James Plays Augusta
And in the dream I awake from a dream to find myself in a thirty-three person gallery at Augusta National. Bruce Springsteen croons The River over a PA system hidden amongst the Georgia pines. A sunburned Northerner sways next to me sipping Mad Dog 20/20 from a blue Solo cup. I inhale the moment. A CAO Double Corona in one hand. A fresh Makers Mark in another hand. A third hand holds a leash to which is tethered a white Persian cat with porcelain blue eyes. The cat purrs in time to The River, a low percussion of sorts. The song fades to white noise and Bruce begins to rasp. “Ladies and Gentlemen—please welcome… The Hardest Working Man in Heaven, Mr. James Brown!”
A fog descends and lifts. With lowered head there stands James, black as beautiful midnight against a backdrop of perfection. You could hear a pine needle drop. And to the rhythm of thirty-three heartbeats, James slowly cuts a rug there on the 13th green at Augusta. The silent rub of his footwork as poignant as any song ever crafted.
In the slight distance, Sam Cooke pushes Aretha Franklin in a tire swing. Aretha, svelte and young, eases effortless over Rae’s Creek and back again.
On the periphery of 13, Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye stand like brothers holding hands.
And in a blink the Vienna Boys’ Choir joins the Josey High School Marching Band. White children and black teens side by side in unison, clapping in metered synch, swaying to a roll of inspiration, marking history and legacy and hate and love and indifference and gratitude as it has rarely been marked.
And though I drink, the Makers replenishes itself. The air is still. The clouds dance in place above the pines. The white cat morphs to grey, unleashes himself and stands on two legs.
James continues to dance. He slides to and fro as though sock-footed on marble. Someone in the gallery whispers the words to Psalm 23.
Aretha glides again over the creek and back, begins to hum the tune to Georgia.
I awake three days later, my head heavy with drink. My heartache more pronounced. My distance from home further now by one more removed link.
My soul aching with the phantom pain of something missing.
Behind my eyes Sam Cooke winks at me in the deepest secret of night. Knowing what I will never know.
Nor should.
A fog descends and lifts. With lowered head there stands James, black as beautiful midnight against a backdrop of perfection. You could hear a pine needle drop. And to the rhythm of thirty-three heartbeats, James slowly cuts a rug there on the 13th green at Augusta. The silent rub of his footwork as poignant as any song ever crafted.
In the slight distance, Sam Cooke pushes Aretha Franklin in a tire swing. Aretha, svelte and young, eases effortless over Rae’s Creek and back again.
On the periphery of 13, Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye stand like brothers holding hands.
And in a blink the Vienna Boys’ Choir joins the Josey High School Marching Band. White children and black teens side by side in unison, clapping in metered synch, swaying to a roll of inspiration, marking history and legacy and hate and love and indifference and gratitude as it has rarely been marked.
And though I drink, the Makers replenishes itself. The air is still. The clouds dance in place above the pines. The white cat morphs to grey, unleashes himself and stands on two legs.
James continues to dance. He slides to and fro as though sock-footed on marble. Someone in the gallery whispers the words to Psalm 23.
Aretha glides again over the creek and back, begins to hum the tune to Georgia.
I awake three days later, my head heavy with drink. My heartache more pronounced. My distance from home further now by one more removed link.
My soul aching with the phantom pain of something missing.
Behind my eyes Sam Cooke winks at me in the deepest secret of night. Knowing what I will never know.
Nor should.
posted by Ryan at 12:49 PM
11 Comments:
Will you please record this on a loop tape so I can play it at night when I want to go to my happy place before slumber?
Thanks.
I would like a copy as well, Ryan.
JHS would make the perfect backup band! I always loved hearing them/seeing them play.
Great post.
I miss James too. Never saw him around Augusta. But, I stomped around in his front yard a good bit at Christmas time.
This needs to be submitted to every publication you can think of. It's in your top 3 and possibly the best of the best.
And somehow, I think Sam would want to know some things of Ryan that he could never know. Nor should.
If you dream of Mr. Brown again, will you ask him if Rick James made it up there?
good Lord, Ryan. This is so good it made me cry. I've been to too many funerals lately, and my dreams are sadder than a flat tire at midnight, but this, this, should be required reading and in those texts demonstrating to the 'kids' what good writing can do to your heart and soul.
damn...
Unfortunately, James Brown is still in a climate-controlled bedroom in South Carolina awaiting burial. Papa had a brand new bag but not an up-dated last will and testament.
John,
You are far too kind. But I'll take it and appreciate it and roll around in it. Thanks.
I'm sorry that you've been to too many funerals of late. I suppose even one is one too many, eh? Don't deal well with them myself.
And for the record, "my dreams are sadder than a flat tire at midnight." If I hadn't met you and this hadn't been posted for the world to see--I'd steal that motherfucker in a cocaine heartbeat. Brilliant! And lasting.
Best to you,
Ryan
Ryan - if you ever come to a point in your writing road where you could use 'that line', please take it with my compliments.
I even 'pimped' this post on my blog..I was that taken.
Always looking forward to more (hey, I can be a greedy bastard)..hutch
I'll tell you again... you are an accomplished writer.
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