Gianna

Toccata and Fugue wheezes from the old pipe organ in the church. The gathering wind carries the scent of fresh wet leaves, scarlet and gold, through the broken remnants of the once magnificent stained glass windows. I dropped my last hit of acid an hour ago. The scents and sounds and colors are beginning to run like sidewalk chalk drawings in the rain. Gianna is coming tonight, now just a few miles from landfall she approaches with the fury of a woman scorned. Tidal surge rushes through the inlet channel and surf pounds against the dunes. Here beside the bay the setting sun in the West dances with the dried leaves on the dirty stone floor and turns the massive cloud banks in the East to golden walls and towers. I will stay and make my final stand, here in this place which man and God have both long ago abandoned. Each for their own reasons I presume. Only I remain, an old man with no God to speak of and little left to live for.

I don’t remember taking off my clothes, but I find myself in darkness lying naked on the wooden alter. The old crucifix, long removed from the wall has left a pale outline above me. I sense a metaphor just beyond my minds reach but the sound of breaking glass interrupts before I complete the connection. Trails of light and sound make it difficult to navigate but somehow I locate my pants and the lighter in my pocket gives enough illumination to find my cache of votives. My original intent was to burn one at a time, the light from the first seemed lonely and weak. Soon it was like trying to eat just one potato chip and I had an even dozen flickering merrily inside the deep red glass cylinders. The wind rose from low moan to shrieking howl and back again. I begin to beat upon the keys frantically trying to find and keep its rhythm screaming my voice into the echo of the empty sanctuary and becoming giddy when the harmonics intersect. In an instant, silence and stillness fall, the rich echo of the last B-Flat rolls and dies. Trembling I slosh my way down the aisle and pulling back the carved wooden doors I stand in the entry arch ankle deep in the warm brackish water and clothed in the brilliant light of a full moon looking up into the infinity of stars above.

For a moment I know the touch of God but rushing toward me I also see the face of the demon coming to devour my soul. Turning to bolt the door I slip on the mud and marble. Face down spitting brine, knees and hands cut by unseen shards of glass, gold and blue and green. Stumbling, crawling, retching, kneeling on the steps before the abandoned altar I prostate myself and cry out my confession, beg for absolution, offer my last will and final testimony. The demons pound and howl outside the door as the roof gives way above the doors and a thousand pounds of slate and timber fall, crashing down exactly where I had stumbled a few minutes before. The first sound I notice is the reassuring tuk-tuk-tuk of my little Honda generator still running in the Sacristy. The acid has worn off and after a few obligatory dry heaves I rise unsteadily and look about. The bay water has receded and around me scurry crabs, mullet, and octopus. In the pale dawn of salvation I begin to play Scott Joplin rags. The crabs and mullet dance a delicate minuet as the octopus form a chorus line and tap dance in time to the dripping water from the half destroyed roof. My soul is cleansed, my spirit free, life has no meaning beyond this day. But this day is enough, it always was. Sometimes you just need a little help to see it I guess.