THE DEVIL AND MEL BROOKS

THE DEVIL AND MEL BROOKS

The span of time a journey makes

can last days or just a few hours.

My journey, one day, precisely,

an afternoon and an evening,

one I had to make alone, without

you. Most crippling of all human

frailty is that of fear, paralyzing

the human heart, striking blindly

without reason or understanding,

arising within the human spirit

a cruel, at times, heartless spirit.

This one day’s journey is

is marked in the present, but

began in the second grade,

well-meaning her intent,

stories for young minds,

woven by the old nun to

scare us into heaven.

Hell fire, demons galore,

demonic possession, the

tools in her spiritual chest,

to save our young souls

from eternal damnation;

tales placed so deep in our

subconscious, their roots

never eradicated by time,

lay dormant waiting.

Long steeped in fear and

ignorance, our nation

no different than I, though

possessed by another

spiritual force as evil.

Racist roots sunk so deep,

that no amount of Civil Rights

passed by law could attack

the evil at the heart of

our nation. Evil, as ancient

as the dark heart of Evil

personified, is hard to extract,

lay camouflaged, awaiting

the moment to strike.

Like Dante’s poetic journey

of redemption, passing through

the Inferno, Purgatorio, and

Paradiso, a descent, I, too,

must make, no Virgil as my

guide, alas. Passing through

the double doors of the

theater, no sign posted

saying, “Abandon Hope,

Ye Who Enter Here,” I take

my seat in the darkened

auditorium, this not the

occasion for Red Hots and

Milk Duds. The dark grows

even darker as “Tubular

Bells” signals the beginning

of the story, a young girl’s

play with a Ouija Board

opening the door of her

soul to an Evil sworn

to tear apart her spirit

and the spirits of all

whom she loves.

One priest battered in body,

the other, battered in faith,

encounter the epitome

of Evil malignant, no simple

haunting, no mere ghost.

The absence of light,

ironically glaring shows

how Evil inhabits dark

places and dark hearts,

the sound more horrific

than the visual, relentless

the hope of a mother

much stronger than those

empowered to exorcise,

self-sacrifice out of love,

the final tool used to uproot

and eradicate the Evil

from the girl. Climbing out

of the theater in the

manner of Dante, I reach

the lobby, the blessed

brightness of the sunshine

outside takes the edge off

the darkness of the film.

I pause to reflect prayerfully

at the concession stand,

what nourishment to take.

Guided to the Coca-cola

and buttered popcorn,

I walk through another set

of double doors only to be

met by Mel Brooks, my

guide and mentor for the

next journey. Fooled into

thinking that Purgatorio, be

far easier than the Inferno

through which I just had

walked, I was confronted

with an ancient Sin, one

that had broken my nation

asunder just a hundred years

earlier, a necropolis of Sin

that continued to swallow

alive the souls of so many

people. The Evil of racism,

a pandemic striking the

souls of white American

society crosses the screen

in images both meant to

amuse and to accuse.

The humor highlighting

all the more the façade

of respectability, the

racist’s shell game

playing the suckers,

drawing them into their

own sickness. Hucksters,

like the demons of Dante,

use the beans they eat

around the campfire to

trumpet their asses emitting

a substance just as putrid

and foul. Only relentless

goodwill and hope frees

the hearts of those manacled

to the pillar of racism. I,

seeing this comedic vision

examine whether my hands,

my feet are as manacled

as those portrayed in the film.

While bound by chains

not quite as thick and strong,

the chains are there, and

the manacles intact.

I rise and pass through the

doors back into the lobby,

the humor of the film

taking the edge off the

darkness that lay outside .

Confronting one’s fears

does not always defeat

but makes one aware of that

which is hidden inside.

True victory over Evil’s darkness

comes only with allying in trust

with the primal source of love,

the love that overwhelms

all darkness with light.

It will take more than

this Dantesque day’s cinematic

journey to defeat the fear

that is present within my life.

You, will play a big part

in the future triumph

of my spirit over darkness,

our God revealing in you,

so clearly that my eyes

may see, the source of love,

the center of God, who

conquers all darkness.

©2015. The Book Of Ruth, Deacon Bob Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.

BUTCH AND SUNDANCE

BUTCH AND SUNDANCE

The summer of nineteen hundred

and sixty-nine, a summer of

rain drops consistently falling

on unprotected heads. Not

some errant weather system,

a pastiche of constant gloomy

weather, rather a storm front

of a melody that hung overhead

for three months or more.

The summer of duos, more

dynamic than that of Gotham,

Newman and Redford,

Bacharach and David,

you and I? Our duo is just

beginning, testing the

waters of relationship beyond

that of band, I basking in

your presence, so proud

to be seen with you, and

you beginning to date,

more than the casual

gathering of friends and

common interest groups

of high school.

The Riviera Theater, our

destination, your sister,

Annie, at the ticket booth

with a nod and wink gives

free pass to the darkened

theater, the previews

starting. The feature begins,

sepia images flicker across

the screen, music from

a different era, the crushing

of a man’s scrotum with

the toe of a boot, eliciting

an audible groan from

every male in the audience,

the teacher lady’s disrobing,

revealing a mutually intended

coercion of eroticism

far beyond the hint of skin

seen in her parted camisole,

Hole in the Wall, train robberies,

posse chasing, “just who are

those guys?”, cliff jumping
“oh shit!”, Bolivian food crawling

across the plate, the ending

a freeze-framed question mark.

In the darkened theater,

my hand seeks out yours,

the story on the screen,

as spellbinding as it is,

cannot match how spellbound

I have become by you. From

the darkened theater we

walk out into the night

of St. Paul, to the Lowry

ramp at which our car waits.

We hold hands as we walk

I, just one of many seeking

the same place by your

side and hoping that my

name will be joined to yours,

like Bacharach and David,

Newman and Redford,

and, Butch and Sundance.

© 2015. The Book Of Ruth, Deacon Bob Wagner OFS. All rights reserved.