The Loud Uproar (1 of 3)

The Loud Uproar of Heaven:

The Childhood Adjurations

Of an Ineffectual Lowlife

 

By Francis “Frenchie” Costello

 

U

 

So, you figure it out!

 

I finish my plea, go to the Empty Place, and wait for the Nothingness, even though I'm scared and feeling more alone than I've ever felt. But Nothingness doesn't happen. Only this gigantic goldenrod spider in a red smock and glasses happens. She’s lugging over this leathery-looking book that's about twice as big as she is, and she sets it down right in front of me. It totally blows my mind because this isn't exactly what I was led to believe was going to take place. Then, she picks me up like a loose penny and puts me in her pocket, opens that gargantuan book, and jumps inside its pages. Talk about a head trip! Unbelievable! I mean, none of it made me feel like a lowlife that had written a plea but everything like a storybook cookie that has a chance to hop out of the oven! I was flying, really flying!

 

About a second later, I'm plopped down on a grassy little hill near this magnificently blossoming cherry tree, and the spider, who is pretty much at a normal size now, is asking me all kinds of questions about my life in the Garden. Nothing heavy or anything, just very small stuff like my mother's childhood nickname or the highest rank I achieved before I was kicked out of this stupid marching band in high school. She’s occasionally writing stuff down like she's tying up some loose ends or something. So, I do what I can to help her fill in the blanks; but find myself distracted by the amazing number of wildflowers that blanket parts of the hill, and the way the sun is pouring down on these white pillars I can see not too far off in the distance.

 

 

Now, the weird thing is that although I know I'm not where I was, I know I'm not where I thought I would be either, because things are still going on and because everything is more like something a lot better than the Empty Place. I mean, even though I know that things could still get serious, I have the sense, too, that whatever happens is not going to be the kind of thing that I can’t handle. It might sound crazy, but I'm so jazzed by the turn of events that I’m eager to know what might be coming my way. Pretty soon, though, this spider is done with the small stuff. She puts away her notepad and just sort of looks at me in this very careful way and says, "Frenchie, I am Paulette Avocat, a clerk to Sister Rose Immaculate, and I want you to understand something before we begin to talk about some things that may make you feel a little uncomfortable. The Gardener has rejected your plea for the Nothingness and has in its stead extended to you an invitation to what we call The Scattering of the Blossoms. I cannot tell you why this has happened, and I am not allowed to describe any aspect of that event, but I will be taking you there when our business is done. But first, I need to talk to you about several of your dreams. You called them nightmares when you were in the Garden, but they were not nightmares. They were something else. They were what we call adjurations. It may seem like an imposition, but Sister Rose is very big on the disclosure of personal information. More importantly, the Gardener herself cares deeply about everyone’s dreams and wants all of us to understand them, not just our own dreams, but also those of others.”

 

So, like I said, I thought things might go in a serious direction, but I really don't care because I suspect that this is all going to be for the best when it's over. I mean, honest to God, she could’ve said, "Frenchie, I'm going to hit you over the head with my big-a*s book," and I would have been happy to be clocked because at least I wasn’t in hell anymore, and really, that was the only thing that mattered to me.^[1]

The first dream she wants to talk about is this one I had when I was still a little bug. The deal is that I am sort of crawling around near this rusty trash can, when this evil-looking bum comes rushing by me like he’s on some extreme, psychological mission, only he’s got my mom over his shoulder like a sack of topsoil and starts stuffing her upside-down in the trash can. He doesn’t even seem to care that he’s doing this right in front of me because he really takes his time about it, even winks at me, knowing there's nothing I can do but watch, since I’m so little and not too strong.

 

-P-

 

So, Paulette asks me if I remember how that dream made me feel at the time.[2] I say, 'Of course I do. I felt like I was about to die or maybe just not be there anymore.' Then she asks me why I don't want to be there, and I say, 'Because I think that bum might do something even worse, and I don't want to see him do it when there’s nothing I can do to stop him.'  Paulette doesn't say anything right away because she's thinking things over and maybe doesn't know that I'm a little nervous about something bad happening now.  But she draws herself close to me and lifts my chin a little, so all I can see is her face. Then she says, "Your mother was love itself to you, so maybe it was love that you feared losing. She was the first creature to love you, and no one can love unless they have first been loved by another. But those who teach us to love come in physical containers that can easily perish, even in a trash can. You feared the loss of love, and recognized that love doesn’t just grow on trees.” I only nod because I don’t think she expects me to say anything. Then Paulette wipes this tear from her eye, takes out her notepad again, and brings up the second dream. I had this one a few months after my parents died.

---

[1] The three dreams that Frenchie describes in this story belong to the poet. Frenchie is loosely based on him when he was a young man. Paris believed that most of us live in the “spiritual gray,” somewhere between the “possibly redeemable” and the “do-not-allow” lines: “That God gets involved with any of us underscores the value God places on our souls,” he said.

 

Paulette Avocat is based on Paris’s recollections of the tutor he had at the Sister Kenny Institute in Minneapolis., a gregarious Swedish-American woman who he once described as, “the most conceited person I ever knew and the best teacher I ever had.”

 

[2] Paris claims to have been only four years old when he experienced this unusually graphic nightmare. Its “crazy-looking bum” was the host of a morning television program called “T.N. Tatters.” Although the poet was merely ambivalent toward the cartoons and 30-second advertisements that dominated its air-time, he was fearful and deeply suspicious of the hobo-clown who oversaw the program’s daily mayhem. Furthermore, Paris believed that this sketchy comic lurked the hallways of his school and claims to have once been chased by him down an alley. The poet feared that Tatters was the mysterious “stranger” his mother had warned him about. As an adult, Paris came to view the dream as a divine lesson in the enormity of physical existence - The demiurge of gnostic antiquity.

 

Author's Note

This piece is a part of my revised work, previously posted at WritersCafe.org. It is from a book in which some of the entries are written in prose or poetic prose.