11. The Penelope Epistle

Gifted players roam the diamond, alone and separate. They are united and bound by a common duty. Grantland Rice’s poetic observation about the end of their game is the only placard at the entrance to the exclusive gates honoring all those who made the most of their talent. These are the one’s players who lived with passion maximizing every fiber with focus and integrity. Dylan’s cowboy angel, paraclete of inspiration, is said to usher those who have strained and stretched their adroitness until the final exhale, right behind the poor and lonely who were at the head of the line at the Gates of Eden. Sons and daughters of Apollo who channel the omnipotent one’s voice as well as the one’s who transform canvas or stone into the all the truth that’s known joined hand in hand with the players entering into the kingdom. Yet, there is a little known secret about those who take words and weave them into celestial inspired versed tapestries.  The wonderful sanctifier has a special space set aside in paradise for these transcribers of the ineffable. On the other hand a few theologians propose that the reason for the secure solitudinal sanctuary was that it is better to keep this brood of authors and poets separated and secluded from the general population, (as they may tend to cause a ruckus in the promised land.)

 

Al Hendle’s spirit stood outside the great door of the writers’ sacred shelter. Some former paupered utopian monk observed for Al that the spirits of a few of the literati gang gathered around the table inside beyond the great wooden door. The monk suspected that someone might have sneaked in some whiskey, tea, absinthe and different forms of rolled tobacco to the room. Al leaned with his ears as close as he could to the door and recognized the voices of some of the souls speaking on the other side.

 

They are boisterous but not combative; brilliant and yet compassionate; and, filled with wisdom while never being prideful or haughty. One spoke of writing with truth as the only way and another saying

 

“Yes but it must be with fierceness.”

 

One with a clear proper Irish accent sounded so familiar expressed concern about how his language was a type of penance for his sins while another laughed and spoke about holding his breath. He probably was unaware of where he was. A female voice, gentleness exemplified, broke through the loudness about how she needed to write as it was the only thing she knew. The group now silent attentive to the imploring of a male’s peace-filled utterances that resonated throughout the room proclaiming that writing for ones self is lustful as it is painful and that writing for God is what brings true joy and peace to others.

 

Al was working the door handle trying to find his way into the room….

 

WAP! ---Suddenly a fist penetrated about a quarter inch into the upper right arm of Jake as he was driving.

“ Jake…. Jake wake up you were off drifting somewhere. What were you thinking? Did you hear me? Turn right onto the highway, here, now, Jake, Jake…”

Startled Jake came out of his fog

“What? “

“ Turn right! “

He swerved the Black Beauty without touching the brakes or slowing her down.

Sundance muttered something about swerving and searched for his cigarettes.

“Catharsis!”, Jake thought. He wanted to revisit and join in on his daydream conversation.

 

“Writing brings catharsis!”

 

Jake thought a lot about the purging and cleansing process. He thought of a line that he would scribble in his journal if Sundance would take the wheel for a minute 

 

“I feel a little moody blue filled with letters never meant to send, missing beauty, seeking truth trying to discern with the princess what is real or not.”

 

He didn’t ask Sundance to take the wheel. as he tried to recall that line for some future use. More words, more ideas pin-balled here and there inside his head with “tilt” alarms blaring when he realized that he needed to pay attention to the road now if he was to get them back to Fairfield safely.

 

As Jake was off in the middle of this self absorbed world Sundance was looking for matches to light his last Marlboro when he found a poorly folded piece of loose leaf notebook paper in the glove compartment. His hand carefully unfolded the paper and saw it was a letter of some sort addressed to Isabella. Jake was preoccupied looking for highway signs directing back to Fairfield. Sundance thought he would take a quick read in silence.

 

 

My Dearest Isabella

 

In the beginning the words were good. Good words in good books, you know. One in particular that is illusive in reality.  I hope I wake up from this Ebenezer dream soon. I hope to discover the good words within my own spirit.

 

I was disappointed to read the Spanish mystic’s words that we will not be measured by how much we have read but what we have done. I wonder should I stop reading then?  I wonder about what I have done or what will I do. It all doesn’t matter; Fr. Adolph said I would never live up to my potential. No one ever shared what my potential. . I guess it’s a secret.

 

 Are the use of talents and gifts dependent on whether others in this world appreciate or like how you use your gifts…or is it a matter of at least trying? When I am gone please don’t put a resume in my obit. If you must publish something or place a word on a grave stone just say “Well, at least he tried!”

 

In the mornings I try to harmonize with the lonesome sparrow’s song. While walking with my dog Argos in the crisp air of a newly broken dawn it is obvious that so much just seems to come natural to her. She just is. She seems to be the only creature on earth I know who is capable of giving unconditional love ay all times. I never see her worry; she always trusts and is friendly all ways to all creatures she encounters. She is always patient, always kind.

 

Normally I like walking in the rain but when the cold winter sleet pelts one’s face it is difficult to say walking in the rain is good. Yet, Argos doesn’t seem to mind the wind and the frozen condensation. She walked with me tirelessly for hours on that cold darkest of dark rainy nights when I received the news of Al’s passing. She never complained. Do you believe in guardian angels? It was obvious that Argos would guide me through the maze of this odyssey on an unchartered sea to get back to where I once belonged.

 

I will be heading up to visit Sundance in the next week or so. I have never visited him at his college. As I looked at a map I realized that Fairfield, Connecticut is really not too far from home. I should have known that after driving up to visit you in Boston last year. I drove right by Fairfield. I guess I was preoccupied with other thoughts and never noticed any signs. I need to pay more attention to the roads I travel. I think I have missed much when I spend my time worrying about the endgame and not where I am at any particular moment. Tennyson understood.

 

I don’t want to ruin my visit with Sundance but I think I need to talk to him. Sundance was annoyed that I didn’t call him when I found out about Al’s death? You remember don’t you?  I couldn’t speak to anyone. Anger, fear, sailing my tattooed vessel out of control on an ocean of grief.  I wrote Sundance a letter about Al and how I felt. I think I sent it. I don’t remember. I forget. I don’t recall much about that week or that month. Disoriented without the aid of alcohol, who would have thought! Sundance chastised me for not calling him directly. I never thought of his love for Al or his own grief.

 

I should ask Sundance if he ever got that letter. But then I would have to talk about that week and try to explain how I felt and why I wrote a letter. God only knows what I will do. I am not even sure if I will finish this letter or even send it. Not even sure why I write these things or write at all in the first place.

 

I don’t even know if you and I will ever speak again or if I will ever see you again. Should I worry about this or how others will remember me? Should I even think about being remembered at all?  I don’t think Al worries about any of those questions anymore.  But I do admit that when I hear a basketball bouncing down the street or hear a banjo being plucked or the refrain from Dylan’s “Hard Rain” I think of Al. He’s the reason I always have a copy of “Catcher…” with me and I am grateful for that…for him.

 

I am rambling again…it’s the one thing I do best….

 

Peace

 

Jake

 

 

 

Sundance folded the sheet quickly returning it to the glove compartment. He lit his cigarette subtly staring silently at Jake’s pensive reflection in the rain-coated windshield as they pulled into Fairfield University’s parking lot.

 

Jake abruptly jarringly jammed the gear into park with a smile of relief and accomplishment… and with an uncomfortable giggle he blurted…

 

“Almost home!”