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Actual pixies > The Pixies > The Breeders > Frank Black & the Catholics > Frank Black > Black Francis > Pixy Stix.

-J

Salsbury's Story

Messewyne

It is a commonly known fact that cats are aware of every hiding place, bolt hole, and half-inch shadow in their domain. But Messewyne knew everyone's. From the day he was born you couldn't hide from him. He knew the layout of the whole barn before his eyes had opened. By one year he could get across town in the time it took the Hansom driver to give you your change. Some swore he was really several cats, but there was only one Messewyne. When his mother bore him, the hair on the back of every farmcat rose to attention, for they knew he was an omen and intended for some purpose of destiny. Messewyne was the only cat ever born who had no shadow.

His time was in the early days of Brighton, before the industrialists really took interest in the town, and legends were more tangible back then. It was said you could still see Sai Li racing across the moon at night in the moment before you blinked. Something had been troubling the cats of Brighton, but no one could really put a name to it. Something in the water. Something on the wind.
It was the first of November and a bitter cold nipped at the nose like a starling. Gray Hellespont had called together all the cats of the city to a meeting that night, in the grove behind the churchyard, and because they all loved and respected him they came. Story had it that Hellespont had been the first cat in Brighton, and he was old enough that it might have been true. He was blind and very wise, and all the cats in the city looked to him for leadership. These days you rarely find such cats, such leaders of cities, but it was not so strange back then. Nowadays cities are too big. Cats don't respect any authority, even of their own kind. But even one of today's belligerent young toms would have given a bow to Hellespont. His very atmosphere commanded it.
And so the cats of Brighton met; Jackwhite, with his piercing blue eyes, and Tiger, his mother. Rhubarb the singer, and Winslow, the pompous cat who lived in the clocktower. And more, and more, until the entire clearing was filled with cats. Many had not seen each other for years, and there were greetings and more than one fight. But then silence swept the assembly like a reflex, and they turned to watch Grey Hellespont slowly, stiffly climb the old sycamore stump to address them all.
"Cats of Brighton, my cats," he began slowly. It was utterly quiet, as if even the crickets respected his authority. "Sons and daughters of the ellipsis. Many of you know, or suspect, why I have called you here tonight." Hellespont looked out upon the crowd with old, blind eyes and continued. "Something has been tickling the ends of my whiskers for drawn days now. Something has loomed over me, just beyond what I can smell. I know you all feel it too. In the early times, we cats were sensitive to more than just the goings-on of this world. Generations have dulled our perception, but not our instincts. Something in Brighton is wrong. Something must be done."
The cats in the clearing murmured to themselves and looked at each other nervously. They had all been on edge for a month or more. Quinn the miller's cat spoke up across the crowd. "What can be done?" All eyes returned to Hellespont.
"What indeed. We cannot take action until we know what we face." He said reasonably. "Therefore, a cat must be sent to determine the cause of this unrest." More murmuring broke out and the cats shifted about.
"Who will be sent?" called Percival, the Mayor's cat's son. In times of trouble, cats do not form committees or debate their approach as people do. A cat's limitations are confined by company; they will always work best on their own, and they will never function at their peak when watched. Therefore, one cat will always be sent, to deal with the situation as they see fit.
"Who indeed." replied Hellespont. "It may be a dangerous mission. I sense some peril in the undertaking. What cat could be asked to find something that cannot be smelled or touched? But the cat who must go already knows his duty. Indeed, I do not even have to call his name." It was true. Messewyne stepped forward.
There was a hush in the crowd that swept back through the cats as they craned their necks over each other to see. "Messewyne, quickest and cleverest of the cats of Brighton. Are you ready?"
"Yes, O cat," he replied.
"Then go now, and go quickly," Hellespont said to him. And as dream-like as it had filled, the clearing was empty, leaving the old blind cat alone on the mossy sycamore stump behind the churchyard. He said a prayer under his breath and then he, too, was gone.

Messewyne was black and gray, the mottled ripple of a shadow on water. He was strong and in his prime. When he walked he strode with the proud pace of a lion and when he ran he was gone before you could compare him to anything at all.
Messewyne ran that night, through the fog-tipped dark, through the winding cobble streets of Brighton, and ran and ran until breath escaped him and he collapsed into near instant sleep on the chaff-strewn floor of the brown-roofed granary. When he woke, he was not alone.
His breathing did not hasten the smallest measure as Messewyne mentally bridged the gap between slumber and reality. He had felt the presence in his dreams, and carefully controlled his heartbeat and ribs so as not to betray his consciousness. Ever so slowly, perhaps the width of a robin's eggshell, Messewyne opened one eye. There was nothing in front of him. Nothing, save a presence. Then it was gone.
It had not been a mistake. Something had been there. Messewyne rolled to his feet and stretched thoroughly, then went over the granary floor a whisker's-length at a time. There had definitely been something. Everything leaves an imprint or feeling behind when it exits a room, but this was wholly a new sensation. Like smelling a memory. Like part of the room was still asleep back in Messewyne's dreams.
His powers of perception alerted him then. Whatever had been near, was still somewhere close. His eyes darted then, and he saw it: a shadow on the floor by the hatch of the granary. Nothing was casting it... it had no source. Just a shadow. People always take at least a moment to do anything, but cats can truly act without hesitation. And Messewyne could act faster than that. He launched himself without even tensing his muscles. The shadow darted away impossibly fast, but Messewyne missed it by less than a paw-length. The young cat was not done however; summoning all of his speed and reflexes, he gave chase.
The shadow moved like a mad illusion. The grey and black cat followed it, over houses, under windowsills, between the cracks of fenceboards, across the whole of Brighton and back, and again, and a third time. Finally, behind the church against the old pitted stone wall, Messewyne caught it.
"You have been bested, specter," declared the cat. The shadow, naturally, had no power of speech. "You have escaped from someone," Messewyne continued, "and you have caused us much distress. I cannot release you." Messewyne held the shadow down firmly with his paw. "Therefore," he finished, "you will be my shadow from now on. I claim you." And so it was.
Messewyne kept the shadow from that day forward. Eventually it began to clarify in shape from the wild thing it had been, and started to look like him. It was always still untamed, however. Many years later on the day that Messewyne died, the shadow disappeared, and was never seen in Brighton again. It is still somewhere, though, traveling over and through the world. Sometimes you can see a cat chasing it; across a room, or up a wall, trying in vain to be the one who can reclaim it. It will never happen. Messewyne was the only cat ever quick enough to catch his own shadow.

-J

Thoughts from the back seat of mom's minivan

I never was much of a conformist, so I'm not going to write about anything topical. I'm such a rebel, I know. You wrote in parentheses that I know who I am, and it's true. I don't know much, but I've got a handle on that. Ice cream sundaes just aren't the same without hot chocolate. I cannot be blamed. You, from the past, wondered if you should stand strong or surrender. I can't help but feel implicated in that line of thought... perhaps it is vanity. But it got me thinking.
Mostly about you.
I don't want to control you or confine you. I don't want to change who you are, or deflect you. I don't want to buy, sell, or process you. I know the feeling of wanting to fight just for the sake of fighting. I felt that way a few years ago. A new friend with a whirlwind entrance into my life, and the best job offer I've ever received. "Come with me! Work in a coffee shop up in Denali National Park for the summer." Yes please. I'll take second helpings of Run Away From Myself. But a buzz in the back of my spine told me not to go. I agonized over it; there was nothing I had ever wanted to do more. I lost sleep, and my mind suffered through a fever of the will. By daybreak the temperature of my thoughts had finally fallen, and I felt depressingly resigned. Staying was not what I wanted to do. I bore it like a cross, bitter. But, as with most things God gives me, I eventually discovered that it was not only what I needed to do, it was what I wanted to do as well.
I told a story, which means I agree with you. My empathy is strong. It is not what I hoped: to cause you to feel stuck between what feels like freedom and what appears to be the opposite. I want freedom for you. I want you to feel free.
There is an undeniable mental space occupied by a lone soul which vanishes in the presence of another. I understand this. I am not blind to the physical laws governing human relationships. I understand what it is to feel the heart pulled towards some green patch of imagination. A garden yearned after, in which we can see ourselves as undressed, as we lived in The Beginning. I know it too. I am idly reminded, though, of our first parents, and how even in that place of peace it was not good to be alone. The symmetries I'm drawing are loose ones, but it's worth considering the things we paint ourselves to desire.
I am a devoted believer in possibility. Realizing the invisible requires this delicate hands-off involvement. It's a dichotomy. Anything good is worth working for, so it is as good as you make it. Anything good is from God, so it can be as good as you let it be. Care for a plant, but don't tell it how to grow.
I want to be the one with whom you are free.

-J

Declaring intentions

I haven't the sprightliness of mind to be deceptive. Twain noted that honesty is wise for the forgetful. I am glad that facility lends me to simplicity, but the plain truth is that I enjoy living with all my cards face up on the table. Drama and head games seem not only like too much effort, but it's hard to see what, in the long run, they even accomplish. As my life telescopes out like a Hitchcock camera trick, even short-term desires begin to be understood through a lens of eternal priorities. I think, for the first time, I actually know what I want.
It's been coming together for a few seasons, now. The underpinnings were constructed before work began on the frame. I appreciate that. God continues to reveal Himself to me in a way I am capable of understanding, and He teaches me with a personal attention to my needs that I can't even come up with a way to say "thank you" for. Let me follow the example I have been given.
The purpose of this point of digital tangency is to be a vehicle for me to write. Yes, I already have a webjournal. But that was created with a different purpose, and adapting it now would require not only the indulgence of my small audience, but a retooling of the space it occupies in my brain. Simpler to pull out a fresh piece of paper and start clean.

My Intention: To write. Something. Anything. Monday through Friday. Any day I don't post it here - if I wrote by hand or on my typewriter for example - I will summarize what I wrote on a subsequent day to stay accountable.

Any time that quantity becomes the driving animus of ones apical meristem, the fruits produced cannot be relied upon for safe consumption... I know this. But it is painfully obvious to me that writing something is superior if the alternative is to write nothing at all, paralyzed as I can become by spectres of insufficiency. I err now on the side of the prospecter, choosing to labor for value. Since my previous method was to wander around looking for nuggets exposed on the ground, at least if I continue to come up empty now I can hold my head high for the actual exertion required.
This will not be referred to as either a "project" or an "experiment". This is the new thing I'm doing in the morning. This is the groundwork for the rest of my life. This is what I need to do if the future I want is to happen.
The glimpse of it that I've seen is too good. There is simply no way I can justify not expending the effort. It has mystified me, how someone who enjoys writing as much as I do can avoid it so neurotically. But that's behind. Ahead is what I want, and this is the next step. Stating plainly my course. Now: to do it forever. No problem. Look - I've already done it today.
Fortunate is the man whose conscience moves him to changes so simple.

-J

Law-abiding.

I. Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.
I am fairly certain that I have never abided by this.
Either that, or I have an abnormally strong personal entropy. But even if that were true, we cannot point to some aspects of the laws of physics to excuse us from others.
Passion is easy. Consistency is hard.

May, in the final reckoning, I be counted among the consistent.

-J