How some of us are able to see ghosts – Part 6

I see the ghost of my mother in the paintings of the old masters. She was influenced by impressionism. Or maybe she was born with it. At any rate, I see and remember her tender way. How she would sing to me or tell me a funny story. I see her sitting at the easle, pensive, and she would withdraw analytically after each stroke. Her beautiful dark hair glistening in the glow of sun from the window. I remember her perfume. Too sweet for me, but it suited her.

I see the ghost of my mother’s mother in The Grapes of Wrath. I see her toiling away in a garden and I remember the ways of her undignified life. How she became the maid for her husband’s family. The stories she told me of her husband going mad and how surreal it all was. How horrible the Great Depression really was. I see her ghost stacking styrofoam meat trays in her garage. Thousands of them. Only now, I am not perplexed as to why she did it. The mind does not forget hell on earth.

I see the ghost of my brother, who, sadly died so young. I see him when I see a sea shore. For he and I spent many wonderful days upon the shell rich beach on the island of Okinawa. We often watched the old fisherman come in on their tiny, frail boats with their bounty catch.

We talked of pirates at the window of a coral bunker. Our adventures were noble and grand in intent.

My brother never achieved his enlightenment. He left behind a beautiful baby girl and his beautiful Italian wife.

I see the ghost of my young heart on the rolling plains of McClain county on a cold, blue day and the arthritic, charcoal colored trees. I wish they had not told me of the way the red horse succumbed to death and lay in nature to be devoured by birds of prey and coyotes.

Up until a few years ago, I was plagued by a specific nightmare. Oddly, a nightmare about quitting high school. How odd, I would reason, that I would have such a sophomoric and useless nightmare. Yet every time I had the nightmare, I could see the ghost of my former self.

I go to the high places when I see the ghosts and none can see me there.

Short stories: Going to the bull fights

Going to the bull fights is no joy for me. It is necessary to lift the curse from ancient time. This is a job I have been doing for many years. The bull fight pays the bills. It also gives away a secret as old as time itself. I tragedy few would understand, except, of course, the beast himself.

I am no matador, I am an assassin. I am the clean killer, the toreador.

I enter the stadium and the crowds cheer as if Elvis had just made their lives so much more special. I, of course, wave as it is part of the show. The rest is shadow-dancing and a symbolic performance.

They release the bull. Poor animal. I have no joy in this job. As if our instinct grow greater than our will, the performance go on, and the crowds cheer. I tease the bull. He is confused. There is no need for spears in the bull’s neck for this performance. For a toreador, I confuse the bull, hypnotize him, tame him, and then stab him clean right between the eyes. No nonsense, no slow death.

A toreador has nothing against the bull. He is merely a symbol.

In Spain, we are the assassins of the beast. As the Knights of the Templar are guardians of the holy sacraments. The chosen priests protect the innocent from exorcism. We are ourselves from the beast, but only we can kill him. The story is an ancient feud between us and the darkness from whence we came.

Our fathers were demons who followed Lucifer, the fallen angel, who claimed injustice when sentenced to eternal torment. The toreador were the demons who were the guardians of Lucifer. Then we saw his torment on humanity. The cruelty he imposed on them from an ancient grudge. We turned against him and walked the Earth in the times of Pope Gregory and the Roman calendar was drawn. There were a few dozen of us then. We formed a treaty with heaven that we would fight the our old masters in order to rise above the beast. The only way to do this is to kill the demons, time and time again.

We survived many tests including the Spanish Inquisition. They let us free, only because the inquisitors knew that only the toreador could kill a beast, as we are beasts ourselves. We have eternal torment, and a test, that one day, we will accomplish. One day, we will join with the light.

Going to the bullfights is just a symbol. A game. Few know the real story of our mission.