Malcolm Part 1, Pre-Malcolm

Malcolm Guite, british poet, singer-songwriter and priest has arrived in our country today from Cambridge, UK. As I know of him so far through a mutual friend, he’s brilliant, he’s captivating, he’s the epitome of cool, he’s funny and most importantly he rides Harleys. He even owns one. So what would a trip be like to the States if Malcolm doesn’t get the opportunity to rent and ride? In a word, devastating. And if I didn’t get to take a ride with the Malcolm? Tragic. So I shall be his passenger and handy human travel map. For anyone who doesn’t know, I’m pretty good with directions, truthfully, very good with directions. I’m the voice on the tom-tom stuck to your dash but better; I’m stuck to your waist and cute. I’ll wrap my long fair arms around his waist and say “I’m ready,” and give him directions to ride off on the asphalt. I imagine we’ll go to Pinehurst or Apex or Holly Springs. Somewhere that is a long drive so we can feel the humid wind in our face turn cool and the heat hum from the bike below. My hair will be tossed about in the wind and I’ll later worry what the ride has made it look like. The bike will rumble and feel heavy between turns. I'll feel a bit like a bad ass for being on one, a real biker chick - for a day at least. And I'll even get up the nerve to pass along the 'Harley Hello' to another Fat Boy rider. I’ll ask him to recite poetry while we ride. Maybe his own, maybe his favorites of others - I’m sure he has them memorized. He might even ask me to recite some too. I’ll go blank trying to remember anything impressive or anything at all. Maybe I’ll come up with a haiku I read once, or maybe I’ll just say “oh, no.”

When we get hot or tired or run out of gas, we’ll stumble upon a quirky little stop where we’ll pop the top of a cool southern drink, perhaps Sun Drop, as I’m certain I’ve somewhere heard we like that down here. We’ll chat about semi-private things as we neither know when the next time is we’ll see each other. I’ll be honest, as I usually am, and he’ll have some friendly insights into my life, spiritual and all. Perhaps he’ll notice that I’m not the average woman I may appear to be and he can dish out all the literary and spiritual references he wants - as I listen shoulders back, wide-eyed, neck forward and jaw-dropped, I’ll lap them up. I’ll look up to him eyes locked and ears perked, being the good life-long student I’ve committed myself to be. He’ll say some things I never expected and some that I did. And the ride back will be a freeing one. I’ll have heard some nugget to let my mind wander on the good things and let loose from the bad, as he will have said enough to sooth my deep-rooted worries for the time being.

The best part will be where it all sets in. When I realize what is happening and that I’m pretty well off for just having spent time on a bike with the great Malcolm Guite. I have yet to figure the greatness of Malcolm. I’ll need time to perceive such an impression. I should meet him first. I haven’t yet. He’s busy doing what work he came to the States to do, teaching of some sort. But free of charge, I'll have had my own private session.

Healing of a Boy with Demon (Luke 9:37-43)

The worn man looked down on his son writhing on the ground in utter agony. The boy kicked and screamed rising dust from the ground around his body - a dirty storm rose up that made it hard for the man to see his son. His boy, a young boy who just years before had been playful, smiley and curious as boys that age ought to be, had something ahold of him. The demon inside threw out noises uncharacteristic to this world - screeches and shrieks from the bowels of darkness. Long-held bawls in a pitch no man could reach. It said things foreign but recognizably evil.

The bearded man finally appeared to the boy and his father. "Teacher" the father said, "I beg you, look at my son. He is my only child."
The man watched as the 'spirit seized the boy. He screamed suddenly and it took him, convulsing him until he foamed at the mouth. It released him only with difficulty, after wearing him out.'
"I begged them to cast it out but they failed," he said.
"Bring him here, faithless one," the man said. "How long will I be here, enduring you?" he added. He walked toward the boy who was now exhaustedly laying dirty on the ground, breathing quick heavy breaths. As the man approached he was thrown down by the demon in a convulsion. He nearly bounced from the ground to rise again standing as if he had never touched it at all. He named the spirit and called to him loudly. He told him he would be cast out. The spirit laughed and replied in a way that caused the mans eyes to narrow and his teeth to gnash. He ordered him to leave and in a flurry of latin sayings, the boy went limp. He was free of the demon for now, exhausted but free. The boy's eyes came to life as his father ran to him crying. He held him up as a tribute to the bearded man.

Prison Bars and Pastoral Scenes

Each morning is the same. The contents of it never strays from a routine set in place by years and years of disarming and disturbing dialogue. The result, a hard and broken person, so lost in their own tragedies they can't find the energy to stumble into the light. So he lays on the lumpy and long mattress, arms folded behind his head, legs crossed. He's been awake for mere moments. The sound of sins and the feeling of damp, cold walls never goes away - not even in his dreams. There is no sight of the rats, as usual, but he can hear them hustling across the crossbeams ahead. He thinks on their lives. The rat here has more freedom than he. They're in the same prison but they don't know it. He thinks on his life. He knows were he is. Prison walls have a way of letting that be known immediately.

He will rise in 18 minutes, his door will be unlocked and he will head with the masses to food. Eighteen minutes is a long time when all you're thinking about is darkness. And worse yet, the light you can see through the darkness but seem to never reach. He's hardly responsible for what got him here. It was self-defense. All those unforgiving years of conditions and merits as a way to worth. How was he supposed to know he didn't have to kill to earn...respect, love, admiration? He didn't even have to hurt. It was all a ruse. He almost knows that now. He knows it best when he sees outside the lines - past the fences, barbed wire and guards. The obstacles abound, but only from getting there. His view is not obstructed. He can paint that bucolic scene in a minute when it's dark and he's curled on the molded noisy mattress. Sprawling hills, all shades of green that sprout old, commanding trees with trunks just made for leaning and boughs just made for shade. Wildflowers scatter the busy lines of grass with no order. Purple Coneflower on the left and a few past the oak. Ox-Eyed Daisies abundantly spread from side to side and front to back of these wild, uncultivated grounds. Blue flax waits patiently at the feet of an unruly Alpine Currant.

That day, though, where he asks the boughs for cover may never come. The cold bar that sticks to his cheek as he squeezes much of his face through to the outside serves as a constant reminder of his whereabouts. And while he can see outside, the colors and variety of life, he's not convinced he doesn't deserve these unsightly walls, cold confines and rough, unrewarding relationships - if you can call them such. Perhaps the austere conditions are just what he bargained for.