Chocolate Trusses and Candy Cane Staircases
Bert, the carpenter, stood with arms crossed, squinting up at the dripping mess of the gingerbread gable above him. The syrupy runoff dripped lazily down into a rainbow puddle at his feet, what was once-pristine candy cobblestones now was nothing more than a sickly, sticky mass of gumdrops and sugarcane.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, pulling out his pencil to make notes on his clipboard. He’d been called to strange jobs before, but this, well this took the cake. Literally.
“What’s ridiculous?” came a voice behind him, smooth and sharp as a shard of peppermint. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Mathilda, the owner of the sweet, chaotic, candied house.
“The gutters are clogged again,” Bert said, tapping the clipboard with his pencil for emphasis. “I told you last year, Miss Mathilda, those licorice ropes can’t handle the seasonal rains. And the sugar lattice just isn’t holding up.”
Mathilda, draped in her layers of dark, velvety robes with a hint of powdered sugar dusting her cuffs, sighed theatrically. “But Bert, you must understand, the aesthetic …”
“The aesthetic!” Bert cut her off, exasperation curling his words. “The beams holding up your entire east wing are made of chocolate. Chocolate! Do you know what happens to chocolate in the summer?”
Mathilda’s eyes narrowed, the green irises glinting like boiled sweets. “Yes, Bert. I am well aware of the properties of chocolate. I work with it quite often.“
“Then why …” Bert continued, waving his pencil as if it were a sword in the war against impractical architecture, “… do you insist on using it as a support structure? You could use oak, or spruce, or pine. You live in a damn haunted forest. There is wood everywhere.”
“Oak and spruce aren’t nearly as enticing,” Mathilda said, her voice dropping to a honeyed whisper.
“Enticing?” Bert’s brow furrowed.
“Enticing to whom? Birds? Bees?” He glanced at a nearby window where a curious sparrow pecked at a sugar-crusted sill.
Mathilda folded her arms, her smile as brittle as the spun sugar that decorated her front porch. Before she could answer, the contractor, a burly man named Hugo who had the unfortunate job of overseeing this confectionery construction, stomped over. He shook his head, bits of frosting flecking his bushy beard.
“The marzipan columns won’t last another storm,” Hugo, Bert’s foreman, said while glancing at Bert with an unspoken shrug that meant, Good luck reasoning with her.
“I told her that,” Bert muttered, scribbling more notes.
“Oh, Hugo,” Mathilda cooed, sidling up to the contractor. “Think of the magic! The charm! What would the forest creatures say if this house were made of something so dull as plain old wood?”
“They’d probably say, ‘Thanks for not snaring us in your caramel,’” Bert grumbled.
Mathilda shot him a look, the glimmer of mischief replaced momentarily by something colder. Bert shivered, the air around him suddenly sweet with tension.
“You just don’t understand. If you think you’re not up to the task just say so. How does the expression go? A crappy worker will always blame his tools. ” Mathilda said, her voice tight. “The candy is necessary.”
He didn’t bother correcting her that the tools were not the issue. It was the concoction of candy materials that held the blame.
“Necessary for what?” Hugo asked, his brow lifting. “The local kids don’t come near this place unless they’re dared. And even then,” Bert added, “they leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find their way back out.” He chuckled at his own joke, but Mathilda did not join in.
She exhaled slowly, the frost in her gaze thawing just a little. “It’s … it’s for my customers. They expect a certain… ambiance.”
Bert and Hugo exchanged skeptical looks.
“Customers?” Bert echoed.
“Yes,” Mathilda snapped, then softened her tone with a thin smile. “Travelers, wanderers… people looking for a taste of something different. I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try us,” Hugo said, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mathilda hesitated, eyes darting to the candy cane columns, the frosted eaves, the gumdrop-studded shutters. The house stood as a monument of to the whimsical or the mad, depending on who you asked. Finally, she sighed and gestured around her.
“If I build with wood, with stone, it’s just another house,” she said, voice low and almost wistful. “But with candy, it’s a promise. A whisper of enchantment. Something that sparks curiosity.”
Bert’s pencil stilled. For a moment, he almost believed her. Almost. Then he glanced at the sagging chocolate beams and the honeycomb rafters that were teeming with ants.
“Well, Mathilda,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “if we’re going to keep up your… ambiance, you’ll need to reinforce this entire structure. And I mean with something stronger than caramel cement.”
“But Bert,” Mathilda said, leaning in conspiratorially, “where’s the magic in that?”
“Right now,” Hugo said, pointing to the sagging porch, “the only magic happening is this place not collapsing while we’re talking.”
Mathilda pursed her lips, eyes narrowing as she weighed her options. Finally, she relented with a wave of her hand. “Fine. Reinforce the beams. But the chocolate facade stays.”
“And the gutters?” Bert asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Replace them with something sturdier,” Mathilda said. “Maybe—sugar-glazed iron.”
Bert’s sigh was heavy, but he nodded. It was a start. He glanced at Hugo, who simply shrugged for the second time today.
“Welcome to the witch’s house,” Hugo said with a grin. “Where logic comes to die.”
Mathilda smirked, the glint of a secret dancing in her eyes as she turned back to her candy kingdom.
Bert couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how many beams he reinforced, some mysteries were better left unsolved. He finished the rest of his estimate for the bill for repairs and held them out to Mathilda.
She glanced at the cost then at Bert. “You wouldn’t happen to accept peppermints as payment would you?”
He gave her a stern look. “No.”
“How about a considerable donation of children’s cloths?”
“Children’s clothes?!?” Bert stammered. “You know what, whatever. We’ll load them up in the truck, the sooner I’m out of this damned forest the better. We will start the work next week when the materials arrive.”
As Bert pulled away, he glanced at the melting cottage in his rearview mirror. He couldn’t help but wonder what it was that Mathilda did for work and why she happened to have almost a metric ton of kid’s clothing, but work was work and he’d take on any job as long as he could make a small profit.
Of jagged teeth, concubine of catastrophe, mark of midnight, and rivers of honey.
Four writers were approaching, and the wind began to howl...except replace wind with bloodletting of words, and ink into veins from these authors blessed and crazed with no other way to let it out, than to put it across a screen, and into our hearts with only pure aim.
Here's the link to the show:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1s3J_TYQqaM
And here are the pieces featured.
https://www.theprose.com/post/828745/king-of-california https://www.theprose.com/post/828053/the-drug-in-me-is-you https://www.theprose.com/post/828235/mile-run https://www.theprose.com/post/828263/the-only-shore
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Hemingway said to write the truest sentence you know
I think I am sad.
Sad to fly, to experience, to know
The traveler —
Sad, to be free?
And even sadder
When sitting alongside peace
An unfamiliar calm
Kundera said:
The unbearable lightness of being —
And I understand.
When the weight of the world
The burden, the pain, the obstacles
The bills, the kids, the hustle —
Those heavy crashing waves of darkness
Beat against your chest
One after another —
That man. The many men.
Heartbreak, loss, grief
The unknown, and nothing is promised —
The girth of it. The literal and
Physical and mental heaviness of it
Freedom is fleeting.
The anchor eventually becomes
Your comfort
Your stability.
A weight that keeps you grounded
Despair cries, and so do you
Loud and fierce but beaten
Into submission, you oblige
You conform and crawl beneath
The barrel of joy long hollow
Steel upon sulfur upon pewter dreams
Gone stifled and chorused
In a blue heat of arrest
But then one day —
You are light like dawn
Almost empty, and ascending
And floating above endlessly
The expectation of boundary gone wild
And you gasp
Am I alone?
Can I go here, or there —
Yes.
Nothing and no one is detaining you
The noose of submission has been tethered
And the sadness you feel for
Your captor gone romantic is perverse
But the reality is freedom pounding light
So light that your fist penetrates the wall
Fallen in Berlin style
And nothing is real
Just fabricated borders collapsing
And it is sad.
It is a dichotomy of arriving and —
Am I lost.
Used by the pillars of angst
Who am I now
Free?
Weeping am I behind a pink moon
A sigh so loud that no one looks
I am free.
And perhaps I am afraid of
How far I will fall
With no shackles to stop me.
Storyteller
I have always been drawn to music. Even at seven years of age, my heart and feet beat to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite or a Polonaise by Chopin. I am now considerably older, and through the years, my musical world has evolved to include a diverse array of musical artists, including, but not limited to the Beatles, Cat Stevens, Bruce Springsteen, Jimmy Buffett, Dan Fogelberg, Nirvana, NSYNC, Disturbed, K-Pop, Italian and Spanish vocalists, and many others. Gravitating to music has consistently been an avenue I’ve chosen, through good or bad times, and, if for no other reason because of the sheer wonder of it that never fails to resonate deep within, bringing both solace and joy. Music has never failed to meet me in moments of time not easily forgotten, perhaps due to circumstances found in the moment or simply due to the sheer beauty found in the music. Either way, music has chronicled much of my life.
While listening recently to Pandora recently (Dan Fogelberg Radio), I heard a large assortment of songs by not only Fogelberg himself, but by Jim Croce, Jackson Browne, Carole King, Cat Stevens, and many others, and I was struck by the stark contrast in the songwriting styles of the 70’s and 80’s when compared with more recent compositions. Musicians from the earlier eras seemed to largely fill their lyrics with high emotions, descriptive imagery, and amazing poetry, and in doing so, were able to weave illustrious tales complimented by musical tunes. Indeed, these musicians were not simply lyricists or composers: they were masterful storytellers. This is not to say that today’s musicians do not achieve the same method; however, my perception is that it is more easily evidenced in the songs of past days, as I wish to expand upon in this piece.
………………………..
The late Dan Fogelberg is a big favorite. Not only was he equipped with an angelic voice that covered several octaves or ranges, allowing him to harmonize with himself and do his own background vocals, he was also a poetic genius, musician, composer, and lyricist who could easily play an array of instruments. Fogelberg is largely known for the song, “Same Old Lang Syne”, often played over Christmas holidays. The song details the story of his return home where he unexpectedly encountered his former lover in a convenience store on Christmas Eve. The story – or rather the song – is a special kind of gift in and of itself, not only because of the lyrical magic, but also because of the beauty in its musical composition, which was based upon Tchaikovsky’s “Auld Lang Syne”. I was driving along the interstate on a cold, winter day the very first time I heard this song played across the radio. Of course, the tune was captivating, but even more so, the emotion it evoked was overwhelming, a mixture of joy and regret, encompassed strongly in the lyrics. The song was both wistful and romantic in a tragic sort of way, and as I listened, it struck a chord within me so deeply that I felt I personally knew the man who had written it. To this day, I identify just as much with the bittersweet song now as I did at twenty-three years of age when I first heard it.
“Met my old lover in the grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve
I stole behind her in the frozen foods
And I touched her on the sleeve…..
We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how…..”
Dan Fogelberg, “Same Old Lang Syne” (1981)
Because I fell in love with “Same Old Lang Sang” (and Fogelberg’s voice), I purchased the LP or album from which it originated, a true masterpiece entitled The Innocent Age. The double album is a collection of songs that spins the tale of man’s evolution from the cradle to the grave, each song written and performed by Fogelberg. I can still remember listening to it for the first time, watching it spin around on my stereo turntable while I sat alone in my grandmother’s living room. It was nothing short of sheer magic, and I was engulfed in the spell housed therein, each note and word enchanting. By the second song, I knew the album was more than a mere collection of music – I understood it was a wondrous piece of art and literature. Each song in this album embellishes life in such a unique way that it easily brings personal association and reflection for the listener, resonating in the very crux of one’s soul.
The album goes on to detail man’s evolution, touching on love, family, work, and the days preceding death. The haunting, final song of the collection is entitled “Ghosts”, and what I consider to be one of the greater pieces of poetry in the collection. Together with the echoing, chilling music, the lyrics lead the listener to the precipice of a man’s death:
“Sometimes in the night I feel it
Near as my next breath and yet untouchable
Silently the past comes stealing
Like the taste of some forbidden sweet
Along the walls in shadowed rafters
Moving like a thought through haunted atmospheres
Muted cries and echoed laughter
Banished dreams that never sank in sleep
Lost in love and found in reason
Questions that the mind can find no answers for
Ghostly eyes conspire treason
As they gather just outside the door….”
Dan Fogelberg, “Ghosts” (1981)
Of the many artists I’m fond of, Bruce Springsteen also springs to mind (my apologies, pun intended). While I’ve enjoyed his diverse musical talent for many years, I did not become familiar with him until I attended college in the 70’s. My university, being Southern based, was filled with out-of-state attendees from New York and New Jersey and nearly every one of them was a huge Springsteen fan. His album, Born to Run, was always played at parties I attended. In addition to the title cut from the album (that’s so amazing), “Thunder Road” is also one of my all-time favorite songs. I can’t remember exactly where I was when I first heard this song, but I can definitely remember singing the words out loud with several others whenever it was played – in parties, in cars, in bars – wherever you happened to be. “Thunder Road” is story woven from carefree youthful days and desperate love, a description of someone who is hell bent on going to the ends of the earth in search of fame and fortune - and you’re either with him or you’re not. The song is haunting, engulfed in a force of power, while being wrapped in freedom and youthful destiny.
“A screen door slams, Mary's dress sways
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey, that's me, and I want you only
Don't turn me home again
I just can't face myself alone again….."
Bruce Springsteen, “Thunder Road” (1975)
Admittedly, the music for “Thunder Road” is just as haunting as its lyrics, and both create inviting, vivid imagery for the listener. Who can hear the words Springsteen sings without the sound of a screen door slamming or Roy Orbison’s voice looming in their head? You can feel the eagerness and anticipation in the lyrics so much so that it makes your heart palpitate. As the music and singer crescendo near the song’s completion, you feel excited, exuberant, and ready for whatever life brings. Springsteen’s massive talent and success have easily proven his worth as musician, poet, and storyteller, and this song is among his best. His lyrics have a powerful effect on the listener, as proven time and again over the years with his many songs, scores, and Grammy’s.
I don’t personally know anyone who can deny the appeal of Carole King’s music. I listened to my cassette copy of Tapestry when I was in high school so much that I literally wore the tape out. It was only King’s second LP, but it packed a punch with every song on it becoming a single hit that rocked the Billboard. I have to wonder if every other listener, particularly females, identified as much as I did with King and her lyrics. Her songs encompass the full spectrum of human emotion and weave a wistful tale of love, regret, friendship, and life. The songs on Tapestry are so engrained in my memory that I can still sing along with them whenever they are played.
“One more song about moving along the highway
Can't say much of anything that's new
If I could only work this life out my way
I'd rather spend it being close to you
But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away
Yeah, you're so far away….."
Carole King, “So Far Away” (1971)
Jimmy Buffett is another music favorite from my college days. My best friend, Barbara, first introduced me to Buffett’s music as we were headed to college in a little green Volkswagen Bug as she proceeded to sing every Buffett tune from his albums Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes and A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean. Being trapped in the car, I had no choice but to listen to her sing his songs for two hours. Needless to say, following her outstanding performance, I remained intrigued by Buffett's lyrics, and I was eager –and curious - to hear the actual albums or Buffett himself. Once I’d done that, just as my friend Barbara had, I fell in love with Buffett and his down-to-earth musical storytelling. It is obvious from the diverse and vast number of songs he’s written that Buffett’s life has been packed full of personal experience and growth, and he details nearly all of it (as well as the lives of those he’s met) in his music and lyrics. My absolute favorite songs by him is “He Went to Paris”, the sad tale of a man’s life that seemed to slip quickly through his fingers during years of marriage, toil, war, and death, but still, in the end, he was appreciative of the life he’d been given, not choosing to regret any second of it.
“While the tears were a' fallin'
He was recallin'
The answers he never found
So he hopped on a freighter
Skidded the ocean
And left England without a sound
Now he lives in the islands
Fishes the pylons
And drinks his green label each day
He's writing his memoirs
And losing his hearing
But he don't care what most people say
Through eighty six years
Of perpetual motion,
If he likes you, he'll smile and he'll say,
"Some of it's magic,
And some of it's tragic,
But I had a good life all the way....."
Jimmy Buffett, "He Went to Paris (1973)
“He Went to Paris” is a lovely, moving, and emotional piece of poetry and music. I will always fondly associate Buffett with my youth and love of the ocean. I spent many an hour listening to his music back then, as well as much later in my years. After all, there is nothing like going to a Buffett concert – it’s an entirely different world and those in attendance, an entirely different species.
…………………….
I have only highlighted a limited number of some of my personal favorites, but by no means are these few the only ones who deserve recognition– in past or current times. Music is a broad, diverse spectrum that reaches out to touch many, and it has enraptured my life for as long as I can recall. The wonder of music has the ability to enable people to connect and understand in ways beyond the scope of their understanding – beyond their imagination or dreams. It gives life to inanimate objects and makes memories alive again, connecting us to the world of today and yesterday, while also forging a path to tomorrow’s unknown mysteries. I thank all of the musical artists and the impact they’ve made upon my life over the years for I cannot imagine a day without the wonder of music, for without it, I would merely exist and cease to live.
try for a time, than just accept unlocked; as it
a skeleton key
i had to find it
for my own locks
formed for me and given freely
called by name to even be gifted it
but 'life' was more precious
and doors locked
made for hallways much more easy to navigate
unwittingly i locked all true precious and goodness away
with the same key
loosing it
what is something to understand about the hidden
is it's power once found
destructive
healing
we pick
and if we can not fix- we can seek
we CAN
seeking means trusting
means handing over the key
carefully
or the rooms start locking back
and if you are not careful
they become sealed once again
but-
if in good faith
you gently
set it on the table
pass it across the conversation
hoping for one more click
one last door to open
and it may not
it may not
whatever you do
don't force it
because you will loose it again
and time passes quickly
if you must be the shrew
be the shrew with the key
The Thief
Luke 23:1-56
The men who hung beside Christ were thieves in this world and were caught. There was no escape for them. They had earned what they now faced: punishment, shame, and suffering.
How they chose to spend what little time they had left on earth was curious to me. The first thief outwardly mocked Christ. The other questioned His identity and claims of deity. The latter ultimately decided to believe and was assured a place in paradise that very day.
The “how” did not bother me as much as the “why”.
The thief gets to go to heaven, but why? Why is this even acceptable? He didn't “earn” it. So he is a screw up his whole life but he gets a free pass right at the end?
The story stuck with me; it was unsettling for reasons I could not place. It irked me to be missing some key understanding. However, the answer would arise repeatedly, in subtle and at times, astounding ways throughout my life: grace.
This thief was not a member of a religious organization, nor had he the opportunity to make a public statement of faith with a water baptism, nor had he paid any tithes to his church. It had been impossible for him to “earn” his salvation with these human-approved rituals. What he did do was believe.
He simply believed and was saved by grace through faith.
Because of grace, we do not get what we deserve. No other realization has ever humbled me more than when I could finally piece together the spiritual implications of the thief on the cross. The magnitude of grace is unfathomable to my human comprehension, yet I am filled with gratitude.
This story gives me hope because I know that I too am nothing more than a thief in this world. Yet, I believe.
BE. THE. CLAY
I am intimidated by a blessing I am in the very midst of, but I'm not even supposed to be here so I am already ahead. still...
God will often want more of us than we think we can do or be. Be afraid but don't back down- being brave is something you can't claim unless you are acting within the thing that you need to be brave for.
The biblical account says nothing about Samson's physical appearance, except for his long hair- historical and modern art and our own minds may 'picture' him as this big hulking man; capable of the fantastic awesome feats of strength he carried out. I tend to think he was small, or thin, or just average because it was not the might of Samson... it was the might of God in Samson. ("...the Spirit of the LORD came powerfully upon Samson...")
What would appear to more an act of God... a giant brute of a man tearing down gated walls, killing 1000 men with the jaw of a donkey, pushing down pillars of a building.... or someone average or mid doing these same things?
We don't have to wait to be brave, or strong, or bold for God until we are some grand example of what we (or what we think others) 'picture' define as brave, strong or bold. It's no longer WE who live, but CHRIST who lives in us... BE. THE. CLAY. God uses OUR weakness to show HIS power and HIS strength. Be brave with me this week.
BE. THE. CLAY.
Pray for me, I am praying for you.
Galatians 2:20 King James Version (KJV)
I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.
