The first time he appeared, it didn't seem all that out of the ordinary. I had just saved Annie Oakley from a nefarious band of outlaws and was on my way to pitch at the World Series. What was so odd about a butt-naked little black boy walking out of a mirage?
I was eight years old, and knew I was destined to be a scientist and a super hero. In my imagination, future generations listed me amongst the greatest names in human history... Goddard, Edison, Madam Curie, Barbarella, Doctor Strange, Tom Corbett and the Space Rangers and Tom Bowie from Texas. Thomas Jefferson Bowie, as my mother had named me. I dreamed I was a hero waiting to happen.
The world occured for me on the cusp of magic and elementary science. Salt crystals on a string and sweet potato roots growing in a glass of water were no more real or less magical than trips to Mars or the ninth dimension. I had this theory at the time (I've always been big on theories) that if you squinted your eyes while looking into the refraction caused by heat waves you should be able to break open the fabric of reality and see alternate worlds. The alternate world I was searching for was China, the distinction between geography and the physics of parallel worlds being a bit blurred at the time. China and Never Never Land coexisted on the planet of my fancies.
I was lying under the shadow of a big chinaberry tree at the edge of the cotton field on my father's panhandle farm. I could hear Floyd Cramer's Magic Touch album tinkling across the plowed field from an open window at the house. Mom was probably playing it for the fourth or fifth time in a row. I was squinting at the heat rising off the narrow piece of blacktop that runs just the other side of the irrigation ditch when I began to see a hazy shadow in the waves.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
< 2 >
Now this was pretty exciting, because my purpose in trying to reach China was to acquire a magic baseball bat made of superior Chinese ash that would, I was quite certain, allow me to add a homerun to the no hitter I was planning to pitch in the World Series. Spurred by the cheers of the crowd, I redoubled my efforts and squinted intensely at the billowing figure in the refracted air.
He seemed to be waving his hand, calling me to him. I began to feel a bond between us, like we were working together against some kind of powerful tide. I drew my hands up and carefully formed a circle with my fingers. Thus, looking through my improvised telescope, I blocked out the rest of the world and was able to focus on the dark figure without distraction. (I had found this method useful in previous experiments.)
Just as I thought I was starting to really see something, I had a feeling something elemental was collapsing in the world around me. There was a kind of "fffffffooooop" sound. A few leaves tumbled through the air. I was distracted, looked high into the tree and inadvertently blasted my eyes by looking full at the disk of the late afternoon sun. When I looked down again, my eyes full of whirling powder blue spots, there he was, jumping over the irrigation ditch, a little black boy...naked as a jay bird.
I remember being quite embarrassed by his lack of clothes. As remarkable as the event was, I think I was more concerned by the possibility that my parents would come out and see me playing with a naked black boy, something one didn't do after the age of three or four in Sweetwater, Texas. I said "Where's your pants?" After all he didn't even put his hand over his talliwagger, a clear sign of poor breeding.
He seemed to be waving his hand, calling me to him. I began to feel a bond between us, like we were working together against some kind of powerful tide. I drew my hands up and carefully formed a circle with my fingers. Thus, looking through my improvised telescope, I blocked out the rest of the world and was able to focus on the dark figure without distraction. (I had found this method useful in previous experiments.)
Just as I thought I was starting to really see something, I had a feeling something elemental was collapsing in the world around me. There was a kind of "fffffffooooop" sound. A few leaves tumbled through the air. I was distracted, looked high into the tree and inadvertently blasted my eyes by looking full at the disk of the late afternoon sun. When I looked down again, my eyes full of whirling powder blue spots, there he was, jumping over the irrigation ditch, a little black boy...naked as a jay bird.
I remember being quite embarrassed by his lack of clothes. As remarkable as the event was, I think I was more concerned by the possibility that my parents would come out and see me playing with a naked black boy, something one didn't do after the age of three or four in Sweetwater, Texas. I said "Where's your pants?" After all he didn't even put his hand over his talliwagger, a clear sign of poor breeding.
< 3 >
“We have but a short time together, we should speak of greater things." he replied. I remember being suprised that he was such a well spoken little black boy. "You are a Sentinel." he said. I was clear he meant Sentinel with a capital S, whatever that was. "We have much to do." He stopped talking and looked curiously at the old chinaberry. He walked up to it, placed both hands on the bark and closed his eyes for a moment. "Good" he said.
Then he walked over to me, talliwagger and all, and put his hand on my cheek. He got a soft look on his face. I guess I must have looked a little alarmed. "Don't worry," he counseled "it will seem a long time before your part begins." Then to my profound embarrassment, he leaned over and kissed me right on the lips.
There is no greater affront to the dignity of an eight year old Texan than to be kissed on the lips by someone naked. I staggered back in shock, wiping my mouth involuntarily with the back of my hand, my spit reflex out of control. He got a curious look on his face as he watched me wipe and spit madly. Suddenly he grabbed his sides and fell on the ground in a symphony of laughter. At first I was angry at his insensitivity. But then I heard his laughing. The sound it made was so unusual that I stopped rubbing and spitting. I stood there with my mouth hanging open, listening to the wonderful sounds that seemed to come from all over him as he rolled on the ground.
It was more like music than laughter, with little bells and whoops. I imagined a stream would laugh the same way, with many voices all ringing and chuckling at once. It was the most wonderful sound I had ever heard in my life... We played and talked for what seemed like hours. We chattered about everything imaginable, the relationship between dreams and lemon custard ice cream, impossible monsters of the deep and why they were never caught in tuna nets, the immutability of snowflakes and rainbows, how owls could appear and disappear at will. We discussed mirrors, cats eye marbles, wishbones and other objects with magical properties. We talked about flying, something he said was easy but didn't demonstrate. We argued over how many june bugs were in the world and mysteries of science like how they sucked the air out of tennis ball cans.
Then he walked over to me, talliwagger and all, and put his hand on my cheek. He got a soft look on his face. I guess I must have looked a little alarmed. "Don't worry," he counseled "it will seem a long time before your part begins." Then to my profound embarrassment, he leaned over and kissed me right on the lips.
There is no greater affront to the dignity of an eight year old Texan than to be kissed on the lips by someone naked. I staggered back in shock, wiping my mouth involuntarily with the back of my hand, my spit reflex out of control. He got a curious look on his face as he watched me wipe and spit madly. Suddenly he grabbed his sides and fell on the ground in a symphony of laughter. At first I was angry at his insensitivity. But then I heard his laughing. The sound it made was so unusual that I stopped rubbing and spitting. I stood there with my mouth hanging open, listening to the wonderful sounds that seemed to come from all over him as he rolled on the ground.
It was more like music than laughter, with little bells and whoops. I imagined a stream would laugh the same way, with many voices all ringing and chuckling at once. It was the most wonderful sound I had ever heard in my life... We played and talked for what seemed like hours. We chattered about everything imaginable, the relationship between dreams and lemon custard ice cream, impossible monsters of the deep and why they were never caught in tuna nets, the immutability of snowflakes and rainbows, how owls could appear and disappear at will. We discussed mirrors, cats eye marbles, wishbones and other objects with magical properties. We talked about flying, something he said was easy but didn't demonstrate. We argued over how many june bugs were in the world and mysteries of science like how they sucked the air out of tennis ball cans.
< 4 >
He said he could talk to animals and trees. He said everything was alive the same as you and me and had the very same feelings. I squashed a beetle to prove him wrong and he cried. I said he was a crybaby and he said he would rather be a crybaby than a bug killer. I didn't like it when he cried so pretty soon I quit squashing things. I liked it a lot better when he laughed and as I remember, he laughed a lot.
After a while I forgot all about his nakedness and his blackness. I did anything I could to make him laugh again. I didn't care what kind of fool I made of myself. I didn't care how much I had to contort my body and my principles. I guess I was in love. Late in the day, as the West Texas sun was burning hazy and red just above the horizen, we lay between the rows of the cotton field, exhausted from playing hide and seek. We lay close, his head upon my chest. He was listening to my heart beat.
"Your heart beats with a steady rhythm..." I knew that. After all, I was a man of science. "...Just like your body, the world has a heart that beats, a basic rhythm to its song. The trees hear it, the birds hear it and the bugs hear it." He looked up at me. "You can hear it too...want to?" The whole thing sounded wierd to me but what the heck, I was an explorer. "Sure."
He told me to sit up, cross my legs and close my eyes. He told me to find the sun and when I protested that my eyes were closed he just repeated "Keep your eyes closed and find the sun." There was something about the little black boy that made me believe anything was possible. I overcame my disbelief and looked into the dim swirl of impressions in varying degrees of grey that covered the back of my eyelids. Lines, waves of black on grey moved like amoebas under a microscope across my field of vision. Spots separated from less distinct amorphous blobs and began to take on vague colors. After a while one spot, less dull than the others began to form in the murky fluid and as it became more evident, it began to glow with a smoky grey brilliance.
After a while I forgot all about his nakedness and his blackness. I did anything I could to make him laugh again. I didn't care what kind of fool I made of myself. I didn't care how much I had to contort my body and my principles. I guess I was in love. Late in the day, as the West Texas sun was burning hazy and red just above the horizen, we lay between the rows of the cotton field, exhausted from playing hide and seek. We lay close, his head upon my chest. He was listening to my heart beat.
"Your heart beats with a steady rhythm..." I knew that. After all, I was a man of science. "...Just like your body, the world has a heart that beats, a basic rhythm to its song. The trees hear it, the birds hear it and the bugs hear it." He looked up at me. "You can hear it too...want to?" The whole thing sounded wierd to me but what the heck, I was an explorer. "Sure."
He told me to sit up, cross my legs and close my eyes. He told me to find the sun and when I protested that my eyes were closed he just repeated "Keep your eyes closed and find the sun." There was something about the little black boy that made me believe anything was possible. I overcame my disbelief and looked into the dim swirl of impressions in varying degrees of grey that covered the back of my eyelids. Lines, waves of black on grey moved like amoebas under a microscope across my field of vision. Spots separated from less distinct amorphous blobs and began to take on vague colors. After a while one spot, less dull than the others began to form in the murky fluid and as it became more evident, it began to glow with a smoky grey brilliance.
< 5 >
"There," he said "bring yourself to the light." The spot, now clearly a globe, began to get brighter and brighter until it burned with a radiance that fightened me. It felt like the inside of my skull was getting warm. I was scared it was going to burn up my brain. I started to talk but then I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Do not be afraid, the light will not hurt you. Make friends with the light. Draw it to your heart."
After a few moments of hesitation, I drew the shining globe closer in my imagination. The warmth began to feel good, comforting and intimate yet grand and exciting, as though my mother held me perfectly safe in her arms while I journeyed on some brave adventure. All the while the little black boy kept saying "... bring the light home to your heart, bring it home to your heart".
After a while, I heard a new sound, like the thrumbing of frogs in a creek at first, a low, cyclic vibration that seemed to merge perfectly with my heartbeat. As I pulled the "sun" to myself, it passed the field of my perception and the imagined "sight" of my closed eyes. I felt its warmth settle into my chest as the low thrumbing seemed to splinter into a thousand sounds, a kaliedescope of animal noises, trumpeting, growling, barking, hooting, the cacophany of nature's hue an cry; the minute whisper of a soft breeze on a blade of grass, the ultra-deep rumbles of geological phenomenon, all bound together in an impossible concert.
My entire being moved in union with the sound, my body weaved and bounced like a leaf on a pond. The little black boy had thrown a rock, breaking the surface of my life, and all I could do was struggle to keep myself upright as wave after wave rushed through me. I felt an overpowering sense of wellbeing and peace, a belonging more complete than any love I had known. I sensed that I somehow fit in a grander whole, that I was loved, appreciated and important. It was a wonderous.
After a few moments of hesitation, I drew the shining globe closer in my imagination. The warmth began to feel good, comforting and intimate yet grand and exciting, as though my mother held me perfectly safe in her arms while I journeyed on some brave adventure. All the while the little black boy kept saying "... bring the light home to your heart, bring it home to your heart".
After a while, I heard a new sound, like the thrumbing of frogs in a creek at first, a low, cyclic vibration that seemed to merge perfectly with my heartbeat. As I pulled the "sun" to myself, it passed the field of my perception and the imagined "sight" of my closed eyes. I felt its warmth settle into my chest as the low thrumbing seemed to splinter into a thousand sounds, a kaliedescope of animal noises, trumpeting, growling, barking, hooting, the cacophany of nature's hue an cry; the minute whisper of a soft breeze on a blade of grass, the ultra-deep rumbles of geological phenomenon, all bound together in an impossible concert.
My entire being moved in union with the sound, my body weaved and bounced like a leaf on a pond. The little black boy had thrown a rock, breaking the surface of my life, and all I could do was struggle to keep myself upright as wave after wave rushed through me. I felt an overpowering sense of wellbeing and peace, a belonging more complete than any love I had known. I sensed that I somehow fit in a grander whole, that I was loved, appreciated and important. It was a wonderous.
< 6 >
At last he shook my shoulder and told me to look at him. His eyes, too big for his face, swam before me. "In the future, when you are lost or confused just remember, return to your heart...return to your heart." "I must go" he said. His face was an indistinct mass of dots as my eyes adjusted to the natural light. I felt a touch of panic. I didn't want him to leave. "I will return but you would be wise not to wait for me." He walked over to the edge of the field, then turned and faced me. "It will be a long time before you see me again but I will always be your friend. I will always love you."
He winked, waved, and stepped onto the blacktop between me and the setting sun. Old Sol zapped me again and by the time my eyes could focus, he was gone. It would have been better if I had taken his advice and not waited. But after all, a "long time" is relative to the one who waits. Two hours seems like a "long time" to an eight year old. Hundreds of times over the next few weeks I squinted through my fist telescope at the rising waves of heat. At first I was disappointed that he did not immediately return when I called. Then I decided that there must be some variation in the process that I was forgetting. With true scientific detachment, I tried one method after another, with the fist telescope and without; with the same clothes I had worn that afternoon; sitting in first one position and then another under the old chinaberry. Nothing worked.
I racked my brain trying to think what I could be doing wrong. It never occured to me that I had not been the sole author of the boy's visit. When you're eight, the universe revolves around you. I didn't think about the possibility that my careful squinting had nothing to do with the events of that day. On the other hand, I refused to consider that I had imagined the whole thing. I knew it had happened. I knew I had caused it and the boy would return if I just brought together the right ingredients.
I couldn't give up because I wanted to be a "Sentinel". I didn't actually know what it was but it sounded exciting and important. There wasn't a lot of magic kicking around in the dust of the Texas panhandle in 1958. I was a bit of a daydreamer, not particularly well suited to the practical calling of the farmer. It seemed that right when I would get going on a really exciting fantasy, my father would call me to check the chickens for eggs, or take some table scraps to the hogs or some other loathsome task. And if I took the least bit too long to complete the job, he would be all over me about "goofing off" and "living in a dream world".
He winked, waved, and stepped onto the blacktop between me and the setting sun. Old Sol zapped me again and by the time my eyes could focus, he was gone. It would have been better if I had taken his advice and not waited. But after all, a "long time" is relative to the one who waits. Two hours seems like a "long time" to an eight year old. Hundreds of times over the next few weeks I squinted through my fist telescope at the rising waves of heat. At first I was disappointed that he did not immediately return when I called. Then I decided that there must be some variation in the process that I was forgetting. With true scientific detachment, I tried one method after another, with the fist telescope and without; with the same clothes I had worn that afternoon; sitting in first one position and then another under the old chinaberry. Nothing worked.
I racked my brain trying to think what I could be doing wrong. It never occured to me that I had not been the sole author of the boy's visit. When you're eight, the universe revolves around you. I didn't think about the possibility that my careful squinting had nothing to do with the events of that day. On the other hand, I refused to consider that I had imagined the whole thing. I knew it had happened. I knew I had caused it and the boy would return if I just brought together the right ingredients.
I couldn't give up because I wanted to be a "Sentinel". I didn't actually know what it was but it sounded exciting and important. There wasn't a lot of magic kicking around in the dust of the Texas panhandle in 1958. I was a bit of a daydreamer, not particularly well suited to the practical calling of the farmer. It seemed that right when I would get going on a really exciting fantasy, my father would call me to check the chickens for eggs, or take some table scraps to the hogs or some other loathsome task. And if I took the least bit too long to complete the job, he would be all over me about "goofing off" and "living in a dream world".
< 7 >
My parents never really understood the practical applications of my imagination. I tried to explain that I planned to be a great inventor and adventurer and that it was important for me to consider a broad variety of taking on some real responsibility. When I got too wound up he'd say something like "Why don't you go invent the weeds out of the garden." or "Why don't you go have an adventure in the chicken coop, and bring back the eggs."
So being offered a job as a Sentinel was one hell of a validation. Whatever it was, I thought it was bound to take me far away from the stink of chicken can see that it was critical that I bring the little black boy back. I couldn't very well tell my parents that I had "fffooooped" a naked kid into the cotton field without evidence.
Day after day I squinted one variation after another, After what seemed like a year and was probably three or four weeks, I really began to resent the fact furious. I just knew the little black boy was responsible for this indignity. Okay, I decided, if he didn't want to talk to me, I'd be damned if I was going to bust my butt trying to talk to him. Hell, what did he know anyway. He didn't even cover his talliwager in public!
Things don't stick when you're eight. Life is full of adventure, filled with exquisite joy and exquisite sorrow. I had bad guys to fight, cowgirls to save and no-hitters to pitch. I would just have to make do without him and that cannot allow their differences. Still, from time to time, in a whisper of the wind or the creak of a rusty hinge, I would hear a faint but haunting laughter...laughter like nothing I had heard before, and I would remember his words, "...return to your heart, return to your heart."
So being offered a job as a Sentinel was one hell of a validation. Whatever it was, I thought it was bound to take me far away from the stink of chicken can see that it was critical that I bring the little black boy back. I couldn't very well tell my parents that I had "fffooooped" a naked kid into the cotton field without evidence.
Day after day I squinted one variation after another, After what seemed like a year and was probably three or four weeks, I really began to resent the fact furious. I just knew the little black boy was responsible for this indignity. Okay, I decided, if he didn't want to talk to me, I'd be damned if I was going to bust my butt trying to talk to him. Hell, what did he know anyway. He didn't even cover his talliwager in public!
Things don't stick when you're eight. Life is full of adventure, filled with exquisite joy and exquisite sorrow. I had bad guys to fight, cowgirls to save and no-hitters to pitch. I would just have to make do without him and that cannot allow their differences. Still, from time to time, in a whisper of the wind or the creak of a rusty hinge, I would hear a faint but haunting laughter...laughter like nothing I had heard before, and I would remember his words, "...return to your heart, return to your heart."
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