Feral shrub branches push against windows and the sun runs away, the sun that hurts his eyes and begins headaches like a match to a candle wick. Let the sun to run away. Crappy it is. Gauche. Who needs it? The overcast comes in. Better. Better in the middle afternoon for some strange and even occult wind to announce itself there. Where are the smiley ones then?
Those bushes, they dance themselves along the windows. He does not think they are glass windows but they are Plexiglas. There is something in the past about Plexiglas. Oh, he thinks, Here we go, and then the thoughts meander, labyrinthine-like, as secreted forest pathways. Yes, here we go, and he thinks backward…There is in the past a surfeit of afternoons like that- bright for their darkness- illuminating insights. There is some page right beside the other pages of reality that is unread. It’s like a song but a silent song. Or, it’s like the Holy Spirit and Spirits that sing in the ear of Jacob Ellis. That is how the afternoons are. And they click like frames of a film and he can see all the mise en scene but what is more, he sees a bit of the secret therein. A bit.
There is a coastline and it’s The Atlantic and humid raindrops click against a 1980’s or 70’s aluminum rail. You used to be able to put things on rails when the world was different. He is alone, a sweet aloneness and the whitecaps down the way across the verdant vacant lot brag themselves up a bit in the new storm. Click. Then he is in bed and spirits come to his mind, – one, two, three- persons caught in the in-between worlds-bardos, some wisdom texts call them- but the name does not matter. The spirits who show up to him are of no set age, race, gender, or so on. He does not get the impression that they are malevolent. He just tells them to watch the brightness and ease into it. There is always brightness. One time, another or other beings were looking on and they were not right.
So Jacob called Archangel Michael and he came with his sword. Maybe, Jacob thought, The psychics weren’t shitting when they said there was such a thing as spirit-rescue. Maybe that is what he was doing. Hadn’t the young spectre boy come, full-fledged and active in the world of the, what? – departed? – Limbo? – Purgatory? – In order to receive help? A help Jacob was too nonplussed to offer. Click. There is some woman, dark eyes, adorned of denim and a green shirt-high zygomatics, black hair, walking- she looks up at him and has some kind of freckles under her eyes. Something she wears is silver. Breeze blows up the hair some. Then the vision is gone. Click. Music and the back seat of Buicks with plush cushion seats. Jacob stares out the windows of cars and houses for years feeling a sort of prescience, but how could it be so if it is prescience about nothing? Yet, it is pronounced. And the spirit is screaming in the ears always. Click. A woman is lifting up her shirt and exposing her breasts.
It’s night and the rain carries itself to windows where its parts break into further parts like chapters and line breaks and snapshots. The rain rages. The bits crawl downwards across the glass. Not Plexiglas this time but glass. The woman has perfect breasts and the storm turns itself, amplifying its voice. The month is September and for her offering, it will always in a way be September. Click. The old friend is fishing on the pier. Fish-gut-buckets and the old men in soulful checkered shirt-sleeves a bit too hot for the weather. The smell of something like salt mixed with the mould or mildew of the pier wood and the cooking from eateries or a small fire down the way. He could stay in the moment forever.
See, the sky turns overcast and the regular world goes away and something else clicks on. The world by the pier in a filter- a film filter and maybe a spirit filter. Or- is this the real reality and the other a filtered one?- whatever the case the sun is out of his eyes and the smiling secular idiots of the days- the ones who think they know- have gone off.
He is there. Jacob, the friend, the old men fishing with wonderfully calloused hands and eternal eyes. They have more days behind them than ahead; as much part and parcel of the environs as the bird-flock, the underwater barracuda, the shoes against the sand and wood. It’s not that they have a secret wisdom. It’s that they are the wisdom. The world then is perennial. It will meet up with him in the future as an overcast afternoon daydream. So be it. Who is to say it wrong? The aged ones, now long gone from the earth, would laugh and say, As you will. How, against coolness and good form, he is unafraid to think and say, he loves them.