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He thinks he's writing this. Billy, I mean. But he just works that magic-talking-book. The words really come from me. You know me. I am Johannon. I was here a few nights ago and told you a lot... a lot about how it was for me back when I was in my body... back before I met Jonathon (also known as Tomas). Well, tonight I'll tell you more.
It's cold. The girl with the tight clothes on the big window over the fireplace said 'single digits tonight.' I really don't know what that means. Never grew up with ways to measure such things... not in itty-bitty ways like they do. We had different kinds of cold. There was butterfly killing cold and flower killing cold and cabbage killing cold... water freezing cold and salt water freezing cold. Didn't have no numbers attached to it. Now everything's got a number. Streets got numbers too. Here, in this city named in Greek, Philadelphia, that starts with Second Street. 'Two Street,' folks call it.
I go out and pass through the town on nights like this. Like to see the steam rise up from them 'man hole' covers. Like to see the shops all closed up snug and tight. Few places open all night, but not too many. Not around here. Not in Society Hill. Most of the cars are parked off the street in big garages. People buy spaces... little bits of property where the machines sleep.
Sidewalks all old bricks... Houses mostly the same. White, marble steps.... Big, glossy, thick front doors... heavy brass knockers... If Ebenezer Scrooge hobbled 'round that corner and came down here right now he'd feel right at home. That's no lie. I do see people from his time... spirits, I mean. Don't know if they see me. Everybody into 'their own thing' I guess. Besides, on those nights, I am not concerned with those who've already 'passed.' On those nights I 'talk' to the living. Don't really like that term, 'living' I mean. Because I am living too. I see and feel and think and cry and laugh.... just not the same as you.
I whisper in people's ears. They don't hear the words. Maybe a few do, but only a few. And what would they hear... Some Arabic?... Some Hebrew?.... Old Spanish?... A bit of Provencal? No, they know not the words, but the truth behind them. I see a good and stalwart soul, waiting for a bus, alone at three o'clock. They press back against the plexiglass wall, out of the wind and hopefully less visible. But I hover 'round them and send reassurance. None will hurt you now - I tell them. And they feel it. For I can make myself known to base and rougher sorts... to those with knives and blades and pistols. They see me, not as Billy saw me, or as Tomas often sees me. But as I was in that 'meeting house, in that synagogue, in that house of prayer, after the Crusaders burned it all those many lifetimes ago.... My head, little more than a skull. Skin like charcoal... nose destroyed... lips curled back and burnt like bacon.... eyelids gone, but staring even so. Draped in grey, dry, tattered rags... A wraith... A specter ... A ghost.... They see and they run. I accompany the worthy individual to their place of toil and leave them at the door. They work and they go home 'alive.' I have made myself useful. I am happy.
Now I drift back to the house. The spirit of a little terrier, scared and trembling, whines and cries over his ruined body. The driver never stopped. I appear to him, not as a frightful thing, but how I truly am. He sees and recognizes our spiritual kinship. The trembling stops. He cocks his head. Listens. Shifts his weight from side to side, pants and trots off, drawn to others of his kind. Afraid no more, for all dogs go to heaven.
I am inside. The rooms are silent and dark. Some night-folk still prowl, others lie snug in their beds. I ascend the stairs, walk the hall and go in. Edith sleeps, snoring lightly, a book opened on her belly. I bend and whisper in her ear - The book. Your glasses... She stirs and puts them away, snorts and falls right back. I turn toward the cradle. The baby stands, leaning on the headboard, eyes wide open. She sees me. Her glittering eyes never blink, but cut right through me. I can't resist. I do it, flickering back to my frightful, loathsome corpse.
She laughs... claps her hands and gurgles.... I slowly back out, watching her all the way.... And she watches me right back.
As I descend the stairs and can no longer see her, the cradle begins to creak and rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click HERE to browse earlier posts.
click THERE to join me on Twitter.
Please leave a comment. I greatly
appreciate your visit. Thank you.
It's cold. The girl with the tight clothes on the big window over the fireplace said 'single digits tonight.' I really don't know what that means. Never grew up with ways to measure such things... not in itty-bitty ways like they do. We had different kinds of cold. There was butterfly killing cold and flower killing cold and cabbage killing cold... water freezing cold and salt water freezing cold. Didn't have no numbers attached to it. Now everything's got a number. Streets got numbers too. Here, in this city named in Greek, Philadelphia, that starts with Second Street. 'Two Street,' folks call it.
I go out and pass through the town on nights like this. Like to see the steam rise up from them 'man hole' covers. Like to see the shops all closed up snug and tight. Few places open all night, but not too many. Not around here. Not in Society Hill. Most of the cars are parked off the street in big garages. People buy spaces... little bits of property where the machines sleep.
Sidewalks all old bricks... Houses mostly the same. White, marble steps.... Big, glossy, thick front doors... heavy brass knockers... If Ebenezer Scrooge hobbled 'round that corner and came down here right now he'd feel right at home. That's no lie. I do see people from his time... spirits, I mean. Don't know if they see me. Everybody into 'their own thing' I guess. Besides, on those nights, I am not concerned with those who've already 'passed.' On those nights I 'talk' to the living. Don't really like that term, 'living' I mean. Because I am living too. I see and feel and think and cry and laugh.... just not the same as you.
I whisper in people's ears. They don't hear the words. Maybe a few do, but only a few. And what would they hear... Some Arabic?... Some Hebrew?.... Old Spanish?... A bit of Provencal? No, they know not the words, but the truth behind them. I see a good and stalwart soul, waiting for a bus, alone at three o'clock. They press back against the plexiglass wall, out of the wind and hopefully less visible. But I hover 'round them and send reassurance. None will hurt you now - I tell them. And they feel it. For I can make myself known to base and rougher sorts... to those with knives and blades and pistols. They see me, not as Billy saw me, or as Tomas often sees me. But as I was in that 'meeting house, in that synagogue, in that house of prayer, after the Crusaders burned it all those many lifetimes ago.... My head, little more than a skull. Skin like charcoal... nose destroyed... lips curled back and burnt like bacon.... eyelids gone, but staring even so. Draped in grey, dry, tattered rags... A wraith... A specter ... A ghost.... They see and they run. I accompany the worthy individual to their place of toil and leave them at the door. They work and they go home 'alive.' I have made myself useful. I am happy.
Now I drift back to the house. The spirit of a little terrier, scared and trembling, whines and cries over his ruined body. The driver never stopped. I appear to him, not as a frightful thing, but how I truly am. He sees and recognizes our spiritual kinship. The trembling stops. He cocks his head. Listens. Shifts his weight from side to side, pants and trots off, drawn to others of his kind. Afraid no more, for all dogs go to heaven.
I am inside. The rooms are silent and dark. Some night-folk still prowl, others lie snug in their beds. I ascend the stairs, walk the hall and go in. Edith sleeps, snoring lightly, a book opened on her belly. I bend and whisper in her ear - The book. Your glasses... She stirs and puts them away, snorts and falls right back. I turn toward the cradle. The baby stands, leaning on the headboard, eyes wide open. She sees me. Her glittering eyes never blink, but cut right through me. I can't resist. I do it, flickering back to my frightful, loathsome corpse.
She laughs... claps her hands and gurgles.... I slowly back out, watching her all the way.... And she watches me right back.
As I descend the stairs and can no longer see her, the cradle begins to creak and rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click HERE to browse earlier posts.
click THERE to join me on Twitter.
Please leave a comment. I greatly
appreciate your visit. Thank you.
