Metaphor, Part 2

I knew the place. Of course I did, I’d been here many times before. An obstacle in the journey, it was as familiar as the armory where I watched Adam die. I knew it as well as the house where the mannequins live, as familiar as the mountain pass fraught with exhaustion and danger. I know them all, they are part of me.

All are obstacles, none ever conquered.

The canyon spread out before me, a knife a mile wide cutting through two mesas that was once only one mesa millions of years ago. I can never go around, not for lack of trying but just as a basic knowledge. My path was clear, always down to the bottom on a path that should be worn with use, but is always perilous. It seems like I should be able to fly.

I know I’ve made it out of this canyon before, but here I am again, looking down and to the left – always to the left. One would think that I would try and find a path to the right at least once. Maybe next time.

Making your way to the bottom of a canyon three hundred or a thousand feet below required thought and just a little guile. You can’t just go straight down, the attack has to be made at an angle. I rode a motorcycle over the edge where I now stood. The results were as expected.

I contemplated the first step as always. There was no doubt that I would go down just as there was no question I would find the bottom, but the fear was still there. I hesitated, pondering the reasons why I must do this once again.

“What is he waiting for?” a young woman behind me asked to someone not me.

That was new. The worn-out scenario had changed, but at the moment I didn’t consider the meaning. I glanced behind me, not knowing what to expect. A group of people had gathered, all strangers of all genders, races and ages. There were no familiar faces, no past loves or former friends. Their presence unnerved me. This venture was usually attempted in solitude or sometimes with someone close to me. (Didn’t Janet once fall off the canyon wall?)

“I don’t know,” said a young man wearing a knit hat, his wild curly hair was fighting to get out from underneath it. “Maybe we should just go without him.”

There was a great murmur that I wanted to ignore. Instead I turned from them and took my first step toward a jutting boulder. I knew my way lay just below it.

The canyon is one from my youth growing up in the mountains and yet exists nowhere. The first twenty feet from the edge was steep but not a sheer drop. It was easy to navigate by side-stepping my way down through the loose sand and gravel. Boulders jutted out below, standing sentry over this canyon since the Cenozoic Era, except they made no comments, no judgements, no arrests. They watched silently as one fool constantly climbed down into their domain.

I knew my way past them and my crowd followed making comments I chose not to acknowledge. Some questioned my sanity, but most were simply curious. Obviously, this jaunt was not as serious to them as it was too me. Their laughter seemed to indicate that this was more of a picnic than a quest. I wished I could get away from them or at least have a companion along the way who understood the significance of my crusade.

I made it down to the first cliff face. Normally there were hand and footholds and shelves along the way to the left (always to the left.) This would take me down half-way to the basin and to the “corner” of the canyon marked by another outcropping of boulders. The climb was always perilous and this is where I lost Janet years ago. This time around, however, I found my improvised path had been covered in a improvised jigsaw of hay bales attached in some manner to the cliff face, a nice stair-like byway had been constructed. All I would have to do is casually walk down on the bales.

“We figured you could use some help,” an older man with a red hat and ruddy face said. He was grinning but I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need or want his help. I didn’t respond, I did not want to talk to them lest they accept me as one of their own. This was my sojourn, not theirs. What right did they have to interfere even if it was to help?

There was nothing I could do about the hay bales, but I knew I had to go forward; or in this case, down. Stepping onto one and the next I found that whoever had constructed this staircase had not done a very good job. The bales were loose and unstable and moved this way and that as I descended. Several of them moved and fell as I passed over them.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” a woman said.

“It never is, but he’ll be okay. He always is,” another answered.

It was then that the improvised structure came completely down like a tower of blocks. I struggled to find footing, lucky that my hand caught a foothold and my foot found a handhold. I still was grasping to the side of a cliff, though, wondering if this was the end. It would be the earliest failure on this journey since I was young. I blamed my audience for making me believe it was safe and for constantly distracting my concentration. Why were they there anyway?

I tried to bite back my anger but someone piped up, “Just let go, dude.”

I looked down and saw I was only a foot above my half-way resting place, having somehow traveled a good three hundred yards from where I thought I was. Why didn’t I see this before? I know this terrain so well, better than my followers.

I dropped down and rested in the shade of a large, phallic boulder. There was one more cliff face to navigate, then a steep incline of loose rocks that could easily send me tumbling. (I’ve made my way to the bottom of the canyon like that before.)

I looked for my footholds and handholds but could only see mail slots cut into the cliff face yapping and barking at me. Some were quite decorative and others very plain. Why they would want to bite at me, I don’t know, but I had not choice but to deal with them.

“Speedy delivery,” one of my followers said, chasing his comment with a hearty laugh.

“I bet he falls,” said a woman.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” another answered. Everyone laughed at that, my struggle on display for their amusement. I wanted them to go away, but I was hurt because I also wanted their approval.

I reached out a hand and placed it in a decorative blue mail slot embedded in the rock. It snapped at my fingers and I was ready for the pain. There was none. If anything it tickled, but I played it up to my crowd as if I had been mortally wounded. They ate up every yowl of pain that I gave them, but the joke was on them because it didn’t hurt at all.

I found my descent easier than any time before and was soon to the steep slope where eons of rocks had fallen and broken into smaller rocks. I was happy because this was the easiest part of the climb down and I simply sat on my ass and rode down the incline. Sure, my bum would hurt by the time I got to the canyon floor, but it really was the easiest and quickest way down. Perhaps my followers would not be able to keep up.

Sure enough, when I reached the terminus of my descent into the canyon I looked behind me and the crowd was gone. Maybe the rest of the journey would be in solitude. I know I didn’t want a crowd heckling me as I made my way out of the canyon and into my gaping psyche.

The tall pines trees in which I walked offered a cool shade and after ten steps darkness started to fall. I had never had to make this part of the journey in the dark, but I wasn’t concerned because I knew the way. In the night, though, I could hear the music of a calliope and laughter.

When I spied the lights of the carnival, I headed toward it as if I was led. In a clearing by a small stream I found my former followers, dancing and laughing and eating turkey legs. Around the clearing were carnival games highlighted with bright, blinking lights. When they saw me they all fell silent, surprised that I was in their midst.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” I turned to see an old crone. “Everyone knows that the writer is the least important member of any production. Now be gone!”

Darkness fell in the clearing and I was again alone.

Always alone.

I missed my followers.