Peter Ristuccia's Blog

When I was young there was, as today, a lot of concern about the environment. The cause celebre at the time was the wetlands-marshy areas that support a lot of wildlife that were being encroached upon by human development. It was in the weekly reader and there were talks about it. Species were imperiled-at that time the Florida alligator was an endangered species, along with a host of others on an increasingly long list that seemed destined to spiral out of control.

The mass extinction of species due to human irresponsibility weighed heavily on my young mind-the idea that there were creatures that once were and were no more seemed unthinkable. Children have a hard time conceiving of death, the why and way of it. Extinction was death squared, death cubed. It was death of geometric tragedy because, in this instance, it was unnatural. Strangely, most of the adults I knew didn’t seem to care. We were given “Save the Wetlands” stickers at school. The idea was to spread the message by placing the stickers where others might see them. The picture on the sticker was a mother duck on her nest with her young. I don’t remember where I put most of the stickers-but I kept one for my house, and put it on a small, white rocking chair that was kept in my room.

Sometime that year in CCD (that’s Catholic Sunday School if you don’t know) the class centered on creating a “prayer corner” in your room. It was suggested we set aside a place in our room where prayer could be made. I doubt if specifics were really gone into-I was only in first grade-but today I’m amazed that such a sound idea was presented to me at such a young age. No matter what tradition you are in, it’s good metaphysical praxis to have the same  place set aside for daily meditation/contemplation/prayer/ritual what-have-you.

It escapes me why I went and did as told. There were lots of suggestions made that year and in years to come that I never listened to. I can’t even remember what they were-because, like most kids, I thought Sunday School was dumb and Church was boring. I preferred Greek mythology and often wondered why my own religion was so lacking in excitement. At any rate, I did set aside my prayer corner. I assembled the things I thought were appropriate, the sacred things of a child: my rocking chair with the Save the Wetlands sticker, and then, a Children’s Bible Stories coloring book-there was an excellent picture of Mary on the cover. The chair wasn’t for me to sit in as you might think. It served as a make-shift altar, I propped the coloring book up-Mary served as icon and representation of the act of prayer.

Now, people often ask for things when they pray. Certainly, children pray hard and expect fulfillment. I sat in front of the image of Mary, her icon above Save the Wetlands. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t verbalize any need or want. I just kneeled there. I’m not sure how long-and then, I felt something, some brief moment of clarity, some second of the numinous-in a way that a child is ready to receive it. And, like a child, I took the experience for granted-I don’t mean that callously. I accepted the experience for what it was. I didn’t question it, I didn’t tell anyone else about it. But I never forgot it, either. Thirty five years later, I remember that day as well if not better than any that have fallen more recently.  Sometimes, in the act of meditation/contemplation/prayer/ritual whatever-you-call-it, contact is the reward we are given.

There are times in our lives when we cross over boundaries and migrate into new parts of the world. This may or may not be apparent in our outer life, but whether we will it or no, such movements are the dynamics of our inner being. If we are engaged in life, then its nature is to change us. To be able to change is to be alive. Such changes are more acute at some times than others, and accompany dramatic events involving loss or gain. The kingdom is besieged, it falls under an enchantment. We quest for the sacred through the wilds of other lands and in laying forth upon the unknown world explore whole dark continents of ourselves, unmapped places filled with lost civilizations and faerie castles.

When I was in my early twenties I entered into a dark time I jokingly refer to today as my quarter life crisis. As many who undergo the melding from childhood freedom to adult responsibility, I came to an understanding of the world that held frightening implications. We are free to make our own choices, and with that freedom comes a terrible knowledge that the world is our fault. It is what we make it. But how do we know what to make the world? Where do we obtain the source of that knowledge?

There was a lot of pressure, at that time, to graduate from college, and, upon graduation, to get a job and enter into the mainstream workforce. Not to do so was also an option, but this invariably meant dropping out altogether as a rejection of society’s conventions. Or did it? Perhaps it was really an admission to failure-a failure to find another way. Certainly, following the herd into the morning traffic was also an admission to failure, a surrender, a falling into a deep sleep.

I was fortunate enough to take a class studying Joseph Campbell, a man perhaps best known for having written The Hero With a Thousand Faces. In that class, Mr. Campbell went from being the subject of academic inquiry to a sort of shaman, a guide to my soul, as it went through the dark spiritual voids of a society that does not acknowledge the existence of such things. We were each required to hold a lecture on the source material, and to draw upon specific mythic cycles. I chose the Holy Grail.

In my work for class, I immersed myself in the Grail mythos. I read Parzival, I read L’Morte D’Arthur. I read the Mabinogion. I read Tennyson. I saw Galahad obtain the grail, as well as Perceval, Bors, Gawain, Peredur. The knights rode across the Wasteland, searching for the sacred item that could heal the Fisher King’s grievous wound. Perceval witnessed the holy procession of the grail and forgot to ask the Question. The Fisher King’s battle cry is “Amor!” The grail was the cup Christ drank from at the last supper, the cup that caught his blood-brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea, whose staff budded when he planted it in the earth…

These stories and their innumerable variations washed over me, fed and sustained me, kept me going. Somehow, contained within them was an experience that was bigger than life, its measure in fact, defined life while transcending its limitations.

And then, as I studied, something interesting happened. One night, I came upon the Castle Munsalvach, a dark bricked fortress on a windswept promontory. Below the cliffs was crashing sea. I entered the demense and found myself racing down the halls and through the chambers of a vast estate. Labyrinthine, I could have wandered through the estate forever. And then, I stopped myself. With different eyes, I looked closer at things and saw a door with a golden chain. Somehow, I knew this was my chance. With an urgency borne from my most deep seated need, I burst into the room.

There, I met the Grail Keeper. I asked him if I could see the Grail. Without demanding the passage of a test, or the levying of some great price, he happily complied. A procession with the Cross went before us. Then, the Grail was unveiled. He poured water and wine into four vessels: two were earthen ware and two were glass. I drank from them. The Grail Keeper replaced the Grail to its cabinet.

Then, with a supreme effort, I asked if I could see the Grail again. With a smile, the Grail Keeper allowed me to do so. I reached into the cabinet and held the Grail in my hands. The stories say that the Grail is a changing thing-it is, at times, a cup, a dish, a bowl, sometimes it is a stone. This is true: the Grail shifted and reformed in my hands, ultimately revealing a set of symbols and imagery that etched themselves like carvings onto cavern walls in the deepest part of my being. I put the Grail back. I don’t remember what happened after that.

Later, I tried to relate what happened to my friends, my family, to anyone who would listen, really. I was convinced that it was more than just some strange dream, that somehow, my deeper working with mythology had uncovered profound truths, and in some sense, the experience really happened. Life is vast, beyond the experience of any single person. Within life are all things, all experiences, all ideas. Actively undertaken, its stories, the myths and archetypes common to all humanity, intersect with our own, and make us a part of the greater tapestry that is immortal and transpersonal.

My family is from Lipari, a volcanic island in the Mediterranean. Lipari lies between Sicily and Southern Italy, and is part of the Aeolian Archipelago. It is perhaps best known  today from Classical reference in the Odyssey. It is here that Odysseus stops and obtains the Four Winds from the god Aeolus. Lipari is a small island, with a total surface area of only 14.3 square miles (37 km2) and a permanent modern population of eleven thousand. The primary crops are capers and wine grapes. The main industry is tourism.

The Turkish pirate Hayreddin Barbarossa attacked and ransacked Lipari in 1544. He kidnapped the entire population of the island, appropriating them as slaves forthe Ottoman Empire. The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, incensed at this attack on his empire’s sovereignty, ordered soldiers from Aragon (a province in Northeastern Spain, near the Pyrenees mountains and the border with France) to re-settle the island. They built fortifications to repulse future attacks-the walls stand to this day. These men intermarried with the nearby local Sicilian population. These people were my ancestors.

There is a restaurant near where I work that I frequent. It’s called Antalya. I’ll go there and get kofteis, kebap, dolmasi. I’ll chat with the waiter/owner about things, sometimes world events, sometimes small-talk anecdotes. I always make sure to get the coffee-spiked with a little cardamom, it’s the best damn cup of joe you’ve ever had. The tea is good too. I’ll have to work my way to Ayran, though. Sometimes, after work, and with nothing pressing, I’ll sit back and watch some of the soccer on the big screen TV.

My Dad went to Turkey recently on business. During his visit he was fortunate enough to be shown the sights and sounds of Istanbul. Dad loved it, related to me all about the food, how good the people were, what a fascinating country Turkey is. I agreed. I told Dad that the tomb of Saint John is in Anatolia, as is the site where Mary ascended into Heaven. Of course, there is much more history than that, layers and layers of civilization all placed on each other like plates of gold, so much so that it is impossible to encompass it all in words.

No one in my family today recalled the events of 1544. Barbarossa was forgotten, a name that is only familiar to us because it was the code word of a Third Reich military operation. Always interested in history, I was the first one to read about it and tell the others. The fate of the former Liparians, and the fear our ancestors no doubt lived in afterwards, are, for us, anecdotes. They are interesting yes, but not a part of our living present. We do not  hate and fear the Turks; if anything, we like the food, the literature and find the culture fascinating. There is, I think, a lesson here.

The three little pigs were holed up in the brickhouse and no matter how hard Big Bad blew, it wasn’t coming down. Big Bad figured that was the way it was going to be-but he had to try anyway and give compulsory effort. He trudged away, head hung low and belly empty.

The pigs mocked him from within the brick house: “Maybe you need to hit the gym more, Big Bad!” the Brick Pig called. It was an intentionally ironic comment, of course. Brick Pig and his brothers Straw and Stick were notorious consumers of junk food and-strangely enough-diet cola. They spent long hours reclined on Lay Z boys watching-again, strangely enough-sports television.

Big Bad made no reply. The words stung his ears. However, despite the pride he took in being Big Bad, the wolf wasn’t too full of himself to not seek assistance. As long as it was from his own family. Big Bad made his way to the pool hall where Mid Bad sharked it with foxes, badgers and other unsavory types.

“Man, I’m game.” Mid Bad said when informed of the situation. He packed his Baretta and a stilletto and the two wolves went back to the Brick House. The candor of football blazzed out of the house. Within, the three pigs sat in a stupor, glutted on cola and video.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in!” Mid Bad intoned-it was an age old refrain. Silence followed. Mid Bad looked to Big Bad, wondering what to do or say next.

For lack of a better idea, Mid Bad repeated, “Little pig, little pig let me in!”

“Huh?” one of the pigs-it was hard to say just who-responded. There was a loud belch. “What? Are you kidding me? Jesus Christ, give me a break!”

The reply was non-traditonal and very disrespectful. Enraged, Mid Bad roared, “Then I’ll shoot you full of holes!” and he opened fire with the Baretta.  The bullets made pock marks in the brick, but could not penetrate the walls. Mid Bad, in his rage, emptied the entire clip. Disenhartened, the two wolves left the premises.

They agreed to go to Little Bad Wolf, who was at that time, engaged in a debate about supply side economics with a squirrel at a local pub. Little bad agreed to assist his brothers and the Three Bad Wolves went to the Brick House.

“Little pig, little pig, hey-we just want to talk.” Little Bad said. The TV inside was booming, but suddenly turned down and the rapping of cloven hooves on the floor drew close to the door.

“What? Talk? About what? You ready to come to terms?” it was Straw Pig speaking.

“Well, sort of.” Little Bad said.

“What do you mean?”

“Here’s the thing-we’re wolves, right?” silence followed. Little Bad continued, “we’re apex predators. That means we have to prey on you-you’re our game. Without you, we couldn’t exist.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess we just out-Darwined your ass!” Stick Pig broke in.

Little Bad chuckled and waved down Mid and Big, who were both incensed at these words. “You have and you haven’t.”

“What do you mean?” Brick Pig asked.

“Think about it. We’re apex predators, we need you to survive. But you see, you need us too. Without us to cull your ranks, you’ll overpopulate, consume all available resources and the next thing you know, instead of one of you dying, you all die. And a slow death too, as opposed to what we offer. You’ll starve to death. Just think, no potato chips, no diet soda…hell, I bet the way things go, you’ll lose TV too.”

This was unthinkable to the Pigs. But Little Bad’s words added up, they made sense. “Wh-what should we do?” Brick Pig asked.

“I’d kick the other pigs out, Brick. You’re obviously the fittest. You’re the one who built a house out of bricks while these losers were lazy andwent for straw and sticks. Kick ‘em out. We’ll sort out the rest.” Little Bad replied. The sounds of a scuffle and squealing followed, and momentarily, the door popped open and Straw and Stick came flying out.

“Let’s get ‘em!” Big Bad said hungrily as the Little Pigs dashed about madly looking for refuge.

“No, wait, wait.” Little Bad said and held his borthers back. When Straw and Stick exhausted themselves and waited for the end to come, Little Bad approached them.

“Are-are you going to eat us now?’ Straw asked.

“No-no. Look, this is an opprotunity for you to learn new behavior, adapt, evolve. We could enter into a enw partnership, inter-species cooperation, you know, symbiosis.”

“Okay, what do we have to do?” Stick Pig asked. Little Bad got the Baretta from Mid Bad and handed it to Straw Pig.

“Plug Brick Pg and you’re in.” Little Bad said. Straw Pig took the gun and went to the Brick House. He knocked on the door.

“Straw?”

“Yeah, quick, let me in. I got away from the wolves. I was too fast for them, so much for all that apex predator stuff.” Straw said. Lonely and guilty, Brick let his brother in. Within minutes the flash of igniting gunpowder lit the TV dark room.

The wolves went in, taking Stick with them. They made short work of Brick’s body, and it was soon roasting on a spit in the hearth. Straw and Stick were made to wait outside.

At one point, Little Bad, in between mouthfuls of roast pork said, “Thing is, fellas, you got to let the Pig let you in. Do that and you got it made.”

I like Christmas. The gingko trees of downtown Athens are arrayed with lights, and there is a parade through town where High School bands, wonderfully out of tune, play yuletide songs and various community minded folks participate or attend. The university takes a break for the holiday, and the students, for the most part, leave town. And so, despite the festive season, Athens becomes a quieter place with a pared down population. You can see who really lives there. Restaurants and bars downtown have their parties and the natives and regulars all attend getting free food and booze. As the students leave, others return. People who have left and gone off to other places, and there’s a good chance that at one of the bars you’lll run into someone that you have connected with in years (at least before there was Facebook). I believe in Christmas and the magic that attends it.

However, there was a time when I hated Christmas. As the town emptied out and a quieter time settled in I was left with my life as it was. It was still, cold and dark. I was typically alone on Christmas Eve. I always made sure I worked that night and often the next day. I’d spend as much time as I could working so I could forget that it was winter outside, that it was a holiday season. I’d work until it was over and things were back to normal-if I wasn’t working I made sure I was drinking or sleeping, no idle hours where I could think about things too much. No matter what I did, though, the one unavoidable session of silent night solitude came on Christmas Eve. Inevitably, I would be in my house alone, drinking and watching bad cable television until I was tired enough to go to sleep.

But one year, things were different. One year, everything changed. I worked Christmas Eve, as usual and got off work at eleven. That year a friend of mine, Andy, was working with me. Something was up at home for Andy, I never found out what it was, but he didn’t want to go home after work. Instead, we went out. Even in Athens, there were a few places that were still open that served alcohol. Or so we thought. Everywhere we went, we just missed it. Restaurants were closed, bars weren’t serving. Everyone was-sensibly-shutting it down early. For once, I had nothing stocked at home either. So as the night progressed, it appeared as though we would not face the oncoming hours of Christmas Eve with at leas the numbing warmth of a good buzz wrapped around our heads.

The whole time, initially as a joke, I said: “Don’t worry, And, I’m sure the magic of Christmas will come through!” A refrain that mocked all the specials we saw as children. We’d get to a bar or restaurant that had just closed: “Don’t worry And, the magic of Christmas will help us!” I said it over and over.

Now, the thing is, I’ve got an interest in metaphysical things. I practice and have taught meditation. I’ve witnessed transubstantiation, I’ve heard khutbahs in masjids, I’ve walked the paths of the Tree of Life, I’ve gone on shamanic journeys. I’ve seen and experienced things that are, quite frankly, hard to believe or explain. Despite what some may think, you can tell when a ritual is working, you can feel it when an invocation is properly conducted. There are lots of metaphors for it, a current one could be that the power of a higher reality is downloaded into our own and changes it.

Even taking into account my beliefs, unorthodox as they are in the norms of today, did I ever believe in things as banal sounding as “The Magic of Christmas”? Of course not, it’s beneath my intellect. The Magic of Christmas is something you see on bad holiday specials on network television. It’s saccharine crapola dispensed to children inbetween commercials for toys you don’t need. Yet, for all that, here it was, I was saying the mantic holiday invocation, “The Magic of Christmas”, over and over like some mad tinsel clad litany. Initially, it was an ironic joke on my part, but the more I said it, the less funny it sounded.

Andy and I returned home to my abode, 760 Boulevard, unsucessful in our bid to find something to make the evening more bearably anaesthetized.

“I guess you were wrong about the Magic of Christmas, Pete.” Andy said. I didn’t make a ready response. Just then, we heard a car pull up outside. That was odd. My room-mate and best friend, Jason, was gone for the holidays. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Voices-two men whom I didn’t recognize made their way to the front door. They asked for Josh, who was Jason’s brother (he was crashing on our couch at the time) and had gone with Jason to where it was they went on Christmas Eve.

“You mind if we hang out? We’ve been driving for a long time.” one of them asked.

“Sure, come on in.” I responded. They clambered in with a case of beer and a bottle of gin and more besides. In no time, we were drinking, watching Star Wars on an old Laserdisc player, smoking glorious blue Afghan double creeper mookie-mookie, making jokes and telling stories.

“See, Andy,” I said at one point, my voice slurred, “the Magic of Christmas came through. Haha. The Magic of Christmas came through.”

The two men eventually returned to the night from which they came. I can’t remember their names. I never saw them again. Magic is like that sometimes.

The wolf was a predator, a creature meant to kill and eat others. It was the natural order of things: it had sharp teeth, a stout form built for long distance running-the better to harry down a meal and ultimately devour it. Life, for the wolves, invariably meant death. As yet, the wolf was still young as such things went. His father and older brothers were the ones who went out on the hunt and brought back meals for the pack. When he was coming of age, the father of the pack invited the wolf to come along and participate in the killing. The wolf was reluctant to do so and despite his best attempts to keep his recalcitrance discreet, it some became rather obvious.

The pack started talking. He doesn’t want to go out and hunt. He’s nothing like the rest of us. It was true, the wolf knew it, and inded, had always known it. But in spite of his differences, the wolf decided to explore his identity as a predator, although he resolved to do so on his own terms. This precluded hunting in a pack. How could he hunt alone? The problem seemed insurmountable, until one day, while searching for something (he forgot what it was later) in a closet, the wolf happened upon a perfectly preserved sheep-skin. It was a trophy from some hunt or other-such things weren’t unusual; however its state of preservation was. The wolf knew Providence when he saw it. Wearing the sheep-skin, he would be a predator and walk anonymously among the prey. The sheep would never know-and he could hunt solitarily.

Knowing the pack wouldn’t undestand, the wolf clad himself in the sheep-skin and swiftly departed for a nearby pasture where a herd of sheep were grazing. The disguise worked better than the wolf could have hoped-concealed, he walked incognito among the sheep. The first day, he did nothing. He could kill a sheep whenever he wanted-but resolved to wait until the right time presented itself. The wolf surreptitiously returned to the den and disrobed.

The wolf returned the next day. But still, he took no action against the sheep, and merely walked among them, occasionally taking up sheep-like behavior to avoid detection. He ate grass and bleated. This went on for a few weeks. On at least two separate occasions, he encountered other wolves who-it seemed-had the same dilemma about hunting and the same solution. He said nothing to these others, and they said nothing in return. Their gaze merely met for a few moments, and then they turned away.

The donning of the sheep-skin became so routine that the wolf became careless. No one in the pack seemed wise to what he was doing-they thought he was an odd one and generally avoided him. The wolf began to simply store the skin under his bed instead of returning it to the closet.

One day, his father found the skin, and pulled it out when all members of the pack were present. “What the hell is this?” his father demanded, holding up the skin to exemplify his point. “Have you been wearing this?”

“I have, but let me explain…” the wolf began. He had rehearsed many well thought out explanations-reasons that were not, in fact, too removed from the rationalizations that he told himself when he first put on the sheep skin.

“Oh my god, it all makes sense now,” his mother said, her voice already cracking with hysterics. His sisters went to comfort her. But his father glared with paternal wrath, and his brothers took his side, mirroring the apparent disapproval.

“I’m-I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing!’ the wolf blurted. It seemed best to toss caution aside.

“Not in this den you’re not.” the father said grimly. He held the skin out, away from him. “Take it-it’s soiled now. Take it and go.”

The wolf took the skin and departed back to the herd he had come to know. He was sad initially, but the sense of relief that he was who he was outweighed the sorrow.

The father wolf did his best to put the wayward son out of his mind. He hunted more and more frequently, often journeying out when the others were too tired to join or had other things to do. On one such day, he came along another wolf whose coat seemed to hang loosely on him.

“So, um,” the other wolf began, its voice strangely high-pitched, “hunt often?”

If you asked them, neither the tortoise nor the hare could tell you how the traditional race began between their respective species. It has been suggested that both were a little reactionary, since being mistaken for a turtle or a rabbit was a common occurrence for them. At any rate, after a long lapse in this traditional competition, it was revived in hopes of bringing more business into the community.

“Dude, I am waaay faster than you.” the hare commented in the hours before the race.

“Maybe, but your overconfidence has always proven to be your undoing.” the tortoise retorted.

The hare chortled. “Not this  time, pal. I’m not gonna party all night long so I’m too tired to race. I’m not gonna outsmart myself, none of that. Just a straight up race: you and me. It’s just in a few hours, too.”

A long smirk cut across the tortoise’s beak. “We’ll see about that.”

In concerns of keeping the race fair, the judges-who, in the interest of impartiality were neither hare nor tortoise-decided that either the hare should be handicapped (it was suggested that a large weight be attached to him) or the tortoise be enhanced (a motorized dolly was wheeled out, replete with braces for the tortoise).  The hare and his kin protested this vociferously; their need to win was great. The hares had never defeated the tortoises in the long history of the race, as was well known to all the animals of the forest. This was a source of great shame to them.

With the magnanimity that those in superior positions can maintain, the tortoise offered the decision be made by the hare.

“Let him use the rocket.” the hare said glumly. When the race began, the hare shot off at full tilt, seeming to give everything he had to the initial course. This was, it seemed, unwise, as it was hardly a good strategy for a long distance race. After not too much time, the tortoise began to catch up, his dolly rattled loudly as its motor accelerated. He smiled at the hare, and said something that was inaudible under the puttering of the engine. The tortoise was soon side by side and began to pass, when, suddenly, the hare pulled out a gun and shot several holes into the motor. The fuel ignited, causing a massive explosion. Later, it was unclear whether the explosion or the fire that followed led to the death of the tortoise.

The hare maintained his course and finished the race. When asked about the tortoise he was frank about its fate. The judges were incensed, and many thundered that the hare not only be disqualified, criminal prosecution needed to follow.

“Now wait a minute-you never said it mattered how I win, it was just that I win!” the hare declared. “There were no rules!” Before the judges could levy any pronouncements, the other hares in the stands rioted. They tore down the bleachers and set fire to the judge’s wooden booths. The judges fled, along with any non-hare present that could escape. The tortoises that were present to support their own did not fair so well-being far too ponderous to get away. 

“How’s the race now? Is it fair now?” the hares said, as they bound them to motorized dollies that were made to crash and explode. When all was finished, the only semi-undamaged piece of the affair was a mud-spattered banner that advertised the race. This, the hare made sure to hang on the wall in his warren. Needless to say, races of this sort do not take place any more. But it could hardly be argued that the hares did win, and that, by winning the final time, they might as well have won all the races. They certainly said they did, and no one was going to tell them otherwise.

Things that are forming come from what has already formed. Everything that is came from what was before. Everything that is yet to be will come from today (or tomorrow, as the case may be). When I was a lad there was a vast maze cut in the hedges before me-as I wandered through and looked behind I was astonished to find a straight line where I had been. Which was the truth of it-the curving and wayward cuts and turns or the simple and sublime linearity? I think that, somehow, all things that could have happened did happen, and I’m living in the chain of circumstance that is most pertinent-while I am also in all the other events each for its own face.

I read a book, its chapters were out of order-it was chopped and put together-the beginning in some anonymous section, the beginning somewhere else in the story. There was more story after the end happened towards the end, but still somewhat in the middle. This is how it is, this is how it really is. Stories are like that, measurements come out later, in spooling, mathematical iterations. But the thing is, we talk that way. We talk that way because it’s the way it is.

When I was a lad I shared with my peers and many seemed confident about making their way. Many were afraid. I saw some of each go into the past direction, behind, I don’t think they are here any more. But I’ve heard they may come back-or not. There were others, but too few, that seemed to have made a trail-with string, with bird crumbs, with just dumb luck (that was me, too). There are ways that we think they have to be, if only because everyone who went before us did it that way-at least, in my family. And well, excuse me, but yours too. I wish I could say I thought it was intentional.

Boulevard is the name of a street in Athens Georgia. The surrounding historical district bears the same name. In 1898 the streetcar came to Athens. This meant a greater convenience in transit and resulted in new neighborhoods that, in their day, were considered suburbs. The same year the streetcar arrived, the Athens Park and Improvement Company bought the 150 acres that would comprise Boulevard. The lots were north of Prince Avenue and its attendant Neo-Classical mansions. 

Variously, the homes in the Boulevard District were built in Greek Revival, Queene Anne, Neoclassical, Craftsman and American Foursquare. There was a park to the west of the development, with a lake. Oaks that still stand today were planted and line either side of the street upon which electric cars ferried people to town and back again. Eventually, as Athens grew, the population of the area also expanded. As this happened, people moved out, to get further and further away from the town to the apparent quiet and safety of outbound suburbs. Boulevard was, in time, largely forgotten. The park and lake were gone-today, no one knows they were ever there. Instead, there is a sloping trench choked with kudzu and dilapidated businesses in cinderblock squares roofed with tin sheets. As with many historic areas, memories the place has for itself is still there, melancholy and uneasy.

I moved into 760 Boulevard in 1990 with my good friend, Jason Emond. The house was built in Craftsman style in 1915, by the parents of Leonard Postero (the personality of Leonard’s Losers). Tim Gore, a friend of Jason’s, had just bought the house. We were eager to move in. I loved the idea of living in a historic home in a historic neighborhood. The district was well-known for its forward thinking, and many of our peers lived in the area. The house had hardwood floors, an open staircase. The backyard boasted fig, apple and pecan trees. Morning glory profused over old clothes drying wires, and mint was everywhere-the remains, no doubt, of a garden that once decorated the large  back plot.

The house needed repairs. A wandering handyman, fellow Vietnam veteran and friend of Tim’s was on site-plastering walls and doing odd jobs. He noticed, in the course of his work, that the chimney was askew. In 1974 two tornadoes hit Athens in the same week. I remember it vividly. I was down in the park behind our house playing with my childhood friend, John Crook. My mother came out anxiosly, telling us a tornado was coming. We went inside and sheltered in the basement, in complete darkness-the power went out. After this incident, another tornado followed. Ever since, I’ve been under the impression that tornadoes happen often, even though one hasn’t hit Athens since then.

The skewed chimney was important, you see. The family that lived in the house before us was…eccentric. One of the members of the family attempted to rob a bank, but got off on insanity charges. The itinerant handyman theorized that gases leaked from the chimney into the house, and slowly drove the family into a chemical madness. That sort of thing can seep into the walls-when we live in a place we leave an imprint of ourselves. In a sense, the whole house was as skewed as the chimney-you could feel it. Things bent and turned in odd ways are paths for bent and turned events to occur.

There were noises in the house at night. Even when I was the only one home. The television would turn itself on. Items tended to fall off of shelves. An unsettling presence filled the place, which was always dark and cold. Strangers would avoid the house. We never locked the door, confident that whatever was in there would frighten away any potential thief. Jason and I took it in stride. It was an old house in a old neighborhood. The area was crawling with stuff like this-you could feel it. We were laid back guys, we could handle a ghost, whoever he was. We found out later that the father of the previous inhabitants had died of cancer in the hospital sometime before we moved in. He wanted to die in his home. Apparently, after death, his spirit, perhaps restless of its circumstances, returned.

Then, things got worse. The occasional poltergeist phenomenon, I could handle. Heck, it even made for good story. But matters intensified: the pilot light kept going out, we couldn’t keep a third room-mate. I started to have dreams with the old man in them. On one occasion, he was putting a plastic bag over my mouth. After that, I decided enough was enough. At that time, I was self-initiating in Golden Dawn Tradition; among the various elements of this school a prominent one is practical Kabbalah. Practical Kabbalah is, basically, using ritual to achieve various ends-generally by invoking angels, names of God, etc. This phantom needed escort to its next stop: purgatory, its next incarnation, what have you. And I meant to give it to him. One night, I lit the candles, burned the incense, called on the god-names and archangels of the cardinal directions and banished the space that was my house.I achieved the desired results with little fanfare. The spirit was gone-late night rappings no longer were heard, and, more importantly, I could sleep undisturbed.

I’ve returned to the house on occasion since then-Jason still lives there-and it’s still quiet. My treatment may seem stern to some, but I am confident that, in fact, I helped the ghost out and sent it on to where it needed to be.

It was a while ago after happily ever after. For me, it was really like any other day in the office. You know,  pounding down coffee, calling tech support about the networked printer’s latest breakdown, ignoring the surreal distortion fluorescent lighting lends to reality, that sort of thing. Then, my phone rang-a little earlier than usual. Caller ID showed it was someone I’d known for quite some time, my old college drinking buddy, Prince Charming. We’d been hanging out more than usual lately, something my wife didn’t quite approve of but also didn’t quite address. She liked Charming, he was my only friend that didn’t come over to watch college ball on TV.

“Charming, what’s up, dude?”

“Not much, man. Hey, what are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Uh-got no plans. Why?”

“I just want to hang out, you know. Get a drink or something.”

Normally, I’d tell Charming like it is-I’d have to clear it with the wife first, that’s only fair to her. But something was up, that was certain. Lisa would understand.

“Okay, I’m game. What watering hole we meetin at?”

“Trapeeze, back in Athens.”

That took me off guard. A return to our old haunts back in the Classic City was a foray that would require more than the usual entreaties with the old lady. She was sure to think this was mid-life crisis raising its ugly head. And maybe for Charming, it was. The man was three times divorced with no kids, poor guy. Things never seemed to work out for him.

“Um, okay. Sounds good to me.” 

“Cool-see you then.”

I hung up the phone. As I predicted, it took a little convincing, but Lisa understood my friend was in need of a friend and so I made the trip from Atlanta to Athens, the stomping grounds of my ill-spent youth, back when I thought I was cool.

Trapeeze isn’t one of the old hangouts-not for Charming and me and the other guys in our crowd. It wasn’t around back then, but it’s pretty damn close in character-especially since our old grounds got colonized by Frat boys. I go in and get a Belgian beer-it’s cold outside, and good high alcohol content is just the thing.

I see Charming, he’s sitting with a pretty young thing in a booth by a window. They’re side by side, laughing warmly, and he’s got those same pretty boy looks even though we’re both pushing middle age: white teeth, perfect bronzed skin, flawless brown hair, bright blue-green eyes. He’s one of those guys who could pass for a hot girl if he wanted.

“Charmin’.” I say and take a seat before the Prince and his latest Lady.

“Pete, what’s up, buddy? This is Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel’s got long, long red hair, bright green eyes. And like every woman Charming’s ever been with, she’s an absolute knock out.

“Nice to meet you.” I offer a hand and she shakes it gracefully. It’s amazing how women can shake hands and make it seem courtly.

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Rapunzel says and smiles. She’s meeting someone from Charming’s past, and so I’m a way for her to get a glimpse at the real Prince Charming-who he was when he was coming up in the world. I knew him before he killed his first dragon, before he raised the dead with a kiss, you know the stories.

“Thanks.” We chat for a bit and tell old tales. Charming makes sure to talk about my dealings with the vampires of the Red Enclave, about the half-human, half-angelic Nephilim and the  walking nightmare called the Fear. He and Rapunzel thinks it’s interesting-because it’s all no fairy tale, that’s for sure. It just makes me feel uncomfortable, but I share a little, it’s cool. Some old tunes come on the stereo and Charming and I sing along here and there.

Eventually, Rapunzel excuses herself to the woman’s room.  Charming watches her go and then looks back to me with a smile as big as worlds.

“So what do you think of her, Pete?” he asks, and for a moment, I regress, not too unwillingly, to when we were fifteen. He hasn’t changed a bit-he looks almost exactly the same. Hell, he probably even weighs the same.

“She’s nice, man.” I say and sip my beer.

“Yeah, I really like her. We’re getting serious, you know? I think-I think this is the one.” He pauses dramatically and measures my response.

Now, I’m not sure how much you know about Prince Charming-but he’s always been a favorite of the ladies. He got with and married some of the biggest names out there: Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty. But one thing always led to another and the next thing you know, Charming is single again. When we were in our twenties and even our early thirties, it didn’t seem like too big a deal. Charming was a complicated guy, you know? But now…

“She’s pretty-and cool.” I say.

Charming frowns and sighs at the diplomatic flatness of my voice. “I really mean it this time, Pete. You’ll see, man. I already saved her from this old hag-witch. Had to climb up her hair to the top of the tower-believe it or not.”

“Really?” I say this somewhat awkwardly and hope Charming doesn’t get confrontational with me. It’s not my fault I’ve been married for over fifteen years and he’s divorced three times. Just then, thank God, Rapunzel returns to the table. Charming brightens immediately.

“Talking about old times some more?” she asks.

“Yes. Pete was telling me about some of his latest adventures…” Charming says and we fall back into easy conversation. We drink more, things go lax and time spins away. Last call goes out in what seems just a short time. We head outside before the lights come on and talk more on the streetside. Eventually, my cab shows up.

“My ride’s here. See y’all later, it’s been real.” I grin. Charming and I hug and slap each other on the shoulders. Rapunzel gives me a hug too and I’m about to be off in the cab.

Charming grabs my arm. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I really appreciate it.” he says in all seriousness.

“Anytime, Charming. We’re friends.” I say and board the cab. It pulls away and I see Charming and Rapunzel looking around, like they’re wondering what they’re going to do next.