Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

12
Climbing a rope of fire up through the ceiling. Clapton. Townshend. Hendrix. I gain some
kind of foothold above them & break their hold with angry Dylanchords. Newport Folk
Festival 1965. They let go.
“Daddy!”
Shit! Rebecca is draped over my left shoulder, clinging. I’m running. My guitar is
hooked over my other shoulder.
Her face is blackened but not burned.
“Daddy, sit down, please! You’re burned all over!” She’s terrified.
I sit down on what feels like solid earth. Not losing hold of Rebecca or my guitar for
a moment.
I see Rebecca better with my eyes closed. Her face is a little teary—about as much as
she’ll ever give into tears—& she is flinching as she touches my cheek.
“I’m OK, Rebby,” I whisper softly.
She stops. Thinks. Paints me clean with soft kisses. Finished, critical inspection of
her work—my face & hands—she smiles—then begins crying harder. Harder than I’ve ever
seen before.
Not knowing what to do, I hold her softly & let her give in fully. When she stutters
toward emptiness, I say “I love you, Rebecca. I’m OK.”
“Tha-that’s good.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine.”
“Soulard was right. I’m glad I kept playing hard.”
“I’m glad you trusted him.”
“Are you ready to move on?”
“Yes.”
“Can you follow me like before? So I can play?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Dad, I won’t let you die.”
“No. You won’t. But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to both stay alive &
we’re going to get Franny.”
“OK.”
For a timeless while, we ascend. It seems like we’re inside the earth itself, rising,
slowly. And more slowly. Finally, a sense of arrival. Of stopping.
I am lying on my back on a cold cobblestone floor. Rebecca is next to me. Our hands
are tightly entwined. My guitar rests against my legs.
We stand. Rebecca enfolds herself into me. I carry her like a blur. Like an aura.
Playing my guitar here is easier, too, as I find myself able to play to the moment, find
in it torchlight by which to walk down long empty corridors many of them endless numbers
it seems, branching off at varying intervals neither rising nor falling how like a dream this is,
like dream-castles I’ve known all my life . . .
“Daddy!”
“Are you OK, Rebby?”
“ I’m fine. But we’re not moving anymore. & you’re hardly playing at all.”
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005