time had just made me human again.

For that, I bowed my head and gave thanks.

Wetware Filter: Skipping Stones On The River of Knowledge

The humor, to me, is obvious. This is not at all what I was supposed to write. Ha. You laugh, too, I can tell.

You see, what I was supposed to be writing was a third draft of another report for my job. It’s a worthy report, for a good client, with some interesting work to be done. I even e-mailed the draft to my home address, to whittle away on it after I stuffed some calories down my neck.

But it didn’t turn out that way. My heart whispered in the ear of my subconscious, and the two conspired to make the meat suit that is my body move in a different direction. Fatigue, hunger and the drive home became a drawn-out smear of rebellion against the long days I have already put in, with no more tolerance for the “have to do” and maintenance tasks.I was tired to the point of being weepy, almost. And so hungry I didn’t feel like cooking.

So it was that I found myself turning off the high road home and onto the low road ending in the dodgy embrace of a nearby purveyor of fast food, the golden brown and delicious crispy variety. I was too tired and hungry to be ashamed. Raw need and impatience created the Prime Directive my jittery mind could not ignore. To my credit, I exchanged the fries for a green side salad. The fast food equivalent of one or two Hail Marys and an Ave Maria.

Sitting at the table, chewing slowly and steadily while gazing with bovine lassitude at the surge of suburban life lapping at the service counter, my wetware performed a ‘count zero interrupt’. My brain decremented to zero, the grey matter quietly rebelling against the straitjacketed evening I had originally planned.

There would be no rewrites. No text edits. No rephrasing, no cutting and pasting of dry ideas and cost estimates. No, not now.

Instead, I ended up in the bookstore, i.e. ‘harem for the mind’. Ahh, books…I even had a vague plan to buy a specific book, but…but…they are all so pretty behind their brightly colored veils. I dallied, I lingered, exchanging sly glances and knowing looks with pretties of all stripes and shapes and bright colors. But even the king has to make up his mind as to his concubine…

This, dear readers, is what I came home with:

Tell me, O rapt ones, what does this say about me? What, oh, what was I thinking? I ask, because I confess that I do not know, only that there was a gossamer thread I followed in my mind…