Count
to Three: So Simple You See?
©
Copyright 1995
The Pavilion possessed the perfect atmosphere on that important night. I remember asking if I, P. W. Ashburn, was worthy enough to hear her read. Four hundred stormy miles in a rusty Volkswagen with a hole in roof was the least I could do for Gloria Talon.
Twenty-two years ago, on that very night, I read one of her poems for the first time. Rise and Conquer somehow let me know that I too had a soul. The poem dared me, with the collective voice of every great writer, to follow its muse to the very end. It might have been the fierce diversity in her work that demanded equality and an end to barriers of race, class, and gender. Maybe it was her brilliant imagery that seized my attention and eventually led me to my own success. How frightening it was that I had not published a thing since she’d vanished without word almost seven years ago. Alone in a video-centric world, her number one fan, I managed to destroy my marriage and somehow forget who I was. My psychiatrist repeatedly warned me of the severity of my obsessive dysfunction. But Gloria understood that art stretched beyond man’s definitions and could add function to any malfunction.
Before the reading began, I tapped my trusty Waterman pen against my shoe and tried to keep my expectations from exploding through the top of my head. The memory of the mock funerals her fanatical fans conducted all over the world came into my mind the second a dapper gentleman walked onto the stage. A part of me wanted to cry, a part wanted to shout, and still another wanted to call out her name as loudly as I could just to let her know how much I’d missed her. She’d finally returned form her mysterious sabbatical and captivated her loyal followers with a collection of new works she refused to sell. I remember hearing someone comment as I gnawed on a paisley flyer that proclaimed the second coming of Gloria, that after her publicist announced her miraculous return six months ago, she’d dazzled private theaters in Brazil, Argentina, Montreal and Paris before returning to the U.S. to do her favorite hometown venue. I figured there were at least two hundred VIP’s on hand to see the legend live again.
After an insultingly modest introduction, the silence in Gloria’s world touched me immediately. The instant she began to read, I felt as if I’d been escorted into a world of frank prose, filled with dark secrets and paced by a magical cadence.
Suddenly I remembered being afraid of the dark. On his lap my father assured me, time and again, that there was nothing to fear from the dark. And as she read her voice became louder, clearer and more irresistible. Her words dashed toward me! Loud whispers mixed with booming exclamations and clever cacophony kicked open the stagnant muse inside me. A spell had been cast, and I was her victim.
In the poem, Simple and Tight, warned us all of the “unexpected danger” we fall prey to when we open ourselves in order to discover who we truly are.
. . . opened myself
to something I felt
now I lost my sight,
my self, my pride
my tiny voice inside
has left me free to hide
who
I ever was . . .
When she finished, the group cheered and admired her genuine tears. I so enjoyed the way she just waved a disinterested hand at the eclectic group, not particularly caring to revel in our insecure praise. She seemed to be searching for someone special among the crowd—an old friend or lover perhaps. To her, I assumed, that her poem was just another brilliant work that added to her mystic. To me, her alluring cadence was my destiny, something I had to have for my work.
Over the years I’d hacked my way through self-centered poetry into the world of promising poets. Most writers with similar accomplishments would have been content to slowly mature into their place in history, God willing. But three acclaimed poetry books and handful of published short stories just wasn’t enough. I wanted to be like Gloria.
When she vanished backstage after reading several more brilliant poems, I got out of my seat and hurried after her. Two bodyguards had stopped several fans that had gotten the same idea as me. Determined to see her, I stepped up and ordered them to let me pass. They looked at each other and smiled as if they knew me. I was told to go through the tapestry that had been tacked above a large doorway behind the stage. So I pushed the ghastly cloth aside and met darkness. Something strong and unseen reached out and touched me. Just like the words from her first poem.
I headed down the black hall toward what I perceived to be her aura, strong and unseen. Strange voices pounded in my ears until their shrill echo stopped my forward charge. A blind man with a brutish Saint Bernard came toward me from out of the frightening darkness.
“Thirty-two cents for a blind man please?”
I searched my pockets, but found only a quarter. Since Jesus had once been short the cash to pay the devil’s toll, he let me pass. He explained that he did not wish to be stubborn like Lucifer.
“I believe in forgiveness, son.” His eyes, though gray and distant, somehow addressed the darkness inside me.
“And you should as well—son.”
Strange old man. Perhaps there was something significant in his words. But stronger expectations flowed through me. So I searched for a room with star painted on the door. The further I walked through the lifeless hall, the more absurd the idea of her being a star became. She was a brilliant artist that had helped inject life into the art of writing, not a celebrated diva that thrived on scandal sheet gossip. She was a gifted bodhisattva, not unlike Erica or Maya. She was my hero!
Soon the narrow hall had given way to a tunnel that seemed to widen with each step I took. I turned back, suddenly afraid, and there was the man with his giant dog. They’d followed me.
“She’s back there.” He smiled. “But don’t expect to find what you’re looking for.” He waved at me then walked back into the darkness.
Applause rang out from somewhere, but where was she? My heart pounded as my eyes darted back and forth throughout the darkness. In time, soothing music crept through my senses and rekindled my desire. A flute played lead to a mellow harp; their lure was fantastic. An echo from a distant trumpet led me up a deep stairwell. Finally I reached a door, pushed it open and stepped out into the cold night.
By A trash can fire a group of derelicts gazed into the flames. They claimed to actually see the fire’s warmth.
“Have you seen her?” I had to ask.
“Many times! Yes. She comes and goes.” They answered me all at once.
“Where can I—
“Shhh! Don’t ask stupid questions, just go!” They said.
So I ran away not knowing any direction, only my desire. I hadn’t felt so driven and restless since I was a virgin. What had she done to possess my soul? I could not have remembered what she looked like, just her words and their honest magic. Where had she spent almost seven years of her life? Where did she learn to write like that?
I searched the streets past 3:00 am. I asked a bum, a policeman and even a stray cat if they had seen my idol. They believed I was crazy. After a few moments, I wondered if I’d ever heard her words. But then the strange man and his awesome dog came out of an alley and told me where to go. He also told me that she wasn’t an angel or the devil’s mistress. She was just a victim with a message for the person who would truly listen.
Down past the docks, by the sea was where I finally found her. Her eyes were like reflections of every beautiful glance I’d ever seen. She seemed reluctant at first, but soon I could feel her open to me.
“How did you learn to write like that?”
She didn’t answer. She just looked deeper and deeper into my eyes until she laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You came all this way, not knowing, just feeling. Now here you are alone and afraid of the dark.”
Simple and tight yet vivid with knowledge, she was a spirit, a great muse. Instead of a sacred journal of notes or a secret key that would unlock a chest of forbidden knowledge, she reached underneath her cape and pulled out dagger.
“What’s this?”
“Destiny.” She smiled. “This is how I found out.”
“Found out what?”
“How to write the way I do.”
Simple and clear, yet endless, I realized after I opened myself to the possibilities. She gave me the weapon. Then she showed me the wound just above her womb that had set her free.
“Join me!” Her eyes flashed and I thought I saw the sea inside them. But there, in one vast corner of her eye, was my father. His expression was similar to the one the man with Saint Bernard wore. He tried to assure me, but I took the dagger and pressed it to my stomach.
“Count to three; so simple you see?” Her eyes sparkled with longing anticipation.
“Yes! Yes!” I exclaimed. The pain was intense, but before I could bleed, Gloria was gone in a flash of light that sealed my fate.
**
For many nights they had come to the Pavilion to listen to my words, wonder why my poems can’t be bought, where I’d been for so many years and how I learned to write the way I do. I realized how to escape death when I saw her out there among the true living. Gloria smiled at me and laughed at the greed that introduced us. But still, no one had dared to follow me backstage. One day, another will come to experience the “unexpected danger.” Until then I’ll learn to forgive the darkness inside me and dream of the day I’ll live again.
The End