The Last Half Angel (InkNotes #4)

I'm really not happy with this one, but I'm almost out of time, so here goes, my submission for InkNotes #4.

It was 'cause of the bus system, the bus system did it. 'Cause in Houston, nobody rides the bus, nobody, mostly because there's always, like one guy on the bus, and you don't want to sit with him. So, since nobody rides the bus, it wasn't very crowded when I took it home every day, 'specially 'cause I didn't work 'till five; I worked 'till nine o'clock, and on Montrose and Westheimer, at nine all the regular weirdos are already home, and all the drunk stoned weirdos, they don't leave for a few more hours, right? Yeah, you know what I mean. Right, nine pm, that's the best time to ride the Westheimer bus, unless you like that 11 o'clock sort of thing, you know, girls all falling out of their vinyl dresses, and guys who wink at you funny. You know. That's how it is, Westheimer.

But at nine, it isn't how it is. At nine, there's only one other person who is on the bus every time, and she was this lady, this old lady, right? Like the kind of old lady that rides the bus, with a thrift store t-shirt, and somethin' ratty on her shoulders like a shawl or something, and like an old dirty Astros cap, and a bag, always a big old bag, and one of those canes that's metal, and that has four feet on it, cause one foot's not enough, 'cause these old ladies have big old legs and can't stand up straight, right? That's what this old lady was like, and she always just sat on the bus and stared, stared right at this advertisement, I remember 'cause I always wondered what was so big about the advertisement. At the start, it was for some lawyer, and he was this good looking 40-odd old white guy, and I kinda figured, like, he looked like her dead husband, or something. Then, they changed the advertisement, and it was for some Starbucks knock-off, and she was still always staring at it, and just staring, like the whole time I was on the bus. So I figured she wasn't really staring at anything really, like maybe she was just messed up, and the bus was a cheap way to keep herself outta trouble all day, right? 'cause, I never saw her get on, and I never saw her get off, so I figure she just sat there all day long, like that, staring at that lawyer, or coffee cup, or whatever.

Then, one day, I'm sitting, and I'm reading the quiz in Cosmo - come on, you know you've done it, tto, EVERYBODY does a quiz in Cosmo once in a while, and I'm like, in a bus, right, with just this old lady, and I figure she doesn't care what I'm reading, cause it's not the coffee and donut special at Knock-off-Starbucks-House-of-Beans. So, yeah, I was sitting doing Cosmo, and then the lady, she just starts talking, she doesn't even look over, she just starts in.

"You like Cosmo?"

And I say no, not really, 'cause like I said, it's not like I'm this big fan of Cosmo or nothing. So she just kinda nods, still staring at the big ol' triple whatever latte, for a minute, then she talks again.

"D'you know I used to be an angel?"

So, I'm here thinkin, what the f*** has this got to do with Cosmo? And, I'm thinking maybe she means like, she looked like an angel, like she was hot, like all the girls in Cosmo, so I'm all like, yeah, I'm sure you were pretty, kinda mumbling, like in a don't talk to me crazy lady voice, right? And she just starts in laughing, at me!

"Wrong about that, hon. All that about angels being beautiful? Archangel Gabriel looked like a shar pei dog, with these big heavy cheeks, and big slobbery lips. Some angels is pretty, just like some people, but not a real irregular number. I never was, I was ugly, hon. Ugly since the day I was made."

So, what the hell do you respond to something like that, am I right? So I'm just kind of sitting, hoping to hell we're almost at my stop. And I sure the hell didn't respond. But she doesn't seem to care, she's got started now, so she just keeps talking.

"Yeah, I was an angel. Not no more. I couldn't take the fighting. I'm no soldier, nope. I was what you call a princ'pal'ty. 't was a good job, mostly just, like, dropping off blessings, when folks were well-behaved. It was nice, 'cause if you met someone, they were always glad to see you, you know? Like bein' a mailman who only works at Christmas. Being an angel, hon, it's not like being an accountant, or something, it's like you're put together specially just for one thing and then you get to do it, forever! Yeah... then the fighting started. Don't know how they expected me to fight - if they wanted me to fight, why didn't they make me a fighter? I jus' couldn' do it. I mean, I COULDA done it, fighting isn't so different from blessing, you know. I just COULDN'T. You know what I'm talking about?"

And, finally, she turned, and stared at me, and I couldn't help it, looking back at her, you know? And there she was, staring at me, and I had this thought. I don't even know WHY I had this thought, right? But I'm sitting here staring at her, with her big bag and her goddamn cane, and I think, how the hell do angels fight, anyway? What, do they just go praying at each other or something? But I just keep this straight face, right? And then I realize I'm supposed to answer, so I just mutter some lame sort of oh, yeah, sure.

And she just keeps rattling on, and she's staring at me, only it's not so creepy, because the lady is obviously totally whacked, and she doesn't even really see me, and I just can't stop thinking, right? I mean, devils have pitchforks and fire and stuff. Sure, I wouldn't want to fight a devil. But, what the hell is an angel gonna do? I remembered this cartoon, all of a sudden from when I was a kid, Goofy or something, one of those ones where you got a devil sitting on one shoulder and an angel on the other, right? And the angel gets all mad, and takes an arrow, and shoots it off one of the strings on his harp at the devil. The lady keeps on jabbering, and I get this sudden image, right, of this dumpy lady here in her goddamn Astros cap pulling out a harp and just goin' Rambo on me and the bus driver.

And god help me, I start laughing.

I don't know why it struck me so funny, I mean, this lady had this dopey little face, and her big old chicken-gobble arms, and it just struck me wrong. I don't even know what she was in the middle of talking about, but apparently it wasn't funny, 'cause she stops, and looks all hurt at me.

I was kind of embarrassed, but sometimes, you know, when you're embarrassed, you kind of get mad at the same time, so I'm just like What? and she just mutters out that she doesn't think it was very funny, and I'm just like,

"Yeah, well lady, you don't look like no angel to me."

And then the lady gets all mad, and she starts crying, and I feel real bad, 'cause I just made this old lady cry, right? And I'm muttering how I'm sorry, and she just stands up and yanks on the pull to say she wants to stop, and looks at me, and says F*** you! And she just keeps saying it over and over and over, and over, and the bus driver, I think he's finally paying attention now, 'cause he's like, freakin' out now to find somewhere to pull over, 'cause the lady just keeps yelling, and yanking on the pull. And I was just staring at the floor all embarrassed, and the bus driver he pulls over right by this big old park, and the lady gets off, and I look up to make sure she's not gonna, like, chuck her cane at me or something, and she gets off on this sidewalk, and like, shakes her feet funny, like she's twitchy, and the door shuts, and we drive off.

The bus driver, he's all like are you OK, right? And I say I'm fine, and we keep driving, and I'm still staring at the floor. Then, there musta been some kinda church thing, or something, 'cause all these black kids in their dresses and little button shirts and these couple of old ladies, they all get on the bus, and it's like almost full, right? Only nobody sits in my seat, nobody sits in the seat in front of me, nobody sits behind me. There's this whole damn bus full of people, and this big empty hole, and I'm sitting in the middle of it. So we drive a couple blocks, and the sunday school or whatever gets out, and we drive a little more, and then we're coming to my stop, and I'm just sitting there. I didn't forget my stop or anything, I knew it was there, but I was just sitting, hell if I know why, I'm just sitting, and I'm sitting watching my stop go by, watching my girlfriend sitting there on the grass doing her homework waiting for me, and we just keep on going.

Now the bus was all driving in parts of town I never saw before, but it just keep on going. I'm kind of freaked out, and I get up, cause I wanna pull the stop and figure out where the hell I am, but it's like even though I get up, I'm still just sitting in this seat. And I try to look around now, see what's wrong, only I can't, cause my eyes won't move either, and so now I'm totally freaked out, and I'm yelling and screaming, only I can't make no noise, either, and I'm just staring and sitting, I know I am, it's like I can see me, just sitting, and staring at that damn coffee cup ad. And everything just keeps going, and going, and then the bus stops and parks, and I'm still not getting up, and the bus driver he cleans the bus, picking up trash and wiping down the seats, and just sort of wipes around me, without looking at me, and gets out, and locks the bus up, and that's it.

I'm just sitting on this bus, waiting, right? Just sitting. Next driver comes in, drives back out for the late shift, we pick up all the weirdos, all the girls spilling out of their vinyl dresses and guys who wink at you funny, only now nobody winks at me, nobody even looks at me, and sure as hell nobody sits by me. And we do it all again, we're driving home, people stumbling out, and we go by the bus stop, and there's my girlfriend still, I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and she's yelling in her cell phone, and we just keep going, and going and we park in the garage, and they clean up and just sort of wipe around me. All night, all quiet in this bus, in a garage, so dark I can't even see the damn coffee cup anymore. Bus is the same, bus don't change, I don't change. We drive out the next day, and it's the same, no more old lady, my girlfriend ain't at the bus stop no more. Just driving, just nobody sitting close to me, nobody looking at me. Every day, every damn day, and I just get stiller and stiller and stiller.

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Why I Haven't Read "The Faerie Queene" by Edmund Spenser

Sorry, I haven't been very communicative the last few weeks! I've skipped Weekly Geeks and my Thursday is for Something New too many times. So I'm trying to be a good boy, now, and luckily Weekly Geeks is making it easy for me - this weeks question is an easy one:

I think just about every reader has a least one book that they've been meaning to read for awhile (months or even years) but, for one reason or another, they just haven't gotten around to it. Maybe it's a book a friend recommended last year, or a title you've flirted with in a bookstore on more than one occasion, or maybe it's a book that's sitting right there on your bookshelf, patiently waiting for you to pick it up -- but the thought is always there, in the back of your mind: Why haven't I read this yet?
This week, tell us about a book (or books) you have been meaning to read. What is it? How long have you wanted to read it? And, why haven't you read it yet?

I have wanted to read this book FOR.E.VER. I think the first time I thought so was late in high school, so that would make about 10-12 years, now. It's sitting on my shelf, staring at me, glowering at me even. It probably feels hurt. I've started reading it several times, even. And, the thing is, I've ENJOYED what I've read. But I've never finished it.

I latched onto this books for good reason. It has so many things I love in it. It's an epic poem, with folklore, religious symbolism, and rich, Elizabethan language. In the first book, an Arthurian knight-hero wounds a dragon who begins bleeding book pages (which is one of the most startling images in literature, btw, even if it's just anti-papacy stuff). This book is perfect for me.

It's very thick of course, and that has SOMETHING to do with my lack of finishing it. My copy is 1055 pages long, plus footnotes, and that's 1055 pages of old poetry, with old spelling and diction. Witness:

A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,
Y cladd in mightie armmes and siluer shielde,
Whereing old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde;

Reading the Faerie Queene is hard work.

I could make the argument that this is why I haven't read it. But I've read some hard books, after all, through my life, so it can't be only this. It's hard to read a book like this, these days, because my reading is mostly limited to what I squeeze in between other parts of my day (e.g., reading a chapter while stirring the soup, or in the hallway at work on my way to a ticket). That won't work with this book - I have to concentrate a little, and there's footnoes, lots of 'em. hard to read footnotes while walking down the hall (which isn't to say I've never done it...).

More than this, though, there's a feeling every time I've started the Faerie Queene, of a grand sweep that, while wonderfully attractive, is a little intimidating. Books with a grand sweep tend to fold me in and stick with me, to change me (witness, for instance, Lord of the Rings, Les Miserables, Wuthering Heights). And... I just don't know enough, I guess, to feel safe with that. Edmund Spenser is too far away, I don't know who he is. Victor Hugo, I know somewhat who he is, I have my ideas of him. Tolkien is the same. Emily Bronte... well, I won't get into my relationship with the Brontes. But, Edmund Spenser is long ago and far away, and there's something about walking hand in hand with someone into a big, grand world, that makes you want to feel you can trust them. Like I've talked about before, reading a book for me is as much an experience of a writer as of their writing.

I do have it on my list, and I intend to try to read it this coming year, actually (alongside my other two upcoming big-hard-books: Finnegan's Wake (which I reserve to right to reject if it ends up being total nonsense) and Capital). And I really do intend to read it. Maybe I NEED to learn from it, learn to trust people a little more, learn to enjoy a world for what it is and not for the God it serves (in literature, God being the author). We'll see. I dunno, though, look at the picture - doesn't Spenser kind of look like the Devil in a Tudor Collar?

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Happy Bois Caiman Day!

Happy Bois Caiman Day, the day the Haitian Revolution traditionally began. There's a lot of perhaps good things going on in Haiti, though I haven't written on it in awhile, including a new prime minister, and a lot of attention from former President Bill Clinton, who has been working for improving the situation in Haiti. Anyway, It's good to, once in a while, even my attention hasn't been that way, remember our neighbors in the Caribbean.

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A Child is Like a Moon

A child is like a moon -
     A shadow's pass at light.
It emanates, unbidden
     from the unconsoling night.
The glimmer born of miracle -
     We think - it's partly true.
Reflection on a firmament
     In velveteen and blue.
Just pretty borrowers of beams
     that circumnavigate
a star - a mother - only
     Earthen umbra obfuscates
That sacred glow:
                    Eclipsed perhaps
     On scattered, gloomy night -
But in eclipse, more present -
     The moon will always seek the light
(Image by Boston Bill) I wrote this poem originally in 2006 for my mother. It's been edited a bit since then.

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Much Ado About Shakespeare

OK, so I'm doing another challenge. After Ms Andrea at The Little Bookworm and I traded Shakespeare quotes one day on Twitter, she put this challenge up - so I felt like I HAD to participate. The challenge is very simple:

The challenge runs from September 1, 2009 - April 26, 2009 (Shakespeare's Birthday). Read 6 of any Shakespeare's works or any book inspired by a Shakespeare play. You can also watch any movie from or inspired by a Shakespeare play.

So, I've been reading Shakespeare for my Fill in the Gaps challenge, so this will hopefully goad me along :P.

My List, then:

• The Tempest
• The Complete Sonnets
• The Long Poems (Rape of Lucrece, The Phoenix and the Turtle, Venus and Adonis, A Lover's Complaint, The Passionate Pilgrim)
• Othello
• All's Well That End's Well
• Shakespeare in Love (Cause, I was told it's good, and never saw it)

There you are, there you have it. Wish me luck!

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The Boy Who Touched the Moon (Ink Notes)

This weeks Ink Notes was a little more difficult - I've had a long relationship with the Braham's Requiem, and didn't feel the need to write autobiography. Hopefully it turned out alright. The music is the First Movement:

The Boy Who Touched the Moon

There was once a boy who wanted to touch the Moon. The story why is unimportant - those stories are more or less all the same. It only matters that one night, the moon rose up in the sky, full and yellow and rich, and he looked, and saw the four-sisters-in-the-moon whispering to each other on it's face, and he felt a tug, the same tug as the sea at tide-time, the tug to reach up and touch the moon. But the sea has a seabed and cannot rise from it - the boy had not taken to bed yet, and so he took out his bicycle, and skimmed onto a road, due east where the moon sagged across the horizon.

The road was so very smooth, and very long, and the moon so broad and comely, that the boy hardly looked about him, and when he did, the houses around him didn't look familiar. The road, though, became a street, and the street a lane, and then an end, and at the end, was a little restaurant, with a sign over the door, that read "The Old Moon". He tied his bicycle to the wooden-railed stoop, and climbed up to the door, and went inside.

The restaurant was nearly empty, and it smelled of dust and candle-wax. A plump-faced cheery girl came up and cocked a scrubbed face at the boy.

"Hello, little boy," she smiled, and looked at him quietly. Her eyes were warm, and her hands slow and still and in no particular hurry. Her voice, though, after it's ventures into speech, tucked itself back into her throat and hid. The silence was unexpected and uncomfortable.

"I'm... I'm looking for the moon."

"Oh?"

"You know. You'd think I could find it myself. Maybe I should have tried looking up, huh?" he laughed weakly.

The girl frowned, not perturbed, but confused. "Oh. Well, come with me."

She turned, and walked. She had a jaunting, bouncing step, that made each fold and parcel of her tumble about in a laughing sort of rhythm when she walked. She led him through the tables, to the kitchen doors, through a pale and scrubbed kitchen, where a cook sat reading a book, and to another little door.

"No need to knock, little boy."

And she tumbled away, with the chuckling movement of hips and belly and bosom and hair, and he was left with a door and the quiet swishing of the pages of the cook's novel. He opened the door and peeked in shyly. The room was small, a pantry of sorts, with shelves of glass cannisters, and a second door in the opposite wall. In the center, on an old, worn chair, sat an old, worn woman, who looked up through old, worn spectacles, with her old, worn eyes. She smiled, a slow, creaking smile, and nodded quietly.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

"You know, dear one, you'll never get to the moon making jokes." She smiled quietly.

"Oh... ok."

"Well, then. Goodnight" she rose.

"Um... goodnight."

She turned and opened the other door, it was very dark inside of it. She creaked inside and quietly shut the door.

When he came out the lights were off, and the girl was bustling around the kitchen with a feather duster. She smiled gently at the boy, and put down the duster.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

"I locked up, I'll have to let you out the back. Come on, then."

She opened a door between a deep oven and a bulletin board. The boy nodded, politely, and mumbled out a good night. The girl just smiled, and shut the door. Behind the restaurant, his bicycle stood on it's kickstand, and a lane stretched out in front of him, due east, straight toward the moon that sagged low on the horizon. The four sisters still whispered to each other across the face. HE rode on toward it. The lane became a street, and the street became a road.

The road was straight and long, and the moon was deep and bright, so that he hardly looked about him. When he did, the strip malls and ditches around him were unfamiliar. The road became a frontage, and the frontage became a parking lot, and at the end of the parking lot, there was a little restaurant with a sign hanging over the door, reading "The Mother Moon". He tied his bicycle to a rack outside, and took the concrete walk up to the door.

The restaurant was nearly empty, and it smelled of dust and neon-lights. The same plump-faced, cheery girl came up and cocked the same scrubbed face at the boy.

"Hello, little boy," she smiled, and looked at him quietly, the same stilly, calm quiet.

"I'm... I'm looking for the moon."

"Oh?"

He swallowed and spoke very quiet "It's... if I could just go once, I will do whatever I have to do, afterwards, or even before. I know I'm not... like... important enough or anything. I just... I really need to go, just once."

The girl frowned, again, more perturbed now. "Oh. Well, come with me."

She turned, and walked, with the same strange step, the same bubbling glory to her. He longed, very much, to reach out to her, to put his hand over her heart and draw in just a bit of that glory, before she went on. But, just the same, she did not stop for him. She led him through the tables, to the kitchen doors, through a pale and scrubbed kitchen, where the cook sat reading a book, and to another little door.

"No need to knock, little boy."

And she tumbled away, and he ached and ached to rest on that soft arm, or to have the little, dancing hand stroke his cheek, but he was left with a door and the quiet swishing of the pages of the cook's novel. He opened the door, to the same small room, the same jars. In the center, on an old, worn chair, sat an even older, almost battered-worn woman, who peered creakily through a pair of crumpled eyes. She smiled, a slow, creaking smile, and nodded quietly.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

"You know, dear one, you'll never get to the moon by praying." She smiled quietly.

"Oh... ok."

"Well, then. Goodnight" she rose.

"Um... goodnight."

She turned and opened the other door, it was very dark inside of it. She creaked inside and quietly shut the door.

When he came out the lights were off, and the girl smiled again, and put down her duster.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

"I locked up, I'll have to let you out the back. Come on, then."

She opened the door between the oven and corkboard, and he nodded a silent way out. Behind the restaurant, his bicycle stood on it's kickstand, and a parking lot splayed out in front of him, with a little outlet past a dumpster, due east, straight toward the moon that sagged low on the horizon. The four sisters still whispered to each other across the face. HE rode on toward it. The lot become a frontage, and the frontage become a road.

The road was straight and long, and the moon was old and sweet, so that he hardly looked about him. When he did, the green trees and little burrow-houses around him were unfamiliar. The road became a path, and the path became a track, rough and soft, so that it bent the frame of his bicycle and he pulled it carefully up behind him. At the end of the little track, there was a little restaurant with a sign hanging over the door, reading "The Small Moon". He left the bicycle in a high patch of grass, and stepped between two flower beds and through the front door.

The smell here was thicker: dust and the remains of a deep fire in the hearth. The girl was the only person.

"Hello, little boy,"

"I'm looking for the moon."

"Oh?"

He was silent a moment, just looking at the girl. Then spoke very quietly "Yes."

The girl's smile was like a sliced cauntelope, her teeth broad and pale beneath her lips. "Come, my dearie. Come with me."

She gently took the boy's hand, and they walked together. The step, the kitchen, the reading cook, the door were all just the same. She did not leave when he reached it, but she gently let his hand go, standing just behind him.

He opened the door, to the same small room, the same jars, and the same door behind a woman - so old her spine had curled into an arthritic spiral, her eyes cloudy as milk stared unseeingly toward the wall. She smiled, the face so delicate that it seemed to pull out of shape from the strain, and she spoke in a voice made of hiss and broken metal hooks.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

The woman fought frailly towards standing, and the boy leapt forward to help her, to pull at the weightlessness of her arm, and offer his own arm to lean upon. The woman nodded kindly, and opened the opposite door.

The door led to a stairwell, dark as pitch, but as his foot touched the first step, he felt the coming glow of starlight on his neck, and looking up the narrow stairs, he saw the moon at the end. The old woman and the girl were gone now, the door was gone, the restaurant and the grass were gone. There was only stairs, and he walked up them, as quietly as he could, each tap of his shoe echoing glassily across the sky. The moon grew nearer and nearer and nearer, and the four sisters whispered on in the forever secrets they were telling. The shining disc grew brighter and deeper and wider, filling the whole width of his vision as he walked. And then, just as he found himself standing just over the horizon, the stairs stopped, and there the moon stood, pale and waxy gold, covered with dust and shining with a light, a light did not burn or nourish, a filtered aura that served no end but to shine and be beautiful.

In the dust sat the selfsame girl, with a feather duster in her hand, watching him come with the smiling quiet of a hungry bird.

"Hello, little boy."

"Hi."

She leaned out from the moon, the shape of her quivering across the starlight in a great, unrestrained fullness. She reached the duster forward and playfully tickled his face with it. The dust of the moon gritted into his eyes and lips and nose, and he sneezed. The girl laughed, a tripping, soft little laugh, and a whispered chuckle washed through the bodies of the four sisters.

The little boy smiled, and leaned forward over the step, to kiss the girl's cheek. The smell of her was rich and familiar, like dust and candlewax and neon and old, spent firelight, and dust and dust and dust. HE breathed her in, warm and soft, and her cheek was deep and smooth underneath his lips.

And then, the stairs were gone. The girl was disappeared, and the four sisters whispered on forever, as the moon slipped past the horizon into the earth. He stood behind the restaurant. His bicycle, unbent and clean, leaned on it's kickstand in the narrow grass of the little track, the track that stretched off to the west, into the dark, dark hollow of the empty sky. He climbed up on his bicycle, and rode along the track; the track became a path, and the path became a road, a long, straight road toward home.

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