There are slightly different lights on different days. All that we see within is not the same. One day it is sunlight on cornfields. The next is candlelight in the house when the power goes out. This shuckling soul dance, this pietist gyration, like the flickering flame of a candle. Silent persistent prayers.
“You bleeding heart liberals are all the same…”
He’s at my door again and I wonder if my wife is right. Why do I keep letting him do this? The front door is open to let in the pleasant afternoon breeze. I’m home from work. My laptop open. My notebook open – the place where I write all my little notes, dribs and drabs of doggerel, punning names to file away for later use, obscure words to look up, stray bits of dialogue in search of a story.
I look up from the writing that isn’t happening and see him there – with his slightly hyperthyroid eyes, the left one drooping somewhat. And he’s just standing there grinning. And waving.
I don’t bother to get up from the couch.
“Listen, Gunner, you can insult me all you like. You’ve been doing that for some time now. So call me a bleeding-heart liberal, if that helps you feel better. But tell the truth and get it right – it’s more than my bleeding heart. It’s the bleeding heart of Christ, and my calloused hands, my burning eyes, my strong but tired back, and my iron will, combined with all the blood of the prophets. Mock me; that’s fine. But it won’t stop the fight. It won’t stop the work. It won’t stop the words.”
“You say so, Carter. I don’t think you’ve got any of that. But how much weight do you think your words will hold? Does anyone actually read your stuff?”
My writing program is open. A new, untitled document is open. The cursor is blinking expectantly. I sigh and close the laptop. I stand from the couch and take the three steps to the front door to speak with Gunner.
“Here is the patience and the faith of the saints. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.” I say this quietly. Nearly a whisper but he hears me just fine.
He recoils in mock terror outside the door and laughs. “Are you threatening me, Carter? I thought you were one of those pacifist types. Didn’t think you had any real fight in you.”
I fling open the door. “Well, don’t just stand there like a dog at the door. Come on in if that’s what you’re going to do. A dog, or bull, or just a villain – come to hack off my hands and feet. Come on in so you can look at me and gloat.”
He stands there stupefied. I am shocked as well.
“I’m sorry, Gunner. I’m a bit out of sorts today. And who can ever really detect his own failings and hidden faults. Come on in if you want. I’ve got a couple of beers in the fridge if you wanna share one with me.”
“Is it that IPA crap you like?"
I shrug, “It’s what I’ve got.”
He shakes his head no. “No thanks. I’ll just see you later.”
And that’s it. He is gone.
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