Downright Otherworldly

Note: This began as stream of consciousness fiction, but took on a little more planning. Let's call it extremely short fiction. For a blog entry, it's long.

I'm at this concert with Lindsey. It is our third date and I am definitely hoping things will go well. Our first two dates were amazing, so I figure a little live entertainment is definitely the way to go tonight. The place is nice, intimate and warm. You enter from the street at the back of the building, where the bar is. In this area, as it should be, the bar is the focal point. It has been placed symmetrically between the two openings in the building. On one side is the entrance proper, and on the other is a short hallway that looks to lead to the kitchen. The walls are 100% red brick, but laid uneven in certain parts for a more natural feel. Various murals have been painted right into them.

The bar appears like a solid block of long, rounded cherry wood stained to a very dark and smooth finish. Simple stools with dark, leather cushions stand like pylons at the front of the bar awaiting the show. Behind the bar are all manner of spirits, liquor, wine & beer lined up in fancy bottles, below cabinets matching the cherry wood finish. The cabinet doors are made of glass, to display all of the novelty tumblers and glassware. The bar is essentially on a kind of wooden stage with a balcony fence and stairs on either side. Down four or so stairs are deep navy carpeted walkways surrounding the wood floor dining area consisting of about 30 small, round tables. In the very front is the stage, perfect for tonight's acoustic guitar performance.

Lindsey and I make small talk at a volume a little bit above a loud whisper. For a room of more than 60 people, the banter is surprisingly quiet. Toward the back, a few groups have pulled tables together, but couples like us are the majority. Some are eating the fair, light appetizers and salads, most are imbibing. On my suggestion, we went without a meal and both of us have a single glass of red wine, Cabernet. We're sitting in the front.

She looks unbelievable, wearing sandals with newly manicured toes (from what I can tell about female grooming), her nicer, dark jeans, and a simple, white halterneck that complements her slightly tanned skin. Lindsey has her blonde hair down, thrown over one shoulder. She knows what she's doing. This is a wink to me, because of what I said the other...

As I was looking into Lindsey's grey-blue eyes telling her another one of my goofy jokes she loves, I noticed the old man looking at me from the table behind her. There's something about him, I'm not sure. I must have stopped my joke in midsentence because she still has that geeky smile I like, waiting in anticipation for the punchline. Then she asks me what's wrong, but the old man holds my gaze. I don't know what it is. Now, Lindsey is looking at him, transfixed.

He is very old. Completely bald on the top of his head, with incredibly smooth skin, he has long silver hair to his shoulders. He smiles. Both of us, I believe, start feeling very happy at this. With that, the man stands. He's tall, about 6'4" and lanky. He deftly grabs one of the chairs at his table and, with a sweep of his long arm and a quick stride, is seated at our table in moments. He greets us, I'm sure. He speaks mostly to Linds, and I hear him & I understand, but I don't know his words. The speech is harmonic. From what I can tell, it conveys more through tone and movement and expression than through words.

I begin to admire the man's features, and I notice something peculiar. It's his ears. They're large, of course. But, ever so slightly, and just subtly enough that most passers-by wouldn't care to notice, the ears are pointed. In fact, the longer I stare, the more distinctive they become. But then he's looking at me, smiling. He knows me. We haven't met before, but there is warmth between us, like two friends, brothers even, who survive a calamity. Maybe one brother saved the other. Just as quickly as he met us, the man is back to his own table. Strange.

I look to Lindsey who acts like the Cheshire cat. I ask her what he said and I sense something different about her in the response. She is speaking harmonically, also, but her words come through, like hearing something new for the first time in your all-time favorite song. You know the lyrics but the melody is just somehow different. Linds tells me that the musician we came to see is called Thomas Reynard and that we're in for a real treat. There's more that she isn't telling me. Something about me, it must be. She beams at me when she thinks I'm not looking. Something good, at least. Can't do me any harm to just let it be, so that's what I do.

As I'm back to admiring her, I notice that her skin is getting more tan, but then I look up to see the lights dimming. The show is starting. The whole place quiets. The whole place is dark. I hear one of the doors open at the front of the place, opposite our end. Footsteps now, I can barely make them out, but I hear footsteps. Lindsey puts her hand on mine to tell me to turn so I can see him. He is coming down the walkway closest to us. I am amazed.

Reynard is tiny. Maybe 5'5" if he combs his long, brown hair right, he has complete command of the room despite that. As he approaches the stage, I notice something peculiar. He is barefoot, walking heel to toe naturally. His features are remarkably pronounced. Reynard's small body is adorned with long arms and hands of spindly fingers. His face seems older than his years, wrinkled under the eyes from concentration & exhaustion and around the mouth from excessive smiling & laughter. His nose is long, but not oversized like his ears. His eyes are huge and greenish-brown, the kind that change in the light.

My experience now tells me to observe Reynard like a hawk. I don't hear him introduced or the spirited applause he receives until Lindsey takes her hand from mine to clap, herself. With his guitar in his left hand, Thomas waves to the audience with his right. As he sits down, he nods to the old man who responds in kind, bowing his head in respect. Reynard plays.

No song has lyrics. The emotions from them are stronger. Thomas plays in a way that makes you feel as if you're only seeing one small portion of a greater masterpiece. The feeling is palpable that certain rhythms and melodies are flying over us just as others are being received. The only audience participation is the assumption that jaws are on the floor. Each element, arrangement even, amidst a song causes various reactions. They are all joyful. Lindsey and I are amazed, together. She now has a firm grip on my hand, and mine back to hers. At different points during the performance one of us gives a squeeze. It is pure excitement.

This is downright otherworldly. I could swear as I look back toward the bar that those bar stools are swaying in time to the music. But that is nothing. The murals on the walls have come to life. Several shape notes, painted into the red brick in bright colors, dance across the ether above us and trade places between the two walls. On one wall is the mascot of the establishment: an elephant on a trampoline. As sure as Lindsey is beautiful, that elephant is doing backflips and dance moves on that trampoline. And last, behind Thomas Reynard, the grand mural of the stage has become three-dimensional. It looks almost like he is literally playing on a televised beach performance.

A feeling like this is nearly impossible to describe, but Reynard onstage is the icing on the cake. It is as if the music moves through him and down his arms and into his fingers and onto the strings and out from the guitar. He dances as a vessel possessed by its cargo, moving in time from a straight-up posture to that of a deep bow forward and back again. Each time, he leans back and stretches far, throwing his head back with his lips pursed and his eyes closed. The eyes, though, are rolled back in a dreamlike state. I picture him simply envisioning the notes and causing his fingers to respond instantly. It is a sight to behold.

Finally, Reynard closes the show and then plays his encore, bringing the audience to his true height. At the very end, out of the corner of my eye, I see that old man get up and dance around his own table faster than I've ever seen a person move. Show over, lights up, and Reynard staying to speak with audience members, Linds and I just look at each other. I think this date is a hit.

Gradually, after the shock and amazement of the incredible show begins to wear off, the specifics fade into our memories, and we regain our conversation. The old man is over with Reynard, saying goodbye, as I can tell. The man leaves, leaving us with a simple wink of his warm eyes. Soon after, Reynard walks by smiling genuinely, and looks us both in the eye. We can only smile. As he brushes his hair back, I notice it: a long, pointed ear.

As we get ready to leave, I ask Lindsey, "So, what did the old man say about me?"

She looks at me like she has good news.

Once Music is mystical

Music seems to be very mystical. I'm always astounded by the way it can fill an otherwise still room with the most vivid, nearly tangible emotions. Depending on which emotion it is, the style of music can transport us to another place, it can cause us to change shape, or even disappear. At its best, it can take the musicians creating it and transform them into one organism.

If we reduce music down to its elements, those being (for our purposes) sound, rhythm, melody and harmony, we can see how it relates right down to the very basics of our humanity. We need life, first and foremost, which is kept thriving by the cycles in nature and governed by the order of the universe. Most every entity is greater than the sum of its parts. This is especially true for human beings. A human being, soulful and alive, is all those processes physical, mental, & emotional working in concert. The pieces are useless alone, and yet something is still missing within the mechanism of the pieces together. Music is still just a theory in this stage. It takes something more transcendent to bring music out of the void.

Creativity.

Something spiritual is necessary here. It is a giving and receiving. Just as I pointed out how music transforms a group of musicians into an entity, they must first create and nourish this thing before it gives back to them. The essence is out there, always. We give it form.

I saw Once for the second time this morning and can certainly say it is another favorite, a new favorite, of mine. It will be hard for any film to top Into the Wild for its depth of meaning as it relates to my life. But Once comes as close to that meaning as I can expect. I love, love, love how John Carney juxtaposes the down-and-out natures of the lives of both Guy & Girl with the purity and heights reached by the music they make together. This is an example of sublimation at its finest. Girl, while incredibly well-adjusted, is the picture of functional destitution. She is very poor but makes enough to feed her daughter & mother. Guy, while quite secure financially, is bereft of all social graces and romanticism. He has everything he needs, save for a crucial kick in the pants that is now necessary after losing his lover. Together in music, the Girl and the Guy live out their ideal selves in their ideal lives.

The Modern Gladiator

Often, I find that the search for an applicable mythology, hero, or symbol is better served by accepting current trends. Our warriors, our adventures, our quests are not lost. They always exist in essence. Modern society mostly finds them in spirit, but there are still places where they exist in form, as well. One of these is something I like to call the Modern Gladiator: the athlete. We resist many natural things these days, and yet we still yearn for purity in our athletics. We enjoy seeing the physical form at its height. We encourage our athletes to push themselves, and nature itself, to the limit.

Athletics even offers a physical nirvana that cannot be explained or really understood, but it can be felt by the athlete and seen by spectators. This is called the Zone. An athlete who achieves this state is said to be "in the zone". They reach a heightened awareness as time slows down. Their skill sets become near-perfect. Sports fans have witnessed basketball stars make shot after shot for a stretch, as if unconscious. Every so often, a baseball pitcher goes nine innings with flawless control and wins a perfect game. My favorite is the running back who takes hit after hit but refuses to go down, or whose speed visually shifts gears as he disregards oncoming tacklers.

In fact, the modern gladiator is best exemplified in the American college football player. This young man is the titan of our age. He is the biggest, the fastest, and the strongest of us. He is the greatest physical specimen that can be seen. He can carry a 265 pound frame 40 yards in four-and-a-half seconds, or, at 210 pounds, it can take him less than 10 seconds to run a hundred meters.

Even considering all this, he is more than physics and biology. Surely he has aspirations for success based on all the hard work over the years. But something more than that must drive him. He represents an institution. At the college, fellow students, alumni, faculty, administrators, and all the members of the community that is his school support him and depend on him. He represents a program. His team has fielded many of the greats that were considered legends long before he was even born. He has a standard to live up to, from those who have gone before him, and one to bear, for those still to come. His teammates stand by his side for years and he owes them the best of himself. His coach teaches and trains and mentors as he owes each gladiator the same. The gladiator, in turn, must honor that. He represents all these things: city, institution, program, community, family. He represents himself.

Those things matter, but then they don't. Something even more must drive him. Excellence. Competition. Pursuit. He has the week to practice and make ready for the moment of truth when he simply must reach his peak, and play. When game day comes, only his best will do. The locker room is a sanctuary, simultaneously a place of peace and tension. He cannot achieve what he is here to achieve in this... safety. His ankles are taped expertly and his cleats are laced. Sometimes, other areas need taping: wrists, knees, or fingers. Braces, rubber sleeves, and other support systems required by past scars are applied. His armor is next. The major pieces are his shell & shoulder pads, his jersey, and his helmet. Trainers prepare his body for battle. Coaches prepare his mind. The gladiator looks into the eyes of his teammates, some blackened by warpaint.

The fire is team wide. Coach delivers his final pregame speech. They jump and chant together. They leave sanctuary in unison and march down some kind of tunnel. As they approach the field the gladiator hears his marching band, which has preceded his team into the hostile environment. The roar of an opposing institution overtakes the familiar music. There are gladiators on the other side, too. And their fans are united against him, flying the colors of the opposition. Blue, green, orange... he only really sees one color: red.

Everything has come to this moment. All his time and energy, and all his effort. Every defeat and every victory has led him here. In reality, it has taken him forever to get here. His mind is focused on one thing, however.

Eternity begins at kickoff.

Stream -- A Special Air

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

Sitting on the patio of the bar and lounge outside of the fancy hotel, he ordered one of his favorite drinks. There was no reason for it, and it probably wasn't an appropriate drink for the season. It was cold, and he was glad to be next to the gas heater. It doesn't matter how you feel, he thought, you always sit on the patio. The girl brought him the Gin & Tonic. Sapphire, of course.

She was attractive enough. He could find something beautiful in any woman if he tried, and especially if he knew her. He knew this girl. The trick, however, was not having to try, and he already had that. So he wasn't interested in anything. He reminded himself that that wasn't what this place was all about. Contemplation was key.

He sipped the gin and enjoyed it. It was a good one. He felt uplifted. The place began to take over as he stared over the balcony into the darkened garden. It had hardly any lights on it, so nothing attracted his attention apart from the stars along the horizon. He liked it that way. Later, he was thinking about his childhood, his memories and the stories of others, and he knew his thoughts would soon return to that seminal event in his development.

"Tom, remember when we were fishermen?" He said that to his godfather when he was no older than four years old, as they sat on the porch of his beach house staring into the glimmering ocean before them. Call it a kid being a kid, call it a vivid imagination. Call it bullshit. It was meaningless. Most people would think that. But not Tom. Tom always said he was convinced of its truth.

At that moment, on that patio, he understood what Tom meant all these years and he knew why his godfather was right. Hell, it gave him reason to consider reincarnation. That wasn't quite it, however. There was more to it: a special air about it. That was it. A special air. Like certain places he visited and certain people he met. Certain words in certain books also had a special air. In fact, many things did. The patio did. As much as he knew it was there, however, it was still beyond his grasp, like his question so many years ago. He was glad that his godfather was convinced of its truth. That was good enough for him. It gave him hope, and that was all he needed.

He took his last sip of the gin, and that's when he noticed the old man sitting at the table by the doorway of the lounge. He had a glass of dark whiskey in his left hand and a big cigar in his right. The smoke curled up from it, into the night. The man had a warmth about him. It was the smiling eyes. Having paid for the gin, plus tip, he got up and headed towards the lounge in order to leave the hotel. He walked towards the old man, and noticed the gray, wrinkled, smiling one put the whiskey down on his table. As he passed, the old man reached up and touched him kindly on the forearm.

The warmth and happiness in the old man's eyes was unfailing. Yet, he looked at him with deep intensity and spoke sincerely. "Bless you." He nodded appreciatively to the old man.

"Thank you," he said, "that honestly means a lot to me." He was just as sincere.

Then the old man asked rhetorically, "So you know what it's all about then, don't you?"

The Matrix, Myth, and Me

"Myth is the secret opening through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into human manifestation..." -- Joseph Campbell

I'm about to start reading my new book, The Matrix and Philosophy, and I thought I'd give an insight into a subject that fascinates me in all aspects of my life: myth. I use "myth" here in the academic sense, not the common sense which connotes a story that is fake. There is at least some sort of truth in every way that I use "myth". I find myself drawn to mythology and, in particular, the hero's journey. This applies especially to the messianic figure. These things are a pleasure to see in fiction, no matter the medium, and I feel compelled in some way to include mythology in my own work. Beyond that, however, there are also applications toward everyday living in the real world.

I always had a general affinity for mythic tales and stories told on an epic scale. In fact, The Matrix trilogy is one of my all-time favorites. I find myself to be one of the few people who loved the second and third installments as much as the first. Fortunately, a couple of years ago I found this Essays Collection written by someone who loved The Matrix as much as I did. Even better was the fact that he had a much deeper and more detailed understanding of the philosophical, mythological, and religious concepts & symbolism prevalent throughout the films. I highly recommend his essays, but I suggest an extra cup of coffee or two before reading. It is certainly an impressive synthesis of many of the world's cultures into one grand story.

Through these essays, I was introduced to Joseph Campbell who wrote Hero with a Thousand Faces. He also had a famous interview broadcast on PBS called The Power of Myth. Campbell is most famous for describing the hero's journey, which appears in some way or another across many cultures.

The more I've learned and read, the more enthusiastic I have become. I think it is definitely common to have the need to feel like we are doing something important. I always wanted my writing to feel like it could be something greater than the sum of its parts. Myth is where I get that feeling. So I resolved to fit into some kind of mythic framework. There are many ways to do this, and I expect it to come about naturally. I look forward both to writing straightforward about mythology but also to exploring how common, everyday life can also apply.

JT, the matrix has you.