A summer had gone by since she’d written in the book, since she’d felt even the smallest glimmer of desire to look at it. From spring to autumn, it sat on the shelf hosting dust mite symposia and nothing else. More than a few of the mites had, in the process, acquired a deeper sense of meaning in their tiny lives just by perching on the cover, gnawing through the title page, while others still found simple contentment floating mindlessly in the sun beams that poured through Anna’s bedroom window.
It was November when circumstance finally pushed her back into the writing chair, when the silent approach of winter hung still in the doorway. Fall had come in a flash, almost without salutation. All at once the leaves yellowed and the skies grew awfully grey.
The day she returned to the book the weather proved rather mild. The wind moved like laughter through the air. And the moon had come out well before curtain call.
By this time, the Quartet had left House du Petit, no doubt in search of warmer climes–more specifically the climes of an invisible Hawaiian island, where, according to Anna, a stale apple pie spoke at length of humanity’s worst mistakes, and the honeybees were as big as your fist.
Meanwhile Anna had returned to the Midwest, hoping to lead some semblance of a normal life. The Shaman saw to it that she wouldn’t–and it was precisely his interference, an ongoing and increasingly vivid campaign of dream transmissions, that prompted her to sit down and finally write once more.
After all, the Book of Pie would not finish itself.
The grey sky looks blue when you’re yellow.
I hope the rain cradles you
And makes you new.
Want to know something about the Shaman?
He’s not Jesus. He’s just a guy who stumbled by accident upon the waters of eternal life.
Making pie is not about immortality.
It is about leaving his burdens behind.
Getting out of his mind.
Away from himself.
From his sins.
But his past isn’t going anywhere.
It’s as present as the noon day sun hanging over the Pacific.
He wakes up and faces it every morning.
It’s his cross to bear.
And Anna has not come to set him free,
Nor has he come to enlighten her.
Of this we can be certain:
The two have things to learn from each other.
For they are more alike than either know.
To me this is a matter of unraveling. I have in my life been made a bundle of paradoxes and unconscious impulses. To sift through and untangle them is to unravel my stuckness — to manifest what I feel to be an immense potential at the core of my being; potential for what I do not know. But I know it is there, waiting for me to figure it out — to unravel completely.
Jesus is not my copilot
But he did give me an Uber ride tonight.
Jesus would take the wheel
If he weren’t already driving.
Jesus was born more than two thousand years ago
And he can drive stick.
Jesus can turn water into wine
But he can’t turn left on a busy street.
Jesus was a nice guy
He offered to smoke pot with me in my hotel room.
I politely declined.
Jesus suffers from long refractory periods
Guess there won’t be a second coming.
Although it is a mystery if I ever actually left.
Begin to make moves in the direction of a strong, well balanced, drama-free artistic, literary, and musical community flourishing by the sheer effort of its members.
Begin to walk away from the energy suckers, the phonies, the manipulators, the emotionally reactive.
Begin to extricate energy from improper circumstances and relationships.
Begin to limit endeavors.
Begin to hone them down.
Begin to focus clearly and consistently on positive feedback loops.
Soul felt lyrics.
Make money simply for the sake of existing and supporting life.
Stop apologizing for being selfish with personal resources.
Break down old structures.
Build up new ones.
Begin where the self already stands.