Navigating By Falling Stars

We are still a bit forward in time.

It is nights like these that remind him of his journey and path, the test.

He returns home onto the island, runs the dark lonely road past Bauers Farm and then the tough turn through Todd’s Farm, and he is home. 

In just a few small hours he has navigated the dull and oppressive lights of the city, his old home, and found his way across the Black Marsh to a place were the sole and lonely light sits beneath the flag pole by the Post Office, just around the corner, that opens at seven and closes at four.  It gets dark here, and he is okay with this.

His ride home back to the island is troublesome.  He smokes and spits blood out the window into the cold winter’s air.  There is no music; Just the keening of the diesel’s low rumble and an echo of a voice of love so very far away.

Tonight he went back.  He has done this once before, only once.  This time he was closer to his old home than he has ever been.  A friend, a brother, for better or worse, wanted to sit and pretend that everything was okay, alright.  And so he went back.  And it was, okay.

And nothing had changed.  It was all the same.

Some new paint, stronger bar stools and eleven televisions, but it was as if he had never left. 

The same drunks rolled in and out.  The bar keeps hadn’t changed.  And no one knew why he had disappeared.  They heard rumours and speculated, but they didn’t know.  They just assumed he had “moved on”.  They never knew he was pushed away, forced out.

And so he was embraced…again, like always. 

But it wasn’t enough to make him feel like he was home.  In his heart he knew that he was so far away that he could never find his way back to this place that was once his.  And uglier still, he never wanted to go to this place again.

“Fuck these fools, God bless them.  Their cages need to be rattled, they aren’t living.” 

Nothing had changed.

Only him.

And as the dusk fell, and the phony dark of the city night crept in, he bid them all farewell and charted the new familiar course towards his home on the edge of the world.

And as he headed out into the black, the real dark, lit only by stars; his phone began to ring.  Call after call came in.  Word had spread that he was out and tangible, real once again, and everyone wanted a piece. 

But the calls were never returned.  He had enough for one day and drew up the drawbridge that traversed the black waters between him and all those good souls that wanted or needed something from him. 

Only one thing, one soul could ease his weary head and make it all make sense. 

This is why he didn’t listen to music as he diesel rumbled his way back home; this is why the windows were down and the cold salt wind blew in through the windows of the truck…

He was trying to hear her voice.

If he kept the engine at a low gurgle and grunt, around 1500 RPM, he could almost hear her…and she was singing.  It was something unfamiliar, but he was sure it was Joan Baez.

He hates Joan Baez, but loves when she sings her to him.  It reminds him that he has his angel on.

He rumbles up to his cottage of exile on the black water. 

There are Christmas lights on neighbor’s houses, and still the lone light at the Post Office, illuminating the tattered flag that only comes down when there is almost nothing left to remind them of the wind that never ends and pulls their skin tight across their faces.

He steps out of the truck and begins to walk the few steps towards home.  There is no light on to guide his way.  Why should there be?  It is only him.

And just before stepping onto the porch, he stops.

A star, brilliant white, shoots over his head, over his exile, and out into black water beyond.

And he freezes, cannot move.  He just stands in the weird crazy dark of distant Christmas lights and waits.  What ever light there is down here, while comforting and giving of peace, means nothing when compared to the lights above that sometimes rain down upon us. 

And it all makes sense, “Fuckin’ Christ, it’s the Geminid Shower.  I am an asshole.”

So he goes inside, grabs a quick bite to eat, packs a cooler with beer, and then heads out onto the pier and waits to watch the heavens fall over the black water.

And as the stars rain down through the soft salty breeze, he is sure he hears her voice, gently singing.

It might be Joan Baez, but he wants it to be Leonard Cohen.

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

He is just comforted knowing that even though she isn’t with him, here on the pier on such a stellar night…

She is.

The black water that divides them, is nothing compared to the onyx infinite sky above, that draws them back to one another, through a sea of falling, brilliant white, stars.


    "And maybe I'm the man that's wading out into the night, singing don't fall thru the stars."
          http://youtu.be/oCa4_PwbE3k

We leave the story for a brief interlude and share the latest interview with Murdoc.  It’s a bad phone connection that cuts in and out, as the wind has its way with the signal as it reaches out to him in his exile across the winters emerald water.  Again, some silly fool has taken interest in his work and he suffers the intrusion with the usual aplomb.  The fool trying to get something from him is named Mike.  He is an upstart writer and is proud for hunting Murdoc down and cornering him for some time and words. 

After a number of disconnects, dropped signals, they finally connect with a clarity that is muddy at best, but purrfect for the exchange that will occur.

What follows is an edited transcript.

Mike:  So can you hear me now?

Murdoc:  Yuppers.

Mike:  What?  Was that a yes?

Murdoc:  Yuppers.  (pause)  Yes, I can hear you.  Now what?

Mike:   Sorry, you keep breaking up and falling out.  I…

Murdoc:  That’s pretty much the routine for me.  But then the Fort might have something to do with this as well.  One road in and one cell phone tower, and damned by God.  We take turns making calls out.  The old guy up the street had a stroke two days ago and his wife had to wait to call the volunteer fire department until her neighbor had finished talking to her sister in Cleveland.  Living here teaches us patience and what’s really important.

Mike:  So you live on an island?

Murdoc:  It will be one day; and probably soon the way things are going.  So, when are you going to get to the prepared questions?

Mike:  Okay. (pause) But can I ask a couple of more questions off the list? 

Murdoc:  Sure, you get two.

Mike:  (pause, Mike thinks hard and wants to make the best of this candid opening)  So what’s your newest toy?

Murdoc.  No toys right now.  Not in the cards.

Mike:  From your work we have heard and read about the Triumph, is it done?

Murdoc:  That’s your second question, and no, it’s still sitting in the living room, sulking like a spurned child.  But Christmas is coming and I’ll wrap some lights around her and make her feel loved again.

Mike:  Can I ask one more off the script?

Murdoc:  Yuppers, but make it good.  And that’s three.

Mike:  So why haven’t you written anything in the last two months?

There is no pause before he answers and the signal gets stronger and suddenly clear.

Murdoc:  I fell in love, and then went fishing.

Mike:  As a reader of the HME Papers, this is clear, but could you explain? 

Murdoc:  Sure, but I thought this interview was supposed to be about the Papers and the change in the narrative and redirection of the experiment.  Is it back-story that you want?

Mike:  I was hoping for a glimpse into the writers mind and how it is that you can just jump in and out of the work?  I don’t think I am alone on this.

Murdoc:  That’s six unwelcomed questions now Mikey, and it should be noted that I am no writer.

Mike:  Sorry, but why the black out?  Why the pause?  It was just getting good.

Murdoc:  The big Rockfish came in season.  They run when the waters blend.  The trophy’s gather up and school and wait for the cold to draw them out of the Bay.  It’s simple migration, “Hey Renata, its getting cold let’s run south.”  So fools like me chase them.  You’d be a fool not to slowly glide the surface of the upside down black universe, knowing that something great and beautiful is down deeper than you, waiting to rise and fight you and then change you forever.

Mike:  Are we talking about fishing now or love? 

Murdoc:  Fishing fool.  You never kill love.  But I have to say that fishing is love and what you take from the water, if you are a good man, becomes a part of you.  Fishes?  Loaves?  It’s all killing.  But appreciate the gift and understand where it is coming from.

Mike:  So can I ask about love?  It seems that you have found love, a profound love. 

Murdoc:  Great love.  The only love.  A love I have chased and waited for, for as long as I have ever been.

Mike: So the new character in the HME Papers is real?

Murdoc:   Yuppers, and she has a great ass.

Mike:  So again, you are writing fiction and non-fiction at the same time?

Murdoc:  Are you saying her ass isn’t great?  Them’s fighting words.  But seriously, It’s always been real.  It just seems like I made the whole thing up.  I mean, I’ll be honest, if I read this shit, I would have a hard time believing this crap was real.  But it is.  And the few times I go back and read this, I still find it all unbelievable. 

Mike:  So she’s a writer?

Murdoc:  Best writer I know.  The woman can write soft white circles around the moon, that make you smell snow, and light your way home on a cold winter’s night.

Mike:  So is it strange to both be writers?

Murdoc:  Nope, ‘cause I’m not a writer.  I can only speak for me, but I think she feels this as well…We inspire each other.  She is trained and I am a rough animal.  I learn something new from her ever day and I know my writing gets better.  The best part will be when she is done with her studies and finally has the time to edit all my shit and make me look all edjumacated and smartzie. 

Mike:  Will she change you stylistically?

Murdoc:  She already has.  I don’t wear tapered jeans anymore.

Mike:  I meant as far as writing?

Murdoc:  Of course she has.  She has raised the bar.  I fell in love with her words and the way she gathered them together and set them to flight.  She has a natural gift, and yet has worked so very hard to hone this craft that she has taken as her own.  Anyone can sharpen a stick into a crude spear, only a few know how to heat steel, temper it, sharpen it, and create a potential, threatening beautiful weapon.  That’s what great writing is.  My gal has a gift. 

Mike:  I’ll be honest, I figured out who she was and read her work.  It’s stunning.

Murdoc:  Good for you.  It’s not hard to find her, us, we’re out here, and I pass along a thank you from her for appreciating her work.  We try to hide and protect our intellectual and creative children, but we are proud of them and take great pride when they come home with good marks.  Her baby is in the “gifted and talented program,” mine is still licking bus windows and laughing at farts.

Mike:  (laughing)  So what’s next?

Murdoc:  We get married, I settle into “soft alcohol middle age” and she punches fools in the face with important ideas and words.

Mike:  So no more writing for you?

Murdoc:  Hey Diptard, I have to keep writing.  I have to.  When I stop, the story ends; but sometimes the call of the black water, and its lull of tide, take’s precedence over words and ideas.  Sometimes, it’s nice to just rise and fall upon the universe’s pull, and let the black waters run deep and through you....(pause, cell phone signal starts to break up)  Until you’re ready, and then you dig in and start wrestling with words once again.  (pause, last sentence almost imperceptible)  That makes no fucking sense, but what the fuck is writing anyway?

Mike:  I’m losing you.

The signal fades and breaks upon the heavy wind that has rolled over the Fort.

Mike:  Can you hear me?

Murdoc:  Yuppers, sorta.  This is purrfect.

Mike:  (heavy static)  One last question…

Murduc:  Go ahead.

Mike:  Who is she?

The radio signal glows strong and the lights over the Fort surge bright for a brief moment.  The street light next to the post office will vibrate under the push of soft amber to blinding white heat and light, and then burst.

Murdoc:  She is…. http://msfaustus.blogspot.com/   

Real, they must be...

The work, all the work, has taken its toll.  The late nights, the ether, the radiation, the math, the cold coffee in hand warmed cups.  It all added up.  Empirical success was measured in personal, physical failure.  Kafka grew sick.  All parties involved understood the implications of their meddling in and with the universe.  But they moved forward anyway.  Love of science, and science for love.  Any one of them could have fallen ill and succumbed to the madness and rigors of their work.  But it was Kafka that took the full hit.  She doubled in size and took to staring at herself in the cheap plastic mirror that once gave her amusement and allowed her a break from the work that drove her.  Linaeus just watched, supported and loved.  This is how scientists and lovers, trapped in a cage, exist. 

Lineaus quietly pleads to Kafka from a lower perch, “Shut the machine down.  We know it works.  We have done the impossible.  We have bent space and time, and allowed stars from opposite sides of the universe to meet and burn into one.  We have proven that love and math and insanity can undo all the rules that were laid before us.  We have rippled in the black.  Isn’t this enough?”

And Kafka opens her wings and imagines flying.  “It’s okay my love.  We have done the impossible.  Now it is up to them.  (she looks out to the window beyond her and speaks with sadness and love)  Shut it down.  Only under great duress and need will we ever light this candle again.  And honestly, it is only a matter of time before we are caught in our little manipulation of the heavens.  How many light storms above such remote and insignificant spots can occur before some fool takes notice?  Come here my strong little lover.  Sit with me and let’s gaze into the mirror, the universe, and imagine.  What is next my love?  Shall we nudge a planet this time?  Or maybe we just perch and watch the moon, with no purpose at all, just watch it rise and fall again, out our window?”

And together, Kafka and Linaeus, two simple parakeets, sit on the top perch inside their presentable cage (not gilded, that would be too garish and unfitting).  They lean deep into one another and dream.  They dream about flying and the souls they have brought together, and wonder what will happen next.

The next morning she, Eridanus, the traveler of this earth, the willing subject of their experiments, the body evaporated by light and radiation, for love, and brought back together, for love, buys a plane ticket for Baltimore.  All parties involved marvel at the simplicity of her gesture.

A plane ticket.  They could have met the first time so easily.  But instead they chose to dance across the universe and materialize and dematerialize and float and wonder and experiment, and imagine real touch and connection.  The great break thru, the real result of their experiments, was the understanding that love requires time and work.  It seems so simple, but it required great effort to get to this moment.  Why not ripple through the black?  Why not dance upon the ether?  Why not become real in only moonlight, and leave with the morning sun?  Why not?  Time; take time.  Take all the time of the universe.  They all knew,

Kafka, the risk taker…

Linaeus, the understanding…

Eridanus, the lover and loved…

Murdoc, the loved and lover.

This love, the love shared between Eridanus and Murdoc, never began and has never ended.  Kafka and Linaeus were just another part of story; that began a long time ago, and ends a long time away. 

But hold onto this, lovers and dreamers… There is a machine somewhere that ignites when blue skies of night are filled with electricity.  It fires on cool breeze and soft gray clouds gently blending as one.  All you have to do, to know this is real, is to look to the heavens.  You’ve seen the lightning, when it really shouldn’t be there.

Haven’t you?

Eridanus alights in Baltimore,

And Murdoc is home.

They are real.

Real, they must be.

It's The Little Things.

And the Universe takes what it wants and is unforgiving and beautiful.

            Kafka has taken her spot on the higher perch.  She rises as high as she can go within the cage, and it is just enough.  There is no longer a need to fly; the view from the swinging dowel suspended by taut, hard wires is enough.  From up here, with its limited and easy view, she can rest easy and know that all her hard work and calculations are justified…glorified.

            And from one perch below, Linaeus, sits quietly and admires her strength and understanding of a universe gone mad.

            Together, they have toiled.  Together, they have unraveled the secrets of dark matter and particle acceleration.  They have bickered and squabbled, plucked feathers from each others backs.  In the quiet, just before the rise of the sun of the new day after  mathematical work and welding, they have leaned deep into one another and cooed and keened when all hope seemed lost.  Their work, as important as it may have seemed, would always take a backseat to their silly love for one another.  They could have never broken thru the barriers of time and space alone, without the other.  Kafka, the unbending idealist intellect and reasoning, emotional leader, needed Lineaus, the scientist, the empiricist, and data collector and unbreakable lover, of her and their work.

            Truth be told, Linaeus didn’t give a shit about time travel and intersecting planes; and here being now, and then being when.  It all seemed such nonsense.  But he went along with the math and build because this is what true lovers do.  It was all fun and games, “Love of science, science for love.”  It all made her happy and smile and satisfied, and isn’t that enough?  Shouldn’t that be enough? 

            The bad news came on Thursday.  After blood tests and x-rays, it was determined that she was terminal.  She took the diagnosis well, squawked a bit, and settled in to her new, discovered fate.  What other recourse did she have?  Kafka knew all along that work on such a grand scale would take its toll.  You can’t nudge stars without repercussions.  She isn’t ready to go, but her work has reassured her that this isn’t the end.

            Linaeus takes the news of Kafka’s fate quite hard.  They spend their first night apart and he sets about rearranging the trinkets and papers of their cage, not so much to suit his needs or desires, but more to throw everything into upheaval and chaos.  A simple day apart is enough to drive him to madness and self destruction.  After the petulant melee has passed, he sits and waits for her return.  Each time a door opens outside their cage, he perks up and waits for her to be gently handed back to him through the soft bars that keep them safe.  But she doesn’t return for one whole day. 

            And when she does return, everything is different and nothing will ever be the same.  Together, Kafka and Linaeus have broken through and mastered time, and now time is their enemy.  Together, they worked to cross through it, at will; and now they only want to turn it back. 

Linaeus  - “Volim te.”

Kafka  -  “I know my love, and I love you.”

Linaeus  -  “Was it the experiments?  Was it the late nights, chemicals and electricity?  Was it our reckless pursuit of higher learning?  Was it just dumb fucking luck?  Because I’ll be damned, I want fucking answers.”

            Linaeus is now sitting next to Kafka on the higher perch.  Gently, they rub their useless wings against one another and dream of flying.

Kafka  - “I will love you forever, and if that doesn’t last, than nothing will.”

Linaeus  - “How much time do we have?”

Kafka  - “All the time in the universe, my love.  We already figured it out.  Keep our beautiful machine running.  And I will find you again.  We have so much more to figure out.”

            Linaeus leans deep into Kafka, buries his tiny, heavy head, in the comfort of the silky soft feathers of her shoulder.  And Kafka, with the strength of newly formed star, holds him strong and within her gravity and universe pull.  And as she holds strong and steady, she catches a glimpse of herself, and him, in the cheap plastic and foil mirror that was placed there in their cage, for their amusement when the calculations and heavy work seemed to much and all for naught.  Kafka muses, “How easily we can be distracted?    Look my love, that’s us, refracted by light and time.  Silly us.  Love me.”