Jim wakes up in a mood most complacent. His mood of
late is like coffee and oranges on a sunny chair, which explains
his complacency. Or not. He is, like his friend and drinking
buddy Wally Stevens says, “the green freedom of a cockatoo
upon a rug.” Although he has no fucking idea what the fuck
he is talking about, this makes a lot of sense to Jim. Or not.
It’s like that time when he was in Jerusalem, back in ’71.
The holy hush of the old walled city at night was like some
weird voodoo ancient sacrifice. That night, in the dark, Jim
had his recurring catastrophic dream that of an orange light
over the green wings of a dead cockatoo. Not only one
cockatoo, though – an endless procession of dead cockatoos,
winding across a wide lake, soundless except for the scraping
of their feet.
He awoke in a sweat. All Palestine was silent in the early
morning sun. The sky looked like blood to him. He thought
about the bounty that was hanging over his head like some
divine shadow. Or was still the dream?
Jim is now living in Portland, Maine, surrounded by the
creature comforts with which a mid-level insurance executive
surrounds himself with. At night, he sits in his barcalounger,
tall glass of vodka in his hand, watching TV, thinking back to
that pungent green night in Jerusalem when he was raptured
by the balm and beauty of the earth and the things he used to
cherish. But, like Wally says when he is deep in his vodka,
“Divinity must live with herself.” Again, Jim has no clue. But
he does, and this passioned clue, mixed with the freezing
rainy night outside the bar, mixed with their grieving in their
mutual loneliness and the subdued gusts of the flowering
blooms that will no doubt come in May cloak them in painful
pleasure on this cold autumn night, he remembers the boughs
of summer and the winter branch, or was that an idea planted
by Stevens? No matter.
You see, dear reader, Jim measures his destiny in
soul-filled measurements, and this will never change.