Ready to settle into peace, I closed my shack door. Of course, settling into peace wasn't easy sitting on a chair as bad as my fish chair.
"Peace, dammit. Peace."
Peace brought to mind Christmas. Christmas, of course, brought to mind the worst Christmas ever.
One might say Rachel--my last girlfriend--had an unnatural joy where Christmas was concerned. Only natural, I suppose, seeing how she'd missed out on all the alleged joy growing up Jewish. Of course, I, growing up Christian, knew the true joy of Christmas. Joy was the face every Christian put on to mask the hell of Christmas.
Like all Christmases, my worst Christmas started out joyful enough. I, knocking on Rachel's door the kind of knock one knocks having knocked down--on the way over--the better part of a pint. Small talk over, Rachel dragged me in to show me my present. "Open it," she said.
Clinging to the remains of my savior--that pint in my pocket, I surveyed the holiday scene. A wrapped present--as big as her tree--spoke of the degree of glee I had to conjure up in the way of gratitude. No, no way did I have enough in the way of shit-face to take on a Christmas of this caliber.
Feigning concern about a fire, I ducked behind her tree, took to inspecting the length of chord involved in the lighting of her tree. Imagine my surprise when, knocking down the rest of my pint, I actually took an interest in that twisted chord; it looked like licorice to me. Oh, how I wanted to sink my filling-filled molars into those licorice live wires. The house lights flicker--to all a good night.
But, of course, I was raised Christian, so instead of committing suicide, I set about opening my huge present. Oh, how I oohed and aahed unwrapping that blue chair. Oh, how I oohed and aahed, even though I was thinking; this silly fish chair; clear proof my girl hadn't a clue as to who her boyfriend was.
No, I had nothing against blue--blue was boy enough. And the seaweed entwining the chair was man enough; reminded me of the English Ivy I hacked back at work. But the chair's backrest, that clown-faced fish, what an affront that was to my stoic backbone.
Back in my shack, in the dark, I had to laugh at myself; coming here to achieve peace, and what do I do but conjure up the most peaceless time of year.
Determined to achieve peace, I squirmed some more on my fish chair. But, no, there was no achieving peace with this clown on my back. A good way to get the fish off ones back is to get up, go out, do some birdwatching.
Walking across campus was like passing through a series of hollows, each unique in feel, depending on the foliage and architecture that defined them. Some of these hollows were expansive with views of the chain of mountains just this side of the Pacific. Other hollows were intimate, where the fragmented human could hear the call of Mother Nature, "Come child. Come into my enveloping arms. No, seriously, I'll put you back together if you'll just stop and sit a spell."
I was a busy man--had birds to watch, but even I saw fit to pull up in a hollow, hold my arms out, perform a full revolution in the name of my better mental health.
Entering the orchard I spied Simone and Sabina deep within. The two strolled deeper, disappeared. With my mind on the mysterious strollers, my body went where it wanted, and the next thing I saw were my homing pigeon feet performing revolutions on Coral's lone stepping stone.
Funny, how a girl's backside can change a guy's sense of place. Take this circle of earth. It hadn't meant a thing to me, hadn't meant squat to the orchard, even, then a certain someone plants her sweet bottom and bango, the Pacific Northwest's got a new vortex.
Giving in to the pull of my new vortex, I heard in my head Coral's clean voice: "Every one has little bugs inside."
But then I heard in my ear the song of the bird I'd come here to identify: "Here for years, for your tears."
Turning towards the song, I scanned the bramble covering the slope leading up to the flat west of Fibers.
"Here for years, for your tears."
This scanning technique I'd developed as a teen hunting in Minnesota. Instead of focusing here and there for game, I'd fuzz my eyes, take in the entire visual field at once--see it as a bedsheet hung up to dry. That way, any movement in said field--be it near or far, right or left--could be detected as a rip in said fabric. Focusing in on the rip I'd then determine what game was behind the rip.
No, I didn't hunt anymore, but my last girlfriend, Rachel, was a birder, so we'd go birding, and, indeed, my bird-spotting skills had impressed her. And though we'd broken up over a year ago--she'd gotten a dog--I still went out birding every now and again, just to get a feel for the hunt.
There, my scanning had detected a rip. I focused in on the top of the bedsheet. Ah, a human--obscured by bramble--walking left to right on the flat above. The male in me decoded the walk as female. Female caused things in males to rise. No, just my arms this time, raising my binoculars.
I lowered my binocs, lowered my eyes. But, no; try as I might, I couldn't lower my alarm. Cry me a Creed! The woman on the flat above was none other than the woman whose very stone I was now standing upon.
On full alert, I tracked Coral across the flat west of Fibers. She'd have to pass by the two old world apple trees that grew north of the gallery. I could see the trunk of the nearer tree through the opening where the path entered the orchard. I fixed my eyes on this opening that I might feast when she passed. But when Coral came into this opening, she stopped, looked up, scanned the apple tree.
I blinked to keep my focus. But that's all I moved. Though thankful for this prolonged view of Coral's backside, I was afraid if Coral saw me lurking here, binocs around my neck, she could only conclude I'd been spying on her.
My fears subsided with Coral's prolonged search for the perfect apple. Salivating, I absorbed the harvest scene. A scene so rich, I had to pull out my pad and pen.
Before writing I always paused, paid homage to the blank page--nothing held more promise for me than the blank page. But today's page wasn't exactly blank--some rogue spirit-of-nature was casting its shadow across my page.
Screw omens; I had an epic scene to paint.
Moving my blank page out of omen's way, I wrote, "And what a horn-of-plenty scene it was; the ripe young woman, scanning the old-world apple tree all laden with red fruit, all framed in by the verdant orchard teaming with blue jays and orange squirrels harvesting and hauling away nuts."
I looked up, probed the scene further. Looking down, I wrote, "Oddly, adding carnality to the harvest scene was this opening in the overgrown orchard through which I viewed the maiden gatherer. This opening had the shape of a cathedral arch, and, with the maiden framed in by it--searching for the choicest in fruit--I got that stained-glass feeling that I was about to witness the very fall that got hardware Adam wanting to nail Eve."
Damn, was that putting words on paper, or what?
Wanting more, I really got down to details--envisioned Coral standing there Eve naked. Given Coral's bulky clothes, the hem-high grass she was standing in, one might assume the challenge was envisioning Coral's nakedness. But hell, I was male; envisioning a clothed woman naked was a skill my gender had been honing since Eve pulled the first fig leaf off the wrack. The challenge I faced was nailing a novel way of describing that undulating nakedness, that line of lines, that licking ribbon falling from neck to calf. After all, had any line been laid more in all of literature?
It was then that Coral--in a move fitting of dance--reached up, picked an apple, turned, and, as if expecting to see me, gave me a wave of her apple.
****
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