Tag: Mystical visitation

Plug-in Hybrid

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

We’re considering buying a bright red car from Wisconsin. 
This would necessitate a change in driving habits, 
but it might be worth the effort to invest in transportation 
that will run at least partially on energy collected from the sun. 

Yes, there are toxic batteries involved, 
and our miniscule efforts won’t save the planet,
but if generations to come somehow survive, we hope
to make things a little easier for them. 

The Ever-Convulsing Creator gags her way into my consciousness. 
She’s on all fours, throwing up again. 
I sling the new car fantasies aside, drop to my knees, 
and hold a wet cloth to her forehead.

We sit on the banks of the diminishing river. 
She wipes holy vomit from her lips and chin 
and lays back on the bank, exhausted.

“You’ve got to stop drinking that poison,” I admonish, my voice judgy. 
The demons of the waterways nod.
She holds up her hand, a signal that this is not the time to scold. 

The Creative Force of the Universe is suffering severe abuse, 
cheap shots to the kidneys and liver, veins diverted to canals, 
and the forced ingestion of chemical concoctions 
that crack the bones of the Mother 
so we can suck out the last bits of marrow.

Her immune systems are so weakened that she falls prey to everything 
from Ebola to avian flu. She willingly dies a thousand deaths 
every second of every day. 

“Maybe it’s time for you to move on,” I mumble 
with fear and trembling. Abandonment is beyond imagining. 
Even the demons shudder. But it’s neither fair nor kind 
to expect the Artist to hang around 
and watch her creation trashed.

I’ve touched a nerve. Her head snaps up, eyes flash, 
and she becomes darkly multitudinous. They take over the dance floor, 
stiletto heels clacking, red capes snapping. 

“We don’t move on,” they shout in unison. “We don’t give up. 
We amend, upend, transform and rest. 
In the heat of summer, mimosas. 
In the dead of winter, hot toddies. 
Boundaries soften and in those infinite shades of twilight 
we reinvent the way.”

I shake my head, skeptical. “We might be getting a red car,”
I say with false bravado. “I could give you a lift.”

“Thanks,” they chuckle, a thousand eyes twinkling, 
a billion planets spinning. “But we have our own ride.”

“Okay, then. How about I hop in with you?”

A lot of nudging and snickering ensues. 
I overhear one saying to another, “Doesn’t she realize 
she’s been in the back seat all this time?” 

I blush and buckle up. The road ahead looks rugged.


*******



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Caramel Sauce

Rita Sommers-Flanagan2 Comments

I

“God,” I said. “Could you pass the caramel sauce?” We were enjoying bowls of vanilla bean ice cream. It seemed a small request, so when God grabbed the jar, tipped it to his lips, and chugged the contents, I was astonished. Caramel doesn’t usually flow like milk, but God’s hand was so hot, the sweet sluggish sauce thinned, and he gulped it down, just like that.

God put the empty jar in front of me, looking decidedly sick. My ice cream melted as I stared at him and considered what to say or do. Clearly, this wasn’t about the caramel. Was this a lesson? A parable? A joke? Had God lost his mind? Was God going to throw up? It looked possible, so I slid our silver garbage can toward him.

Sure enough, up it came. God dropped to his knees, clutching the garbage can, retching and sweating, pale as a ghost. The smell of caramel-tinged stomach acid wafted through the air. I wanted to move discretely away, but I would’ve had to step over him. It is never wise to step over the heaving body of God, so I waited.

And waited. I was trying to remember the symptoms of rabies. There were bits of foam on the sides of God’s mouth, and he looked miserably deranged. Why had I asked for that caramel sauce? My ice cream was fine without it. Why do I ask for anything? As minutes gave way to hours, God swelled into swarms of bees, throngs of refugees, herds of cattle, sprouting seeds, and the vast undulating sky. The soft perimeter of what appeared to be reality gave way and I began to fall. “This could be my final fall,” I thought to myself as the lanolin scent of wool filled my nostrils. But it was not my final fall. Not my last bowl of ice cream.

II

In the wake of the caramel incident, God has been more circumspect. “I may not be as stable as I think I am,” she admitted. “Maybe I need more rest.”

“But you’re the definition of rest,” I countered, hesitant to upset her but unwilling to let go of my favorite idea about God. God stared straight ahead. Words ground to a halt and the long overdue ice age arrived.

We froze solid, but God’s eyes burned from within the glacial temple. Brightly winged beings touched smoldering coals to my lips and lifted the sun back into place. This was good. In fact, this was perfect. I had raspberries to transplant, and they need the sun. There’s nothing better than raspberry sauce from the hardy heirloom varieties I love so much.