HOLY GRAIL

Let me give you a little history behind "Holy Grail":
I had just spent almost two years doing my “other” thing (pharmacy tech). As usual, I did not know I was on a magical quest and mission until my last few days.  I did know or at least think that I was on my personal mission, I just didn’t know I had spiritual backing and possibly assignment to do just that. This time the mystic gypsy happened to land in a city plagued with a horrendous crime problem, and I more or less found myself assuming the role of angry prophet trying to wake up and motivate the royalty of the day.

It was certainly nice to have a steady paycheck coming in after three tumultuous years ranging from everything from prestigious high paying yet short lived jobs, driving around in luxury cars to living in such car and working day labor jobs. This American gypsy tries to cover it all.

I found myself, for two years, residing in a certain East Coast city. I found work in a prestigious institute and was soon living high - with a penthouse view in a luxury apartment. This was a far cry from that abandoned semi truck trailer I called home while working day labour in Phoenix a few years earlier. Yet surrounded by bliss, I was not allowed to enjoy it.

This certain East Coast city has a crime rate that is horrendous and in many cases borders on the verge of barbarity and savagery. Since most of the young perpetrators as well as victims bore a racial resemblance to me, I felt an extra compulsion to address it and to try to make a difference. I started to write letters and observations as well as innovated methods to address the problem. I was met with such apathy, denial and envy that my letters escalated to the point that I was firing (bad choice of words here) off a letter every time I found myself seated at a computer. In the beginning, I did not have a computer of my own. The strength of my letters prompted some patronizing responses and an idea or two were actually stolen from them and repackaged as something new, as coming froth from the minds of the royalty that be.

To quote Bruce Springsteen, in his "Jungleland" song, even “The poets down here write nothing at all they just stand back and let all be”. I was even ex-communicated from a poetry group for (I guess) showing them up when it comes to writing social rifts. Especially since I informed them that poetry was not my craft and I had no intention of developing it into such. I had attended the group solely for the fellowship and being around so called creative folks. But when they wouldn’t act, I had to. Some say it’s a tough town, I say it's an angry one.

I had to spend many hours at public libraries signing up for computers in 45 minute allotments. Talk about breaking the creative flow. I also sacrificed many a lunch by using the machines on my lunch break at work. I knew that the wealth of comprehensive and substantial materials contained in my letters, drafts and proposals would at least prompt someone in the political order, social order or press/media, church and clergy to donate a computer to me. This was a request that I had no shame in asking for.

In the Book of Luke, Chapter 10:1-12, Jesus instructs the seventy workers that he is sending out to bring in the harvest (of souls) that the laborer is worthy of his hire. Alas, no computer was forthcoming and it appeared the often-clueless bastions of the city did not find my labor worth compensation.

I must say that in my last days there the murder rate stood at 275 (in proportion to the population, this gives the city the second highest murder rate in the nation). Roaming gangs seem to walk the street with impunity as they attack each other as well as innocent citizens. The foul-mouthed and undisciplined reek havoc on the city buses, their self-loathing and loud rants making it a pain for the other riders. Uniformed officers must now ride many of the troubled routes. In just the month of December innocent people have been brutally beaten, and stabbings and fights occur on a almost daily basis. Often these crimes are perpetrated not by the gangs but middle and high school students! No wonder the school principle turnover rate is the highest in the nation. And yet all my plans to turn the situation around went either unnoticed or unaddressed. I received only one feedback from a single city council member. Many of the leaders and bureaucrats of this city live in insular environments, sheltered within the confines of their offices, homes and cars. If they were to venture within the city walls they would soon notice that this city is held bondage to negativity. Almost every conversation heard on the streets and in the corridors of mass transportation is grounded in hate. From elder to children each conversation is full of self-loathing, vengeance, hateful profanity and devoid of civility. There is a total disrespect for the public and the environment into which these things are spoken.

It was time for me to leave the city and shake that proverbial dust of this city off my person. However, that luxury apartment cost me a lot and I had amassed no savings and would be leaving with barely two weeks worth of pay. Was my move ill advised, my planed departure to premature? Would God bless my sudden departure and honor me with safe traveling mercies? These were questions that worried me.

Since handing in my resignation at work, I would still have two weeks to get myself together and prepare for my next move, hopefully back to my beloved Venice Beach Swings (see True Tales ‘Peace of Chicken’) Not being employed, it was evident that I would now be spending a lot of time in the apartment.

In my sparse household I don’t have many items of creature comfort. I seldom had the need for bowls, glasses or even utensils other than the plastic ones I recycled from the cafeteria at work. I don’t cook and most of the foods I eat at home already come in their own microwavable container. When I do want something like coffee or tea, I have to go through an elaborate process of first microwaving the water in a Tupperware container and then letting it cool, below the pleasurable point, as not to melt the cup when I pour in the heated liquid. I reasoned to myself that since I was going to be spending a lot more time in the apartment, I better get at least one coffee mug.

By the time I had made it to the neighborhood second-hand thrift store, they had closed. I would have to catch them the next day. I started out the next day by doing laundry. This would have been my first day back at work, if I indeed still had a job. The laundry room in my building also serves as sort of a communal drop-off site for items, books even clothing, from people who are either moving or who have upgraded in some fashion.

As I entered the laundry room what should I see? Lo and behold, three coffee mugs sitting amidst the discardables. Now this is the first time, in my almost two years in the building that I have seen glassware on the give away table.

God supplies our needs… but wait it gets better!

Not wishing to appear the needy tenant that I am, I quickly scooped up the three mugs, and tossed them into my laundry bag without paying any attention to their styling. Later that night I removed them from the laundry bag and tossed them into the sink for washing, still not paying any real attention to them. I ran the faucet over them to let them soak. Later still, I had the urge for a tea. I washed the three and mix-matched cups. One was a plain neutral color, one of those colors that women my have a name for but seldom do men have such words in their lexicon. One was white with a colorful and quite lovely display of flowers and assorted fruits of the harvest. It was the last cup that gave meaning to the day and an acknowledgment of all I have suffered while residing in this certain east coast city: The background of the last cup is white with artwork in black peppered with brilliant red geometric cones.

I guess many of you are familiar with the lively stick-like cartoon characters that usually appear or reggae themed or Australian Aborigine designs. Well this cup has a lively procession of dancers, musicians, artist and carolers. As I  slowly turned the cup, following the procession of figures, pleasingly admiring the artwork, I came to a standstill. Words. At first glance I was disappointed to have come across words. “Oh no! not an advertisement - on such a creatively artistic cup", I quipped. Bifocals off, I peered in for a closer examination. It was indeed an advertisement - or to be more precise, shall we say a mission statement. “Celebrate The Dream” is jovially printed on the cup in the same vibrant red as the artsy geometric shaped cones, and underneath that in a more traditonal formal font, written in black are the words “The King Center” - as in The Martin Luther King Jr. Foundation’s center. And wasn’t that what my almost two years in this certain east coast city ultimately proved to be about? In many of the subject lines of the e-mails I would send out to the hundreds of recipients, I usually wrote “Not the Dream hoped for".

Anyone wishing to view any of the social activism documents may request so by writing to me at Ghelove@aol.com

An Earlier Mission

During the late ninties, I had another mission. This one was more stated in format yet the supernatural backing was there also in assignment and in validation (see True Tales ‘Rock Me Baby’).  For almost two years I had poured my heart and soul into a volunteer mission for a church. How a heathen like me should come to a church is a tale within itself. I was appointed with more and more responsibility and all of this bestowed upon a man who ditched church services, during this same period, as much as possible. I eventually assumed the post of National Logistic and Transportation Chairmen for a important event being sponsored by the church. The post was very stressful and I spent many hours debating and disagreeing with the royalty of the church. Several times I had opted to leave the function but supernatural messages and sometime messengers would appear to me letting me know that the my participation in the event must be carried through to the end. The final event was to be held in the area starting at the Washington Monument and ending at the Capitol Steps. The event was expected to bring 600,000 participants to that area.

My only sanctuary from the stress and hustle and bustle of my post was a little coffee shop - a few miles away from the church, thank goodness. The time had come for me to shift location and be closer to the event. This was my last visit to the coffee shop. The paper cups at the establishment had different themes portrayed on their cups. Since the shop was in mid-Virginia the themes on the cups, whenever I would notice, had locations and themes associated with that area of Virginia.  However on this last occasion, as I stared out blindly into the distance, nursing a café au lait. Had I done a good job? How would the event turn out? Why me? A stranger to the church - in fact I arrived at the church while doing some homeless drifting, on my way to visit and stay with friends in a commune down in Florida. The church had taken me in, provided me with room and board and initially put me to work cutting grass and vacuuming floor and the like, to earn my keep. My thoughts soon began to overwhelm me. I looked thoughtfully at the cup I was nursing, expecting to see a scene from the Chesapeake.

What I did see took me aback at first and then went on to soothe my worried brow. The scene depicted the Washington Monument. Gather about the monument were people with outstretched hands reaching for bagels falling from the sky. My interpretation of this; God showed this cup to me to represent the manna, the bread of heaven falling from the sky.

Let's see: one cup for the Father, one for the Son and one for the Holy Ghost. Those guys have got to cut down on their caffeine intake.

Ain’t God Grand?

© Phillip Ghee 12/21/07

phillipghee@yahoo.com 
and for website posting ghelove@aol.com