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Authors: Mark McGhee
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me. For my actions, for my stupidity. I robbed a man of his life. I robbed a family of their father. I robbed a mother of her son. I walk this curse. I haven’t seen him here. I look all the time but I never see him. I might never because I have no sense of him here either. Justifiably, I should never be able to seek his forgiveness. I should never be given recompense for my wrong. I see now that as I slip, I slip, I slip, that I am faceless and soulless as I walk the sleep. A thousand souls may cross my path. DAY. A thousand souls may cross my path. NIGHT but I don’t know in the sleep. I try harder not to walk it and I fall deeper and deeper into the NIGHT. I fall deeper into the sleep.
And here in the DAY I see things that make sense and do not make sense. But I have realizations here. And there, I have nightmares, and hell, and sometimes heart wrenching sadness. Anguish that defies description. Waking crying, sobbing, pleading for forgiveness.
Sitting under a Joshua tree in the Mohave desert I awoke crying. And the heat blistered me, skin and flesh I felt. Weary and thirsty I sat in the shade of a Joshua tree and prayed.
And I walked for days. My lips crusted, my eyes drying as quickly as the tears escaped. And I laughed because I am not body, I am soul, that being a lost and wayward.
A diner. I drank cold water from the soda fountain, and watched the tourists come and go for days. Cactus candy, petrified rock, rattlesnake skins, and shot glasses. I must have wandered to Arizona. It seems like I am near some place I have known. And finally, I strike out and I walk. Through the desert in search of red clay and creosote. Long and weary these DAYS are and the sun blisters my nonexistent flesh. It reddens, forms into little bubbles, pops, and falls off of me. I bite cacti and suck for an ounce of moisture. And this is better, I say, than walking the sleep, it is better to walk through this tortured hell than to walk the sleep. And I continue on and forward knowing with every step a little more of where I am going. That keeps me going, that keeps the sleep away.
Chapter 8
DAY. A small cottage sits on a little bluff above Venice beach. The time is early 1900’s. I can see this by the landscape, the lack of anything that looks like Venice beach but I know what this is. I know this place. A little girl sits in the yard playing with a doll and singing to herself. A soft cool breeze caresses my soul. The smell of salt and the absolute serenity of the waves crashing yards away with not a wisp of 20th century noise. Not a car, not, a sound but the waves, a seagull in the distance, and a little girl singing to her doll. A sailor with his sea bag strapped over his shoulder stands in the doorway smiling, smoking a cigarette, and looking at the little girl with eyes that are as blue as the sky, and adoring beyond love. Soul. Heart. Eternity.
“Daddy?” She looks up at him.
“Yes, sugar plum?”
“Where are you going now?”
“Japan, the Orient, maybe India…I showed you on the globe, honey.”
“What are you going to bring me this time?”
He flicks the cigarette over the white picket fence into the sand. Mother looks through the window in a cotton white sundress with red polka dots. She is strikingly beautiful and her eyes are sad but smiling.
“You’re papa is a merchant marine dear, not Santa!” She laughs.
The little girl giggles as he reaches down and scoops her into his thick forearms. He is short and square jawed. The look of toughness that cannot be faked. The eyes of a man who has seen more than most ever imagine.
“What do you want pumpkin pie?”
“A kitty! A Japan kitty!”
The laughter is deep.
“And a little Japanese kitty you shall have! Besides, I need something to keep me company on the voyage home!”
“Yay! I love you daddy!”
I stay here for weeks and months. I watch him leave. I watch him come home. I watch him bring a Chow dog from china for the little girl. I
And here in the DAY I see things that make sense and do not make sense. But I have realizations here. And there, I have nightmares, and hell, and sometimes heart wrenching sadness. Anguish that defies description. Waking crying, sobbing, pleading for forgiveness.
Sitting under a Joshua tree in the Mohave desert I awoke crying. And the heat blistered me, skin and flesh I felt. Weary and thirsty I sat in the shade of a Joshua tree and prayed.
And I walked for days. My lips crusted, my eyes drying as quickly as the tears escaped. And I laughed because I am not body, I am soul, that being a lost and wayward.
A diner. I drank cold water from the soda fountain, and watched the tourists come and go for days. Cactus candy, petrified rock, rattlesnake skins, and shot glasses. I must have wandered to Arizona. It seems like I am near some place I have known. And finally, I strike out and I walk. Through the desert in search of red clay and creosote. Long and weary these DAYS are and the sun blisters my nonexistent flesh. It reddens, forms into little bubbles, pops, and falls off of me. I bite cacti and suck for an ounce of moisture. And this is better, I say, than walking the sleep, it is better to walk through this tortured hell than to walk the sleep. And I continue on and forward knowing with every step a little more of where I am going. That keeps me going, that keeps the sleep away.
Chapter 8
DAY. A small cottage sits on a little bluff above Venice beach. The time is early 1900’s. I can see this by the landscape, the lack of anything that looks like Venice beach but I know what this is. I know this place. A little girl sits in the yard playing with a doll and singing to herself. A soft cool breeze caresses my soul. The smell of salt and the absolute serenity of the waves crashing yards away with not a wisp of 20th century noise. Not a car, not, a sound but the waves, a seagull in the distance, and a little girl singing to her doll. A sailor with his sea bag strapped over his shoulder stands in the doorway smiling, smoking a cigarette, and looking at the little girl with eyes that are as blue as the sky, and adoring beyond love. Soul. Heart. Eternity.
“Daddy?” She looks up at him.
“Yes, sugar plum?”
“Where are you going now?”
“Japan, the Orient, maybe India…I showed you on the globe, honey.”
“What are you going to bring me this time?”
He flicks the cigarette over the white picket fence into the sand. Mother looks through the window in a cotton white sundress with red polka dots. She is strikingly beautiful and her eyes are sad but smiling.
“You’re papa is a merchant marine dear, not Santa!” She laughs.
The little girl giggles as he reaches down and scoops her into his thick forearms. He is short and square jawed. The look of toughness that cannot be faked. The eyes of a man who has seen more than most ever imagine.
“What do you want pumpkin pie?”
“A kitty! A Japan kitty!”
The laughter is deep.
“And a little Japanese kitty you shall have! Besides, I need something to keep me company on the voyage home!”
“Yay! I love you daddy!”
I stay here for weeks and months. I watch him leave. I watch him come home. I watch him bring a Chow dog from china for the little girl. I
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