VISIT FROM A PIXIE

Seated at my computer, I had just finished reading “Desiderata” by Max Ehrlman, which a  a friend had sent to me, when I noticed on the floor beside my chair a strange little creature. “Hi,” I said, in a questioning tone, and he returned the greeting.

“Don’t you wonder what I am?”

“Well, yes, but I figured you’d introduce yourself.”

“I am a Pixie. and you don’t believe in me.”

“Well, yes, I guess that’s usually so, but I’m not understanding what I’m seeing right now.”

“How can I make you believe what you see?”

“Ummm…” I looked closer at him. He was the spitting image of the pixies in fairy tales, right down to the upturned toes of his shoes and the the little peaked hat.  And small! A miniature person.  “What fairy tale did you spring from?”

He gave a little smile.  “Yours.” He held out his spindly little hand and said, “Touch me.”  I did so, and found him warm.

“To what do I owe this surprising visit?”

He paused and fixed me with a penetrating stare. “You. I think if you can believe in me, then you can start believing in yourself again.”  With that the little feller faded into thin air, leaving me staring into my computer screen, surrounded by the aroma of cinnamon sugar.  Just maybe my heart hasn’t turned to stone.

I read “Desiderata” again, and felt a stirring in my heart.  I’m back alive.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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5 Responses to VISIT FROM A PIXIE

  1. Oh God Nan. This had me crying with tenderness!

    Like

  2. Sallie Carpentier says:

    I love this soooooo much!!! 😀
    delighted!

    Like

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