We used to hold a storytelling party every year in autumn. Each guest was required to bring three things; a bottle of red wine, a candle, and a story. Zoe and I provided the food, usually a large pot of something warm, filling, and comforting – we lit the candles and opened the wine, and began telling the stories, which could be about anything, as long as they were true.
They didn’t have to actually happen, mind you, they just had to, in the space of the event, be told in such a fashion that the story was about the person telling it. We had a wonderful mix of tales from around the world, from explanations of true-life experiences to a very special person exploring a loophole in the proceedings and dressing as Dr. Suess’s Lorax.
We did this for about 13 years, on and off, each time with different people and in different places (and parts of the country). Each event was at least five hours long, and it took us about three years to realize that if everyone brought a bottle of wine and there was no wine left at the end then each of us had drunk about an entire bottle of wine. Ah, but we were young and the wine was well intentioned but clearly in the realm of “getting what we paid for” (which was very little)…it was a grand party, even when there were only three or four of us. At one point I think we had seventeen.
In any case, I had to tell a story every year. The poem below was my favorite - I composed an orchestral score and recorded it a few years ago. Our event was never exclusively Halloween based, although the candles did influence an all around cozy mood… I think this is a cozy piece, a memory I thought would be nice to have, of events imagined but emotions real.
If you’ve known me for a while you may have heard it before (one of you read it aloud at one of my shows!). In the best of all worlds we would all be together and at the end of the page it would be Your Turn. Alas, time and space: please settle in, adjust your lights and enjoy a glass of something.
every star that ever was was in the sky that night
and the river was a ribbon glowing blue and bright
and somewhere between here and now lay tiny Harrison Bay
set half between roads that have been and newly planned highway
every headlight was a diamond every car a star
people didn’t mind the traffic; they weren’t driving far
the time had come for the yearly fair; the men had brought the rides
but all my little town cared only for one barker’s cry:
“Step right up, folks, see for yourself a man who has no fear!”
Mr. Mysterioso had come back again this year to entertain the old and young with bravery to spare
it was the only reason most of us went to the fair.
each year brought greater danger in the challenges he made
we wondered how and why he did it, how much he got paid
we never quite believed
the feats of derring do we’d seen
(excitedly we’d speak of it, sometimes ‘til Halloween.)
he chewed on glass when I was nine
he swallowed fire at ten
eleven he ate razor blades, surrounded by four men
when I was twelve, he cut a gal in half while we all gaped
but on this year I was thirteen. the year that he escaped.
Mr. Mysterioso got inside a wooden box
blindfolded,
gagged,
and bound in chains with heavy metal locks.
the box was nailed shut from all sides, but to add to his plight
around the base were several sticks of top grade dynamite.
I won’t aim to create suspense, (I’m not so good at that)
this isn’t Edgar Allen Poe or “Casey at the Bat” the box blew up.
to smithereens and back, orange as the dawn.
and when the smoke drifts cleared,
box, chains, and man were simply gone.
we clapped and yelled hurray
until our hands and throats were sore
we stomped and whooped and whistled loud. we couldn’t ask for more.
but when the barker came out frowning, looking left and right
our noises stopped quite suddenly, as glee transformed to fright.
it seemed that the entire town went searching for a clue.
they looked inside the wreckage for a grisly residue.
when nothing of the man was there, the fair just kind of stopped.
we’d seen a man blow up himself, that wasn’t easily topped.
i walked home with my sister cause we didn’t live that far
and dad and mom were taking other folks back in the car
it was as if our lives had changed somehow, there wasn’t much to say
and past the crickets we could hear the night train on it’s way
“so what’d ya think?”i asked her as we crossed the Prichart’s field
“heck, I don’t know…that was a little strange. he disappeared! I mean –
he should come back and bow to show that he’s alright.”
then something passed in front of us, fast, out across the night.
so instantly we chased it by the moonlight’s chalk white glow filled with a lack of common fear that children only know
the moon revealed a jet black cape that seemed to limp in pain
on a course to intersect that of the coming train.
and when train and stranger met, there was no hesitation
cape, limp and all jumped right aboard as if by levitation.
then he was on the freight car roof,
moon shining through his hair.
looked right at us.
gave a bow
and yelled out “Y’all take care!”
we clapped and waved until we barely heard the whistle call.
we danced the entire way back home, and barely slept at all.
the next year when the fair returned to town it was bizarre
to see the rides and games and such, but not our favorite star
the rumor was he ditched the show to marry a brunette
(who wasn’t too spectacular, but good as he could get)
they moved to Coney Island and set up a little life.
he blew himself to kingdom come to get himself a wife.
and though, my dear, this tale i tell
is absolutely true, you may well wonder why it is i’m telling it to you.
love is a strange and silent thing, a soft and heavy load.
sometimes it makes us run away. sometimes we can explode.
but every moonlit night’s a paradise when love’s in bloom
and every night is moonlit when you walk into the room.
my only memory dearer
is when I first held you tight
for every star that ever was was in the sky that night.
Harrison Bay - Jd Michaels - 2001
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