Tag: Fatigue

Drunk on Old Wine

Rita Sommers-Flanagan5 Comments

My Coauthor lurks in words like suffering, immigrating, dispossessing, drowning, shooting, refuging, sacrifice, and starvation. I’m trying to lure her toward bacon, bagel, comfortable shoes, light rain. She plugs and unplugs her ears, mocking me.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, hurt and indignant. “You know I can’t do those words right now.”  I do a double-take and add, “Wait! Are you drunk?”

“You bet I am,” she slurs. “This old wine is good medicine.”

“You, of all entities, do not need medicine,” I scold. “Get a grip.”

“No! You get a grip.” This adolescent comeback tickles me, but I don’t laugh. She looks deranged as she yells, “I’ve invested eons in your species. Look at the mess you’ve made.”

She lunges at me and takes a wild swing. We tumble to the floor, scratching and biting.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The aftertaste of wrestling with Meaning is bitter, and the lingering Breath of God reeks of cosmic fermentation. There are so many excuses for this holy bender. So many versions of Alpha and Omega repeatedly betrayed; the Source has been forced to seek shelter in sewers under cities on hills set ablaze to prove an unprovable point.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

“Mind altering drugs, anyone?” The Hosts weave around the heavens wearing sequin coats of many pockets. “These’ll stoke whatever fires you choose.” The maddening crowd rushes in. The least are being trampled by the surging hordes, but it doesn’t matter because we’re all falling off the edge and breaking.

So many bones protruding, even the birds of prey lose count.

“Cut!” I motion to the Directors. “Too brutal. Gratuitous violence sickens me.”

“Such delicate sensibilities.” They’re taunting me, but I detect a note of approval.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

“Over here!” the Coauthors beckon with urgency.

They’ve transformed into First Responders bravely going forth with pagers in their neon vests. Flashlights slash darkness into strobes of horror. Sirens shriek from all directions. No one copes well with such tragedy. I’m blinded, deafened, and flattened to two dimensions. I plan my elegy as I crawl toward the words. Will I be found and saved by something true? Will anyone?

 As the cacophony dies down, the Beyond gathers what’s left of me and whispers, “There is a silence so holy it’s worth waiting for.” This seems ominous, but I know it was meant to reduce my death anxieties.

“I like the sound of that!” I’ve rallied enough to tease. “At least the waiting part.” The Coauthors flash a knowing grin. The day opens, and we all step in.

***** ***** ***** *****

For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day. Also, I am now posting on Substack, and may drift there as my primary place to post.

Lies

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

Sometimes, like right now, mocking, sarcastic words get in my head, and I write them down and imagine going viral. But then I hit delete hoping to be left wordless and alone. Words are the vehicle of vanity, triviality, and lies. There has to be something true beyond words.

In daydreams, I stare steadily into the eyes of the current Russian dictator, our own recent dictator-in-waiting, Brazil’s and Britain’s buffoons; I imagine having the depth of soul to crack their stony defenses and open some tiny pocket of humanity and compassion inside them. Their grotesque, malignant egos melt away and flocks of bluebirds and goldfinches are freed from within, winging their way to freedom. Cue: Julie Andrews singing “The Hills are Alive…”

O.K., I’ll admit it. What I actually imagine is vultures pecking their eyes out while I hold them frozen in place with a magic spell. Then I smash their skulls on rocks. I… There’s a disturbance to my left. I hold up my hand. “Not now,” I say, turning to God, who always stops by midsentence. “I’m on a confessional roll.”

“You certainly are,” God says, as she multiplies and divides. She’s heavy with child. With children. She’s heavy with hope and courage. She’s heavy with bombs. She’s swallowed the detonators; the bombs will explode, and today, like every single day on this blessed earth, she will die a hundred thousand deaths. And in this fragmented, impossible way, God, too, will go viral.

“Come with me,” God says. I back up, shaking my head.

“Where?” I ask. “Nirvana? The life I deserve next? The cross? The front lines? The back alleys?  The grave?”

“Yes,” God says. “Come.”

I take a reluctant step. Then another. It’s rocky terrain. I stumble. I get up and examine my scrapes and bruises. I hurry toward the fleeting purple robe in my pointy shoes. The bridge across the icy stream has been destroyed. I try to leap across, but I slip and fall in. I think I’ve sprained my ankle. I’m wet, cold, hungry, disabled, lost, afraid, and angry. I’m a refugee, hunted prey, weakened by age and a soft life. “Stop!” I shout at God. “You’ve made your point.”

“I did?” God asks, in disbelief. “I wasn’t aware I had a point.”

“Not funny,” I say, rubbing my frozen hands together.

“Agreed,” God says. “Not funny.”