By Scott Sullivan
Editor
Breath
Saw it roll in from the north Tuesday over Kal River; Canada was still burning. Last month wildfire smoke hazing lungs and views was a novelty. The Star of Saugatuck was eclipsing Serenity on the Lake Michigan horizon, could barely see them.
New components found in what I breathe daily. Grand Rapids near where I live was first to fluoridate city water. My teeth still aren’t white, straight completely, unfilled, chipped … ID the latest toxin, bye-bye, make way for kids who see what’s before them. Wear a mask instead?
Wednesday: Air clearer or eyes compensating. Incoming wind, rain, thunderstorms coming in. Break for Water Music dance. Satan walks fire in souls through Dante’s circles.
“What make you, Virgil?” I asked my guide. “They yearn for what they fear for,” he replied. From there we went out to see the stars.
An uncommon calm came. Climate? Climb it. Atop the cloud stands a giant. “Fee fi fo fum …” he rumbles.
“Free fidelity for fumbling?” I ask. He drops gold pot falling parallel to the beanstalk, I pull my ripcord. Now I had zillions but traded cow in too.
“Get an ennui enema,” my Doc advised.
“You’re an enemy,” I said. “My body’s pristine.”
“A pity.”
Ennui means listlessness, lethargy, lassitude, languor … nothing makes a difference. “I can” icons are imagined. See what to do, do it, why’s that difficult? Dead beyond dreams — execution’s aftermath — I tried torture, torpor, tallied temperatures, trod to Tallahassee. “It’s hot,” I told Ron DeSantis.
“Silence!” the Odds- On Trump Underdog thundered.
“I need a brain,” I said.
“If I educate and equip you, you still won’t know my commands.”
“Do you? Can you see through smoke?”
“Clearly.”
“Down here it comes from Cuban cigars, not Canada, so it’s naturally occurring.”
“How many have you toked?”
“In India it’s cremations.” With his commentary my calm was over.
In Saugatuck, smoke was thicker over the lake than inland. Atmosphere atoms danced dirges. A barge appeared on the water. “My groin aches,” I told the doctor.
“I’m an orthopod,” she spat. “No muscle dysfunctions.”
“Can I teach you?”
With her saw she tried to disarm me, but I drew my scythe.
“You so-and-so!” she screamed, clanging cymbals, cross left, flag right, like Jason Aldean to wrap my ears.
“I was born in a small town,” I pleaded. “I’m a common man. Me, Glenn Mollette, John Mellencamp, Michael Jackson, Cole Porter, Kurt Vonnegut … Hoosiers all.”
“So you wield a music psyche?”
“Scythe,” I said. “I’m a farm boy. It cuts through things.”
“You were born in Lansing, liar.”
“My first lair, yes. I was little, unlimited, memories un-parametered. Dad followed his insurance job to Indiana. Dumb farmers? At Purdue I met agribusiness billionaires to be. Learning markets and chemistry were crucial. I moved back to Michigan as soon as I could,” I said.
“You’re no country boy,” Aldean snarled.
“You made it from Macon (pop. 157,346 per 2020 U.S. Census) to Nashville (689,487), recorded breakthrough hit ‘Hicktown’ in 2005 and now you’re an icon.
“Grab your guns, fellas.”
“Will axes work?” a guitarist asked.
“I’m a proud American,” I said.
“Hmm,” Aldean said.
“Been overseas? You’re world famous now. I’m not thrilled with Canada lately but they have the Falls. We have our lesser side of them in New York but that’s blue state. Ever play a guitar made of maple? Bet these days you’re smokin’ em.”
“I love rich Cuban backers,” said DeSantis.
“You’re right,” Aldean added. “Who doesn’t love big-city bucks, hype, performing studios? Hit it, guys!”
“We Are the World,” his band started playing. Charlie Pride, Ray Charles, Aaron Neville and Lil Nas X sat in on bleachers with John Gibbs and Malcolm X side by side.
Through clear air I drove home through country that reminded me of northwest Indiana and 13 years writing, shooting in and loving Wayland, Dorr, Gun Lake, Hopkins, Martin … A white cross nailed to a roadside maple bore reflectors to detect, deflect or inflect wrecks on drivers who might veer and smack it.
Lessen learned.