it was a deep brown, like it contained all the earth... & it bubbled on the stove
permit me to talk for a while... i first landed on Sirron street in the early nineties... i remember making disjointed music long into the christmas night amidst empty jars, trinkets, boxes, and a storehouse of holiday flare. That group has separated like meat from a carcass...
a gentle spreading out into the soup. i do remain... hanging on for a while longer. A thousand stories have been told since then... rivers traversed, mountains clung to, hearts broken & proximity triumphed over. I have lived inside the skin of other lives under bright lights but never wore shoes down with distance. it's 007 and the times they are a-changing.
Greedy X-mas music always starts around the end of october... but the holidays started this year when l'aro arrived at Jacquelin's and i saw him on december 21st. a roast had been prepared along with carrots and potatoes. we talked into the night on the topic of Science and Faith. it was a joy to discuss our hearts and minds. we were well met in Lankmar!
El Chivo arrived the next night with his lady friend, a turkey stew, and a large african drum. we put back a few stella artois beers (which would become the official beverage of the 006 holiday season) the 23rd came next... as it often does after the 22nd. This was to be the day of the First Annual Conference of Friars on the Subject of Topics. there was something in the air (besides the uncanny pleasant weather for a detroit december) a nerVous energy of expectations... i don't think any of us knew what was around the corner we only knew we wanted to share. this would be in the evening... during the day an away team (chivo, pirata, l'aro) was sent on a mysterious book delivery mission for people in Pittsburgh. i planted my roots in the kitchen.
there is speculation on who St. Gumbo really is... some say he was a dark cajun who turned into a wolf when his life gave way. some say he was a man like Jesus who walked on the water, and still others say he hailed from Buffalo. but i think St. Gumbo bore the name of George Todt when he walked on this earth. His son once called him the last of the gunslingers and he was a fantastic mountain of a man. he was a sponge for knowledge and soul, he took it all in. he had secrets & he taught me how to make gumbo... and as good as that is, that may be the least of his glory!
i was planted in the kitchen... the onions were chopped, as well as the peppers and celery. i stood over the bubbling cauldron like a witch. fry the chicken, add the okra, chop the sausage, dash of spice! The creole cooked and cooked and eventually the away team returned mission accomplished (they stated this from the deck of a carrier). but now something was different about the kitchen. the shiny metal shelf still bent under the weight of enough liquor to drown shane macgowan, the old window was still slightly ajar letting in the sunny air, the half smoked parliament light 100's still smoldered in the tray... what was it? there it was on the lectric burner right next to the fishy stew... a second cauldron. i peered inside. a warm dark liquid surrounded vegetables and minced leaves of spices and the torn flesh of turkey floated in the wake. i'm told it was born from giant legs of turkey procured in the markets of that distant land of Pitt. the two soups just glared at eachother like a coupla mooks at an eastside bar. (did i mention we had all gathered the night before in a seedy bar under a bowling alley which served graduation mosticholli and ultimate fighting... i don't wanna talk about it.)
a crowd formed in the soup kitchen and began ladling the thick liquids. helping after helping was downed on both sides... a feast for the senses and stomachs. in the aftermath drinks poured (already having to procure more soda) we gathered in the front room of the newly renovated Chez Jackies to commence the First Annual Conference of Friars on the Subject of Topics. El Chivo initiated the evening with a reading of a paper he wrote concerning actions between Israel and Palestine: a tremendous conversation from prisoners on different sides of the "wall." discussion followed as well as a tune penned and sung by Humanista (with the use of Pirata's guitar). i followed... i was never good with preparation... i sort of wing things but i have an irrational dislike for improv.?.? i read some poems. it did my heart good to read aloud the Waters Braid which happened earlier in 006 between myself, l'aro, and Hawk. Pirata followed with a verse from the esteemed mr. Kilpatrick (not to be confused with the mayor of the straits). Humanista sang again... a bitterly joyful jaunt about a girl and a creek... i want to hear that again. Next, l'aro spoke of perception, patterns, the brain, the heart, and all the glue which holds us together... inspiring. More drinks... More soups... More revery. enter El Pirata complete with digital vd, an easel, markers, and sticky "notes" larger than those confounded legs of pennsylvania turkey! Hawk had arrived. Pirata spoke on the life of Henry Darger... the perception of evil, of genius, of education, of catholics, of life. "what's he writing up there?"
the evening seemed to separate... just like flesh leaving a carcass... some folks had to flee some sat and chatted and the night melted into the pan.
nobody really knows what happened... but in the morning, two giant jars of soup perched on the top rack of the fridge. a full to bursting drum of turkey stew & a 3/4 empty jar of gumbo with light shining through like a bloody sunset. they say that it is clear which soup was favored. but i still don't know how that turkey soup tasted so good even without the use of pepper. As it turns out, there was a little touch of St. Gumbo in the night.
-eL ViKiNGo
