The Guy Made That Piano Sing!

It was a wild time in church today. All kinds of wildness. Thanks to the substitute piano player. Where we got him, I don't know, maybe Borneo. He had me rockin' out. It was a great time!

The thing about this Borneo guy was this: He was bouncing on the seat and playing the piano so hard, so feverishly hard, that it was literally moving around the room, even with such force as to push chairs and the people on them out of the way. He blazed a path right through the midsection, turned and bowled over the first couple rows, and toppled the pulpit. The pastor in a robe of black was white as a sheet.

It's hard to believe, I know, but every word of this is true. If you can picture in your mind's eye a guy, the combination of Jo Ann Castle, Big Tiny Little, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Fats Waller, with the hair of Doc Brown, and completely full of the Holy Ghost, you'll have a great idea of what this guy was like. He took off on his instrument, and I gotta tell you, I was wide awake! He made it sing!

And this was from the very first song, an instrumental for gathering, "Jesus, Love of My Soul / Like a River Glorious." We needed a mosh pit! I caught it out of the corner of my eye, the piano in quick motion; that's when I looked up and paid attention. He was making definite, ever greater, movement from the piano's usual spot! The first thing that popped in my mind -- the very first thing -- was Putin gobbling up territory. You don't expect it, then wham, you've lost Alaska.

He ran over a couple older ladies' feet, who simply out of an old sense of propriety stifled a cry of bloody murder. The fierce look of great pain on their faces was a genuine expression of something primal, great pain. I had to wince, then quickly turned my attention back to Borneo's thrilling performance. The pounding of his hands was crazy, his fingers a blur, with even some blood. As the instrument came closer, I was shocked to see keys from the edges coming loose and flying through the air.

Much later, at the close of the service, I heard that one guy's hearing aid had blown up, apparently doing him a lot of harm when it comes to ears. He was staggering around, clutching the air. More evident in real time were the organ pipes on the wall toppling over from the pounding vibrations. I recalled Jericho, whose walls were breached by a series of trumpets, when all they needed was a rampaging pianist.

One totally strange moment came when the floor opened up and swallowed three or four of the church's worst heretics, proponents of the so-called New Thought. Since there's no basement, it's anyone's guess where they ended up. Wherever, no doubt it's giving them something new to think about. I was happy to escape, having been to only one of their New Thought meetings. Looked like I shunned them in the nick of time.

The minister threw up his hands and made a throat-cutting gesture to the sound guy, who threw up his hands in despair. He cut the mics but the piano itself, with Borneo's jackhammer fingers, was its own source of power. I noticed terrific phenomena in the light fixtures above as they swayed back and forth. They alternated bright and dark, like angelic visitations, then demonic irruptions. Which once you've had troubles with, I can personally attest, everything in life's harder to deal with.

Anyway, so much of the stuff of the sanctuary was totally demolished, there's no telling what'll happen next week. Certainly the usual pianist will be there, but whether there's anything left for her to play, that's another matter. The church wasn't doing that great on money as it was; now what we'll do is hard to predict. I see a sausage and pancake supper in our future.

I'll tell you what I'd love to see, and we could make some money on the beer. I'd love to get Borneo back, and make him wear gloves, and everyone hook arms together while singing "Blessed Be the Name of the Lord," with everyone sloshing beer steins in time. We did that at youth camp once and it was a lot of fun.

The Three-Fold Hallelujah

As part of my spiritual regimen, in meditation, I've been chanting the Three-fold Hallelujah. It goes like this: "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah," then a pause.

I know, just seeing it in print like that doesn't tell you much. But here's how it sounds: The first Hallelujah is said in a strong voice at a particular pitch. The second is completely identical to the first. Then the third drops the "-lujah" part down a note, making it lower. Followed by a pause that is silence.

Whether this does me any good, objectively, I don't really have the standing to make that determination. However, subjectively, I know it does. In recent days, I've seen the sky ripped in half and great visions of heaven. But enough about that.

So, I was describing all this to my minister, who listened carefully and respectfully, then tried it himself, "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah." He paused and did it again, and said, "Yes, that sounds like a very good thing to say. I like it."

Then he asked me a strange question that I wasn't expecting: "Which Hallelujah of the three do you like the most?"

Hmm, that's really a tough question, isn't it? because I think each one has its good points. And I'd hate to have to pick just one, because what would be the point? It's the Three-fold Hallelujah, not a chant with only one Hallelujah. I looked at him, searching his face for a clue; was he putting me on? But his face, as usual, when he sets it in a determined way, was stolid, unflinching, unwavering, and, I hate to say it, without a hint of mercy. I felt a trickle of sweat burst forth on my forehead, and knew I was probably flushed, and suddenly seemingly vulnerable under his piercing, unrelenting stare.

Since I couldn't escape, I began reasoning it out: The first and second Hallelujahs are identical. The third is the only one distinctively on its own. So what it comes down to is this: Do I prefer of the ones that are doubly pronounced or the one standing alone? And beyond that fact, what of the sound? Do I prefer the first and second's tone or the third's? Does doubling make the first and second tones less precious, playing on the third's distinctiveness? Or is the third somehow inferior because it does stand alone? The first and second seem like they're being said as a progression worthy of eternity, with a single focus of concentration, and even bliss. The third, one might argue, in its denouement is something of a let-down, even an unfortunate claim that eternity is not real, and an expression that only finiteness (it being the third of three) is real. That would be depressing, although I'd have to argue, every good thing has to end, except, of course, eternity itself, presumably.

So I'm thinking, thinking, thinking, worrying, stewing, busting a vein over my answer. I look over and, in the meantime, Pastor has turned away and is filing a bushel basket of old sermons. He sees me return to life, and I tell him my choice: I prefer the second Hallelujah. Even though it's identical to the first, still it has a place in the order. It repeats the first, true, but it also leads to the third. And even though the third is the third, with all the problems that might suggest, without a third you wouldn't have three. And the fact that it is the denouement and with its lower note is something of a let-down, it does make a legitimate third, whereas a third identical to the first and the second would simply terminate the sequence ambiguously. As it is, in relation to the third, the second is the last note of real strength. So the middle one, for me that's where it's happening.

I urge you to consider this as part of your own spiritual life, the Three-fold Hallelujah. But it might be best not to tell anyone, so they don't put you on the spot.

The Funerals Of Those I Killed

I gotta tell you, I'm numb, wrung out. It's been a very downer day, one of the worst. It's tougher being a criminal than I could've ever imagined. A weird mix of adrenalin and testosterone and we kill easily, then it wears off. "Did I do that?" There was a story the other day about a guy who lived with the skeletal remains of his girlfriend for six years. I know the feeling. It's tough to get over what you've done.

It's even tougher for me, because I'm still a fairly new criminal. I just started this month! And I'm having a hard time shaking the person I've always been, a non-criminal. Killing guys has its upside, don't get me wrong, but there's something unnatural about offing other people's enemies who aren't your own.

So far, though, I'm relatively innocent. I've only killed three guys, two I didn't know and one I was familiar with, the Ciggie gang member who wanted to bar me from Tastee Freez. The first two, I'm not sure what they did to deserve death. Maybe it's like the minister said, they were "senseless deaths." As for the Ciggie, try as I might to be merciful, I believe he had it coming!

Don't worry about me, though, please, because I'm going to get it. Although I'll probably have to do something different than I did today, which was to go to these sons of bitches' funerals. That might be a first in the world of crime, to have three funerals in one day for guys who were killed, then to have the guy who did it in attendance. But nobody knows I had anything to do with it. So I, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, can come and go as I please! LOL, kind of funny, to be sitting there as these scumbags are canonized! Assuming indeed they were scumbags...

The first two, I don't know. Maybe they owed something on a bet, or hooker fees. And that's fair. You owe, you pay. We provide a valuable service, but it doesn't pay for itself. Their funerals were similar, each in the same funeral home, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. The two ministers consoled the families. One guy had a wife and a couple of kids, the other was single with an elderly mother, looking to be on her last legs. Of course I had my natural sympathy, offering the wife, then the elderly mother my condolences, while reflecting they were straight out of Central Casting. Right down to the worry wrinkles on Mother.

The ministers didn't make a full exploration of how they were mixed up with criminals. Possibly they didn't think it was the time or place. One's biggest lamentation was reserved for the "animals" who did this, and for how "senseless" it all was. I had to wince at the "animals" remark, prompting me to remember him, remember his name, then any physical characteristics that might stick out were I to encounter him some night in the dark.

The Ciggie's funeral had more spirit to it. They were playing '80s rock music, and a contingent of about 15 actual Ciggie members were there. I was dressed in a suit and tie and kept closer to the normal mourners. None of them seemed to recognize me, which was just as well; I may predate the '80s in my basic musical background, but I'm still too young to die.

The minister here, though, was just as conservative and reserved as the others. He paid tribute to the Ciggie's life, naming among his hobbies, painting farm scenes on saw blades and restoring wagons to share with handicapped children. He and his wife -- she with a sad stoic look -- also volunteered at the nursing home, handing out bananas and other prizes to the folks there enjoying Bingo night.

I had to check the program to make sure I was in the right place. This guy deserved to die?! Over a possible misunderstanding about Tastee Freez?! I'm thinking, What kind of animal would do this? Then, of course, it all came back to me... Oh yeah, he was a son of a bitch!