Tag: Flood

Drunk on Old Wine

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 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.

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

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Hoarding

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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“So, God,” I said, happily finishing my toast and beer. “I just realized you’re a hoarder. A master of redundancy. I like that about you.”

God grinned sheepishly. It’s easy to see, once you stop and look at creation. I mean, how many stars do we really need? Or varieties of potatoes? I’ll admit, God’s a vastly better hoarder than I am. God’s stuff is well-organized and has just enough variation that nothing, nowhere, is exactly the same. Oh sure, there are doppelgangers and identical twins, but even then, nature (God’s middle name) creeps in and makes everything unique, yet slyly overlapping.

“Guilty,” God said. That silly grin still lit up the room. What a sweetheart. With a surge of affection, I let down my guard.

“I’m a hoarder, too,” I said. “But not as skilled as you. I gather up a lot of baggage and get pretty overwhelmed. Could you help me get better?”

“No can do,” God said, head shaking, arms crossed. Not mean, but firm.

This hurt my feelings, but I’d sort of expected that answer. And I knew what was coming next.

“Honey, I don’t think like you. I have my ways, but they aren’t your ways. They can’t be. You’re not me. For this, you should give thanks.” God’s voice was stern, but the eyes betrayed a certain amusement. Even rebuffed, I felt deep affection for this maddening, whimsical, frightening breakfast visitor.

“Want a tomato?” I asked. “They’re fresh from the garden.”

“Sure,” God said. “And I like your hair that way. Did you get it cut in Mexico?”

This seemed a bit obsequious. I mean, God was there, right? My haircut wasn’t news.

“Sorry,” God said. “Just thought I’d make a little small talk. Yes, I was there for your haircut. And I’m here now. Good tomato….Definitely here now. But I think you know, I’m sizzling in a burning forest. And spinning in the eye of a hurricane. And I just crawled across the border of Myanmar. I need rest.” God’s eyes had begun to blaze an iridescent orange. Transcending. Descending. Above. Below. Around. Within.

Suddenly, small talk sounded very nice. But out of the question. It does no good to pretend. I’d seen the assault rifles in San Miguel. And the women begging, even as I overate and took invasive pictures without permission. I wear the cloak of my fucking mortality–my imperfections as license. And I hoard like the twisted little shadow of God that I am.

“Whoa,” God said, putting a hand on my all-too-physical shoulder. “Ranting and self-denigration won’t help. I said I was sorry. Maybe you should finish that beer and take a little walk.”

“Ok,” I said. “Sounds good.” And that’s what I did.

Landing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

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In 40 minutes, I will land. We will land. The degrees of separation will fluctuate wildly while my internal Geiger counter recalibrates. Then all will settle, and I’ll make educated guesses about the radiance of God’s face and the relative dangers of the mundane.

No doubt the landing will be turbulent because in Mexico City, God looked bored and restless. Security singled me out, emptied my bags, patted me down. The apologetic guard had thin pink lips. She was extraordinarily short and efficient. God chuckled before boarding the plane like royalty, dressed in pilot’s regalia.

At 30,000 feet, I am beyond redemption, but then everything is. The question is less about redemption–more about restoration, which apparently, will be a real bitch. There’s nothing subtle about restoration. It extends beyond the absurd and tragic, earth scorched and drenched, bones burned clean. The lovely molds and mildew will recede only after, somehow, it’s over, and this particular crisis is removed from the cross and buried.

Explanations sit stoically beside me, overweight and ugly. Back in Mexico, they stare out the windows of the purple bus, flutter in the hands of children selling trinkets in the rain.

The seat belt sign is illuminated. Items in the overhead bins have shifted. Visibility is limited by smoke and tears. But we will be landing shortly. This is terrible. And perfect.