Adam and I enter the little plaza adjacent to the Santuario. The lights are brighter here chasing the remnants of the yellow orbs of the candles of the altar from our sight. There are about twenty people standing, sitting around talking and resting. Walkers? Maybe. But it is almost Good Friday Eve and the locals will be coming at all hours now to hear mass.
I see the little cafe on the edge of the plaza is open. Offering coffee, hot chocolate and food for sale to the people. We head to the front of the church. I limp along even though I have my cane. We stand at the main entrance. I see canes and walking sticks leaning against the wall by the front door. Not sure what this means. Are people with walking problems to be healed? Or is it bad form to take a stick inside? I keep mine so I can make it down the wide flagstone steps that lead to the main sanctuary. The darkness outside is soon eclipsed by the bright, warm, yellowness of the interior.
Crude wooden pews line either side of the aisle many of them filled up with people here for the mass. The ceiling above us is almost two stories high with dark, wooden beams supporting it. Primitive images of saints on wooden placards form the altar and
accentuate the walls. This church has been here in one form or another
since 1810. You can feel the history sink into you. I find it impossible
that anyone being here could fail to be affected by the mystery of this
place.
There are statues of saints hidden in niches. Red, black and white, and the dark color of the wood, is the color scheme. A medium sized crucifix hangs central above the altar a few feet up. It is a broken Christ figure. He sags more than hangs upon the cross. His flesh darkened by the smoke from many candles.
This smoke carries the prayers of the faithful, the hopeful, the needy, upwards. Adam and I scoot into
an unoccupied pew. I struggle. My legs don't want to work. We sit down and now see the priest whose voice we heard amplified outside. He is sitting down up near the altar table.
He holds a microphone. He speaks with a spanish accent that is formal
and classical in its sound. He leads the congregation in the prayer
"...Hail Mary, full of grace....." repeating it over and over again. I
keep hearing the phrase "...now and at the hour of our death...". Adam and I sit and pray, heads bowed for a few minutes. We look up and gently, quietly, stand to take our leave. Although this has always been a most welcoming place, we are still strangers in a way.
It is an international shrine but this church belongs to the people who
live here in Chimayo. For in spite of the presence of such sacredness
this village has a lot of troubles. Drugs mostly. They have been sold
hereabouts for decades. There has been violence and death from the wars
fought over the drug trade. Yet this church still stands as a symbol of
that which transcends the flesh.
Now Adam and I make our way to the front, heads bowed, and walk through the little doorway that leads to a side room. It is here where the miraculous resides. There are homemade shrines to
El Nino. The child Christ. People leave baby shoes for him as offerings
and gifts. The walls are covered in the photos of loved ones but also
in discarded crutches and canes hung neatly on horizontal wooden rods.
They offer testament to a faith I cannot begin to fathom. Do all of
these crutches represent a healing of failing flesh? I don't know.
Adam and I wait now outside an even smaller doorway inside this room. It
leads to a tiny room where El Pocito is. The "little well". Pilgrims
wait their turn to enter to be where the holy dirt is kept. We squeeze
inside when our turn comes. The room is about five feet by five feet in
size. There are some altar shelves, more religious images, and a few
candles that light and heat the room with their little flames. People
are kneeling and gathering a brown, fine, silt like soil from a frisbee
sized hole in the crude concrete floor. Ziploc bags and baby food jars
are filled with the dirt. It has, according to belief, curative powers.
Rub it on an affected body part and be healed. I have read of those who
make it into a mud poultice to apply and still others who eat small
amounts of it for its power. Whatever it does or doesn't do, this ritual
always moves me. In the end it is about faith in a thing larger than
ourselves and this world. It is a symbol of a mystery.
Adam and I make our way outside into the cool darkness. We don't talk
much. We are still taking in the meaning of this wonderful, mysterious
thing we will never understand.
Now we go into the little cafe. Besides fresh hot food and drinks, they
sell small bags of Chimayo's famous, red, chile powder. I buy some to
give to friends at home. Adam tosses a small hand wrapped cellophane
package of biscochitos (cookies) onto my pile. The young girl behind the
counter rings up our purchase. I gaze at the images hanging around the
cafe. Then Adam says "Dad. Quick buy something else. Anything." I turn
to look at the total listed in black and white numbers in the window of
the old cash register. It reads 6.66. I grab another package of
bisochitos and the chicana, oblivious to our alarm, rings it all up.
Wow. Satan's number. What did that mean? An odd, darkly poetic,
coincidence? I have no idea but Adam and I laugh about it as we walk
back down into the darkness to our car. There are more pilgrims arriving
now. It is past midnight. The stars turn above us. The creek talks. We
are both weary, but happy, in this moment. Soon this place will be the
center of the world.
Quietus.
-Jeff Falk
Showing posts with label Writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writings. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
THE WALK Part 6
PART 6
Now our final lap. Adam and I have been walking about an hour since we took the turnoff. We can see the lights of the homes in the village of Chimayo just below us. From here on out the rest of the walk seems to fall away. The details of it not as clear as all those leading up to these last moments. It is because we are tired but also excited by the fact we have reached our destination. It is just before midnight New Mexico time.
Through the darkness we see the outline of the Santuario ahead a few yards. It has a few lights on but its presence is made known to us more because of an antumbral effect. Its dark mass is outlined in a halo from the lights of the plaza on its north side.
We begin walking a steeper way down as we enter the little road that takes us into the parking lot on the south side of the church. There are many cars there. But the lot is nowhere near as full as it will be by Good Friday dawn which will be here in about six hours. We hear dogs barking somewhere. The marvelous singing sound of the creek that runs north to south along the east side of the church property can be heard. Besides its gurgling it makes you can actually smell
the water. An unseen coolness creeps up to welcome and surround us. My arthritic limbs balk at this intrusion. I have still not worn my coat. But now I will put it on.
There is the smell of plants and growing vegetation around us. Spring is coming to this place. In the dark Adam and walk along towards our car. We will leave some of our burdens in it. Our water bottles, fanny pack. I'll keep the cane. And now as we head towards the church we see the outline of two large television trucks ahead of us. The crews are working slow but sure, walking and carrying lengths of black cable and extra light sources. The news people want to be ready for the dawn. Ready to interview members of the steady stream of pilgrims as they enter the gateway of the little garden at the front of the Santuario. They do this every year.
Adam and I high five in the darkness as our footsteps crunch on the gravel of the parking lot. He says something and then we hug. We made it! With each step up the walk that borders the east side of the church it is getting a little brighter. More lights.
The concrete walkway is delineated by a chain link fence. It holds several crude, wooden, crosses that people have made from the small pieces of cottonwood branches they find on the grounds. You can take two sticks and wedge them into a cruciform shape in the chain link. Simple enough. But when there are hundreds of crosses in the net of the fence the effect is very dramatic. I think I know what these crosses are. They are prayers.
Now we smell food cooking. There are a few pilgrims gathered around a crude little food stand to our left. It is selling some kind of homemade spicy food served in large styrofoam cups. I bet it is spiced with good Chimayo chile. The stand sells hot coffee and soda pop too. Smells good but we keep walking up to the plaza. Now we hear an amplified voice reciting. There is a speaker mounted up under the eaves of the east side of the church. Is it a recording or live? It is an eloquent voice. Sounds like a prayer or scripture being read. At the top of the walkway to the right we now see the lights of many candles burning in the stone shrine there. I see photographs of what I assume are loved ones propped up against the glasses of many of the candles. Rosaries and religious scapulars are hung, draped among these offerings.
I see an image of Saint Michael in the shrine. He's my saint. I pray to him a lot. Can't hurt. He's the big kahuna of angels. He is an archangel and his legend can be found in Jewish, Christian and Islamic teachings. This is a big deal. He is the saint of protection for soldiers and policemen. He also protects all against darker, unseen more esoteric forces. You don't have to be a solider or a cop to make requests of him. Though a protector, Michael is also seen as a "psychopomp", a strange word, it means "conductor for the souls of the dead". Like a Walmart greeter for the afterlife I guess. The "Michael" named in the old folk song "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore" is purported to be him. He is rowing to shore to gather souls.
Now we are almost at our destination.
NEXT: Quietus
-Jeff Falk
Now our final lap. Adam and I have been walking about an hour since we took the turnoff. We can see the lights of the homes in the village of Chimayo just below us. From here on out the rest of the walk seems to fall away. The details of it not as clear as all those leading up to these last moments. It is because we are tired but also excited by the fact we have reached our destination. It is just before midnight New Mexico time.
Through the darkness we see the outline of the Santuario ahead a few yards. It has a few lights on but its presence is made known to us more because of an antumbral effect. Its dark mass is outlined in a halo from the lights of the plaza on its north side.
We begin walking a steeper way down as we enter the little road that takes us into the parking lot on the south side of the church. There are many cars there. But the lot is nowhere near as full as it will be by Good Friday dawn which will be here in about six hours. We hear dogs barking somewhere. The marvelous singing sound of the creek that runs north to south along the east side of the church property can be heard. Besides its gurgling it makes you can actually smell
the water. An unseen coolness creeps up to welcome and surround us. My arthritic limbs balk at this intrusion. I have still not worn my coat. But now I will put it on.
There is the smell of plants and growing vegetation around us. Spring is coming to this place. In the dark Adam and walk along towards our car. We will leave some of our burdens in it. Our water bottles, fanny pack. I'll keep the cane. And now as we head towards the church we see the outline of two large television trucks ahead of us. The crews are working slow but sure, walking and carrying lengths of black cable and extra light sources. The news people want to be ready for the dawn. Ready to interview members of the steady stream of pilgrims as they enter the gateway of the little garden at the front of the Santuario. They do this every year.
Adam and I high five in the darkness as our footsteps crunch on the gravel of the parking lot. He says something and then we hug. We made it! With each step up the walk that borders the east side of the church it is getting a little brighter. More lights.
The concrete walkway is delineated by a chain link fence. It holds several crude, wooden, crosses that people have made from the small pieces of cottonwood branches they find on the grounds. You can take two sticks and wedge them into a cruciform shape in the chain link. Simple enough. But when there are hundreds of crosses in the net of the fence the effect is very dramatic. I think I know what these crosses are. They are prayers.
Now we smell food cooking. There are a few pilgrims gathered around a crude little food stand to our left. It is selling some kind of homemade spicy food served in large styrofoam cups. I bet it is spiced with good Chimayo chile. The stand sells hot coffee and soda pop too. Smells good but we keep walking up to the plaza. Now we hear an amplified voice reciting. There is a speaker mounted up under the eaves of the east side of the church. Is it a recording or live? It is an eloquent voice. Sounds like a prayer or scripture being read. At the top of the walkway to the right we now see the lights of many candles burning in the stone shrine there. I see photographs of what I assume are loved ones propped up against the glasses of many of the candles. Rosaries and religious scapulars are hung, draped among these offerings.
I see an image of Saint Michael in the shrine. He's my saint. I pray to him a lot. Can't hurt. He's the big kahuna of angels. He is an archangel and his legend can be found in Jewish, Christian and Islamic teachings. This is a big deal. He is the saint of protection for soldiers and policemen. He also protects all against darker, unseen more esoteric forces. You don't have to be a solider or a cop to make requests of him. Though a protector, Michael is also seen as a "psychopomp", a strange word, it means "conductor for the souls of the dead". Like a Walmart greeter for the afterlife I guess. The "Michael" named in the old folk song "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore" is purported to be him. He is rowing to shore to gather souls.
Now we are almost at our destination.
NEXT: Quietus
-Jeff Falk
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
THE WALK Part 5
PART 5
Adam and I approach the north turn in the road that will take us down into Chimayo. Its hard to miss tonight. There is a very bright floodlight, with a generator running, on a tall steel pole lighting up the landscape for several yards all around. The rabbit brush and juniper clumps throw strange, angular, shadows in all directions.
The New Mexico authorities go to a lot of trouble to do what they can to help make the walk safe at night with patrols, signs and lights like this. While this light clearly marks the turn off for the pilgrims it is blinding. Seems to take away some of the, I don't know, sacredness of it all.
Then again a light is just a light.
Adam and I cut the corner on the left side of the turnoff. Instead of following the paved road we walk off onto the west sandy shoulder. We pass through a cattle gate, or stile, entrance through the livestock fence. Its a narrow opening, slightly angled, to prevent cows from walking through.
We make it through and begin the last leg of our trip.
Normally this portion of the road can be quite rigorous. Car traffic picks up the closer you get to the Santuario. Walkers are forced to edge along the uneven rocky shoulder to stay out of the way of approaching headlights. But this year the state has paved a wide shoulder to the left of the road. New guardrails have been installed as well. Man this is easy walking! Like our own personal freeway. But now we head downhill. Shins and calves begin earnest aching. No matter. We are almost there.
I have used a wooden cane as a support and aid all along this trek. I feel like a wuss. But on a hike like this arthritis in my knees, hips and legs gets nasty and uncooperative for steady movement. I understand why walking staffs have been in use since past centuries. The stick can help you move along at a brisker pace. You can cheat and make your joints and muscles behave in more of a way you want them to. Over the years I have seen walkers who seemed barely able to stand upright let alone walk. And as if walking alone isn't enough to challenge you I have witnessed pilgrims carrying full sized wooden crosses on their shoulders while others have large effigies of saints literally strapped to their backs. Burdens of choice I suppose. Those people are strong beyond my comprehension.
Adam and I trudge on through the darkness sometimes passing other walkers who are either slowing down or are taking their time valuing this experience step by step. Sometimes walkers breeze past us, their steps quickened by the knowledge that they are almost to their destination. We pass walkers sitting on the new guardrail taking a break. They are silhouettes to us for now the moon is obscured by clouds again. We nod or whisper words of encouragement to them as we walk by.
As usual I can't let the simplicity of this walk be. I have always wondered what is it that compels human beings to do it. Not just to be moving on just this particular path but to walk pilgrimage trails all over the world. Over the ages mainly religious motivations I guess. The annual thousand year old holy Hajj pilgrimages to Mecca, and even Chaucer's edgy Canterbury Tales, remind us that walking is the one thing we can do that no one can take away from us.
I think the Buddhists call it kinhin. Walking meditation. But you don't have to believe in anything to make a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage doesn't have to be done as an offering to God or to an ideal. So there the mystery begins. The act of pilgrimage seems like a wavelength that human bodies and souls can plug in to and share.
For myself an important defining meaning to a pilgrimage, for whatever reason it is undertaken, seems to be the fact that it is a voluntary act. Its a personal choice. If your walk takes you where you want to go, or ends badly, fulfills some inner need or not, it is/was your choice to make. It is a way of saying "Whatever may come I have chosen to do this." Lets face it, for many people, there are little or no choices they get to make in their lives. Some folks have it made. Others never win.
The strange inequities of this life seem to sweep us all along in directions we would not wish to go.
But on a pilgrimage the pilgrim makes the choice to do it. Its freeing in that it feels as if, for once, we get to choose our direction on the big path of reality.
I'll shut up now.
NEXT: ARRIVAL
Adam and I approach the north turn in the road that will take us down into Chimayo. Its hard to miss tonight. There is a very bright floodlight, with a generator running, on a tall steel pole lighting up the landscape for several yards all around. The rabbit brush and juniper clumps throw strange, angular, shadows in all directions.
The New Mexico authorities go to a lot of trouble to do what they can to help make the walk safe at night with patrols, signs and lights like this. While this light clearly marks the turn off for the pilgrims it is blinding. Seems to take away some of the, I don't know, sacredness of it all.
Then again a light is just a light.
Adam and I cut the corner on the left side of the turnoff. Instead of following the paved road we walk off onto the west sandy shoulder. We pass through a cattle gate, or stile, entrance through the livestock fence. Its a narrow opening, slightly angled, to prevent cows from walking through.
We make it through and begin the last leg of our trip.
Normally this portion of the road can be quite rigorous. Car traffic picks up the closer you get to the Santuario. Walkers are forced to edge along the uneven rocky shoulder to stay out of the way of approaching headlights. But this year the state has paved a wide shoulder to the left of the road. New guardrails have been installed as well. Man this is easy walking! Like our own personal freeway. But now we head downhill. Shins and calves begin earnest aching. No matter. We are almost there.
I have used a wooden cane as a support and aid all along this trek. I feel like a wuss. But on a hike like this arthritis in my knees, hips and legs gets nasty and uncooperative for steady movement. I understand why walking staffs have been in use since past centuries. The stick can help you move along at a brisker pace. You can cheat and make your joints and muscles behave in more of a way you want them to. Over the years I have seen walkers who seemed barely able to stand upright let alone walk. And as if walking alone isn't enough to challenge you I have witnessed pilgrims carrying full sized wooden crosses on their shoulders while others have large effigies of saints literally strapped to their backs. Burdens of choice I suppose. Those people are strong beyond my comprehension.
Adam and I trudge on through the darkness sometimes passing other walkers who are either slowing down or are taking their time valuing this experience step by step. Sometimes walkers breeze past us, their steps quickened by the knowledge that they are almost to their destination. We pass walkers sitting on the new guardrail taking a break. They are silhouettes to us for now the moon is obscured by clouds again. We nod or whisper words of encouragement to them as we walk by.
As usual I can't let the simplicity of this walk be. I have always wondered what is it that compels human beings to do it. Not just to be moving on just this particular path but to walk pilgrimage trails all over the world. Over the ages mainly religious motivations I guess. The annual thousand year old holy Hajj pilgrimages to Mecca, and even Chaucer's edgy Canterbury Tales, remind us that walking is the one thing we can do that no one can take away from us.
I think the Buddhists call it kinhin. Walking meditation. But you don't have to believe in anything to make a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage doesn't have to be done as an offering to God or to an ideal. So there the mystery begins. The act of pilgrimage seems like a wavelength that human bodies and souls can plug in to and share.
For myself an important defining meaning to a pilgrimage, for whatever reason it is undertaken, seems to be the fact that it is a voluntary act. Its a personal choice. If your walk takes you where you want to go, or ends badly, fulfills some inner need or not, it is/was your choice to make. It is a way of saying "Whatever may come I have chosen to do this." Lets face it, for many people, there are little or no choices they get to make in their lives. Some folks have it made. Others never win.
The strange inequities of this life seem to sweep us all along in directions we would not wish to go.
But on a pilgrimage the pilgrim makes the choice to do it. Its freeing in that it feels as if, for once, we get to choose our direction on the big path of reality.
I'll shut up now.
NEXT: ARRIVAL
Saturday, May 12, 2012
THE WALK PART 4
We had been walking for over two and a half hours. The road was flat enough to enjoy now.
A steady pace achieved with less effort. The moon shined down upon us in longer intervals. The clouds seemed to fly north towards our destination. The town of Chimayo where the Santuario is. A two hundred year old plus church with many legends about it. It has been called "the Lourdes of America" for its native, silt like, dirt that can be found inside an uneven concrete hole in the little room adjacent to the main chapel.
In other words Lourdes offers holy water to its pilgrims. This high desert sanctuary has holy dirt. And like the water of Lourdes this dirt supposedly has curative powers. More on this a little later.
We set a good rhythm now. Adam and I seem to walk in unison. I say a few prayers to remind myself why
we do this. Usually I have a reason or a cause to dedicate the walk to. A cure for a friend's illness. World peace. That the mystery of this strange experience called life, or the world, might be revealed.
I feel like a faker in that so many others walk this road for days. Some coming from Albuquerque, a hundred miles away, or even farther. They start a few days in advance of Good Friday. These are the real pilgrims. Compelled by faith, or the lack thereof, that they walk to gain spiritual knowledge, or a blessing, seems to me a sacred undertaking. Name a religion that now exists. It will have pilgrimage as part of its history. Its a universal, human phenomenon.
It is said this pilgrimage thing was begun in 1945 by the survivors of the Bataan Death March. Another story says it was started by the mothers of servicemen in the war then. To intensify their requests/prayers to God for their loved ones safe return home.
And here we are stumbling through the darkness, amateurs. But it is beautiful. The night. The walk. We are lucky to be here. Very lucky. We see the landscape illuminated by moonlight far off to the north ahead of us. Adam tells me he thinks he can see the turnoff to Chimayo over the next set of hills. This is the last leg to the chapel. Its a few miles long. It has a lot of ups and downs offering a compact, intensified, short distance very challenging to weary legs. I tell him we have been this way before and to remember its always further than it looks.
I glance to the west and see the sparkling lights of the place called Los Alamos. This "city" was created in WWII. Made up mostly of barracks then, it was built to house the scientists who came there to develop the first atomic weapons ever used in wartime. The output of their efforts was used to make two bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They still do a lot of weapons research there to this day for the U.S. government. I ponder the strange juxtaposition of it all. That this intensely spiritual land is home to both faith and fury. It all has a mythlike, darkly poetic, symmetry. I don't know what else to think about it.
It doesn't matter for now we walk. Thanks be.
NEXT: ARRIVAL
A steady pace achieved with less effort. The moon shined down upon us in longer intervals. The clouds seemed to fly north towards our destination. The town of Chimayo where the Santuario is. A two hundred year old plus church with many legends about it. It has been called "the Lourdes of America" for its native, silt like, dirt that can be found inside an uneven concrete hole in the little room adjacent to the main chapel.
In other words Lourdes offers holy water to its pilgrims. This high desert sanctuary has holy dirt. And like the water of Lourdes this dirt supposedly has curative powers. More on this a little later.
We set a good rhythm now. Adam and I seem to walk in unison. I say a few prayers to remind myself why
we do this. Usually I have a reason or a cause to dedicate the walk to. A cure for a friend's illness. World peace. That the mystery of this strange experience called life, or the world, might be revealed.
I feel like a faker in that so many others walk this road for days. Some coming from Albuquerque, a hundred miles away, or even farther. They start a few days in advance of Good Friday. These are the real pilgrims. Compelled by faith, or the lack thereof, that they walk to gain spiritual knowledge, or a blessing, seems to me a sacred undertaking. Name a religion that now exists. It will have pilgrimage as part of its history. Its a universal, human phenomenon.
It is said this pilgrimage thing was begun in 1945 by the survivors of the Bataan Death March. Another story says it was started by the mothers of servicemen in the war then. To intensify their requests/prayers to God for their loved ones safe return home.
And here we are stumbling through the darkness, amateurs. But it is beautiful. The night. The walk. We are lucky to be here. Very lucky. We see the landscape illuminated by moonlight far off to the north ahead of us. Adam tells me he thinks he can see the turnoff to Chimayo over the next set of hills. This is the last leg to the chapel. Its a few miles long. It has a lot of ups and downs offering a compact, intensified, short distance very challenging to weary legs. I tell him we have been this way before and to remember its always further than it looks.
I glance to the west and see the sparkling lights of the place called Los Alamos. This "city" was created in WWII. Made up mostly of barracks then, it was built to house the scientists who came there to develop the first atomic weapons ever used in wartime. The output of their efforts was used to make two bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They still do a lot of weapons research there to this day for the U.S. government. I ponder the strange juxtaposition of it all. That this intensely spiritual land is home to both faith and fury. It all has a mythlike, darkly poetic, symmetry. I don't know what else to think about it.
It doesn't matter for now we walk. Thanks be.
NEXT: ARRIVAL
Sunday, May 6, 2012
THE WALK Part 3
Now Adam and I are walking up on a fairly flat straight a way of the
road. A relief I tell you. Though we have only been an hour and a half
my hips were beginning to yell at me. No matter how far we walk on this
pilgrimage it always seems to tire us out significantly. Mainly blisters
and bone aches. Limping for a few days afterwards is par for the
course. We think its because we're flat landers. The elevation here is
6000 ft. High enough to notice in our breathing as we walk.
Maybe that's what tires us out. At this point in the journey we are good to go. Its early.
Darkness all around. The breeze continues but I still haven't put on my coat. Walking keeps me warm. Up ahead a few yards on the opposite side of the road from us we see bare bulbs lit edging a temporary tent infringing on the dark. Another pilgrim stop.
The beautiful moon exposes itself occasionally. The clouds are blown away from its face flooding silver light almost bright enough to read by upon us. I notice the distances on either side of the road and see crouching blue dark shapes. Clusters of pinon or juniper. The gray of rabbit brush clumps. It feels like walking in an O'Keefe painting. If she had made one about the night.
There are automobiles that do travel this road during the pilgrimage. At all hours. They are the locals or the curious coming and going. Orange reflective signs that read WALKERS AHEAD are at several points along the way warning the drivers to keep an eye out. Nevertheless there are accidents. Some pilgrim is struck by a car. Usually minimal injuries. But still. Emergency vehicles patrol this roadway all night. Their bright read and blue lights encroach upon our walking revery. We ignore the lights mostly.
Now Adam and I need something to drink. I could sure use a coffee. We look up the road and see no lights coming and we scramble across to the pilgrim stop. Nice people again. Coffee, tea and hot cider urns sit on a table. We grab steaming cups and move on thanking them as we leave. Now we settle into a good pace again. Adam announces "We have walked 10,000 steps so far" as he reads his electronic pedometer. I smile to myself recalling the familiar buddhist bromide about the beginning first step of any journey.
This is a good thing. I am alive. It is so wonderful to be here. The world falls away. I am not an artist. I am not an employee of anyone. I have no citizenship anywhere. I am walking. A simple thing done by all people for a million years. Thats what people do. We walk. Each life is a journey.
NEXT: LIGHTS ON THE ROAD
Maybe that's what tires us out. At this point in the journey we are good to go. Its early.
Darkness all around. The breeze continues but I still haven't put on my coat. Walking keeps me warm. Up ahead a few yards on the opposite side of the road from us we see bare bulbs lit edging a temporary tent infringing on the dark. Another pilgrim stop.
The beautiful moon exposes itself occasionally. The clouds are blown away from its face flooding silver light almost bright enough to read by upon us. I notice the distances on either side of the road and see crouching blue dark shapes. Clusters of pinon or juniper. The gray of rabbit brush clumps. It feels like walking in an O'Keefe painting. If she had made one about the night.
There are automobiles that do travel this road during the pilgrimage. At all hours. They are the locals or the curious coming and going. Orange reflective signs that read WALKERS AHEAD are at several points along the way warning the drivers to keep an eye out. Nevertheless there are accidents. Some pilgrim is struck by a car. Usually minimal injuries. But still. Emergency vehicles patrol this roadway all night. Their bright read and blue lights encroach upon our walking revery. We ignore the lights mostly.
Now Adam and I need something to drink. I could sure use a coffee. We look up the road and see no lights coming and we scramble across to the pilgrim stop. Nice people again. Coffee, tea and hot cider urns sit on a table. We grab steaming cups and move on thanking them as we leave. Now we settle into a good pace again. Adam announces "We have walked 10,000 steps so far" as he reads his electronic pedometer. I smile to myself recalling the familiar buddhist bromide about the beginning first step of any journey.
This is a good thing. I am alive. It is so wonderful to be here. The world falls away. I am not an artist. I am not an employee of anyone. I have no citizenship anywhere. I am walking. A simple thing done by all people for a million years. Thats what people do. We walk. Each life is a journey.
NEXT: LIGHTS ON THE ROAD
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
THE WALK 2
As the sun continued setting Adam and I walked up the road from the creek.
The main road that goes through the village was just ahead of us a few feet.
Usually, from where we had just walked, we would have encountered other pilgrims.
But not yet. That would change soon.
It is Thursday afternoon. Good Friday Eve. The big crowds start at dawn on Friday.
We walked with the early birds. We got on the main road and made a mental note to be aware
of the cars coming and going. The walk is safe if you follow basic precautions. Bright colored clothes.
A flashlight. And stay to the right of the road. Or the left depending on how you were traveling.
Sometimes this means walking off the paved shoulder of the road into a runoff ditch. Not bad but uneven
and its tiring to the feet and you could sprain an ankle. We were warming up now and tried to set a pace.
We began to see other walkers ahead of us. And we heard voices trailing behind.
I wore long pants and a t shirt, I carried a cane which came in handy hours later,
and a coat slung over my shoulder. Adam wore long pants and a sweat shirt.
The cool air was invigorating. Not cold enough yet for the coat.
But with each moment of failing sunlight the temperature around us seemed to drop a few degrees.
Now we both had the same idea. We looked across the road to one of the first rest stops offered to walkers. A church on the north side of the road. Some of its members sitting at long tables out front of the church. They freely gave coffee, hot chocolate, water, snacks. Very kind of them. Our sights were on their blue port o potties. After we visited these and began to head back to the road they called out to us and we waved back thanking them for their hospitality.
Now we began to pace again. We walked past several houses done in various New Mexico styles. Rancho, territorial, pueblo. whatever. Each in various stages of good or bad. Some looking much older than the others. Farm like these homes could have gardens or horses, even goats or sheep, we could see from the road. But as in years past the real surprise was still the peacocks. We heard them before we saw them. The high pitched squeal of their call. At first it sounds like a child crying out or maybe a cat being throttled. Its unsettling until you realize what you're hearing.
Weird.
Soon we saw them strutting through their yard. There coronas of feathers were down dragging through the cottonwood leaves. There were six that I counted. As we looked down on them from the road they seemed to follow us keeping our pace as they walked in the confines of their big yard. Elsewhere in the town we heard a rooster crowing away the day. But he could not out crow the peacocks. Finally he seemed to give up.
The road began to rise now. And an illusion of this land is that it is flat. But if your eyes don't tell you about a change in walk elevation your legs do. A slight strain is noticed in our thighs of calves. Ahead a hairpin turn north as we finally reach the outskirts of the village.
It was getting dark now and we could see candles burning at another hospitality stand along the route up at the turn. As we reached it women's voices called out to us "Coffee, tea, hot chocolate. Come on and get some. We have fresh zucchini bread too!" It was all offered free and although we did not stop, as we walked by we thanked them for being there and for their kindness. These offerings by strangers always touch Adam and I. They don't know us. But they share whatever it is we are trying to do.
Now we headed due north. The Santuario still miles away. The moon was full but shrouded by storybook clouds. Its luminescence shined through the edges of the slow moving clouds. A slight breeze began. Cool but refreshing. The sun was still fighting to stay above the western horizon wanting to outshine the moon but it was losing the contest quickly.
A dark blue sameness like a fog of approaching night seemed to settle on the land. It welcomed us as we walked. Enfolding us in its blessed blue black poetry.
NEXT: STEP BY STEP
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
THE WALK 1: MY CUP RUNNETH OVER. IT'S MESSY.
Adam and I made the pilgrimage again to Chimayo this year.
Thursday April 5. We began walking around 6 PM. Starting at the same place we always have. Its a back road off from the freeway near a casino. It leads from pavement to an old dirt road. It looks old and feels old. Our path begins in a small village called Pojoaque.
People have lived here for a few centuries I guess. Part of the Spanish inhabitation of this part of the world in the 1600s. Walking due north we set a pace, brisk but not too strong. As we walk on this dirt road, dry but with deep spring rain ruts still leaving their mark, the modest, yet stylish houses on either side seem to close in. But its a comfortable closeness.
There are fences lining the road most made of 4 foot high lodge pole sticks, bark still attached.
The tall trees on each side are leafless just barely having gotten spring buds. Their long upward limbs reaching to the now paling, gray blue, soon to be, evening sky. As we walk a little dust rises up from the road. It smells of earth and it feels cool.
Just now around us there are sounds of water gurgling and an occasional dog bark in the distance. I look for a creek. We find a concrete lined irrigation ditch hidden in the bushes to our left. Filled and flowing with spring run off, quicksilver flashes of water that seem alive with purpose. The water wants to get somewhere. Its going to quench a thirst and water some crops.
I recall reading about the mayordomos, or majordomos, of this area. They are the ditch managers. The ditch riders. The ditch bosses. Overseeing who gets what water when. They are elected officials. They have meetings and workshops. A simple job. Its a big deal. Since around 1598 there has been water management for this high desert landscape. It is said this style of irrigation and water wrangling began in Spain where it was taught to them during an Arab occupation. Wow.
In Phoenix our canals, and the few remaining irrigation ditches around the city, were supposedly vestiges left by the Hohokam Indians. Whoever came up with the idea had it right. It gets the water where it needs to go. In hot summers when I was a kid we swam in the ditches, canals and flumes around the Valley.
There is a grayness to this landscape we walk. The result of failing daylight and winter hangover. Yet almost as soon the road rises it begins to fall and we walk down towards a creek where we are blessed by emerald green patches of spring grasses and sprouts.
Some of the people from the homes on the road have placed bottles of water and boxes of oranges on small tables by their fence boundaries. A gift to the pilgrims. The walkers. I am always heartened by this show of hospitality to strangers. It is so simple and yet I find myself touched by it.
Now we come to an open area, its where the creek crosses the road and flows west. Water flows across a concrete pad imbedded with metal drain gridwork. The road goes down and then back up to meet the main road that runs east and west just ahead of us. It is on that road we will begin to walk in earnest.
NEXT: THANK GOD FOR SHOES
People have lived here for a few centuries I guess. Part of the Spanish inhabitation of this part of the world in the 1600s. Walking due north we set a pace, brisk but not too strong. As we walk on this dirt road, dry but with deep spring rain ruts still leaving their mark, the modest, yet stylish houses on either side seem to close in. But its a comfortable closeness.
There are fences lining the road most made of 4 foot high lodge pole sticks, bark still attached.
The tall trees on each side are leafless just barely having gotten spring buds. Their long upward limbs reaching to the now paling, gray blue, soon to be, evening sky. As we walk a little dust rises up from the road. It smells of earth and it feels cool.
Just now around us there are sounds of water gurgling and an occasional dog bark in the distance. I look for a creek. We find a concrete lined irrigation ditch hidden in the bushes to our left. Filled and flowing with spring run off, quicksilver flashes of water that seem alive with purpose. The water wants to get somewhere. Its going to quench a thirst and water some crops.
I recall reading about the mayordomos, or majordomos, of this area. They are the ditch managers. The ditch riders. The ditch bosses. Overseeing who gets what water when. They are elected officials. They have meetings and workshops. A simple job. Its a big deal. Since around 1598 there has been water management for this high desert landscape. It is said this style of irrigation and water wrangling began in Spain where it was taught to them during an Arab occupation. Wow.
In Phoenix our canals, and the few remaining irrigation ditches around the city, were supposedly vestiges left by the Hohokam Indians. Whoever came up with the idea had it right. It gets the water where it needs to go. In hot summers when I was a kid we swam in the ditches, canals and flumes around the Valley.
There is a grayness to this landscape we walk. The result of failing daylight and winter hangover. Yet almost as soon the road rises it begins to fall and we walk down towards a creek where we are blessed by emerald green patches of spring grasses and sprouts.
Some of the people from the homes on the road have placed bottles of water and boxes of oranges on small tables by their fence boundaries. A gift to the pilgrims. The walkers. I am always heartened by this show of hospitality to strangers. It is so simple and yet I find myself touched by it.
Now we come to an open area, its where the creek crosses the road and flows west. Water flows across a concrete pad imbedded with metal drain gridwork. The road goes down and then back up to meet the main road that runs east and west just ahead of us. It is on that road we will begin to walk in earnest.
NEXT: THANK GOD FOR SHOES
-Jeff Falk
Saturday, March 17, 2012
The Falling Darkness and Appearence of Mystery Cat XI - Finis
When the man had found Clio's strange leaf journal in her bed she had already
gone.
The mystery of how or why a cat would care to keep a journal of her life and adventures
was pretty much unfathomable. Some would call it a miracle. That such a thing, if it were
even remotely true or even possible, showed that there was a side to animals we didn't even begin
to understand. That in some impossible way they wondered about the world as much as us.
Asking questions as the people animals do. What is this life? Why are we in it? Is there meaning
to any of this? And, if there is, what is it? But different than the view most people animals have of
this life was the curious attention Clio had paid to the world around her.
Watching the breeze turn through the leaves of a sunflower during a full moon night.
Admiring her sister, Shadow, and seeing the beauty and worth in another being. Knowing, in a way,
that even though she might never have answers to all of her questions and wonderings about
everything that this was indeed an amazing world.
The man still keeps her bed in its place in the kitchen. Knowing that she is gone.
But it reminds him of the magic of this strange thing called life. And the importance
of writing one's own history down. For in doing so perhaps we can understand who we are.
One sunny morning near the first day of spring that year, as he wandered down by the creek,
he found a small paper package lying in the dead grasses. He saw its color first. Though faded
there was still enough red in it to catch his eye. He picked it up. It was a package of Black Cats.
Firecrackers. He had loved shooting them off when he was younger. Their sound and smell.
He smiled to himself. Then studied the ferocious looking black cat face on the package.
Odd. It reminded him of a black cat he had seen many times over the years. Sitting quietly
amongst the sunflowers and hollyhocks. Once he found Clio skulking in the grasses along
the creek. A black cat crouching in the grasses near her. They seemed to be hunting birds
together. Wow. This must have been Shadow, her sister, that she had written of.
He shook his head in disbelief. He hoped he would see Shadow again.
He stuffed the firecrackers into his coat pocket and wandered home.
gone.
The mystery of how or why a cat would care to keep a journal of her life and adventures
was pretty much unfathomable. Some would call it a miracle. That such a thing, if it were
even remotely true or even possible, showed that there was a side to animals we didn't even begin
to understand. That in some impossible way they wondered about the world as much as us.
Asking questions as the people animals do. What is this life? Why are we in it? Is there meaning
to any of this? And, if there is, what is it? But different than the view most people animals have of
this life was the curious attention Clio had paid to the world around her.
Watching the breeze turn through the leaves of a sunflower during a full moon night.
Admiring her sister, Shadow, and seeing the beauty and worth in another being. Knowing, in a way,
that even though she might never have answers to all of her questions and wonderings about
everything that this was indeed an amazing world.
The man still keeps her bed in its place in the kitchen. Knowing that she is gone.
But it reminds him of the magic of this strange thing called life. And the importance
of writing one's own history down. For in doing so perhaps we can understand who we are.
One sunny morning near the first day of spring that year, as he wandered down by the creek,
he found a small paper package lying in the dead grasses. He saw its color first. Though faded
there was still enough red in it to catch his eye. He picked it up. It was a package of Black Cats.
Firecrackers. He had loved shooting them off when he was younger. Their sound and smell.
He smiled to himself. Then studied the ferocious looking black cat face on the package.
Odd. It reminded him of a black cat he had seen many times over the years. Sitting quietly
amongst the sunflowers and hollyhocks. Once he found Clio skulking in the grasses along
the creek. A black cat crouching in the grasses near her. They seemed to be hunting birds
together. Wow. This must have been Shadow, her sister, that she had written of.
He shook his head in disbelief. He hoped he would see Shadow again.
He stuffed the firecrackers into his coat pocket and wandered home.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Falling Darkness and the Appearance of Mystery Cat X
The long night passed.
I did not see Shadow again before the light came.
She had her favorite places to sleep. Where I did not know.
I made my way home before the sky lit up so bright and yellow.
The great fire ball chasing our holy silver cat away.
I could sit at the closed back door of my people animal and speak once or twice
asking to enter. Most times the door would open soon enough. But not
always. Patience is an attribute most of us cats have although we get
no credit for it from other animals. They act as if we are unfocused, selfish, flighty
and uncaring. All those things we certainly can be. But you have never
sat at a door on a cold morning or freezing night waiting for your people to open it to you.
I can wait a long time. A very long time.
This day my human opened it quickly. I spoke thanks to him as I entered the welcoming warm kitchen.
He was busy making food in the hot box thing in the room. From up top of it I could hear and smell
meat frying. A good smell. Sometimes he gave me a bit of the delicious meat. It was always
very hot, almost too hot to eat. He is kind to me. He talks to me. I talk back. He gives me a place to
sleep in my good little bed in the corner. The people animal is odd but we are friends I think.
He scratches behind my ears and gives me milk when I ask for it.
Shadow has never liked the people animals. Cats are not her friends either.
I don't know why.
But she believes she is meant to be alone in this world.
Prefers it I think.
She talks to me. Puts up with me but that is because we are blood.
Oh I think in her own way she cares about me. But it is hard for her
to say so.
I think some part of Shadow got broken when she was small. I recall her
as playful and hopeful as any kitten. For some reason she always asked about our father.
Wanted to be with him I think. Sometimes he would appear in our lives ever so briefly. So much so that
I thought for a long time that he did not exist.
Then I would notice his black shape barely hidden in some flowers at the edge of a
bright meadow where a bunch of us would play.
He would watch through the shade of the plants. Never coming out into the light.
Watching. He called to us once. Just to let us know he was there I think.
But he did not say much.
I could tell Shadow was bothered by this. She would stop
in mid play and stand stiff still, eyes wide open with ears up. Whether she was scared
or in awe I don't know. He would look at us once more and then growl deep in his throat
and then slowly move away through the field. I knew Shadow wanted to go with him.
But she was a little bit scared I think. So she stayed with us. That day anyway.
I must stop my writing now.
I am tried and my bed is so warm and soft I must lie down.
Tonight will come soon enough.
And perhaps I can find out about the appearance of the mystery cat
on the package Angel brought us. I hid it beneath some leaves
under the sunflowers where Shadow and I meet.
NEXT: THE ONLY BRIGHT SPOT
I did not see Shadow again before the light came.
She had her favorite places to sleep. Where I did not know.
I made my way home before the sky lit up so bright and yellow.
The great fire ball chasing our holy silver cat away.
I could sit at the closed back door of my people animal and speak once or twice
asking to enter. Most times the door would open soon enough. But not
always. Patience is an attribute most of us cats have although we get
no credit for it from other animals. They act as if we are unfocused, selfish, flighty
and uncaring. All those things we certainly can be. But you have never
sat at a door on a cold morning or freezing night waiting for your people to open it to you.
I can wait a long time. A very long time.
This day my human opened it quickly. I spoke thanks to him as I entered the welcoming warm kitchen.
He was busy making food in the hot box thing in the room. From up top of it I could hear and smell
meat frying. A good smell. Sometimes he gave me a bit of the delicious meat. It was always
very hot, almost too hot to eat. He is kind to me. He talks to me. I talk back. He gives me a place to
sleep in my good little bed in the corner. The people animal is odd but we are friends I think.
He scratches behind my ears and gives me milk when I ask for it.
Shadow has never liked the people animals. Cats are not her friends either.
I don't know why.
But she believes she is meant to be alone in this world.
Prefers it I think.
She talks to me. Puts up with me but that is because we are blood.
Oh I think in her own way she cares about me. But it is hard for her
to say so.
I think some part of Shadow got broken when she was small. I recall her
as playful and hopeful as any kitten. For some reason she always asked about our father.
Wanted to be with him I think. Sometimes he would appear in our lives ever so briefly. So much so that
I thought for a long time that he did not exist.
Then I would notice his black shape barely hidden in some flowers at the edge of a
bright meadow where a bunch of us would play.
He would watch through the shade of the plants. Never coming out into the light.
Watching. He called to us once. Just to let us know he was there I think.
But he did not say much.
I could tell Shadow was bothered by this. She would stop
in mid play and stand stiff still, eyes wide open with ears up. Whether she was scared
or in awe I don't know. He would look at us once more and then growl deep in his throat
and then slowly move away through the field. I knew Shadow wanted to go with him.
But she was a little bit scared I think. So she stayed with us. That day anyway.
I must stop my writing now.
I am tried and my bed is so warm and soft I must lie down.
Tonight will come soon enough.
And perhaps I can find out about the appearance of the mystery cat
on the package Angel brought us. I hid it beneath some leaves
under the sunflowers where Shadow and I meet.
NEXT: THE ONLY BRIGHT SPOT
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
The Falling Darkness and Appearance of Mystery Cat IX
Shadow looked after the departing Angel cat.
She did not seem bothered by his leaving. She has never
suffered fools well and she thought him a great fool. To me he
was just a troubled soul. Like most cats not quite sure of his place in the world.
But I could tell she was troubled by the strange package he had left us.
The image on it bore a strong resemblance to her. Or maybe it reminded
her of her father. We never really knew our parents. Did we have the same father?
Doubtful. But she had seen a black cat around for many seasons now that she believed
was her father. She wanted to stop him and speak to him I know. But he never stayed anywhere
very long.
She began to get up to leave. As she did she turned to me and spoke.
"Beware sister. There is much to pay attention to now. Be
brave." At this she jumped through the brush
and disappeared.
I was left to sit by myself. Thinking and wondering.
I looked at the package before me. I leaned down to examine it more closely for myself.
I extended a paw to bat at it. I sniffed at it. It did smell disturbingly human. But what was it for? And the image
of the cat? It seemed so terrible. Was it a warning? Was it the face of some cat
to come?
As I thought on these things the breeze picked up. The chill of the coming
autumn tainted the air. The sound of rustling leaves all around now.
The world around me lit by the holy silver light.
I looked up through the shifting leaves above me.
I saw the glowing face of the great cat in the sky.
He seemed to wink at me.
I hoped it was a wink.
I really did.
NEXT: MEOW I SAY
-Jeff Falk
She did not seem bothered by his leaving. She has never
suffered fools well and she thought him a great fool. To me he
was just a troubled soul. Like most cats not quite sure of his place in the world.
But I could tell she was troubled by the strange package he had left us.
The image on it bore a strong resemblance to her. Or maybe it reminded
her of her father. We never really knew our parents. Did we have the same father?
Doubtful. But she had seen a black cat around for many seasons now that she believed
was her father. She wanted to stop him and speak to him I know. But he never stayed anywhere
very long.
She began to get up to leave. As she did she turned to me and spoke.
"Beware sister. There is much to pay attention to now. Be
brave." At this she jumped through the brush
and disappeared.
I was left to sit by myself. Thinking and wondering.
I looked at the package before me. I leaned down to examine it more closely for myself.
I extended a paw to bat at it. I sniffed at it. It did smell disturbingly human. But what was it for? And the image
of the cat? It seemed so terrible. Was it a warning? Was it the face of some cat
to come?
As I thought on these things the breeze picked up. The chill of the coming
autumn tainted the air. The sound of rustling leaves all around now.
The world around me lit by the holy silver light.
I looked up through the shifting leaves above me.
I saw the glowing face of the great cat in the sky.
He seemed to wink at me.
I hoped it was a wink.
I really did.
NEXT: MEOW I SAY
-Jeff Falk
Thursday, March 1, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT VIII
My sister stepped forward to examine the package more closely.
I could tell she was curious. I know the people animals think cats are curious
and sometimes it gets us killed. If they only knew how uninterested most cats are.
But I could tell Shadow was more than curious about this package.
Mainly because it bore the image of a cat that looked like her. A message from the
Cat God? In the moonlight beneath the sunflowers the mystery of this face before us
appeared even more mysterious.
Shadow sniffed the package as it lay upon the ground. This thing had many colors
on it. Bright yellow like the sunflowers above us. There was some green like the grass in
summer. The cat's nose was red. Hmmm. Shadow's was black. I wondered if she took
notice of this?
Shadow walked around the thing on the ground. She jabbed at it a few more times with
her paw. She sniffed it again and made a face.
"There is something wrong with this thing." she said.
"Look. Do you see the many short dark little tube things in the red paper? They smell the worst.
They are tied together by string. What in the name of Great Cat could they be?
They are not food. They do not smell good. What is their use?"
"I know you are fond of the people animals but they can be very crazy and
very mean. This thing is pure people animal. And they have used the
face of one of us to adorn it. This makes it even worse.There may come a time Clio,
when you must make a choice between us and them."
I was shaken by this. I knew of her dark distrust of the people animals.
She could not see the good they sometimes possessed. She was right though. They are
crazy at times. And mean. As I sat and listened to her and looked at the odd package
the wind blew ever so slightly again rustling the leaves above us. Animated points of light
from the moon above danced across the face of the cat on the thing making it appear
alive. Its angry looking face seemed to move and it seemed as if it was looking right at me.
I shivered and looked at Shadow. For a brief moment I could not tell her face from the cat's on the strange package.
NEXT: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY...
-Jeff Falk
I could tell she was curious. I know the people animals think cats are curious
and sometimes it gets us killed. If they only knew how uninterested most cats are.
But I could tell Shadow was more than curious about this package.
Mainly because it bore the image of a cat that looked like her. A message from the
Cat God? In the moonlight beneath the sunflowers the mystery of this face before us
appeared even more mysterious.
Shadow sniffed the package as it lay upon the ground. This thing had many colors
on it. Bright yellow like the sunflowers above us. There was some green like the grass in
summer. The cat's nose was red. Hmmm. Shadow's was black. I wondered if she took
notice of this?
Shadow walked around the thing on the ground. She jabbed at it a few more times with
her paw. She sniffed it again and made a face.
"There is something wrong with this thing." she said.
"Look. Do you see the many short dark little tube things in the red paper? They smell the worst.
They are tied together by string. What in the name of Great Cat could they be?
They are not food. They do not smell good. What is their use?"
"I know you are fond of the people animals but they can be very crazy and
very mean. This thing is pure people animal. And they have used the
face of one of us to adorn it. This makes it even worse.There may come a time Clio,
when you must make a choice between us and them."
I was shaken by this. I knew of her dark distrust of the people animals.
She could not see the good they sometimes possessed. She was right though. They are
crazy at times. And mean. As I sat and listened to her and looked at the odd package
the wind blew ever so slightly again rustling the leaves above us. Animated points of light
from the moon above danced across the face of the cat on the thing making it appear
alive. Its angry looking face seemed to move and it seemed as if it was looking right at me.
I shivered and looked at Shadow. For a brief moment I could not tell her face from the cat's on the strange package.
NEXT: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY...
-Jeff Falk
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Falling Darkness and Appearance of Mystery Cat VII
Shadow and I heard Angel make a noise.
He had snapped out of his fear or fugue.
He had drug something along with him.
Something not as big as him but a thing he could not carry
easily.
"I have found a thing. You might want to see it. I have seen it and
am not sure I want to see it again." Angel said.
Pulling it out of the hollyhock stalks into the silver light
The thing was square, thin and made crackling sounds
as he drug it. A people animal paper thing I think it was.
Why would he pick it up? It did not look like something to eat.
It had no smell to make it attractive in that way. Hmmm. Shadow
was dubious about it. She did not step forward to examine it.
I wanted to. Finally she said "Bring it here Angel.
Lets see what you have found."
He did this. He placed it in front of us. More in front of Shadow than us.
Angel was afraid of Shadow. At least nervous around her. I did not blame him
this fear. Shadow was predictable only in her unpredictableness.
The thing was wrapped in red crinkly paper on one side. Torn a little.
It WAS a people animal thing. And now Shadow and I could smell it.
A strange smell. A bad smell. Like something burning or burnt.
With an under smell of too much people animal thingness.
This was never good.
Shadow got up and walked around the thing as it lay before us.
She began to tease at it with her right paw. Driven both by curiousity and
her infinite right to know what it was. I watched no less curious but somehow
more cautious. The red paper appeared creased and folded like some secret
thing. It told us little more than this. Soon Shadow flipped it over.
Our three pairs of eyes opened wider to at the surprise of what we saw.
Angel made a "pfffttting" noise with his mouth and took off immediately as if a hell
hound had jumped at him. I could not move or take my eyes off of it.
But not from fear. But from a shock that not only took my breath away but made
a sound in my head like the snapping of one of those evil metal things the humans
hid in the grasses to catch animals with. What was I seeing?
Shadow sat back down now. And she did not move except for her green gold eyes.
She slid them back and forth sideways as if to check to see if something might sneak up on us.
Then she looked back down at the image on the thing on the ground.
It was a black cat. But a black cat unlike any I had ever seen.
Terrible. Powerful. Devilish. Sort of like my sister but much more than her.
A cat with a face beyond any cat we can know of. Black. Its mouth open wide and very red.
White fangs ready for the kill. Its yellow eyes burned through mine. What was it?
Who was this cat?
But much more was the question:what is a most terrible face of such a
cat doing on a people animal thing?
Some terrible cat under the power of the peoples?
What darkness was this?
NEXT: MEOW I SAY
-Jeff Falk
He had snapped out of his fear or fugue.
He had drug something along with him.
Something not as big as him but a thing he could not carry
easily.
"I have found a thing. You might want to see it. I have seen it and
am not sure I want to see it again." Angel said.
Pulling it out of the hollyhock stalks into the silver light
The thing was square, thin and made crackling sounds
as he drug it. A people animal paper thing I think it was.
Why would he pick it up? It did not look like something to eat.
It had no smell to make it attractive in that way. Hmmm. Shadow
was dubious about it. She did not step forward to examine it.
I wanted to. Finally she said "Bring it here Angel.
Lets see what you have found."
He did this. He placed it in front of us. More in front of Shadow than us.
Angel was afraid of Shadow. At least nervous around her. I did not blame him
this fear. Shadow was predictable only in her unpredictableness.
The thing was wrapped in red crinkly paper on one side. Torn a little.
It WAS a people animal thing. And now Shadow and I could smell it.
A strange smell. A bad smell. Like something burning or burnt.
With an under smell of too much people animal thingness.
This was never good.
Shadow got up and walked around the thing as it lay before us.
She began to tease at it with her right paw. Driven both by curiousity and
her infinite right to know what it was. I watched no less curious but somehow
more cautious. The red paper appeared creased and folded like some secret
thing. It told us little more than this. Soon Shadow flipped it over.
Our three pairs of eyes opened wider to at the surprise of what we saw.
Angel made a "pfffttting" noise with his mouth and took off immediately as if a hell
hound had jumped at him. I could not move or take my eyes off of it.
But not from fear. But from a shock that not only took my breath away but made
a sound in my head like the snapping of one of those evil metal things the humans
hid in the grasses to catch animals with. What was I seeing?
Shadow sat back down now. And she did not move except for her green gold eyes.
She slid them back and forth sideways as if to check to see if something might sneak up on us.
Then she looked back down at the image on the thing on the ground.
It was a black cat. But a black cat unlike any I had ever seen.
Terrible. Powerful. Devilish. Sort of like my sister but much more than her.
A cat with a face beyond any cat we can know of. Black. Its mouth open wide and very red.
White fangs ready for the kill. Its yellow eyes burned through mine. What was it?
Who was this cat?
But much more was the question:what is a most terrible face of such a
cat doing on a people animal thing?
Some terrible cat under the power of the peoples?
What darkness was this?
NEXT: MEOW I SAY
-Jeff Falk
Monday, February 20, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARENCE OF MYSTERY CAT VI
As we waited for Angel to calm down I thought
about this record I write. I know of no other cats who do this.
Shadow thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Why would cats need a record?
Who will see it? Who will read it? Who will care?
I cannot say. I do not know. It has been a thing I have felt that I must do.
Our lives as cats are as ordinary as can be. We eat. We sleep. We live.
How could there be more to it? What could possibly be worthwhile
to record? I cannot say.
I only know that, as I have sat alone, in the quiet moments of grey morning down near the creek,
I see the great yellow orb rise and bless us, and it seems that there is some meaning to it all that I am missing.
A magic that I do not understand. But how can that be? Our lives are so hum drum. A cat is a cat is a cat.
Why think that there is more?
Shadow tells me "You find something to hunt. Stay out of the rain. Hide from the bad things coming
our way. And if we are lucky we might catch a glimpse of the Great Cat when we go away to the darkness.
If there is a Great Cat. More than that what are you hoping for?"
I don't know what to say. But when I have sat and watched the falling of snowflakes after the time when leaves have left the trees its as if there is somewhere else between each falling flake. I catch a glimpse of a light ,a land, where all things begin. And to which all things return. Where a question and an answer are the same thing. And before you even begin to wonder about it all the reason why is already there.
Its a good place. But I think I'm just crazy. How could that be true? This world is what it is.
There can't be anymore. Can there?
Why can't I just be the cat that I am and explore my own paths and sleep on my bed in the kitchen of my human animal and be happy with that? Most times this record I keep is a curse. But then other times I want so badly to write about what our lives are like here. I want those who come after us to remember us. I want Shadow and Angel and White Joe to have a place in it all. We were here! We lived our lives! We made our way! We were here!
But then I doubt it all and wish only to be that cat in the kitchen.
It would be so much easier.
And then Angel starts to talk and I remember where I am.
NEXT: CAT WORLD ABOVE AND BELOW
-Jeff Falk
about this record I write. I know of no other cats who do this.
Shadow thinks I'm crazy. Maybe I am. Why would cats need a record?
Who will see it? Who will read it? Who will care?
I cannot say. I do not know. It has been a thing I have felt that I must do.
Our lives as cats are as ordinary as can be. We eat. We sleep. We live.
How could there be more to it? What could possibly be worthwhile
to record? I cannot say.
I only know that, as I have sat alone, in the quiet moments of grey morning down near the creek,
I see the great yellow orb rise and bless us, and it seems that there is some meaning to it all that I am missing.
A magic that I do not understand. But how can that be? Our lives are so hum drum. A cat is a cat is a cat.
Why think that there is more?
Shadow tells me "You find something to hunt. Stay out of the rain. Hide from the bad things coming
our way. And if we are lucky we might catch a glimpse of the Great Cat when we go away to the darkness.
If there is a Great Cat. More than that what are you hoping for?"
I don't know what to say. But when I have sat and watched the falling of snowflakes after the time when leaves have left the trees its as if there is somewhere else between each falling flake. I catch a glimpse of a light ,a land, where all things begin. And to which all things return. Where a question and an answer are the same thing. And before you even begin to wonder about it all the reason why is already there.
Its a good place. But I think I'm just crazy. How could that be true? This world is what it is.
There can't be anymore. Can there?
Why can't I just be the cat that I am and explore my own paths and sleep on my bed in the kitchen of my human animal and be happy with that? Most times this record I keep is a curse. But then other times I want so badly to write about what our lives are like here. I want those who come after us to remember us. I want Shadow and Angel and White Joe to have a place in it all. We were here! We lived our lives! We made our way! We were here!
But then I doubt it all and wish only to be that cat in the kitchen.
It would be so much easier.
And then Angel starts to talk and I remember where I am.
NEXT: CAT WORLD ABOVE AND BELOW
-Jeff Falk
Thursday, February 16, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARENCE OF MYSTERY CAT V
My sister Shadow and I sat beneath the sunflowers.
The darkness now deeper all around us. Then some clouds
that had obscured the beautiful light of the silver orb,
flew away from it, revealing the world before us
in little flashes of bright silver explosions until finally
the sky clear, the world around us brightened.
I saw something moving through the hollyhock stalks
coming towards us.
It looks like a cat I thought. This was true. Shadow once
tense now relaxed although she is never truly relaxed
in the truest sense.
She sat up straighter now and gave out her "Who comes towards
us?" growl. The shape ahead now stopped. Its rustling quieted
for a moment. Listening. Then it came on ahead. Now a cat emerged from
the hollyhocks their dry rattles punctuating its appearance.
It was the grey tailless cat we call Angel.
He is usually in the trees above us. He is hardly ever seen
on the ground. This was a bad omen.
But whether for him or us I did not know.
Now standing before us in the moonlight, panting and looking this way
and that, Angel sat down. There was a spot of blood on his right ear.
But whether his or someone else's I could not say.
He appeared almost relieved to see us.
Then he spoke through ragged breaths......
"Its here my friends. Its here. I see no way around it.
It comes from every place. Knocked me from my favorite tree.
What is it? What is it? What does it mean? What does it mean?"
Angel spoke oddly on good days. Now his words, almost like poems,
described some event that had fallen to him. Still breathing hard
it would be a few moments before we could ask him questions
so that we might understand the meaning of his words. We would wait.
I looked up now at the silver orb its cat face seemed to smile.
But I might have been imagining it.
NEXT: DO NOT GO GENTLE
-Jeff Falk
The darkness now deeper all around us. Then some clouds
that had obscured the beautiful light of the silver orb,
flew away from it, revealing the world before us
in little flashes of bright silver explosions until finally
the sky clear, the world around us brightened.
I saw something moving through the hollyhock stalks
coming towards us.
It looks like a cat I thought. This was true. Shadow once
tense now relaxed although she is never truly relaxed
in the truest sense.
She sat up straighter now and gave out her "Who comes towards
us?" growl. The shape ahead now stopped. Its rustling quieted
for a moment. Listening. Then it came on ahead. Now a cat emerged from
the hollyhocks their dry rattles punctuating its appearance.
It was the grey tailless cat we call Angel.
He is usually in the trees above us. He is hardly ever seen
on the ground. This was a bad omen.
But whether for him or us I did not know.
Now standing before us in the moonlight, panting and looking this way
and that, Angel sat down. There was a spot of blood on his right ear.
But whether his or someone else's I could not say.
He appeared almost relieved to see us.
Then he spoke through ragged breaths......
"Its here my friends. Its here. I see no way around it.
It comes from every place. Knocked me from my favorite tree.
What is it? What is it? What does it mean? What does it mean?"
Angel spoke oddly on good days. Now his words, almost like poems,
described some event that had fallen to him. Still breathing hard
it would be a few moments before we could ask him questions
so that we might understand the meaning of his words. We would wait.
I looked up now at the silver orb its cat face seemed to smile.
But I might have been imagining it.
NEXT: DO NOT GO GENTLE
-Jeff Falk
Friday, February 10, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT IV
A small wind blew rustling the overhanging leaves of the sunflowers we sat beneath.
The edges were starting to dry out. The Fall, the beginning of the cold days,
was creeping towards our land.
The sound the leaves made was like pages of paper being torn or the scratching
of some animal trapped in a brown paste board box trying to get out.
Shadow crouched down beside me. Her eyes wider than before they never left the direction that the wind came from. She waited, but to fight or run, I did not know. Dappled silver blotches of light from the great sphere above us fell in shifting patterns onto the path.
Listen to me go on. I say the PATH as if it were the only one. There are many ways through our land. The trails that can be seen. And those, only a few know about. I knew of many ways, some less obvious than others.
But I did not know them all.
A strong scent upon the wind now. Less strange. More familiar than before. The slightest trace of blood. My sister stood up in anticipation of that which approached. She gave no ground. She tensed and arched her back and the low growl returned to her throat. The people animals think we cats are wild, indomitable things. Yes we can hunt and will scratch for blood if needs be. But as the truth is told, it is more show than boldness. And I have overheard the stories of the people animals. They say "cats have nine lives." A lie for sure. Many of my kind were lucky enough to make it through one season, let alone a life.
This past season alone I have seen the lives of more of my friends taken than last. Their ways of death varied. Their absence no less felt. We cats walk a razor's edge. From the moment the Great Cat sees fit to give us a life to the last day we are able to smell the messages that are sent to us on the wind.
Now my sister's stance did less to embolden me than to make my heart race. I have never thought of myself as a brave cat. I am not. But I was not about to leave my sister's side. Whatever it was coming towards us we would face the darkness together.
I hoped we would live to see the yellow orb rise over the creek again. And that I would be able to write our story of this night down onto the leaves of the holy trees that lined its banks.
NEXT: NEVER SAY NEVER AGAIN
~ Jeff Falk 2012
~ Jeff Falk 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT III
In the darkness beneath the sunflowers I hear a noise.
Then a voice. Slow whisper.
"What are you up to sister?"
Then I saw the black shape of my sister Shadow.
She is a beautiful black cat. I am steel striped tabby.
We did not know our father. Or fathers.
Barely knew our mother before she left us to fend for ourselves.
Before I knew it it was as if her shape materialized beside me.
She was close enough to touch. But I dared not. I love my
sister but we are different. Very different.
"Still writing the book?" she asked.
I did not answer. I knew what she would say.
She said it. "Really? Are human animals so wonderful to you that you must
imitate them?"
And more.
"What good have their writings ever done for you? With them the human animals seem to organize and
overcome other creatures. Make life a plan for them to fulfill. That is not life.
You must beware this dangerous obsession."
Is said nothing again even louder.
Shadow sighed.
We both peered into the darkness. Silence.
She spoke again.
"You have noticed that smell. I know you have. Don't lie.
It is disturbing. Whatever made it is around here somewheres.
Waiting. But for what? We must be wary."
In the distance the sound of a long odd howl stretching out and finally
evaporating away. Made by one of the dark machines of the human animals.
A terrible beast that traveled the same tracks always. No deviation of its path.
In a cat that would be dangerous.
One must always change one's path. Enemies
are less likely to catch you that way. Friends will always find you.
But that machine was so large it was not afraid to go where it wanted.
The only thing to make it seem more like us was its howl. Loud yes but a cry
of uncertainty. As if it said "Yes I am large and terrible but someday I too will
fall." My foolish poetic projection onto its cry. That beast never slowed down for anyone.
I had come across White Joe lying dead in its tracks last spring.
Not much left of that cat. But through the blood I recognized his collar.
The damned thing never even slowed down for him. I miss White Joe.
Then next to me I heard the low growl from my sister's throat.
Something was coming.
NEXT: THE INDISPUTABLE TOPCAT
~ Jeff Falk
Then a voice. Slow whisper.
"What are you up to sister?"
Then I saw the black shape of my sister Shadow.
She is a beautiful black cat. I am steel striped tabby.
We did not know our father. Or fathers.
Barely knew our mother before she left us to fend for ourselves.
Before I knew it it was as if her shape materialized beside me.
She was close enough to touch. But I dared not. I love my
sister but we are different. Very different.
"Still writing the book?" she asked.
I did not answer. I knew what she would say.
She said it. "Really? Are human animals so wonderful to you that you must
imitate them?"
And more.
"What good have their writings ever done for you? With them the human animals seem to organize and
overcome other creatures. Make life a plan for them to fulfill. That is not life.
You must beware this dangerous obsession."
Is said nothing again even louder.
Shadow sighed.
We both peered into the darkness. Silence.
She spoke again.
"You have noticed that smell. I know you have. Don't lie.
It is disturbing. Whatever made it is around here somewheres.
Waiting. But for what? We must be wary."
In the distance the sound of a long odd howl stretching out and finally
evaporating away. Made by one of the dark machines of the human animals.
A terrible beast that traveled the same tracks always. No deviation of its path.
In a cat that would be dangerous.
One must always change one's path. Enemies
are less likely to catch you that way. Friends will always find you.
But that machine was so large it was not afraid to go where it wanted.
The only thing to make it seem more like us was its howl. Loud yes but a cry
of uncertainty. As if it said "Yes I am large and terrible but someday I too will
fall." My foolish poetic projection onto its cry. That beast never slowed down for anyone.
I had come across White Joe lying dead in its tracks last spring.
Not much left of that cat. But through the blood I recognized his collar.
The damned thing never even slowed down for him. I miss White Joe.
Then next to me I heard the low growl from my sister's throat.
Something was coming.
NEXT: THE INDISPUTABLE TOPCAT
~ Jeff Falk
Saturday, February 4, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT II
I deciphered the words at the top of the first sycamore leaf.
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT
How very odd this was. Impossible perhaps
but here it was.
I was amazed at the manuscript my good cat Clio had written.
Why had she left it here? If it was that important
surely there must be a Cat King somewhere to have
given it to.
Also, being curious, I further examined the
"ink" that she had used on the leaf pages.
What was it? And what instrument had she used to write?
Soon I discovered that she had used her own claws to do the
writing with. Each claw like the nib of an old fashioned
fountain pen. Now to the ink. That's a different story.
As far as I could tell it was blood. Whether animal or my own
I cannot say. God knows she scratched me enough times over the
years. She could have written a book with it I'm sure.
And now, as to the content of the book itself, here's where I start to share with
you what she wrote. As I said the title seems to be
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT
And then her story begins:
I, Clio, write these words to record a history of the strange life I have lived.
And not just me, all of us.
My life began as a kitten. The usual ball of string
upbringing among the people animals.
They dangled the string and I was expected to bat at it.
I did this for a time (foolish me, the string did hold a
mysterious fascination early on) but eventually came to my senses.
They tried to get me addicted to their noxious herbs encased in
annoying and colorful little plastic spheres that they would roll noisily across
the floor but I refused. The herb might be enticing to some but
I knew I was not meant for that. My life would be an adventure.
But I go on about nothing important. The real adventure began just
a long season ago. I say "long" as if we cats had all the time
in the world. Compared to the people animals our lives are
but a glimmer on the water of the creek behind me.
That's alright though.
We is what we is, and a gift given by
the unseen one, no matter how we perceive it, is still a gift.
The strange days began in darkness.
The best time of day if you ask me.
On one particular night.
It was a full silver sphere night as well.
The cat face of the great orb, hanging in its glorious circle high above us,
smiling as always before the dog star begins to eat away at it plunging us
again in darkness.
I wandered familiar paths in the back yard of my people animals.
Crouching low beneath the hollyhocks, winding my way through
the ferns and flowers, stopping ever so often to smell a branch
to see who was out and about.
There was a scent on the thick stem of a sunflower.
I smelt of it once, then again. This was no smell I knew.
Its language was mysterious and unknown.
I got no picture of the cat who made it. Or any other
creature for that matter. For all I knew of it, it might as well
have been made by a fish swimming in the air.
Ha! What a picture!
Hmmm. I do like fish though. Raw or cooked.
NEXT: THE CAT IN THE MOON GOES BACK
- Jeff Falk
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT
How very odd this was. Impossible perhaps
but here it was.
I was amazed at the manuscript my good cat Clio had written.
Why had she left it here? If it was that important
surely there must be a Cat King somewhere to have
given it to.
Also, being curious, I further examined the
"ink" that she had used on the leaf pages.
What was it? And what instrument had she used to write?
Soon I discovered that she had used her own claws to do the
writing with. Each claw like the nib of an old fashioned
fountain pen. Now to the ink. That's a different story.
As far as I could tell it was blood. Whether animal or my own
I cannot say. God knows she scratched me enough times over the
years. She could have written a book with it I'm sure.
And now, as to the content of the book itself, here's where I start to share with
you what she wrote. As I said the title seems to be
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT
And then her story begins:
I, Clio, write these words to record a history of the strange life I have lived.
And not just me, all of us.
My life began as a kitten. The usual ball of string
upbringing among the people animals.
They dangled the string and I was expected to bat at it.
I did this for a time (foolish me, the string did hold a
mysterious fascination early on) but eventually came to my senses.
They tried to get me addicted to their noxious herbs encased in
annoying and colorful little plastic spheres that they would roll noisily across
the floor but I refused. The herb might be enticing to some but
I knew I was not meant for that. My life would be an adventure.
But I go on about nothing important. The real adventure began just
a long season ago. I say "long" as if we cats had all the time
in the world. Compared to the people animals our lives are
but a glimmer on the water of the creek behind me.
That's alright though.
We is what we is, and a gift given by
the unseen one, no matter how we perceive it, is still a gift.
The strange days began in darkness.
The best time of day if you ask me.
On one particular night.
It was a full silver sphere night as well.
The cat face of the great orb, hanging in its glorious circle high above us,
smiling as always before the dog star begins to eat away at it plunging us
again in darkness.
I wandered familiar paths in the back yard of my people animals.
Crouching low beneath the hollyhocks, winding my way through
the ferns and flowers, stopping ever so often to smell a branch
to see who was out and about.
There was a scent on the thick stem of a sunflower.
I smelt of it once, then again. This was no smell I knew.
Its language was mysterious and unknown.
I got no picture of the cat who made it. Or any other
creature for that matter. For all I knew of it, it might as well
have been made by a fish swimming in the air.
Ha! What a picture!
Hmmm. I do like fish though. Raw or cooked.
NEXT: THE CAT IN THE MOON GOES BACK
- Jeff Falk
Friday, February 3, 2012
THE FALLING DARKNESS AND APPEARANCE OF MYSTERY CAT
Being a history of the strange goings ons of our kingdom.
Here written down by Clio, a Steel Striped Tabby who sleeps in the
kitchen.
The steel striped tabby cat with the green eyes
slept several hours a day. Bears in their hibernations had
nothing on her. But when she was awake the world
was sought out by her completely. Curiosity was her reason
for living. It didn't matter if the questions she asked with her eyes and nose
and paws and mouth were ever answered. Like Sherlock Holmes
the game was afoot. And noting else mattered.
She had always been a special cat to me. But after her death I discovered
she was even more special. Beyond my imaginings even.
For in her worn little bed, in the corner of the kitchen, as I collected it to
place in her grave to accompany and comfort her to the next world, I discovered a
manuscript. Written on the brittle leaves of sycamore trees that stood near the
creek behind our house. "fragile" was not enough to describe their condition.
By accident I destroyed a few pages just by moving her bed,
but later on I reconstructed them when the true importance of this history became
apparent.
NEXT: CAT NIP DOESN'T DO IT FOR ME.
-Jeff Falk
Here written down by Clio, a Steel Striped Tabby who sleeps in the
kitchen.
The steel striped tabby cat with the green eyes
slept several hours a day. Bears in their hibernations had
nothing on her. But when she was awake the world
was sought out by her completely. Curiosity was her reason
for living. It didn't matter if the questions she asked with her eyes and nose
and paws and mouth were ever answered. Like Sherlock Holmes
the game was afoot. And noting else mattered.
She had always been a special cat to me. But after her death I discovered
she was even more special. Beyond my imaginings even.
For in her worn little bed, in the corner of the kitchen, as I collected it to
place in her grave to accompany and comfort her to the next world, I discovered a
manuscript. Written on the brittle leaves of sycamore trees that stood near the
creek behind our house. "fragile" was not enough to describe their condition.
By accident I destroyed a few pages just by moving her bed,
but later on I reconstructed them when the true importance of this history became
apparent.
NEXT: CAT NIP DOESN'T DO IT FOR ME.
-Jeff Falk
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)