The first was on Teaneck Road by a closed dairy queen at about 12:45 am. It was raining so hard and I had been walking alone for so long that neither my clothes nor my glasses were serving their purpose. I was drenched and not quite blind. I was also dreadfully cold. The divine meeting happened quickly and without any procession. I saw the angel sitting about the peak of the dairy queen roof. He/she greeted me with a wave and leaped, his/her great wings slowing his/her decent, to the dead leaf strewn side walk in front of me. A tentacle of light emerged from the angel's navel and enraptured my head. I struggled desperately but as soon as I began struggling I realized I was no longer in Teaneck. Well that is not quite true. More correctly to say I was no longer only in Teaneck. I was in three places at once. I was in Teaneck but also in a great desert and a quite isolated Caribbean beach. The bright scorching of the day melted into the raining misery of Teaneck and the tranquil star lite night of the beach. Like three oil painting whose canvases turned to water and began to flow and mingle with one another without losing any distinction, I was seeing all and each. In the desert I saw great migrations of people with their whole lives on their backs pressing west buffeted by sun and sand. In the beach I saw a single woman bathing in the star light. The waves rolling over carelessly, unappreciative of the beauty they held. It lasted perhaps a second, likely less. Then it was over. All that remained was the dairy queen and the dirty wet sidewalk. I was exhausted. I fell over and vomited. With 40 mins of walking behind me alone in the dark and rain and another 40 mins ahead of me I concurred with my body that it was time for a break.
I might the second angel while listening to Dvorak in a middle school concert hall. With two free tickets to the Bergen County Philharmonic and with no one to go with me I sat quietly suspended between a state of complacency and melancholy as they orchestra rounded out the fourth movement of Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony. The tarantella rhythms carrying all the weight of their poisonous origins. Then a girl took the stage. Younger than I and still engaged in her education at Julliard she seated herself and her cello at center stage with a gaze of otherworldly focus. It was time for Dvorak's concerto and she was to be the soloist. The first stroke of her bow was deep and resounded in my chest awakening the depths of my soul, unbinding the chains that I'd so meticulously placed. Elation and freedom followed the vibrations of her strings and the caresses of her hands on the cello's neck. Her music was like calligraphy written in the air painting the auditorium with chords of intent and grace. I had no hallucinations or visions or what have you but I was equally as transported as I was the night before. Carried on waves of music to wonders that lasted only moments at a time. The music of the spheres was opening around us.
It was a good weekend for Angels, but I do enjoy the company of some much more than others.
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