by Leo Nation
A little to my left stood three men in front. For an instant I thought I saw, or felt the energy of, Mark Twain, and I became aware of a creative energy common to them all. Every one of the ancestral beings had lived a life dedicated to the truth. They brought to mind Homer, and Celtic bards around campfires, and African shamans and American Indian medicine men, poets and writers of all the ages. Their presence gave me courage. Now I was aware of everything differently. I knew the inside not only of me but of everything else at once. Aware of the past, present, and future within us all, I knew we were a family sharing all time.
I perceived a whole universe that was aware, like me. Because my mind was in its awareness, I was not only in the world, but the world was in me. I became some kind of multipresence containing me, the mystical beings not far off, and the entire universe.
The mere presence of shamans and bards and creators from old times gave me a sense of belonging to an ancient tradition of stretching and learning. I was aware of their primordial energy and it was mine. They seemed to be saying, merely by being here, that I should not give up, no matter what. Their presence said, Don’t stop! No matter how strange things get, keep going.
I thought of scientists and seekers and philosophers working for more awareness and understanding for the sake of the human race. I was grateful, for their energies were all part of me.
In a state of absolute peace mixed with a weird sense of easy surprise, I knew the universe was perfect. Everything was just fine. It was okay. All was well. We had all emerged from a highly creative universe—how could that not be?
I trusted a new way of knowing.
This was Tolkien’s promise.
Like Odysseus after a long series of battles in strange lands devoid of soul, I had made it all the way home.
I was in love with a universe.
Before I found Jack that day, in the West End, and followed his lead to the library—where I went looking for Androgyny and found Tolkien’s essay and fantasy in Tree and Leaf—I’d been struggling to create a myth of my own. For some strange reason I felt driven to create a sacred marriage on the written page, a heiros gamos of the greatest principles of existence, set in modern times, a union of the Masculine and Feminine. I didn’t understand why I was following this inexplicable urge; I only knew I had to, just because it felt so right. I had devoted huge chunks of my life to an unknown destination because it seemed urgent, essential, and crucial.
I was a lot like Niggle. That’s why the story felt familiar and grabbed me so. I was following a mysterious calling, like Niggle. I thought it made sense to follow through on something I didn’t understand at all. But also like him, I knew that my time was limited. I had to work fast to get the job done, because I knew that I would have to leave on my own mysterious journey.
I was very close to giving up when I stepped up to Jack in the West End. I thought the work was far too difficult, beyond my skills, and I couldn’t find a speck of logic in it. I couldn’t justify something I couldn’t explain to myself. I had decided to give it up by then, when I heard Jack repeat the title of that book Androgyny.
And I was hooked.
Thrown by the turning created by Tolkien, I now marveled at the promise he had made. Something like this was a consequence of a real faerie story. Tolkien implied that a reader could find such a turning in the story he wrote for Tree and Leaf. Stunned by a sublime sense of grace, I saw all space and all time at once. I saw compassion everywhere in action, even in the tiniest parts of the universe. I knew that Love was the source, the essence, the beginning, the middle, and the end of this our astonishing miracle.
Tolkien was right.
Love is all of it.
Leaf by Niggle removed a veil not only from the story but also away from my life. In a sudden stroke of goodness I did feel joy as poignant as grief. Niggle’s painting was virtually the same as the picture I had cut out and placed in the book. There it was, right up there: Niggle’s painting.
What an amazing gift!
The author created a compelling experience for a stranger he would never meet. Feeling dazed I looked out but didn’t see very much. I sat with the book in my hand knowing that Tolkien dared to care about humanity so much he forged a turning in a faerie story that decades later would give a stranger an experience of joy as poignant as grief.
Gaping at the thought, I remembered my conversation with Jack. I remembered the religious lady giving me her pamphlet, and the picture of Niggle’s painting on the back; I remembered the library and looking for one book then finding another; and getting home and making a special bookmark, so I could see the image there as I read. I recalled the moment of the turning, the instant I got the gift from Tolkien’s imagination.
He gave me a glimpse of primary reality so real I saw Love as the source of everything. I knew that consciousness and Love and openness are the same thing. Tolkien buried a flash of primal insight in his story and trusted that it would reach into the future and turn somebody upside down, and it did.
I was surprised now by a thought that the universe had to work with him to make it all happen. Now it seemed quite clear to me that the whole world had served the author’s mythic intent.
I was convinced of one thing: Love is real.
No doubt about it.
All we need is a glimpse of primal reality.
Everybody, I thought, could use a glimpse of primal reality. For the first time I saw art as a mystical force that can enter the world and change reality. It was like getting a bear hug from the master storyteller himself. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The world outside my window seemed to vibrate with enchantment.
What an amazing gift!
If my friend Jack had not been so determined that day at the café—if he had not insisted I find the book Androgyny the same day, I would have skipped the library and missed Tree and Leaf. If the Christian lady on the sidewalk in the West End hadn’t passed my table asking if she could leave her pamphlet with me, the picture on the back cover could not have called to me, and I would not have noticed my bookmark was Niggle’s painting in a truly astounding synchronicity. I could not have seen the world working from inside.
If I hadn’t gone to that particular café with a specific desire for a cup of express that day—if I hadn’t called my office and said, “I feel too good to come to work today,” and then parked myself in front of Jack’s table—I would have missed the whole thing. If I had done my usual thing, I would have driven by a creative field of Elvish energy seeking me out that day. I would have missed the meaning of Escape and Recovery, Consolation, and Enchantment.
I would never have learned what a seed of Elvish craft can do with a kernel of subcreation. If the world had not conspired to align all of these things on that remarkable day, I would not revere the Elvish craft.
I would not know how it feels to be loved by a universe.
∞ 2 ∞
The candlelight lay softly on Angela’s cheek. The wine sparkled in our glasses like Romance dancing on a promise of love that I saw in her eyes in every glance, sip and smile. This was my big night. I was on fire and fully prepared to share something marvelous. I felt like the author of Anna Karenina, ready to share my true story for her sake. Soon she would understand the profundity of my love, my reverence for her honor. Anticipating a night of bliss and a warm reception with barrels of appreciation, I filled her glass with champagne and sat up straight, thinking of the part I wanted to read, the place in my story where Man meets Woman the first time. Eager to give Angela a glimpse into a different kind of somewhere, I was sure that my honesty would touch her heart and make her happy.
I took another sip of some expensive champagne bought for this occasion, and returned her loving gaze with some sexy energy of my own. I picked up the short stack of white papers and began to read to her. After a while I read these words: “Only a few yards away, an exquisite feminine figure appears. She is naked, light shines from her body, and in the center of the light—”
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br /> “That’s not right.”
I looked up. Angela’s face was flushed. She sat back rubbing her thumbs into the palms of her hands.
“What?”
“That’s not right.” Angela repeated, shaking her finger. She turned her face away from the table.
“What’s not right?”
“She’s naked.”
“I know….”
“The others aren’t.”
“So what?”
“You’re like those jerks in Hollywood. You’re using that woman’s body to titillate the reader.”
“Now wait—”
“You’re just like them, you man.” She spat the word like poison from her tongue. “Why didn’t you put clothes on her?”
“This is not about sex. She is an archetype, she’s a universal principle. Think about it…
“What kind of clothes would you put on her?”
“I’ll never read your story,” Angela sniped. “I don’t care what it’s about. If you don’t put clothes on her, or take the clothes off those guys, I won’t listen. Why aren’t they naked?”
“Holy shit!” I blurted, trying to dominate my unhappy surprise. The flamenco dancers in my mind danced away, replaced by the Grand Inquisitor. “This story is the most positively pro-female story you’ll ever read … in your life!” I nearly shouted, “I wouldn’t put clothes on her if the State Department slapped my ass on the rack, and stretched my bones from here to Madrid.”
“Then I’ll never read it,” Angela said, her chin high.
“Son of a bitch!” I pouted at the ceiling through clenched teeth. “What do you suggest, something preppy?”
“I don’t care … just put clothes on her.”
“Jesus Christ!” I had to laugh. “I can’t believe this.” I chuckled, “Are you serious? Maybe we should veil the Mona Lisa’s smile.”
“You’re avoiding the point.”
“What is the point? Your demand is irrelevant, don’t you see?” Feeling that I might be sliding down a slippery slope, I added, “This broad is a spiritual archetype.”
“And you’re a macho jerk,” Angela rejoined instantly. “You’re just like the others: you want to use women for your pleasure.” Her face lit up, hot and red under a steamy glow.
“Jesus!—I can’t believe this.” I turned looking for a friend.
“In every movie they make,” Angela avowed with dull and opaque eyes, “the female star has to be naked.”
“Hold on!” I cried. “This is not a movie. Don’t you think they could say No?”
“Who?”
“The women in those fucking movies.”
“No!” she spat scornfully, “because men … are like you.” Her eyelids stretched into little pink reptilian slits. “Men think the only reason a woman exists is to be used—any way they want. Your story insults women.”
“How the hell would you know?” I said straight from the gut. “You’re describing my ass right out of existence.”
“What does that mean?” Angela inquired. Her eyes were on fire with a nasty desire to rope every duplicitous male in the world to a fiery stake of feminine outrage. “That doesn’t mean a thing,” she added, poking around in my ashes with the charred end of her sharp stick.
“Your description is not me,” I said. “That’s what I mean. You’re describing me out of existence. Now I know what prejudice is.”
The muscles on either side of Angela’s crimson nose pulsated under a fierce judgment in her hazel eyes. “That’s a figment of your imagination.”
“Hey!” I retorted. “I was trying to share something beautiful with you.”
“That’s your problem.”
“What…?”
“You think it’s beautiful. I think it’s ugly. It’s unfair to every woman.”
“I cannot believe this,” I said to a pair of sweethearts fast asleep in a field of haystacks, a poster of a painting by Van Gogh. I envied their ability to snooze on the wall at a time like this, with true love being challenged at high noon.
“Merde!” I said, stung to the bone marrow. Overwhelmed by irony, sorry to see my exquisite wish for romance burnt beyond description, I could almost smell the smoke. Through a hollow stare I observed the peaceful sleepers and echoed my mantra: “I cannot believe this.”
“What you can’t believe is that I caught you.” Angela lifted her chin; she was just beginning to fight. “I see who you really are. That’s what bothers you.”
I felt her dagger in my solar plexus. “Incredible!” I groaned. “What you see it’s not me.”
“Of course it is. What else could it be?”
“Holy shit!”
∞ 3 ∞
“Are you finished with each other?” Elisa demanded as I drove my Subaru into a dark spot in the airport parking lot.
“Yeah, I guess we are,” I replied with a glance; she was fifteen and wide-awake in every way. “It just won’t work,” I added.
“Why?” She wanted the truth.
“Angela thinks men are basically disloyal,” I said. “To put it politely, deep in her craw she thinks I’m a schmuck. And yet … she was willing to overlook the asshole she thinks I am and marry me anyway.”
“You said she was perfect.”
“I know. She was—she is.” I sang a few words of a song, “—but not for me….”
“Angela is beautiful!” said Phoebe with energy of a ten-year-old.
I pulled the hand brake and yanked my keys from the ignition as I turned to face my girls with words from another song: “It was just one of those things.”
“Right,” Elisa answered flatly.
I opened the door, climbed out and headed for two large suitcases in the trunk.
“That doesn’t explain anything,” Elisa persisted at my side.
“I wasn’t trying to explain anything,” I said. I lifted the trunk lid. “I thought she and I could create love, you know, the Real Thing. I thought we could, I thought we would, but we didn’t. That’s all there is to it. You know me. Angela and I aren’t looking for the same thing. She needs a younger guy, a yuppie making a lot of money, somebody who’s a realist who never once thought about creating a value—like making love real.”
“Pop, you are a weird one,” Elisa said, patting me on the shoulder like a favorite aunt. She grinned. “It’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Phoebe laughed. “I like you too.”
“Thank you, my dear ladies. Right now I have to think about getting work I can stand for more than a month.” I threw my arm out—“Hold on. Wait!” We watched a long black limousine with black windows roll by. “Okay. Let’s go!” We crossed the covered street and entered the elevated hallway to the airport. “Got your tickets?”
“Yeah,” Elisa said, “right here.” She raised the tickets to her Grecian eyes.
“Good. We’re on our way. Tell your mom I said Hello, will you?”
“Sure,” said Elisa.
“And that I wish her well … Will you do that?”
“Sure, Pop. But why don’t you tell each other that stuff?”
“Well,” I hedged. We reached an escalator going down, and I changed the subject. “Phoebe, at the bottom of this thing, I want a whole brain hug.”
“Okay!” Phoebe giggled, looking at me with blue eyes disclosing the Celtic side of her ancestry.
“When you guys get back we’ll do a laughing meditation,” I said.
“Those are fun,” said Phoebe.
“If the world could share one big laugh, like us,” I said, “most of its troubles would be over.”
The moment we got to the floor I threw my arms around Phoebe, and we hugged cheek-to-cheek for a long moment; then, switching our arms around, we touched cheeks on the other side.
“That way your whole brain gets it,” Elisa laughed. Her turn came and we hugged each other the same way.
They boarded the plane a few minutes later. I waved at them feeling emptiness dredging my stomach, not painful, but there.
I turned around wide-eyed, looking for a familiar face.
“Jonathan Peaker. Over here!” Gena was tall and her head bobbed above the crowd as she came walking to me.
‘Hello, Jon.”
“Gena, look at you. You look great.”
“I keep movin’, Jon,” she laughed. “It’s been so long. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I said, casting doubt over her shoulder. “I walked out of my job a few weeks ago, and I’m dealing with that, but I’m okay. I just saw my kids off to New York, to spend a month with their mom.”
“That should be fun.”
“I hope so. They’re excited.”
“And now you need a job.”
“Yeah, but I have to get out of the business.” I stepped back. “Are you coming or going?”
“I was coming and now I’m going. I just got a call from Jake; I have to help him save a client in Montreal.” As we headed toward the exit she said, “I have to cancel a week with my parents and leave tonight. Know anybody who wants a ticket to Los Angeles? It’s non-refundable. Take it, Jon.”
“Naw,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“St. Louis to Los Angeles, 2:00 p.m., Friday. I hate to see good money go to waste, Jon. Maybe you’ll think of something—take it.”
I took the ticket and we watched a crowd bubble through the exit. In those days things were more relaxed; it was easy to use a ticket with somebody else’s name on it.
“If you don’t mind an outside opinion, Jon, you look like hell.” Gena laughed. “I think you’re ready for a vacation. A change of scenery might do you some good, give you a new idea. And don’t forget, Sophie’s in Santa Monica. She would be happy to see you. Hollywood!”
“What would I do there, act like a tourist?”
